episode 1
So-yeon’s POV
I am really trying to focus on the task at hand. Really, I am. My fingers hover over the keyboard, then tap a few keys, then stop. My planner lies open on the desk, its pages a tangle of colours and notes. Three different color-coded tabs stick out like desperate hands begging for attention. Each one screams for me to notice it, to act, to prioritize.
Next month’s schedule is a battlefield. Two restructuring meetings could reshape the company, three investor presentations where every word matters, and a charity gala the Board keeps pretending doesn’t exist, even though it looms over us like a ticking clock. On top of that, Jae-ryun’s personal trips are scattered throughout the month. He refuses to tell me in advance, leaving gaps in the schedule that feel like unexploded bombs waiting to go off.
My desk is littered with documents that need my approval. Emails pile up, each one more urgent than the last. Files demand cross-checking. Reports must be finalized, slides perfected, every i dotted, every t crossed. The weight of it presses against my shoulders, but I lean into it, letting my routine carry me forward.
I am not complaining. This is my job. I chose it, fought for it, and excelled at it. The chaos doesn’t frighten me. In fact, I thrive in it. There is a rhythm to this madness, a pulse I can follow. I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and dive back in, scanning an Excel sheet with hawk-like precision, fingers flying over shortcuts, mind spinning in a perfect whirl of organization.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispers that this is too much, that I should take a break, but I push it down. There is no room for hesitation. I have mastered the art of juggling, of keeping all the plates spinning without letting one fall. And I will continue to do so, because this is my world, my responsibility, and I am good at it. Better than anyone would ever expect.
The office hums around me, phones ringing, assistants hurrying past, the faint hiss of the coffee machine. I take another sip of lukewarm coffee, letting it burn a little on my tongue, just to remind myself I am alive and still in control. The planner waits. The emails wait. Jae-ryun’s whims wait. And I am ready.
I am So-yeon, and I will handle it all.
But—
“Ahh—Jae-ryun—don’t stop—!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard that spots dance across my vision. The world tilts a little, but I force myself upright, as if posture could restore sanity.
The moans echo off the glass walls, bouncing around the office like some twisted sound effect in a low-budget adult film. My boss’s office is just behind me, the door wide open as always. Of course it is open. Why would the CEO of a multinational company ever bother with a closed door when he is doing... that?
I let out a stifled sound that is somewhere between a groan and a desperate plea for divine intervention. My fingers hover over the keyboard, then curl into fists. I stare at the spreadsheet in front of me, the columns of numbers and cells swimming as if they are mocking me.
The sound of nails scraping against the glass pierces through my mental defences. A pen holder tips over somewhere, scattering pens across the floor. Something else hits the ground, the distinct clatter of shattered dignity.
I clutch my mouse like it is a lifeline. My heartbeat spikes, each pulse loud enough to echo in my ears.
Breathe, So-yeon, I tell myself. You are a professional. You are competent. You have survived shareholder meetings where old men talked over you. You have navigated office politics with precision. You survived your brother’s wedding chaos, the endless list of guests, and the miniature disasters that accompanied every single plan. You can survive this too.
The moaning continues, relentless and obscene. My stomach knots, nausea rising as the sounds reverberate.
I try to focus on a cell, on a number, anything, but every attempt is drowned by the noise. The scratching of nails, the occasional thud of something hitting the floor, and the unmistakable sighs make it impossible to think. I glance at the clock. How is it only ten-thirty? How has the morning already decayed into this nightmare?
You can survive this.
Another moan rattles the walls.
Okay, maybe not.
I clear my throat, loud enough to feel like a foghorn in the otherwise tense silence of the office. Maybe he forgot that I exist, that there is another human in this room actually trying to get work done.
Of course, he doesn’t stop. He never stops. Every noise from his office, every sharp gasp and low groan, is a reminder that he likes this. Likes having me here. Likes me watching. Likes me listening. Likes pretending that this is normal office behaviour.
A small, sharp laugh escapes me, bitter and incredulous. I press my lips together and mutter under my breath, barely loud enough for me to hear, “Corporate slave, indeed.”
And the worst part is this is not new. Not the first time. Not the second. Not even the twentieth. I’ve learned to live in this twisted rhythm of anticipation and dread.
Kim Jae-ryun, my boss, the CEO, the man who manages to make my blood boil and my pulse spike all at once, has a very strange habit of using me as an unwilling audience to his private escapades. And no matter how many times I have confronted him about it, he only smirks, a lazy curl of a smile that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I force myself back to the spreadsheet in front of me, fingers trembling slightly as I type another line in the schedule draft. 10:00 AM – Meeting with International Clients. 10:30 AM – CEO finishes ruining my sanity. The absurdity of it makes a part of me want to scream, but I type on anyway.
“Mr. Kim,” I call out, raising my voice this time, firm and deliberate. I want him to acknowledge me. I want him to stop.
A low, breathy chuckle drifts back from his office, teasing and deliberately cruel. The sound fuels another moan from the woman with him, louder this time, as if she’s been encouraged by his amusement.
I slump back in my chair, rubbing my temples. My eyes flick between the screen and his office. Every movement, every sound from inside twists the knot in my stomach tighter. I want to close the door. I want to run. I want to throw the phone across the room and walk out. But I cannot. I am trapped in this glass-walled cage, forced to witness the chaos of his arrogance and selfishness, while the rest of the office continues as if nothing is happening.
Because they cannot hear what I am hearing.
He made sure of that.
The outer office, the hallways, the entire executive floor remains calm and quiet. Assistants walk by without a clue, discussing reports and deadlines. Phones ring. Printers hum. Everything looks normal from the outside.
Only my office and his are sealed together in this private hell he constructed.
He ordered the soundproofing months ago, claiming it was for “confidentiality during high-level calls.” I believed him. I even approved the request. And now here I am, reaping the consequences of my own naïve compliance while the rest of the staff goes blissfully about their day, unaware that the CEO’s moans are ricocheting inside my skull like bullets.
I stand up so suddenly my chair rolls back an inch. Heat rushes up my neck, not from embarrassment but from sheer frustration. I turn halfway toward his doorway, plant my feet, and raise my voice until it cuts cleanly through the heavy, breathy noise spilling into my office.
“Mr. Kim, I highly think this is inappropriate!”
For a moment, everything goes still. No moans. No thuds. Just a strange, suspended silence that presses against my ears.
Then his voice slips out from the office, smooth and deep, polished like luxury silk draped across bare skin. It carries an unmistakable curl of amusement.
“Why? Are you jealous?”
Jea—Jealous?
Of that? Of her? Of him?
I choke on my own breath, coughing once, twice, because apparently my lungs have given up on their job.
“Me? Jealous?” The laugh that escapes me is sharp, disbelieving, borderline hysterical. “Please. I am literally trying to plan your entire quarter while you...” I wave a hand toward the open doorway, fingers fluttering helplessly. “While you perform... cardio.”
There is a muffled laugh. His laugh. Not hers.
My scalp prickles. I drag both hands down my face, fighting the urge to scream into my palms. God, I hate him. I hate the arrogance, the shamelessness, the way he treats professionalism like a toy he can bend and twist whenever he gets bored.
But also... painfully, annoyingly, infuriatingly...
My brain is not blind.
And unfortunately, my eyes function perfectly.
I’ve watched him lean over my desk, close enough that the air shifts with him. His shirt pulls tight across solid shoulders, fabric straining as if it can barely contain the shape beneath. His sleeves are always rolled with careless precision, revealing forearms defined enough to draw the eye without permission.
I have seen the sharp line of his jaw when he tilts his head to read a file, the angle so precise it could slice through glass. When he concentrates, a faint tension forms there, a clenched restraint that makes me wonder what he would look like without it.
And then there are his eyes. Golden. Striking. Almost unreal. When he looks at me, they catch the light like molten amber, warm and dangerous at the same time. There is something in them that feels crafted with intention, as if someone out there sculpted a man meant to test the sanity of anyone who happens to be in the same room for too long.
A devil disguised as an angel.
A wolf wearing a perfect suit.
But jealousy?
Please. No.
The very idea makes me snort under my breath. No. Absolutely not. I am a functioning adult woman with a career, bills, and a spine. I do not get jealous over living Greek statues carved out of corporate privilege and questionable morals.
At most, he is... aesthetically pleasing.
Just like a decoration.
Something nice to look at when the workday becomes unbearable.
Office scenery with premium tailoring and supernatural bone structure.
That is it. That is all I allow him to be.
I force myself back into my chair and return to my laptop, fingers poised over the keyboard as if I can simply type my way out of this entire situation. The screen glows back at me, rows of tasks and deadlines waiting for my attention. I try to focus on the schedule draft. I really do. The blinking cursor seems to tap its foot at me, impatient.
Just when my concentration begins to settle, another moan breaks through the office. This one is louder, stretched out, echoing against the soundproofed walls like it is trying to take up as much space as possible. My pulse jumps. The cursor blurs. My jaw tightens.
Without thinking, I snatch up the nearest folder and slam it onto the table. The sharp sound cracks through the room, the impact rattling my pens. My own breath leaves me in a hiss, tight and shaky. The slam is not loud enough to drown him out, not even close, but it is enough to release the pressure building behind my ribs.
That did it. Finally.
The sounds stop. The moans, the thuds, the low, breathy chaos—all vanish as if a switch has been flipped.
My chest, which had been tight and trembling, loosens slightly. Then I hear footsteps approaching my desk.
“So-yeon.”
The name slides over my ears like warm velvet, dangerous and knowing. It carries authority, arrogance, and something else that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. The kind of warmth that promises trouble. I bite my lip to keep from reacting, to keep from turning my head. I refuse. My eyes stay glued to the spreadsheet, the columns of numbers blurring in my fury and disbelief.
He steps out of his office, and my stomach lurches. Stark naked. Of course. The air feels heavier, thicker, as if the room itself conspires against me. My pulse hammers against my ribs. I close my eyes tightly, willing my mind to block the image, willing the sounds of my own ragged breathing to drown out the sight in front of me.
“Mr. Kim,” I manage to say through clenched teeth, my voice steadier than I feel, a tremor hidden behind practiced control. “Please put on your clothes. HR will murder me.”
He doesn’t immediately comply. Instead, he leans casually on the edge of my desk, hips angled, shoulders relaxed, as if the world is his private runway. Sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows glints against his skin, highlighting the muscles beneath perfect, impossibly sculpted skin. He looks like a model posed for an adult magazine, effortless, untouchable, and infuriatingly aware of the effect he has.
My fists tighten in my lap. I can feel the tension radiating from me in sharp waves. I am trying so hard not to look, not to react, not to imagine what he just suggested. I fight every instinct, forcing my eyes downward to the spreadsheet, to the keyboard, to anything that is not him.
And then he murmurs like a promise wrapped in silk and danger.
“Tonight,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief and something unspoken, “my place.”
I blink at him, my brain struggling to process words, coherence, and reality all at once.
“...Pardon?” My voice is sharp, incredulous, betraying a flicker of panic I refuse to acknowledge.
His lips curl upward, the kind of smile that makes your stomach twist and your pulse jump.
It carries arrogance, amusement, and that infuriating confidence that I both despise and, against all reason, notice.
“We can sleep together. If you want.”
What.
What did he just say?
The room tilts slightly, my balance thrown as though the walls themselves are conspiring to drag me into some absurd alternate universe. I stand up so fast my chair collides with the wall behind me, scraping wood against metal. My heart hammers so hard I swear he can hear it, though he doesn’t look concerned. He never does.
“No. Why would I ever—” My hands gesture helplessly at the penthouse around us, the impossibly sleek furniture, the floor-to-ceiling windows giving a panoramic view of the city. “I have rules. I don’t do office romance. I don’t—”
I stop mid-sentence, my throat tightening. My brain seizes in recognition of the truth I cannot ignore. The bet. The stupid, ridiculous bet I agreed to because I refused to lose. Because I refused to let him win. Because pride, ego, and sheer stubbornness made me think I could outmaneuver him.
The look in his eyes is sharp, teasing, like he’s catalogued every hesitation and every heartbeat I’ve ever given him.
And now—now I am here. His penthouse.
The city sprawls below, lights glittering like stars in an alternate sky, completely irrelevant to the mess my life has become. My hands are pressed flat against the marble countertop in the kitchen, grounding myself, but my pulse refuses to settle.
I stare at his bedroom, the doorway framing a world I am not sure I am ready to step into. My gaze drifts to the bathroom door he told me to shower in, sterile and imposing, a prelude to everything else that awaits. My stomach twists, half dread, half anticipation, half disbelief that I, So-yeon, meticulous, careful, disciplined, have somehow allowed myself to be dragged here.
What the hell have I done?
