"You are all fired."
For half a second, no one reacts. The words sit there, hanging in the air like they have not fully registered yet.
Then the room explodes.
Chairs scrape harshly against the marble floor. Director Choi actually stands so fast his pen rolls off the table.
Director Kang's face drains of color before flushing red. Even the assistants seated along the wall glance at each other in open shock.
My fingers tighten around the tablet in my hands.
What the hell is he doing.
Director Han slams his palm lightly on the table. "Executive Director, this is highly irregular. There are procedures. Board approvals. Evaluations."
Director Park leans forward, voice rising. "You cannot dismiss five senior directors in one morning without formal review. This is not how a corporation operates."
Director Yoon adds sharply, "The media will catch this within hours. Investors will question internal stability. Have you considered the market response?"
They talk over each other now. Words like liability, governance, shareholder confidence, and emergency session start flying across the table. The polished tone from earlier disappears completely.
Through all of it, he does not move.
He remains seated at the head of the table, hands resting calmly on the file, expression unchanged. He does not interrupt. He does not argue. He simply watches.
Director Kang's voice rises above the rest. "With all due respect, you have been in full authority for less than forty-eight hours. This decision is impulsive."
That is when he looks up.
I have seen him cold before. I have seen him distant. I have seen him irritated.
This is different.
His eyes are flat. Not angry. Not heated. Just empty in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
Director Kang stops mid-sentence. The rest of the room quiets just slightly, enough to feel the shift.
"You seem confused," Enhyeok says calmly. "Daeyeon does not lack workers. We do not lack applicants. We do not lack replacements."
His gaze moves from one director to another. "We lack competence at the level I require."
Director Choi scoffs under his breath. "You are overestimating how easily experience can be replaced."
Enhyeok's lips curve faintly, but there is no humor in it. "Experience that produces negligence has negative value."
Director Han tries again. "You will destabilize the internal structure."
"I am restructuring it," he replies without hesitation. "If the stock fluctuates, it will recover. If investors question the decision, they will be shown the data. I do not build this company on sentiment."
He closes the file in front of him and stands. "You may collect your belongings through HR. Security will escort you if necessary."
Director Park pushes his chair back again. "We will protest this. We will call an emergency board vote."
"You are free to attempt," he says evenly. "This meeting is over."
He walks toward the door without looking back.
The directors are still speaking, still arguing, still trying to reclaim authority that has already been stripped from them.
I follow him automatically. My heels echo louder than I intend as we step into the corridor. My heart is pounding in a way that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with corporate disaster.
The boardroom doors close behind us, but I can still hear muffled shouting from inside.
I walk faster until I am beside him. "Are you fucking out of your damn mind?"
The words leave before I filter them.
He does not respond. He keeps walking toward his office, stride even, shoulders straight.
"How can you just fire five directors who have worked here for years?" I continue, my voice low but intense. "We need their experience. Their networks. Their understanding of internal systems."
Nothing. Not even a glance in my direction.
"Do you know what will happen when this leaks?" I press on, frustration boiling over.
"The market will react immediately. Short-term investors will panic sell. The stock could drop by three to five percent in a single morning just from instability rumors. The media will question leadership continuity. Competitors will use this as leverage."
We reach his office door and he opens it without slowing down. I follow him inside, still talking because I cannot stop now.
"You became CEO yesterday. Yesterday. You cannot fire five senior directors the next morning like this is some movie scene where you prove dominance and everyone claps."
"Ms. Seo."
His voice cuts clean through mine.
Cold.
Controlled.
I freeze.
That is when it hits me that I am not arguing with him as his secretary. I am arguing like I used to when we were younger, like this is personal and not professional.
He turns slowly.
He walks toward me.
Each step is measured, unhurried, but he does not stop until he is standing directly in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes.
His expression is no longer calm. It is sharp.
"Who are you," he asks quietly, "to question my decisions?"
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
"Are you my superior?" he continues, voice still low. "My advisor? My board member?"
He takes one more small step forward, and I instinctively step back until the edge of his desk presses against my lower back.
"Who the hell are you to talk back to me in that tone?"
My throat feels dry.
"If I fire them, I know exactly what I am doing," he says. "If the stock market dips, it is my equity that absorbs the impact. If investors complain, I handle them. If the company crashes, it is my capital that burns."
His eyes do not leave mine. "You will receive your salary at the end of the month regardless. Even if this building collapses."
The words hit harder than they should.
"So shut your fucking mouth when you do not understand the full picture."
The air between us feels tight.
"Apologize," he says flatly. "Now."
For a second, pride fights back.
Then reality wins.
I step away from the desk and bow deeply, the movement automatic and precise. "I apologize, Executive Director. I overstepped. I was concerned about the company's stability. It will not happen again."
My voice is steady. Professional. Clean.
There is a pause long enough for me to feel the weight of it.
"Good," he replies. "Prepare the dismissal letters for the five directors. Coordinate with Legal and HR. I want them finalized within the hour."
I straighten slowly. "Yes, sir."
"Get out."
I turn and walk toward the door without another word.
I draft the dismissal letters with hands that look steady and feel nothing like it.
The template is standard corporate language—effective immediately, breach of fiduciary responsibility, failure of due diligence, termination of executive authority pending legal review.
I adjust the phrasing so it cuts clean without sounding emotional. No accusations that can be used against us. No unnecessary adjectives. Just facts, references to audit discrepancies, signatures required.
Five envelopes. Five careers reduced to two pages each.
I walk them to Legal myself because I don't trust anyone else to handle it quietly. The hallway feels different already. News moves without sound in a place like this.
Assistants stop typing when I pass. A few managers pretend to look at their screens while their eyes follow me. No one asks questions. They don't need to. They know something detonated this morning.
By the time HR confirms receipt and Security gets their instructions, it's past six. The sky outside the glass walls is already dark, the city lights turning on in rows like nothing inside this building just shifted.
My phone buzzes.
Executive Director's Office.
Of course.
I smooth my jacket before stepping inside, because muscle memory is stronger than pride.
He's standing near the window, city lights behind him, jacket off, sleeves rolled just once. His tie is still perfectly straight. There's a stack of files on his desk, thicker than the ones from this morning. He doesn't look tired. He looks focused.
"Sit," he says without turning around.
I stay standing.
"You asked for an update," I reply evenly. "Dismissal letters have been finalized and forwarded to Legal. HR has initiated termination protocols. Security is on standby. Investor Relations is preparing a controlled statement in case of media inquiry."
He turns then, slow and assessing, like he's checking the quality of something he purchased.
"Good," he says. "Prepare documentation for potential wrongful termination claims. I want every audit trail organized. Internal emails, revised risk models, compliance amendments. If they attempt litigation, we respond within twenty-four hours."
His tone isn't angry anymore. It's colder than that. Efficient.
"I'll coordinate with Legal tonight," I answer. "We'll have digital and hard copies ready."
"Do it."
I nod once.
I wait for dismissal, but he keeps looking at me like he hasn't finished.
"From tomorrow onward," he adds, "you'll be present for all early executive briefings."
I already know what that means.
"Also prepare a statement for investor relations. Short. Controlled. Emphasize restructuring and long-term performance stability."
"I'll have a draft by six."
He studies me for a second like he is measuring whether that answer is acceptable. I hold his gaze because I refuse to look unsure in front of him again.
"Good," he replies. "And don't forget. Seven a.m. at my residence."
"Yes, sir. Understood."
He pauses just long enough for it to feel intentional.
"I do not tolerate being late."
There is no raised voice. No threat. Just a fact placed on the table between us.
"I won't be late."
I bow properly because that is what this position requires, and because it is easier than letting him see the frustration sitting behind my teeth.
He walks past me toward the door, already mentally onto the next task, and I step aside without hesitation.
The second he disappears down the corridor, I stay frozen for three full seconds.
Then I exhale so hard it almost hurts.
When I reach my desk, I drop into my chair and let my head fall back against the leather. The office is empty now, no witnesses, no cameras pointed directly at my face from this angle. I glare at the hallway like he might reappear just to annoy me again.
"You absolute tyrant," I mutter under my breath.
I lift my hand and flip off the empty air in the direction he walked, because if I don't release it somehow I might actually combust. The gesture feels immature and deeply satisfying at the same time.
Seven a.m. at his house.
His house.
I don't even know where the hell it is.
Am I supposed to arrange his breakfast like some perfectly efficient extension of his calendar?
I shut down my computer and gather my things, forcing my face back into neutral before I step into the elevator. The reflection in the mirrored walls looks composed, polished, entirely capable.
No one would guess that my brain is replaying Ten years old memories like they matter in a building funded by a trillion-dollar empire.
The drive home is quiet, and that is the problem.
Silence leaves room for comparison.
Back then he would get jealous over nothing and pretend he wasn't. He would sulk if I ignored his messages for more than an hour. He would soften the second I touched his arm.
Today he told five senior directors to pack their belongings without blinking.
Today he told me to shut my mouth.
Today he informed me that minimum is not enough and that I lack fashion sense like he was reviewing a failed proposal.
I unlock my apartment and step inside, heels abandoned by the door, bag dropped on the couch. I stand in the middle of the living room staring at nothing.
He is not that boy anymore.
He owns a corporation that moves markets.
He speaks and people lose careers.
And tomorrow morning, I have to stand in his kitchen at seven sharp like I have never known the way he used to look at me when I wasn't "Ms. Seo."
I rub my face with both hands and let out a low groan that echoes against my empty walls.
"I hate this," I say to no one.
Not the job.
Not the pressure.
Him.
Or maybe the fact that a small, stupid part of me still searches his voice for something that sounds like before.
I set three alarms for 5:30 a.m. anyway.
Because whatever he has become, I am not giving him the satisfaction of calling me late on my first morning in his house
My alarm goes off at 5:30 and I don't even hesitate before turning it off because if I think too hard about what I'm about to do, I might actually call in sick on my third day and destroy whatever is left of my professional dignity.
By 6:30 I'm on the subway, wedged between a college student half-asleep on the pole and a woman aggressively checking emails on her phone.
The train hums under my feet and I stare at my reflection in the darkened window, inspecting the version of myself he apparently found insufficient yesterday.
Fine.
If minimum isn't enough, then neither is subtle.
I'm wearing a fitted charcoal pencil skirt that hits just below the knee, tailored so clean it looks cut onto me. The blouse is silk, deep ivory, structured at the shoulders with a sharp collar that actually frames my neck instead of hiding it.
I added a slim black belt with a discreet gold clasp, matching it with pointed heels that don't click—they strike. My hair is down but controlled, straight and glossy, tucked behind one ear with a thin gold barrette. Makeup is still professional, but defined. Not loud. Not soft. Precise.
Executive floor standard.
Who the hell is he to comment on my fashion sense like he's the editor of some luxury magazine.
The train stops two stations before mine and more people flood in. I shift slightly, tightening my grip on the overhead rail, trying not to think about the fact that I am commuting to my ex-boyfriend's penthouse at seven in the morning to arrange his breakfast like I applied for this role in my childhood career plan.
Mr. Lim sent the address at midnight along with a digital access key and a four-digit code. No explanation. Just coordinates and instructions. I didn't reply.
By 6:52 I'm standing in front of a building that looks like it belongs on the cover of an architectural digest. Glass exterior, private lobby, security desk that already knows my name before I introduce myself. Of course they do. Of course he arranged that.
The elevator ride up is silent and too smooth. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks composed. Controlled. Like I'm walking into a negotiation.
The doors open directly into the penthouse foyer.
I step out.
It's not just big. It's obscene. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire living space, the city still half-dim in early morning haze. Clean lines. Neutral tones.
Expensive without screaming it. Everything looks untouched, staged, like nobody actually lives here.
Mr. Lim's message included a note: "Use access code upon arrival."
I stare at the door for a second longer than necessary before pressing the code into the panel. It unlocks with a soft click that feels louder than it should.
I knock once anyway, because boundaries still matter to me even if they don't to him.
Then I step inside.
"Executive Director?" I call out, voice steady.
No answer.
The door closes behind me automatically. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of central air.
There's a sleek kitchen to my right, black marble island, built-in coffee machine that probably costs more than my annual rent. To the left, a living area that looks untouched, no clutter, no signs of habit.
"Executive Director?" I repeat, a little louder.
Still nothing.
I move further in, heels soft against the polished floor. There's a hallway leading deeper into the apartment, doors closed. I hesitate for half a second, then step toward it because standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room feels worse.
That's when I hear it.
Water.
A low rush cutting off abruptly.
I turn instinctively toward the sound just as a door at the end of the hallway opens.
He steps out.
Wet.
Half naked.