JIAH POV
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.
I freeze where I stand because my brain clearly did not prepare for this version of seven a.m. executive briefing.
A towel hangs low on his hips, unfairly low, and his chest is completely bare, lean muscle cut sharp under the soft lighting.
His abs are defined in a way that feels intentional, like he built them brick by brick out of pure control issues.
My mouth goes dry before I can stop it and I immediately hate myself for noticing.
No, ew, absolutely not, I tell myself, as if my eyes didn't already scan everything in one brutal sweep.
Who the hell does he think he is walking around like this when he told me to be here at seven like a scheduled meeting.
He sees me at the same second I see him and we both go still. His gaze moves from my heels up to my hair without any change in expression, slow and assessing like I'm a report he's reviewing.
I look away fast, like I didn't just catalogue every detail of his body against my will.
He walks toward the hallway like nothing happened, water still trailing faintly down his neck. "You look like shit," he says flatly, as if he's commenting on the weather. The audacity almost knocks the air out of me.
"Excuse me?" I turn sharply toward him, anger overriding embarrassment. "I look like shit?" I gesture down at my skirt, my blouse, my heels. "This is shit? This is below minimum?"
He doesn't even slow down. He glances at the wall clock and then at me, unimpressed. "I don't remember telling you to stand in my living room like a stalker this early."
The nerve of this man makes my hands curl into fists. "You're the one who said you don't tolerate being late," I shoot back before I can stop myself. "You set seven a.m., not me."
"That doesn't mean you get to show up and watch me naked," he replies without raising his voice. "Professional boundaries, Ms. Seo."
I actually choke on that because the hypocrisy is insane. I swallow hard and bow automatically, because my survival instincts apparently function even when my pride is dying. "My apologies, Executive Director."
He exhales slowly, and the sound feels heavier than it should. "If you apologize for everything, I'll kick you out," he says, tone low and controlled in a way that lands harder than yelling.
I freeze again because there's something final in that warning. He walks past me, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes mine, and the scent hits me before I can step away.
Clean soap mixed with something sharp and expensive, warm skin underneath, and my own traitorous body reacts like it remembers things it shouldn't.
I don't remember him looking like this ten years ago. Back then he was tall and solid but still growing into himself, not this broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted version carved out of discipline. My eyes lift despite myself and that's when I see it.
A tattoo stretches across his back.
A serpent.
It starts low near his waist and coils upward along his spine, scales detailed enough to look real in the shifting light.
The head rests near the base of his neck, mouth slightly open, and for a second it genuinely looks like it could move.
He never had that before.
I would know.
That means it came after me, after school, after everything fell apart.
What the hell did he become.
"You done looking?" he asks without turning around.
I choke on air and snap my gaze forward like a child caught staring. There's no smirk when he faces me again, no teasing expression, just that same unreadable calm.
He walks into his bedroom and shuts the door firmly behind him.
I stand there for a full breath before forcing myself to move toward the kitchen because standing stunned in the hallway feels pathetic.
The island is spotless and then I notice something that makes me pause.
Breakfast is already prepared.
Plates set neatly, toast covered, eggs under a glass dome, fruit arranged like someone else did this before I arrived.
So he doesn't need me to cook, which makes this entire early morning summons feel like a power move instead of a necessity.
Then why the hell am I here.
I move anyway, adjusting the plates slightly, aligning the cutlery, because if I don't do something my brain will spiral.
I open the sleek refrigerator, grab a few ice cubes from the dispenser just to keep my hands busy, and then make his black coffee out of pure habit.
No sugar.
No cream.
The way he used to drink it when he claimed bitterness kept him focused.
I place the mug on the table and sit on the edge of the couch, back straight, legs crossed at the ankle, pretending this is normal. The bedroom door opens a few minutes later and I look up automatically.
He steps out fully dressed this time, black shirt fitted cleanly against his frame, sleeves buttoned, dark trousers tailored perfectly.
His hair is dry and styled, expression back to CEO mode like the towel version of him never existed.
He sits at the table, reaches for the coffee, and looks at it for a second. Without a word, he stands and pours it straight into the sink.
I shoot up so fast my heel nearly slips. "You said you drink it black," I start, genuinely confused, watching the dark liquid disappear down the drain.
"Did I ask you to make coffee?" he replies calmly.
"No, but—" I begin, but he's already opening the fridge.
He takes out a bottle of water, twists the cap off, and sits back down like this entire interaction is routine. "Don't do anything without my order," he says evenly, taking a slow sip.
I stand there staring at the empty mug in the sink, jaw tight, resisting the overwhelming urge to launch it at his perfectly composed face.
I like my job, I like my salary, and I like financial stability more than I like punching arrogant men, so I swallow every word clawing up my throat.
He looks at me.
Not a glance, not a passing evaluation like before, but a full, direct look that pins me exactly where I am.
His eyes don't move away this time, and the silence stretches in a way that makes my stomach tighten because what the hell is he calculating now.
I hold it for a second out of pure stubbornness and then immediately regret it because he doesn't blink.
There's nothing in his expression, no irritation, no amusement, just this steady unreadable focus like he's dissecting something under a microscope.
Why is he looking at me like that, what is he thinking, is he comparing me to someone, judging, remembering, hating.
"Again," he says finally, voice even. "You look like shit."
It hits harder the second time, not because it's louder but because it's deliberate. My pride flares up so fast I almost laugh.
"If this is shit," I say, gesturing down at myself, keeping my voice level even though my chest feels tight, "then what exactly matches the executive office standard in your head?"
He studies me for half a second longer.
He says Nothing.
Before I can decide if that's an insult or something worse, the main door opens and footsteps enter the living room.
Mr. Lim walks in with his usual quiet efficiency, posture straight, eyes respectful but observant, and he gives a small bow. "The car is ready, sir."
Enhyeok nods once.
Mr. Lim steps forward, holding out a perfectly pressed blazer, and in one smooth motion he slides it over Enhyeok's shoulders like this is muscle memory between them.
I watch the way Enhyeok doesn't even help, doesn't adjust much, just lets it happen like he's used to being dressed into power.
He starts walking toward the main door without looking at me.
For half a second I stand there like an idiot before my brain catches up. Oh right, I'm supposed to exist in this story too.
I grab my bag and hurry after them, heels clicking too loud against the marble floor, trying not to look like I'm chasing a moving train.
The elevator ride is suffocatingly silent.
Mr. Lim stands near the panel, Enhyeok beside him, and I take my usual position slightly behind because apparently that's where assistants belong in this hierarchy.
The mirrored walls reflect all three of us and I hate that I look smaller than I feel.
Enhyeok doesn't look at me once.
The elevator dings softly when we reach the parking level and the doors slide open to reveal his car waiting like a statement.
It's sleek, black, expensive in a quiet way that screams money without trying, and Mr. Lim moves quickly to open the rear door for him.
Enhyeok steps in without hesitation.
Mr. Lim walks around to the driver's seat and gets in, and I'm left standing there staring at the car like it's a multiple-choice question I didn't study for.
Front or back, assistant protocol, what the hell is the rule when your boss is also your complicated past and currently acting like an ice sculpture.
I whisper a quick prayer under my breath, not even sure who I'm addressing at this point.
I walk to the front passenger door and open it slowly, pausing just enough to glance toward the back seat.
I expect something, a comment, a "Did I say you could sit there?" but there's nothing, not even a shift in posture.
Fine.
I slide into the front seat and close the door carefully, heart beating harder than it should for something this stupid.
The engine starts smoothly and the car begins to move, the city still waking up outside the tinted windows.
I clear my throat and pull out my tablet.
"Today's schedule starts with the new directors' appointment at nine," I say, professional tone locked in place.
"After that you have a strategy meeting with the overseas investors, then lunch with—"
He's not looking at me.
He's staring out the window like I'm background noise.
My fingers tighten slightly around the tablet. I continue anyway because that's my job, listing times and names and locations while watching his reflection in the side mirror. He doesn't react, doesn't nod, doesn't even blink differently.
Is he ignoring me on purpose or does he genuinely not care.
Halfway through the briefing I stop talking.
The silence that follows feels louder than my voice did.
Mr. Lim keeps driving like he hears nothing, sees nothing, like this isn't awkward at all. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and turn my head toward the window, watching buildings pass by in a blur.
Fine.
If he wants silence, he can choke on it.
We pull up to the company's main entrance twenty minutes later, the glass facade reflecting the morning light and the giant logo above the doors looking as intimidating as ever.
The car slows to a smooth stop and staff near the entrance immediately straighten when they recognize it.
I step out first.
The air outside feels colder than it should and I smooth my skirt automatically, posture straight, face neutral. A security guard rushes forward to open the rear door, bowing deeply.
Enhyeok steps out of the car like he owns the ground beneath it.
He doesn't look left or right, doesn't acknowledge the employees pretending not to stare, just starts walking toward the entrance with that steady, controlled pace that makes people move out of his way before he even gets close.
I follow half a step behind, as always.
The lobby doors slide open and conversations inside falter the second he crosses the threshold. Heads turn subtly, whispers die mid-sentence, and I can feel the shift in atmosphere like someone tightened the air.
He stops walking.
Right in the middle of the lobby.
I almost walk into his back but manage to halt just in time, heels scraping softly against polished marble. He turns slightly, not fully toward me but enough that I can see his profile.
"Smile," he says quietly.
I blink.
"What?" I whisper before I can stop myself.
"You represent me," he continues, eyes forward, voice low enough that only I can hear. "If you look like you're attending a funeral, people will assume I am too."
Heat rushes to my face and I force my lips into something that resembles a smile, even though inside I want to shove him straight into the nearest wall.
Who the hell does he think he is controlling my facial muscles now.
He starts walking again.
We take three more steps before the elevator doors at the far end of the lobby open and a woman steps out, tall, elegant, dressed in a sharp cream suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
Her eyes lock directly onto Enhyeok and then shift to me for half a second too long.
She smiles.
"Enhyeok," she says smoothly, like she has every right to say his name without a title.
He stops.
And for the first time this morning, his expression changes.
Just slightly.
Enough to make my stomach drop.
He doesn't look cold anymore.
He looks familiar.
__________________
ENHYEOK POV
The door closes behind my cousin and the room finally exhales.
She leaves with that calm smile she's perfected since we were kids, the kind that looks harmless but carries a warning underneath, and the scent of her perfume still lingers in the air.
We didn't talk about numbers or contracts or quarterly projections, and we both know that makes it ten times more dangerous.
Family conversations are never just conversations.
She adjusted her bracelet before leaving, a small gold thing our grandmother gave her, and said she hopes I'll "choose wisely this time," like I'm five and still breaking porcelain in the main house.
I told her she should focus on her own side of the table before advising mine, and she laughed like I'd just confirmed exactly what she needed.
The assistant outside announces her departure through the intercom.
I don't respond.
I turn my chair slightly and look through the glass wall.
Jiah is at her desk, head bent toward her monitor, fingers moving fast and precise like she's trying to outrun something.
A man approaches from the left corridor, stops at her station, and leans down just enough to lower his voice, and she looks up at him with that polite curve of her lips she never gives me.
He says something that makes her actually smile.
Not the tight professional one she uses in meetings, but a real one that reaches her eyes, and I feel something hot and irrational crawl up my spine before I can shut it down.
Who the hell does he think he is standing that close, and why is she letting him.
I pick up my phone.
"Mr. Lim," I say, my gaze still locked on the glass. "Check the CCTV and tell me who that is with Ms. Seo."
A pause, faint typing in the background.
"It's the Foreign Strategy Department Manager, " kang Minjae " he replies calmly. "He transferred from the Tokyo branch three weeks ago."
Of course he did.
I watch Kang Minjae straighten, still talking, and Jiah nods as if whatever he's saying actually deserves her attention. I exhale slowly, jaw tight enough that it almost hurts.
"Call Ms. Seo into my office," I say.
A minute later there's a knock.
She walks in with her tablet held against her chest, expression composed, like she wasn't just laughing outside. "You called, sir?"
"I want the Southeast Asia acquisition file," I say without preamble. "Printed. Full copy."
She blinks once. "Sir, that file is almost more than five hundred pages."
"I don't care."
There's a flicker in her eyes, irritation or disbelief, I can't tell which, but she nods anyway. "Yes, sir."
She turns and leaves, heels sharp against the floor, and I lean back in my chair once the door shuts.
Five hundred pages.
Good.
Let her stand by the printer for hours, let her carry the weight of it in her arms, let her remember exactly who she works for.
I drag a hand over my mouth and stare at the ceiling for a second, a bitter laugh threatening to slip out because this is pathetic and I know it.
I will never give you peace.
My phone vibrates against the desk, cutting straight through the silence.
The screen lights up with a name.
Seoryeon Group Heir.