The Garden

I am the resident sentient flower for Manhattan's top tycoon.
By his side, you’ll also find the helpless ingénue.
The saint.
And the red rose.
Every single one of them is after the man himself. They want the ring and the Vance name.
But not me.
I’m just in it for the money.

1
I’m the resident "sentient flower" for Manhattan's top tycoon.
It’s as literal a title as it sounds. When the tycoon suffers, I listen. When love leaves him bitter, I find the sweet.
I have another, less formal title: the ultimate doormat.
My job is to gently absorb and resolve all of the tycoon’s frustrations without ever causing any of my own. I am a flower that only soothes, never pricks.
Beyond that, the relationship between me and the tycoon is purely platonic. He never has to worry about me using him to climb the social ladder, and I never have to worry about him pouncing on me. We exist in a perfect, professional harmony.
Tonight is a private gala hosted by the tycoon himself, Edward Vance.
To put it bluntly, it's the annual performance review for the various starlets orbiting his sun.
As his sentient flower, I naturally have a role that is both official and clandestine: Edward Vance’s executive assistant.
The gala is being held at a flagship hotel under the Vance Group umbrella. Crystal chandeliers cast a glittering rain of light, champagne fountains bubble with a golden glow, and the air is thick with a perfume of money and hormones.
A quick scan of the room reveals that the competition is already in full swing.
At the center of the ballroom is Penelope, the designated "helpless ingénue" in Edward’s life. She’s currently demonstrating her unique expertise.
Dressed in a wispy, ethereal white gown, she times a delicate stumble perfectly as she passes Edward, collapsing with flawless precision into his arms. She drapes herself over his arm, a fragile vine.
"Oh, Edward," she breathes, "it hurts so much…"
I take a sip of my tea, my expression blank. Honey, is this a gala or an insurance fraud seminar? You deserve an Oscar for that performance.
But this is Edward Vance we’re talking about. The most eligible and untouchable bachelor in all of New York. A master player who strolls through a garden of beauties without letting a single petal cling to him. Penelope is far too green to play games with him.
Still, a beautiful woman has fallen into his arms, and Edward is not one to be rude. He steadies her with a grip so practiced it looks robotic. But the curve of his lips… it’s the perfectly calibrated smile of a customer service representative.
"Alfred," he says smoothly to his butler, "please escort Ms. Penelope to the lounge to rest."
With a single sentence, he has her gift-wrapped and shipped out.
Penelope opens her mouth to protest, but the polite, unwavering smile on Edward’s face silences her. She knows better than to be voted off the island this early in the game.
Contestant number one has made an unfortunate exit.
But a tycoon’s garden is never home to just one flower.
Next up is Isabelle, "the saint," dressed in a simple yet elegant silk gown. She glides towards him, a glass of red wine in her hand, her posture impeccable.
She’s different from Penelope. She doesn't flirt or play helpless; she discusses ideals. Her conversations are woven with threads of charity work and underprivileged children. To Edward, she projects an image of pure, untouchable goodness. Even I have to give her points for style.
"Edward," she begins, her voice soft, "I was thinking about that orphanage on the west side…"
Edward pinches the bridge of his nose—a tell-tale sign of his impatience. He was up until 3 AM last night finalizing a merger. He’s clearly exhausted and in no mood for this topic. For all his cold exterior, he despises being emotionally manipulated.
Just then, Scarlett, "the red rose," clicks towards them on dangerously high heels, wrapped in a fiery red dress. She radiates an aura of pure power. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries and cuts right to the chase.
"Edward, that parcel of land downtown. I hear you’re interested?"
Look at that. Bringing business negotiations to a party. This woman knows how to kill a conversation.
Edward’s patience has clearly run out. He raises his glass to his lips, only to find it empty.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
The second his gaze sweeps in my direction, I stand. I move gracefully through the crowd, retrieve a cup of warm, clear tea from a passing waiter’s tray—a cup I had prepared in advance. Not his usual whiskey, not a pretentious red wine, but a simple tea to cut through the richness of the evening and soothe his fatigue. He’s running on fumes; alcohol would be a mistake. Coffee, while stimulating, wouldn't offer the same comfort. Tea is perfect.
I place the cup in his hand without a word.
He takes it, sips, and the hard line of his jaw softens almost imperceptibly.
Scarlett is about to press her point.
I speak softly, my voice directed at Edward but just loud enough for Scarlett to hear. "Mr. Vance, I reviewed the file on that downtown property. Ms. Scarlett's company primarily deals in consumer goods. A sudden pivot into a real estate project of this magnitude would likely face resistance from her board. Furthermore, I’ve heard their new European venture has strained their capital chain."
My words are subtle but surgically precise.
Scarlett’s expression freezes.
Edward sets down his cup and gives me a look. I know that look. It’s the look that says a very, very large bonus is headed my way.
He turns to Scarlett and smiles. "Scarlett, in business, knowing your own limits is just as important as knowing your enemy's."
Her face shifts through several shades of anger before she finally pivots on her heel, shoots me a venomous glare, and storms away.
For the entire evening, I haven't initiated a single conversation with Edward. I haven't fought to be near him like the others. I simply appeared when he needed me, with the right drink and the right words.
As the gala concludes, Edward leans back in the car, his eyes closed. He suddenly tosses a tablet into my lap.
"Take a look at this project."
I pick it up. The screen displays a prospectus for a private investment opportunity. The potential returns are astronomical, and the barrier to entry is so high that only those in his innermost circle would ever even hear about it.
I know exactly what this is. It's my reward for being his sentient flower tonight.
"Thank you, Mr. Vance," I say calmly, accepting it.
Lesson number one for surviving in Manhattan's elite circles: the most effective way to win is not to play the game everyone else is playing.
Excellent. My startup capital just got a significant boost. My little nest egg is growing quite nicely.

2
I'm an orphan. I never knew my parents, but thanks to the kindness of anonymous benefactors, I had a safe, if unremarkable, upbringing. I was never wealthy, but I was never in want. My childhood was stable, free from the kind of trauma that leaves deep scars. I’m perfectly healthy, both physically and mentally.
The only thing I lacked was a parent’s love. As a result, I never developed a deep reliance on familial bonds, let alone romantic ones. It’s as if I were born with a diminished capacity for emotional attachment.
After graduation, a chance encounter led me to Edward Vance, and I became his assistant. He once told me I was different from all the other women around him. I didn't care about that. I cared about the salary and benefits.
And God, did he pay well.
That’s why I’ve stayed by his side for four years. What’s so great about love? Isn't making a fortune more satisfying?
But in a city like this, gossip travels faster than light.
The news that I had earned Edward’s favor was like a torpedo hitting the perfectly curated fish pond of his admirers. For years, they’ve refused to believe that my relationship with him is purely professional. They can’t accept that I just want to take the money and run. They all see me as the enemy.
Penelope, naturally, was the first to make a move.
It didn't take long for her to start setting traps, and she aimed right for a project I was managing. It was a small-scale art acquisition, not a lot of money involved, but incredibly detailed. I knew it was a test from Edward to gauge my capabilities. After nearly four years, he was finally starting to delegate real responsibility to me. I had worked too hard to get here.
These lovesick fools were not going to ruin my career.
Penelope started by whispering in Edward's ear, her performance complete with crocodile tears. "Edward, that’s not what I meant at all… I just wanted to help Claire out, ease her workload. I didn't realize she would misunderstand and think I was trying to steal her job… sob…"
A true masterclass in manipulation.
Edward has a well-known weakness for crying women. He agreed to let her "help" in a heartbeat.
And so, she arrived. She enthusiastically forwarded me an artist's portfolio, making sure to CC the entire project team. The subject line read: "Lightening the load for Claire."
Penelope had an art degree. She used her minor connections in the art world to recommend a young painter with "immense potential."
I didn’t buy her act for a second. When something seems too good to be true, it always is.
A quick background check confirmed my suspicions. The artist did indeed have potential—a potential for forgery. Several of his past sales had been mired in plagiarism scandals. His wealthy family had paid a small fortune to scrub his reputation clean, but within the art world, everyone knew the truth.
If I acquired his work, I’d be on the front page of every paper. I could already see the headline: Vance Group Scammed in Multi-Million Dollar Art Fraud; Project Manager Claire Dismissed, Faces Massive Lawsuit.
I kept my findings to myself. Instead, I replied to Penelope's email with a cheerful thank you, once again CC'ing the entire department, including Edward. "Penelope, you're such a lifesaver! Thank you so much for your help."
Then, I got to work. I compiled everything: photos of Penelope meeting with the artist, their text conversations, and proof that she was using her influence to push his paintings onto the acquisition list. I put it all into a crisp PowerPoint presentation, using the official Vance Group template. The title was perfect: Risk Assessment and Background Report on the Artist Recommended by Ms. Penelope Vance. It was professional, meticulous, and irrefutable.
To be thorough, I even arranged a meeting with the artist at a discreet tea house, claiming I was sent by Penelope to discuss payment. He let his guard down immediately, his smugness making him careless. He spilled everything, including a direct quote: "Penelope said as long as I get in with Mr. Vance, the price is negotiable." I recorded the entire conversation.
All I had to do was wait.
Sure enough, a few days later, Edward summoned both of us to his office.
The moment Penelope saw him, her eyes welled up. She spoke first. "Edward, you have to believe me. I had no ill intentions. It’s Claire… she seems to have some sort of prejudice against me." She looked at me with wounded eyes, as if I were the big bad wolf who had just devoured a lamb.
Edward sat behind his massive desk, his face unreadable. He simply looked at me.
I didn’t rush to defend myself. Instead, I walked forward and placed a file on his desk. My tone was all business. "Mr. Vance, this is the background check I compiled on the artist Ms. Penelope recommended. I’m sure she was unaware of these details when she so kindly made the suggestion."
I paused, then added, "She is young, after all, and lacks real-world experience. It’s only natural for someone so pure-hearted and trusting to be deceived. We can't blame her. If anyone is at fault, it's me, for not advising her properly."
I glanced at Penelope’s face, which had gone deathly pale.
I continued, twisting the knife. "A person like Ms. Penelope, someone who could capture your heart under the cherry blossoms, must be fundamentally good. We mustn't be too harsh on her."
My "magnanimous" defense had backed her into an impossible corner. If she admitted she was naive, she was admitting she was incompetent. If she claimed she knew about the artist's history, she was admitting she was malicious.
Her face flushed red, then white. She sputtered, "That's not it! I didn't! I was just trying to help you!"
"Help me by recommending a serial plagiarist?" I feigned shock, covering my mouth. "Ms. Penelope, are you being blackmailed? Don't be afraid. You can tell Mr. Vance. He'll protect you. You're a recent graduate, new to all this. If something goes wrong, Mr. Vance has your back, right?"
Penelope was an alumna of Edward’s alma mater. They’d met a year ago when he gave a speech on campus. He’d seen her wandering under the blooming cherry trees, a vision in a white dress, and a spark of protective affection had been lit. Coincidentally, she was also the student representative who later toured the Vance Group headquarters. One thing led to another, and after she graduated, she landed a position at his company.
With every word of my "defense," her expression grew more horrified.
Edward was no fool. He flipped through the evidence I’d prepared—the photos, the recording, the text messages. The chain of evidence was so complete it could have been a case study for a law school class.
Finally, he looked up at Penelope, his expression so cold it could cause frostbite.
"Out."
Just one word. Penelope burst into tears and fled the room.
Silence descended. I stood there, awaiting my own verdict.
"From now on, you have full authority over this project," Edward said, pushing the file aside. "I'm increasing the budget by fifty percent. And I don't want to see any more amateurs involved."
The gears in my head were spinning. Excellent.
"Of course, Mr. Vance."
I had achieved my goal and was about to leave when Edward let out a heavy sigh. The powerful tycoon, in that moment, slumped forward, resting his head on his desk and staring blankly at a paperweight. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly.
"Claire, tell me… why is it that everyone seems to have an ulterior motive?"
"Am I not worthy of being treated with sincerity?"
Here we go again.
I cleared my throat, my expression turning serious and thoughtful. "Mr. Vance, you absolutely deserve to be treated with sincerity. You just haven't met the right person yet. Be patient."
He looked at me, his eyes full of earnest vulnerability. Who would have thought that the decisive, domineering Edward Vance had this childish side?
My words, as always, soothed him. I am, after all, a professional.
I backed out of the room and gently closed the door. I had bigger fish to fry.
With the extra funding and full autonomy, I immediately contacted another young artist—one with genuine talent who had been overlooked by the mainstream art world. I signed him to an exclusive five-year contract for a fraction of his market value.
The project was a resounding success, and Edward was thrilled.
And I, using the opportunity he had given me, not only secured my first major payday in this city but also acquired a future cash cow for myself.
It's just business. Nothing personal.

3
If Penelope was a bronze-level opponent, then Isabelle was silver.
She was smarter, more sophisticated, and wouldn't stoop to sabotaging minor projects. She aimed higher, setting her sights on the hugely influential charitable foundation run by the Vance family.
She had a sharp eye. The foundation was Edward’s grandmother’s passion project. Whoever took it over would earn the matriarch’s approval, which was as good as having one foot inside the Vance family’s front door.
Isabelle knew her brand: the beautiful, kind-hearted heiress, a benevolent angel floating above the grubby concerns of the world. She was the rare "saint" of her social circle.
With Penelope out of the picture, Isabelle ramped up her philanthropic-themed social media presence. One day, she was painting with children at an orphanage; the next, she was donating to a school in a remote mountain village. Every photo was perfectly curated: her makeup flawless, her smile gentle, surrounded by a crowd of adoring, plainly-dressed children. She was the very picture of grace and compassion.
Simultaneously, rumors about me began to circulate.
"Did you hear about Edward's assistant, Claire? She looks so plain, but they say her mind is as deep and dark as the Mariana Trench."
"I know, right? She acts like she doesn't want anything, but she's the first one to stab you in the back."
"Poor Isabelle, she's so kind. I heard Claire publicly humiliated her the other day."
…I chose to interpret it all as high praise.
But Isabelle wasn't finished. At a public event, she orchestrated another piece of performance art. She glided towards me, holding a glass of champagne, and then, just a step away… she "tripped," spilling the entire glass down the front of her own expensive custom gown.
The next second, she reached out and grabbed my arm, her face a mask of alarm. "Claire, are you okay? It's all my fault, I lost my footing."
Eyes from all around us shot in our direction, the unspoken assumption being that I had tripped her.
I almost laughed out loud. Honey, your acting skills are on par with Penelope's. The two of you could start a professional accident business and make a killing.
I had her figured out. I knew that for someone as obsessed with her public image as Isabelle, the best way to defeat her was to let her tear down her own carefully constructed stage, with her own hands.
I ignored the gossip and spent my time digging into her social circle. It didn't take long to find something interesting. She had frequent, substantial financial transactions with a notorious tabloid journalist, a man who made his living blackmailing celebrities.
It seemed our benevolent saint was buying a lot of her good press with cold, hard cash.
That made things easy.
My opportunity came at a grand charity gala hosted by the Vance Group. The theme was "Supporting Children with Rare Diseases." Isabelle, as the most high-profile philanthropist in attendance, was the guest of honor, radiant and in her element.
During the media interviews, she deployed her usual tactic, making a pointed statement to the cameras: "I don't do charity for recognition. I just wish everyone could be a little more sincere and a little less calculating. Unlike some people, who use charity as a stepping stone to climb higher."
Every camera immediately swiveled to face me.
I ignored her bait. Instead, I smiled at the host and posed a question. "Tonight's theme is incredibly moving. I've recently been researching Rett syndrome, a condition that causes developmental regression, loss of speech, and purposeful hand use in children. I was wondering if Ms. Isabelle, as such a dedicated advocate, could share her knowledge and insights on this particular rare disease?"
The room fell silent.
Rett syndrome? What was that?
People exchanged confused glances. The vast majority had never even heard of it. All eyes turned to Isabelle. Surely, the kind and knowledgeable saint would know.
The smile on Isabelle's face froze. Her past "charity work" had always focused on well-known, emotionally resonant causes. A highly specific medical term like this was far outside her wheelhouse.
She stammered for a moment before deflecting awkwardly, "Every illness… deserves our attention… and compassion has no measure…"
"Well said," I nodded in agreement, then pivoted. "It reminds me of that actress who was recently exposed for her 'Photoshop philanthropy'—posing for pictures but not donating a dime. It just goes to show that sincerity is always more important than appearances. I wonder, is the journalist who broke that incredible story here tonight? I would love to hear his professional opinion."
My gaze drifted casually towards a shifty-looking man in the corner. It was, of course, the very same tabloid journalist on Isabelle’s payroll.
He clearly hadn't expected to be dragged into the spotlight. The color drained from his face. To save his own skin and distance himself from her immediately, he practically lunged for a nearby reporter’s microphone.
"Ms. Claire is absolutely right!" he shouted. "Our duty as journalists is to expose hypocrisy! Like certain so-called 'saints' who pay for positive press releases and use charity to build a public persona, when in reality…"
He didn't need to finish. Every eye in the room was now fixed on the deathly pale Isabelle.
The message was clear.
That night, Isabelle’s persona completely shattered. The hashtag #PhotoshopPhilanthropist went viral, and she became the laughingstock of the city’s elite.
Edward had witnessed the entire spectacle.
After the gala, he handed me the official seal and authorization documents for the charitable foundation. "From now on, you're in charge."
He then passed me his phone. "These are the core board members. Add their contacts. If you need anything, go to them directly."
I glanced at the screen. The list was a who's who of the financial world. Any single one of them could make Wall Street tremble just by clearing their throat.
This was a quantum leap.
I hadn't just taken over a foundation; I had inherited Edward's most exclusive network. Using these top-tier resources, I ran the foundation with ruthless efficiency, building myself an impeccable public reputation while simultaneously using the insider information they occasionally let slip to make my own lucrative investments.
My fortune was growing exponentially.
The feeling was intoxicating.

4
If Penelope was bronze and Isabelle was silver, then Scarlett was pure platinum.
This red rose, with all her thorns, had no time for petty games. She wasn't playing for Edward's affection; she was playing for his empire.
Her goal was clear: become Mrs. Vance and merge their dynasties.
She set her sights on a key subsidiary of the Vance Group. Using her own capital, she began aggressively buying up shares on the open market, attempting a hostile takeover.
The Vance Group was in an uproar.
Scarlett even approached me directly, her attitude one of supreme confidence.
"Claire, you're a smart woman," she said, sliding a cup of coffee across the table towards me. Her red lips curled into a smirk. "With Edward, you'll always be just an assistant. But if you help me, once I take over, your position will be far greater."
She was trying to recruit me, to use me as a pawn in her game.
I could barely contain my glee. Lady, you’re literally serving me your head on a platter.
I knew Scarlett was ambitious and overconfident, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. Edward Vance was a master strategist. Going head-to-head with her would be foolish. Using her own momentum against her—that was the key.
I put on a display of being flattered but conflicted. "Ms. Scarlett, I… I'm just an assistant. I wouldn't dare…"
"Cut the crap," she snapped. "What's Edward's next move? Tell me his strategy for the subsidiary. What's his contingency plan?"
After a long, calculated hesitation, I "reluctantly" shared a piece of top-secret information.
"I overheard… that to fight the takeover, Mr. Vance is planning to mortgage the revenue from another major real estate project to raise capital and stabilize the stock price. But that project has a very slow return rate. Right now, he's overleveraged. His capital chain is stretched to its absolute limit."
It was, of course, a complete lie.
This supposed "weakness" was a custom-made trap, designed based on my understanding of Edward's methods. That old fox loved to feign weakness before delivering the fatal blow.
Scarlett took the bait. A person like her, accustomed to being the aggressor, trusts her own intelligence above all else. She immediately doubled down on her acquisition efforts, hoping to force a quick victory while Edward was "financially vulnerable."
She thought she had him by the throat. In reality, she had just stuck her head in a crocodile's mouth.
Edward seemed to be in an unusually good mood over the next few days. He even took me horseback riding at his country estate. Dressed in sharp riding gear, he sat tall and proud on his stallion, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he controlled the powerful animal.
He reined in his horse and looked back at me, a bead of sweat tracing the sharp line of his jaw. My God, he was handsome. No wonder women flocked to him.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, still breathless from the exertion.
I urged my horse forward to ride alongside him. "I'm thinking that you don't seem worried at all about Ms. Scarlett's power play."
He laughed, a playful glint in his eyes. "Why would I be worried about a mad dog that's voluntarily locked itself in a cage?"
He reached out and gently tilted my chin up with the tip of his riding crop. "It's you, Claire. You always seem to know exactly what I'm thinking."
I didn't pull away. I met his gaze and said softly, "Because I care about you, Mr. Vance."
The day the trap was sprung was bright and clear.
At the subsidiary's shareholder meeting, Scarlett confidently presented her stake, ready to seize control. Just as she believed victory was hers, an announcement was made. An obscure offshore fund, acting through a series of shell corporations, had secretly acquired a larger stake than hers and was throwing its full support behind the current management.
Scarlett was stunned.
The massive amount of capital she had poured into the takeover was now trapped, locked into a failing bid and accumulating devastating interest. She had tried to steal the chicken but ended up losing the rice.
At that precise moment, I walked into Edward's office and handed him a file.
"Mr. Vance, here is the background information on that offshore fund, along with evidence of its cross-holdings with another one of our overseas projects."
This wasn't information I had just found. It was the result of months of meticulous digging, using the access and resources Edward himself had given me. I knew about his counter-move all along. I was just waiting for the perfect moment to present it to him, in my role as the all-knowing sentient flower.
Edward looked up from the file, his gaze intense. This time, it held more than just approval. There was a deeper, more probing curiosity. He was likely wondering how I could understand him so completely, perhaps even better than he understood himself.
Scarlett's aggressive ambition had utterly repulsed him. Her dream of becoming Mrs. Vance was officially dead. Her defeat was swift and total. She was forced to liquidate her assets and quietly disappear from the New York social scene.
And I… I had reached the zenith of my career.
Edward’s trust in me was now absolute. He no longer saw me as just a capable assistant, but as a true partner-in-arms. He handed over control of several of the company's most profitable and promising divisions.
"You handle these," he said, giving me unprecedented authority.
I looked at him, my heart perfectly still. I almost wanted to laugh. Dude, you just handed me the keys to the vault.
And since you offered, I won't be polite.
I used this golden opportunity to begin the final phase of my plan. Slowly, meticulously, I started restructuring assets, redirecting profits, and funneling everything into a shell corporation I had long ago established overseas—a corporation that was entirely, and untraceably, mine.
The process was like ants moving a mountain, grain by grain. Slow, patient, and invisible.
Edward Vance thought I was working to secure his legacy.
He had no idea I was building my own.
The day I could finally set myself free was getting closer and closer.

First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "263543" to read the entire book.