If awkwardness could be bottled and sold, the conference room at Jeon Corporation could have funded my retirement plan right there and then.
The long mahogany table gleamed under the soft overhead lights, surrounded by fourteen chairs. Five were filled with executives. Five were the employees'. One was mine, and the last belonged to him.
Mr. Iceberg Jeon.
I didn't even look at him when he walked in. Which, if you know me, is a big deal—because normally the room's temperature drops by at least five degrees when he arrives, and I instinctively glance up just to confirm it's frostbite season. But not today.
Nope. I was a statue. Eyes glued to the agenda printout in front of me like it held the secrets to immortality.
"Good morning" Mr. Jeon's deep voice rumbled, the kind of voice that usually made people straighten their spines and re-evaluate every bad decision in life.
I didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. I was the human embodiment of a stone wall.
