"Is your protocol," he asks calmly, "or whatever training you received… not teach you how to address your superiors properly?"
The words land like ice water.
Not loud.
Not emotional.
Just cutting.
For the first time since seeing him on that stage, something deeply unsettling presses into my chest.
Is this really Yu Enhyeok…
…or just someone wearing his face?
My throat tightens, heat crawling up my neck in slow, humiliating waves. The air inside the office feels heavier now, like the walls themselves are watching this disaster unfold. His gaze remains steady, patient, almost clinical.
No anger. No irritation.
Which somehow makes it worse.
"I'm deeply sorry, sir," I say carefully, forcing each word into place. "It won't happen again."
The apology tastes strange in my mouth.
Foreign. Bitter.
Enhyeok gives a small nod, already looking back down at the documents spread across his desk.
The dismissal is immediate, effortless, as if I've just corrected a minor administrative error rather than had my entire existence shaken.
That's it.
No reaction. No recognition.
Nothing.
I stand there, fingers tightening subtly against my folder, eyes refusing — against my better judgment — to move away from him. Up close, the differences are impossible to ignore. Ten years have not softened him.
They've sharpened everything.
His posture is relaxed but exact, shoulders straight against the massive black chair. His expression carries that same unreadable calm I remember, except now it feels colder, refined into something distinctly executive.
Untouchable. Distant.
Does he really not remember me?
Or is he pretending not to?
The thought twists uncomfortably inside my chest.
O-kay.
Fine.
Professional, Jiah.
Keep it professional.
"Ms. Seo."
His voice slices cleanly through my spiraling thoughts.
"I want the Strategy Division acquisition files on my desk before office hours end."
My brain takes half a second to catch up.
Strategy Division?
Acquisition files?
Those are not small documents.
Those are not casual requests.
Still, my head nods automatically. "Yes, sir."
Enhyeok's pen stops moving.
A subtle pause.
Then he speaks without looking up.
"I don't like repeated 'yes, sir.' Keep it in your head."
For a moment, I genuinely don't understand what he means.
Then it hits.
Oh.
Something hot and irritated sparks briefly behind my ribs. It's such a strange thing to correct, such an oddly specific remark that it throws me completely off balance. My lips press together before any reckless response can escape.
Seriously?
That's what we're doing now?
I say nothing.
Because survival instincts remain intact.
Enhyeok finally lifts his gaze.
"I don't like slow things," he continues evenly. "Being late. Wasting time. Discussing anything unnecessary."
His eyes hold mine with quiet, unnerving intensity.
"Do you understand?"
Of course I understand.
The message is painfully clear.
Still, my voice refuses to cooperate.
So I nod.
A small, silent movement.
His stare does not change.
"Didn't you hear what I said?"
The temperature in my stomach drops instantly.
"Do you understand or not?"
"Yes," I reply quickly, pulse jumping again. "Understood, sir."
A beat of silence stretches between us.
Then —
"Get out."
The words land flat and final.
No raised tone. No hostility.
Just absolute dismissal.
My teeth grind together instinctively as I bow, posture rigid, every muscle in my body fighting the sudden surge of emotions clawing violently at my composure.
I turn without another word, heels sinking softly into the thick carpeting as I walk toward the exit.
Calm. Controlled. Professional.
Internally?
Complete chaos.
The door closes behind me with a soft click that feels far louder than it should.
My desk sits directly outside his office, positioned beneath soft recessed lighting, minimalist and immaculate like everything else on this floor.
The executive corridor remains silent, almost eerily so, the kind of silence that amplifies every thought.
And unfortunately —
I have too many thoughts.
First, shock crashes through my system all over again.
Yu Enhyeok.
CEO.
Heir of Daeyeon Holdings.
A literal billion-dollar empire.
My stomach churns uncomfortably.
There is no way.
We date for one and a half years.
One and a half years.
Shared buses. Cheap cafés. Long walks. Stupid arguments about nothing. Not once — not a single time — does he mention wealth, status, or anything remotely resembling chaebol-level privilege.
No hints. No signs.
Nothing.
What the hell was he hiding?
Second comes something softer.
Far more dangerous.
Sadness seeps quietly into the spaces anger cannot fully occupy. Because beneath the cold executive mask, beneath the brutal professionalism and deliberate distance, he is still Enhyeok.
The boy I loved.
The one I never actually move on from, no matter how much time passes or logic intervenes.
Which makes this entire situation deeply unfair.
And third —
Rage.
Pure, bright, simmering irritation that coils tightly behind my ribs.
Because wow.
Wow.
The arrogance. The attitude. The deliberate indifference. Every word from him feels like a carefully aimed strike designed to keep me exactly where he wants me — off balance, uncertain, painfully aware of hierarchy.
My desk phone rings.
The sharp sound slices cleanly through my spiraling thoughts.
I grab the receiver immediately.
"Ms. Seo."
No greeting. No context.
"Bring me a coffee."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
Did he just—
Of course he did.
I inhale slowly, jaw tightening as I push back from my chair. The executive floor elevator hums softly as it carries me down toward the lower corporate levels, where the company café sits buzzing with controlled activity.
Normal employees. Normal noise.
Normal reality.
The contrast feels almost surreal.
The barista greets me with polite efficiency, already recognizing the executive floor access badge clipped to my blazer. My eyes drift absently across the menu, but my brain is somewhere else entirely.
Coffee.
Enhyeok's coffee.
Memory hits unexpectedly.
Not hot.
Not cold.
Light sugar.
I blink.
Why do I still remember that?
God.
This is ridiculous.
Still, I place the order.
Because muscle memory is a cruel, persistent thing.
By the time I return to the executive floor, my pulse has stabilized slightly, though a strange tension remains lodged stubbornly beneath my ribs. I knock once, then step inside at his quiet permission.
Enhyeok does not look up.
I place the cup gently on his desk.
The faint aroma curls into the air.
For a brief, stupid moment, something almost hopeful flickers inside me.
He takes a sip.
Calm. Unbothered.
Then, without hesitation —
He drops the entire cup into the bin beside his desk.
I freeze.
My brain refuses to process the movement.
Coffee. Cup. Trash.
What?
"I asked for coffee," he says flatly, finally lifting his gaze.
His eyes are cold.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
My body remains locked in place, eyes still fixed on the cup lying sideways inside the bin, lid slightly cracked, a thin line of coffee slowly bleeding into polished black plastic. The smell lingers in the air, warm and familiar, which somehow makes the rejection sting harder.
My jaw tightens.
Of course.
Of course this is how this day goes.
" black," he adds, already looking back at his documents. "Without sugar."
The dismissal is complete.
As if this conversation, this interaction, this tiny humiliation, has already lost all relevance in his world.
Something sharp flares in my chest.
Anger. Embarrassment. A bruised, restless mix of both.
Still, my head dips slightly. "Understood, sir."
I turn before my expression betrays anything dangerous.
The walk back to the elevator feels longer this time, heels sinking softly into thick carpeting that swallows every trace of sound.
The executive corridor remains silent, pristine, almost aggressively composed — a space designed for people who never rush, never stumble, never feel.
Unlike me.
The elevator doors close.
My reflection stares back instantly.
And wow.
I look calm.
Which is honestly insulting.
By the time I reach the café again, the noise hits like a different universe. Conversations overlap. Cups clink. Espresso machines hiss in short bursts of steam.
Employees move in practiced rhythms, completely unaware that my internal stability has been violently compromised by one man and a cup of coffee.
Lucky them.
I step up to the counter.
"Black coffee," I say, voice steady despite the irritation buzzing under my skin. "No sugar."
The barista nods politely.
Routine. Efficient. Uncomplicated.
If only everything else today operated the same way.
While waiting, my mind refuses to stay quiet. Images surface uninvited, memories stitched from a version of Yu Enhyeok that feels increasingly fictional. The boy who drank coffee without complaining. The boy who never wasted anything. The boy who—
I exhale sharply.
Stop.
That person clearly does not exist here.
Cup in hand, I ride the elevator back up, fingers curled tighter than necessary around the cardboard sleeve. The anger is quieter now, less explosive, but heavier somehow — a dense, simmering frustration that sits stubbornly beneath my ribs.
I knock.
Enter.
Place the cup on his desk.
This time, I do not linger on hope.
Enhyeok reaches for the coffee without looking at me, movements smooth, attention still anchored to whatever document holds his interest. He takes a measured sip, expression unchanged, posture relaxed against the vast black chair.
And then —
Nothing happens.
No bin. No rejection. No cold correction.
He simply takes another sip.
My shoulders ease before I can stop them.
Relief is ridiculous.
Still, protocol remains protocol. I bow slightly, preparing to leave, already turning toward the door when his voice cuts cleanly through the air.
"Ms Seo."
My steps halt instantly.
Every muscle tightens.
Slowly, I turn back.
Enhyeok is watching me now.
Directly.
No documents. No distractions.
Just that steady, unnervingly focused gaze.
"I hope," he says calmly, "you will do a great job in this position."
The words are polite.
Technically encouraging.
Yet something about his tone settles wrong in my chest. Too measured. Too deliberate. Not warmth, not approval —
but something closer to assessment, like he is observing a variable rather than addressing a human being.
It feels less like reassurance.
More like a warning.
Or worse.
A challenge.
I hold his gaze, pulse quietly misbehaving again.
"Understood, sir."
The response comes automatically, professional reflex overriding everything else threatening to surface. His expression does not shift.
Not satisfaction, not acknowledgment — just that same unreadable calm that has followed me since the ceremony.
I leave before the silence stretches further.
The door shuts softly behind me.
My desk greets me with immaculate indifference, neatly arranged files and untouched stationery radiating the kind of order my brain currently lacks.
I lower myself into the chair with controlled movements, though tension still coils tightly along my spine.
I stared at the closed door, my knuckles white against the edge of the mahogany desk.
The urge to scream was a physical pressure in my throat, but I swallowed it down. In this building, silence was the only armor I had left.
I open the Strategy Division database instead, forcing my attention toward the acquisition files he requested.
The numbers are dense, layered, sprawling across multiple departments and financial summaries. Not light reading. Not quick work.
Typical.
My screen flickers with a new notification.
Small. Innocent. Devastatingly timed.
Seoryeon Group Heir Returns From Abroad.
.