The first thing I registered was the scent—not the stale, slightly damp smell of my old apartment, but something clean and subtle, like linen dried in sunshine.
The second was the weight. Not the thin, sad weight of my old comforter, but a luxurious, cloud-like heaviness that promised ten more hours of perfect sleep.
My eyes fluttered open.
Golden morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the vast, minimalist room in warm stripes.
Outside, the Han River glittered, and the Seoul skyline stood crisp against a pale blue sky. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, a sound I hadn't heard in years from my city-blocked window.
A slow, silly, unstoppable smile spread across my face.
'It really is real...'
A giddy laugh bubbled up in my chest.
I'd spent half the night lying rigid in the massive bed, my mind replaying the insane carousel of the day—the truck, the splash, the contract, the pan—convinced I'd wake up back in my cramped room, my phone dead, the drama still frozen on a cliffhanger.
But I hadn't.
I was here. In the penthouse. In a body that wasn't mine, in a world that shouldn't exist. The impossible, desperate wish I'd whispered to the rainy sky had somehow, terrifyingly, been granted.
I sat up, hugging the impossibly soft duvet to my chest.
The sheer, staggering happiness of it was a physical thing, a bright, warm balloon expanding behind my ribs.
I was inside Love at First Spreadsheet. I knew the backstory of every extra in the office. I was living the ultimate fangirl fantasy.
Then, the other memory shouldered its way in, popping the balloon with a cold, sharp needle.
CEO Han.
The crash. The bandage. The low, gravelly voice in the dark.
[ It says we have to live together here. ]
The warm happiness instantly curdled into a buzzing, low-grade panic.
Right. There was a catch. A six-foot-two, handsome, currently-concussed catch sleeping somewhere in this very apartment.
My fantasy came with a hostile, legally-bound roommate.
I flopped back onto the pillows with a groan.
The birds outside sounded less cheerful now, more like they were chirping a dramatic, ironic OST for my predicament.
I was living the dream, alright. It just happened to be a dream that involved potential downfall and a cohabitation clause.
'Okay, Austra. New day. New… extremely complicated situation. First step: figure out if the Male Lead is still alive. Second step: coffee. Maybe do step two before step one. Safer that way.'
Taking a deep breath of that stupidly expensive air, I swung my legs out of the marshmallow bed and prepared to face the utterly surreal reality of my new life.
Opening the bedroom door, I took a deep breath and tip-toed into the living room like a thief, desperately hoping the coast was clear.
Sniff-sniff.
A rich, enticing aroma of coffee hit me, pulling me inexorably toward the kitchen. So much for an empty apartment.
And there he was. CEO Han.
Seated at the massive kitchen island, already a portrait of immaculate readiness.
His suit was perfect, his hair flawlessly styled, not a single strand out of place despite the bandage I knew was hidden beneath.
He held a porcelain cup in one hand, a tablet displaying the morning's financial news in the other. The picture of cold, unruffled control.
The only hint of last night's chaos was a slight, almost imperceptible tightness around his eyes.
"G-Good morning," I squeaked out, hovering at the edge of the kitchen.
He didn't look up from his tablet. Just gave a slight, sharp nod. "Good morning." His voice was formal, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Right. So, we were doing this. The Arctic Roommate protocol.
I scurried past him to the sleek, intimidating espresso machine built into the cabinets.
My hands trembled slightly as I fumbled with the pods.
I could feel his presence like a physical weight at my back. 'Just make the coffee, Austra. Don't spill it. Don't somehow set the machine on fire. You can do this.'
After what felt like an eternity, I managed to produce a passable americano. Holding the warm cup like a lifeline, I hesitated.
Sitting next to him felt like a declaration of war. Sitting far away felt like an admission of guilt.
With no good options, I chose the marginally less terrifying one and slid onto the bar stool two seats down from him, putting a polite, panicked buffer zone between us.
The silence was profound. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tap of his finger on his tablet screen. I took a small sip, the bitter liquid doing nothing to calm my nerves.
Just as I was about to combust from the tension, he spoke. His eyes remained fixed on his screen.
"I received a call from the Law family's legal counsel this morning," he stated, his tone utterly neutral, as if discussing a minor change in shipping logistics.
My blood ran cold. I gripped my cup tighter.
"They informed me that you have made a... position request. A seat on the Han Department Stores board. To be granted upon the signing of the marriage contract."
He finally turned his head, those cool grey eyes pinning me in place. "They seemed to believe this was your condition for signing."
He set his tablet down slowly, the soft click on the marble countertop sounding unnaturally loud.
"Explain."
The single word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken questions: Why? What game are you playing? Who are you?
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.
"I... I want to work," I started, my voice barely above a whisper. I forced myself to meet his gaze. "I know it sounds unbelievable. But the year I spent abroad studying wasn't just for show. I can be an asset. And if... if our families are going to be tied together like this, shouldn't I understand the business? Shouldn't I have a real role, and not just... a title?"
I was babbling. I took another frantic sip of coffee to stop myself.
"And," I added, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue, "wouldn't it look better? For the... the public image? A fiancée who is actively involved, not just a socialite?" I was desperately weaving the contract's own clauses into my defense.
He studied me, his expression inscrutable. He didn't look convinced. He looked like a man trying to solve a complex and irritating puzzle.
His words hung in the air, but my brain was already racing ahead, seizing on one crucial fact: He'd heard about the request.
That meant my parents, the Laws had called. Which meant… they'd agreed.
My insane, desperate bluff had worked. The surge of triumph was so sharp it was almost dizzying.
CEO Han took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup as if gauging my reaction. He set it down with a soft clink.
"You will likely hear the formal details later today," he continued, his voice still that infuriatingly level business drone. "However, to facilitate the… merger discussion, there will be a family gathering tonight. At the Han Manor. Both families."
My breath hitched. 'Meeting the parents. The other set of terrifying, rich parents.'
"If a position is truly what you want," he said, his tone making it clear he found the notion both baffling and mildly inconvenient, "then I will not oppose the amended terms. The board can be… managed. After all, we did say you can choose whoever you want for the position."
I stared at him, the coffee cup freezing halfway to my lips. He… agreed? Just like that? No fight? It was so pragmatically cold it was almost respectful.
"S-So… I'm already meeting your parents tonight?" I stammered.
"It is a necessary step," he confirmed, as if scheduling a root canal. "I will inform the Laws of my consent to your condition. Therefore," his eyes locked onto mine, the grey turning to steel, "you should sign the contract. Today. A merger of this scale requires decisive action. Delays are a liability."
He was treating our impending matrimonial doom with the brisk efficiency of a hostile takeover. Sign the papers, Austra, the quarterly reports are due.
I was trying to form a coherent response—something between 'thank you' and 'Are you sure?'—when the sharp, melodic chime of the doorbell echoed through the penthouse.
Ding-dong.
Saved by the bell. Literally.
"I'll get it!" I chirped, a little too eagerly, sliding off the stool and practically fleeing the kitchen's oppressive atmosphere.
I reached the grand front door, smoothed my pajamas—a silky, expensive set that still screamed 'I just rolled out of bed'—and pulled it open with a relieved smile.
The smile died on my face.
Standing in the hallway, perfectly composed in an elegant, professional sheath dress, was Lee Yoon-ah.
Secretary Lee. The Female Lead. Her eyes, which had been politely downcast, lifted to meet mine.
For a long, suspended second, we just stared at each other. Her gaze did a quick, involuntary sweep from my sleep-mussed hair, down my very-not-public-ready pajamas, and back to my undoubtedly shocked face.
"Y-Young Miss Law…?" she breathed, her professional mask slipping into pure, unadulterated confusion. "Wh-What are you doing here?"
"I…" I floundered, my brain short-circuiting. I live here. I concussed your boss here. We're discussing merger timelines over coffee. "I… was just…"
Before I could fabricate a single plausible lie, a presence materialized at my shoulder. CEO Han, smelling faintly of coffee and expensive cologne, his posture all imposing CEO.
"Secretary Lee," he said, his voice dropping into the familiar, authoritative tone he used with her. "You're punctual as always."
He didn't even glance at my pajama-clad disgrace. "We should go. We have the final review of the Lotte-Daegu merger terms at nine, and the board expects the report before lunch."
Lee Yoon-ah instantly snapped back to professionalism, bowing slightly. "Of course, Sir. The car is ready."
He gave one last, inscrutable look that swept over both of us—the secretary in her element, the fiancée in her pajamas—before stepping past me into the hallway without a backward glance.
As the elevator doors slid shut behind them, I was left standing alone in the doorway, the scent of his cologne and the image of their perfectly matched, departing backs lingering in the silent, too-big apartment.
* * *
In the cool, silent expanse of the underground parking garage, the only sounds were the crisp echo of their footsteps and the distant hum of ventilation.
Driver Yu, a man in his thirties with a taciturn efficiency, was already holding the rear door of the black sedan open.
Han Eun Woo slid in without a word.
Secretary Lee followed a moment later, taking the seat opposite him, the spacious interior feeling both intimate and professionally distant.
The door thudded shut with a sound of finality, sealing them in a cocoon of leather and quiet.
The engine purred to life, and the car glided smoothly toward the exit.
"Sir," Lee Yoon-ah began, her voice the model of calm efficiency as she consulted her tablet. "Your first meeting this morning is with Vice President Kang Minjae to review the quarterly projections for the Resort Division. He confirmed the 9 AM slot."
"Understood," Eun Woo replied, his gaze fixed on the concrete pillars passing by the tinted window.
His response was automatic, a reflex honed by a thousand identical mornings.
But behind the practiced calm, his mind was a turmoil of static.
Austra Law. Wanting to work. A board seat as a condition.
The words clashed violently with every memory he had of the girl he'd known since childhood—the one who threw tantrums over handbags, who viewed charity galas as fashion competitions, whose only ambition had ever been the title of 'Mrs. Han.'
And now… water thrown in his secretary's face, followed by hysterical laughter.
A stunned, vacant stare at a vending machine.
A pan swung with terrified, disastrous force.
And this morning, a request spoken with a shaky but stubborn conviction. 'I want to work. I can be an asset.'
It was a dissonant chord in the carefully composed symphony of his life. Unpredictable. Illogical. A variable that refused to be solved.
A faint, familiar headache—different from the one she'd given him—pulsed at his temples. He didn't have the mental bandwidth for this.
He had mergers to dissect, projections to approve, a corporate empire to steer. Her sudden, bizarre evolution was not his problem to diagnose.
Her motivations, her strange behavior… they were irrelevant noise. A contractual obligation with a newly perplexing clause, nothing more.
'I don't have to care, he told himself, the thought a cold, deliberate anchor in the chaos. It doesn't matter why she's changed. Only that she signs the contract and fulfills her role.'
He turned his head slightly, catching Secretary Lee's reflection in the window as she typed a note, her profile serene and focused.
"Ensure the Lotte-Daegu files are on my desk by 8:45," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet of the car, firmly relegating the morning's strangeness to a closed, irrelevant file.
"Right away, Sir."
And as the car ascended into the Seoul morning light, he willed his world back into its familiar, controlled lines.