Employees passed each other in the bustling hallway of the Han Group head quarter's 14th floor.
A man whose employee card read Team Leader Ri Minhyuk walked with his head held high, a polished smile on his face as he clutched a pile of documents.
He offered cheerful, generic greetings to everyone he passed.
His gaze snagged on a woman leaning against a cubicle divider.
Her hair was swept into a severe yet elegant bun, secured with a single, sleek pen.
She wore a form-fitting charcoal pencil skirt and a silk blouse.
She watched him approach, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"How are you doing today, Team Leader?" she asked, her voice a low purr.
"Oh, Ms. Jung?" he said, his smile widening into something private, complicit. "What are you doing here on this floor?"
She held up a thin file folder. "I seem to be having a little crisis in the storage room. Could you possibly offer me a hand?"
Her finger, tipped with a blood-red manicure, curled in a gesture that was less an invitation and more a command—a serpent's lure.
Ri Minhyuk glanced around casually before nodding. "Of course. Always happy to help a colleague."
He followed the sway of her skirt as she led him down a side corridor to a nondescript door marked Supplies.
She slipped inside.
He followed, closing the door behind them with a soft, definitive click.
The moment the latch engaged, the professional masks dissolved.
She didn't wait.
She pushed him back against the cold metal of the door, her mouth finding his in a kiss that was all hungry impatience and stolen time.
It was breathless, consuming, a silent scream in the musty, dim silence.
He was startled for only a second before a familiar smirk curled against her lips.
This was his element.
He took control, his hands gripping her waist, spinning them and pinning her against the wall of metal shelves with a soft thud.
A box of printer paper wobbled precariously above them.
His mouth was more insistent now, trailing from her lips to her jaw, to the sensitive column of her throat, as his fingers fumbled with the first button of her crisp blouse—
Ding.
The sound—soft, mundane, and utterly innocent—vibrated from the pocket of his slacks.
He froze. His head lifted, annoyance flashing in his eyes.
He pulled back just enough to dig out his phone, breaking the spell.
The screen glowed, illuminating his face in the gloom.
A notification: From: Yoon-ah 💖
'Just checking in. Hope work isn't too hard. Let's have dinner soon?'
A flicker of something—guilt, irritation, maybe both—crossed his features. He tried to type a quick, dismissive reply.
But before he could hit the keyboard, her hand—the one with the red nails—closed over his wrist.
Ms. Jung didn't push him away. She pulled him closer, back toward her. Her other hand came up, slowly winding itself in his loosened tie.
She used it as a leash, drawing his face down to hers again, her voice a velvet whisper against his mouth.
"The report can wait… Oppa," she breathed, the intimate term laced with poison and promise.
Her finger traced a slow, possessive line down the center of his chest. "Some things… are more pressing."
He was just about to surrender to the pull, the phone forgotten in his hand, when—
Knock-knock-knock!
A sharp, official rapping on the storage room door made them both jump apart as if scalded.
From the other side, a muffled, frustrated voice grumbled, "Is this thing locked? I need toner cartridges! Ugh, I should put in a request to get this fixed…"
The spell was irreparably broken. The heat in the room vanished, replaced by the chill of risk and near-discovery.
Ri Minhyuk straightened his tie with jerky movements, his breathing still slightly ragged. "I—I should… the person will come back with a key," he muttered, his voice rough.
He didn't look at her as he swiftly re-buttoned his collar, smoothed his hair, and pocketed his phone—the unsent text to Yoon-ah now a cold weight against his thigh.
Without another word, he cracked the door open, peered into the empty hallway, and slipped out, leaving Ms. Jung alone in the dimness to fix her own bun, her smile now a sharp, unsatisfied slice in the shadows.
* * *
The elevator doors slid open on the executive floor with a soft chime.
Lee Yoon-ah stepped out, the weight of the afternoon's merger reports feeling heavier with every step.
A familiar, lonely ache had settled in her chest since leaving the cafe.
As if on cue, her phone buzzed in her blazer pocket. Her heart did a foolish, hopeful little jump. She fished it out.
The screen showed a reply from 💖 Minhyuk 💖.
'Sorry, sweety. Swamped with a project here. Couldn't text back. Really busy tonight too, maybe tomorrow? Don't wait up.'
The message was like a draft of cold air. Swamped. Busy. Don't wait up.
The same words, the same gentle dismissal, on a loop for weeks.
She stared at the screen until the letters blurred, then let out a slow, quiet sigh that carried the weight of six years of patience slowly wearing thin.
She pocketed the phone just as she reached the door to the CEO's office.
Squaring her shoulders, she knocked twice and entered at his curt "Come in."
Han Eun Woo was standing by his desk, reviewing a final document.
He glanced up as she entered, his sharp gaze taking her in—the perfect posture, the neat ponytail, the slight shadow under her eyes that even concealer couldn't fully hide.
"The finalized Lotte-Daegu annex is ready for your signature, Sir," she said, her voice perfectly professional as she placed the folder before him.
"Thank you." He picked up his pen, scrawled his signature without looking, and handed it back.
As she took it, he didn't immediately release his hold on the folder.
His eyes held hers for a beat longer than necessary. "Is everything alright?"
The question, so direct and unexpected from him, threw her. "Of course, Sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
He studied her for another second, as if scanning for data points that didn't align. Then, he released the folder and turned to look out the window at the darkening sky. "Are you free tonight?"
The question was so abrupt it felt like a non-sequitur. Her mind flashed to the text. Busy tonight too. Don't wait up. An empty apartment. A reheated meal for one.
"My… schedule is clear, Sir," she said, the truth tasting like defeat.
"Good." He turned back to her, his expression unreadable. "Then you will accompany me to the dinner tonight. At Han Manor."
For a moment, she was certain she had misheard. "I… Sir? The family gathering? Should I… be there?" The image of Madam Han's icy stare and Chairman Han's intimidating presence flashed in her mind.
"I will require your assistance after the discussions conclude," he stated, as if that explained everything. "Logistical notes, follow-up action items. It is inefficient to have you wait elsewhere. It's better you are already on-site."
It was a cold, practical reason. A business reason. Yet, it felt like being thrown into the deep end of a shark tank with a notepad.
"Don't be late," he added, his gaze sweeping over her standard secretary attire. "And wear something appropriate." With that, he picked up his coat, effectively dismissing her, and strode out of the office without a backward glance.
Lee Yoon-ah stood frozen in the middle of the lavish office, the signed folder clutched to her chest. The CEO's request echoed in the sudden silence. Accompany me. Wear something appropriate.
Confusion swirled with a thread of unnamed anxiety.
This wasn't in her job description.
This felt like being pulled onto a stage for a play she hadn't rehearsed.
She watched his retreating back until he disappeared around the corner, a tall, solitary figure shouldering the expectations of an empire, now dragging her into its gilded inner sanctum.
* * *
Back in the penthouse—my gilded, pan-and-concussion-themed cage—a different kind of prep was underway.
"Just a second!" I yelled, my voice swallowed by the mountain of stupidly expensive violet fabric currently trying to eat me.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, a vision of… well, a vision of someone who'd spent more on one dress than the GDP of a small nation.
The midnight violet number from L'Atelier of 'Holy-Crap-That's-Expensive' was even more insane on.
It hugged me in all the right places, but in a "sophisticated femme fatale" way, not a "trying too hard" way.
The tiny beads sewn into it caught the light like scattered stars. The deep V-neck was a statement. I just hoped the statement was "powerful heiress" and not "please, evil mother-in-law, judge me."
I did a slow turn. 'Okay, Austra. This is it. This is the 'I Am Not To Be Trifled With (But Please Don't Look Too Closely At My Pan-Wielding Past)' dress. Please work.'
A soft, patient cough sounded from the other side of the door. "Young Miss," came Butler Kim's calm voice. "The car is ready. We should be departing."
"Coming! Sorry!" I gave my reflection one last, desperate nod. The woman in the mirror—sharp, elegant, terrified—nodded back.
I sucked in a deep breath. The luxurious silk tightened like a vice. This wasn't just a dinner. This was my debutante ball in the script.
My first official appearance as the signed-and-delivered fiancée.
I swept out of the bedroom, the dress making a soft shush sound against the floor, like it was telling me to be quiet and behave.
Butler Kim stood in the foyer, a statue of dignity. His eyes did a slow, careful sweep from my head to my toes, and he ended with the barest, most microscopic nod of approval.
It felt like getting a gold star from a Jedi master.
"Shall we?" he asked, his hand on the grand door handle.
"Let's go," I said, forcing my voice not to squeak.
As I walked past him, I muttered my new, improved battle mantra under my breath: "Okay, new rules. No water-throwing. No kitchenware-based assault. Just… get through the lion's den without becoming appetizer. You can do this."
The door clicked shut behind us, locking away the quiet apartment.
The stage was set. The players were moving. And I, Austra Law, was walking straight into the climax of an episode I'd only ever watched from the safety of my screen.