The rooftop garden of the Han Group headquarters was a controlled slice of serenity thirty-five stories above the chaos of Seoul.
It wasn't a wild place; it was designed, like everything else here. Low, manicured boxes of ornamental grass and late-blooming sedum formed geometric patterns around clean slate walkways.
A few elegant, minimalist benches were positioned to take in the staggering, multi-layered view of the city.
The air was cooler up here, carrying the faint, clean scent of damp earth and boxwood, a world away from the recycled, ambition-charged atmosphere of the offices below.
I sat on one of those sleek benches, my posture painfully straight, as far to one end as politely possible.
Han Eun-woo occupied the other, a silent, immovable force in his dark suit. He wasn't looking at the view. His gaze was fixed on the intricate pattern of the slate by his feet, his expression unreadable.
The only sounds were the distant, muted hum of the city and the frantic thud of my own heart against my ribs.
I snuck another glance. He hadn't moved. The wind ruffled his perfectly styled hair just enough to be humanizing, which was deeply unfair.
The glorious, terrifying silence stretched. He was the one who asked to talk. But he seemed content to let the tension build until I cracked like a cheap walnut.
Gripping the cool edge of the bench, I decided the suspense was worse than whatever he was about to say. I took a shallow breath that did nothing to calm my nerves.
The garden was beautiful. The city was breathtaking. And I was about thirty-five stories too high for my comfort level with this completely off-script scenario.
"Ugh... How is your new office? Do you like it?" His voice was stiff, the small talk clearly a formality he felt obliged to open with.
"Uhm, yeah, it's nice. CEO Kang has been a real help," I replied, matching his awkward neutrality.
"That's... nice to hear." He paused, the wind filling the silence. "I wanted to talk to you since the dinner, but we never had a chance. I'll get straight to the point."
"Of course," I said, my spine straightening.
"As you might have heard from my father," he began, his gaze fixed on the distant cityscape rather than on me, "we are to keep personal matters separate from work. And while I don't presume to know your... real intentions for wanting to work here," he finally turned his head, those storm-grey eyes locking onto mine with serious intensity, "I want to make one thing clear."
He leaned forward slightly, the movement subtle but his presence suddenly overwhelming. "Do not ever attempt something like the water splash again. With you working in the same building, our paths will cross. But your feelings—whatever they may be—cannot interfere with my work or cause trouble for my employees. Is that understood?"
'I get it.' My heart did a stupid, dramatic flip. 'He's here to make sure I don't hurt Yoon-ah.' The classic, overprotective Male Lead, defending his woman.
The trope was playing out right in front of me, and despite everything, it was giving me butterflies. The absolute audacity of this man.
Keeping my reaction placid was a Herculean effort. "Of course, sir. I am acutely aware of the risks outlined in our contract."
He studied me, the distrust still plain in his eyes.
I couldn't blame him. I needed to sell this, to seem harmless, settled. 'Think, Austra, think like the original would.'
A coquettish, confident smile—one that felt like a betrayal—curved my lips.
"After all," I heard myself say, the words ash on my tongue, "you are already mine, aren't you? Why would I worry about anything else now?"
The line landed between us, vulgar and possessive. My own stomach twisted. 'Forgive me, Yoon-ah. I'm just trying to survive as the-not-villainess-just-background character.'
CEO Han looked down, a faint, weary sigh escaping him. "There you go again," he mumbled, almost to himself. When he looked up, his attention snagged on the thick manila envelope beside me. "What is that?"
"Oh, this?" I laughed, a light, dismissive sound. "Just a project your uncle assigned me. Getting me acclimated, I suppose."
His expression didn't soften. It hardened. "My uncle gave you work?" he asked, his voice dropping a degree. "What's the project called?"
"The Hanyang Line. A new skincare launch for the Han Department Stores. Is there... a problem?" I watched him closely, searching for any flicker of recognition—a sign he knew this was a trap.
He was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "No," he said finally, though he sounded unconvinced. "Not that I know of, at least."
He met my eyes again, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Next time he assigns you anything directly, you inform me first. Understood?"
"Sure, I wi—"
My phone erupted in a shrill ring, cutting me off.
The screen flashed: Secretary Roh.
"Oh, sorry, I should—"
"No problem," he said, standing abruptly. The conversation was clearly over. "I have work as well."
With a final, curt bow from him and a flustered one from me, I turned away, lifting the phone to my ear as I hurried toward the rooftop door, the wind and the weight of his warning chasing me inside.
"Hello? Yes...Ah, a meeting I'm coming."
I pushed through the heavy rooftop door, the sterile, climate-controlled air of the hallway hitting me like a wall after the garden's chill.
The elevator bank was mercifully empty. I stepped inside, pressed the button for my floor, and sagged against the mirrored wall as the doors slid shut.
A long, shaky breath finally escaped my lungs, fogging the cool glass for a second.
'Okay. Okay. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't throwing the contract in my face. He'd just… laid down a boundary. A very specific, Yoon-ah-shaped boundary. He'd looked me in the eye and basically said, "Stay away from my person."'
And my brilliant, self-preserving response had been to flirt. To claim possession. To say the single most 'Original Austra' line possible.
'Forgive me, Yoon-ah,' I thought again, the guilt a sour taste in my mouth.
The woman I admired most in this world, and my first real interaction with the man she loved was me pretending to be a territorial rival.
It felt like I'd smudged dirt on a favorite painting.
I'd played the villainess to survive, but the role still left a stain.
Still… a tiny, treacherous part of me hummed.
He'd done it. He'd played the part of the protective, stoic Male Lead to perfection.
The butterflies were stupid, fangirl nonsense, but they were real. He was real.
"Ms. Law? Director Law?"
A tinny voice pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. I blinked. The phone was still pressed to my ear.
"Oh! Yes, Secretary Roh, I'm here. Sorry, the elevator cut out for a second," I lied smoothly, straightening up.
"Of course, Director. As I was saying, I've distributed the preliminary briefing for the Hanyang Line project to the relevant department heads as you instructed. CEO Kang has scheduled a strategy meeting for 3 PM today in Conference Room A. I've added it to your calendar."
"Right. 3 PM. Conference Room A. Thank you, Secretary Roh."
"You're welcome, Director."
The line went dead. I stared at my reflection in the elevator doors—a woman in a sharp suit, holding a phone, looking utterly lost.
The project. Right. The massive, expensive, probably-trapped project I now owned.
A fresh wave of anxiety, different from the Eun-woo kind, washed over me.
What did I know about launching a luxury skincare line?
I could navigate a drama's plot points, I could photocopy a legal brief, but this? This was a billion-won machine, and I was supposed to be at the controls.
'I have to actually review this thing,' I thought, the weight of the manila envelope in my hand feeling suddenly immense. 'I can't just wing it. I can't just rely on meta-knowledge. This is real. I could actually mess this up.'
The elevator slowed, the numbers ticking upward toward my floor.
'Figure it out. Don't mess up the one real thing you've managed to grab in this world. Just… work.'
Ding.
The doors slid open on my floor. The plush, silent hallway awaited.
Time to go read a thousand pages about emulsifiers and brand equity.
I squared my shoulders, stepped out, and the elevator doors whispered shut behind me, sealing off the brief moment of panic.
* * *
30 Min Later at The Roof Top...
Puff~
A lone figure stood at the very edge of the rooftop garden, where the manicured plants gave way to a sheer drop and a guardrail.
The wind up here was stronger, a constant, rushing river of air that tore at hair and fabric.
It fluttered the lanyard hanging from a man's neck, the plastic card slapping gently against his chest.
RI MINHYUK
TEAM LEADER – MARKETING TEAM
HAN DEPARTMENT STORES
In his hand, a cigar glowed a sullen red.
He brought it to his lips, took a long, slow pull, and exhaled.
Puff~
A cloud of smoke was instantly shredded and carried away by the wind, vanishing over the cityscape below.
His face was a mask of quiet, simmering agitation.
The polished charm was gone, stripped away by the cold air and the memory of last night.
The hollow restaurant, the failed seduction, the way Yoon-ah's eyes had gone vacant and cold before she'd pulled her wrist from his grip as if his touch were toxic.
The way she'd fled into a taxi without a backward glance.
He pulled his phone from his pocket with his free hand. The screen lit up. He tapped open his messaging app, scrolling to the familiar chat.
[ Yoon-ah 💖 ]
The history was a one-sided ledger of her patience:
'Did you eat?'
'Work is hard, right?'
'Good luck today, Oppa.'
Sent into the void of his excuses.
Today's column was empty. No good morning. No 'Are you busy?'
Nothing. The silence was a louder scream than any message.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He felt it then—the first real, cold trickle of fear beneath the irritation. Something had shifted. Something had broken. He hadn't just had a bad date; he'd lost control of the narrative.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
He'd smooth it over. He'd blame the stress, the project, the CEOs. He'd—
A hand settled on his wrist, just as his finger was about to press down.
The touch was soft, but the fingers were cold, their grip halting his movement completely.
He knew that touch—the precise pressure, the coolness of her skin.
The scent of her perfume, a sharp, expensive floral, cut through the robust aroma of his cigar, unmistakable.
He flinched, startled, his head snapping to the side.
She was there. Jung So-hee. Her elegant bob was perfectly in place despite the wind. Her eyes, up close, held a cool, unnerving calm.
"What are you—" he began, the words rough with surprise and a sudden, defensive edge.
She didn't let him finish. Her gaze flicked from his shocked face down to the phone in his trapped hand, to the glowing name on the screen, and back to his eyes.
Her silence was louder than the wind.
She didn't answer. She just looked at him, her cold hand still circling his wrist, and her eyes screaming a single question.
What are you doing?