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Chapter Text

The heel of Im Sol’s left shoe gave out exactly thirty seconds after she stepped off the bus.

It wasn’t a small, “oh, I think this is a little loose” sort of break. It was the loud, dramatic ‘snap’ kind. The kind of sound that echoed in the narrow street and immediately drew attention. One moment she was stepping forward confidently, the next she was stumbling forward like a newborn deer trying to walk for the first time.

She caught herself on the metal pole at the bus stop, her heart slamming into her throat. Somewhere behind her, a high-schooler snorted out a laugh. Perfect. Exactly the kind of start she needed on her first day at her first real job in Seoul.

Sol squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled.

This is fine. Everything is fine. You have survived worse. A broken heel cannot ruin your life.

She took a steadying breath, adjusted the strap of her bag, and tried to walk with as much dignity as someone with a broken heel possibly could. She could almost hear her mother’s voice in her head, scolding her for not throwing out those old, worn-out shoes. Eomma was right, as always. But she kept walking, head held high, because she had not burned through years’ worth of savings to get here, just to be defeated by a pair of cheap heels.

Five years of juggling part-time jobs. Months of scouring job boards. Weeks of saving every cent so she could finally make the move from their small town to Seoul. She couldn’t mess this up. 

By the time she reached the lobby of Doogo headquarters, her right calf was throbbing from over-compensation and she was starting to sweat.

The glass doors slid open and she stepped inside, blinking up at the spacious interior. Marble tiles. A giant chandelier. Receptionists who looked like they belonged in glossy magazines instead of a reception desk.

Sol straightened up, adjusting her blazer sleeves and approached with more confidence than she actually had.

“Good morning. My name is Im Sol…I’m starting today as the CEO’s secretary.”

“Oh!” The receptionist perked up immediately. “Yes, Chief Baek said you’d be in today. Please take the elevator to the 14th floor and head straight to his office.”

The receptionist handed her a visitor badge, then added softly, “Oh, and good luck.”

That can’t be a good sign. 

Sol brushed it off and thanked her, then shuffled towards the elevator, hoping the thick carpet would muffle the uneven clicking of her steps.

Only when the doors closed did she exhale and yank off the broken heel, tucking it into her bag like it was evidence of a crime. For the fifteen seconds she was alone, she let her head fall back.

Act confident. Smile. Just don’t let anyone notice you’re basically walking with one leg.

Her stomach twisted with nerves at the thought of meeting Ryu Shio—the notoriously blunt CEO of Doogo, the sales and distribution subsidiary of Solseon group. He was the only grandson of the chairman, the appointed heir to the entire conglomerate and already rumoured to be more ruthless than the executives twice his age. Articles described him as “sharp-tongued,” “highly demanding,” and, in one particularly dramatic blog post, “a walking HR complaint in a tailored suit.”

The elevator dinged, and Sol stepped out.

The fourteenth floor looked like something straight out of a drama; sleek glass partitions, tall windows overlooking the city, clean rows of desks and efficient looking employees typing with terrifying speed.

She found Baek Inhyuk’s office, knocked once, and stepped in.

He looked up immediately and smiled. “Im Sol?”

She bowed quickly. “Yes, hello. It’s nice to meet you again, Chief Baek.”

He waved a hand. “No need to be so formal with me, just Inhyuk is fine. Sit, please.”

“I’ll be honest, I’m really glad you accepted the offer,” Inhyuk said, leaning an elbow on the desk. “You’re more qualified than most applicants we get. I still don’t know how you managed to put all that experience in two pages.”

Sol gave a small, sheepish smile. “I…worked a lot of part-time jobs.”

“Which is exactly why I fought Shio to hire you.” He paused. “That being said, I should warn you… the previous secretaries didn’t last very long.”

Right. She tightened her fingers in her lap.

Inhyuk tapped the desk with his pen, thoughtful. “He isn’t a bad guy. Just… blunt. Distrustful of new people. He’s convinced no one else can keep up.”

Sol nodded. Well, that’s fine. I don’t need him to like me. I just need a paycheck.

“You’ll do well,” Inhyuk said, standing up. “Shall we go meet him?”

She followed him through the hallway. Every step made her mentally rehearse her polite greetings: Good morning, CEO Ryu. Thank you for the opportunity. I promise to…

Inhyuk knocked briefly on a black door before pushing it open.

Ryu Shio was standing with his back to them, dark suit perfectly pressed, one hand casually tucked into his pocket as he stared out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Even from behind, he looked intimidating. Like the kind of man who didn’t bother repeating himself.

“Shio,” Inhyuk said. “This is Im Sol. Your new secretary.”

Shio glanced over his shoulder. His eyes landed on Inhyuk first, then shifted to Sol. He didn’t greet her. He didn’t even blink.

After a long beat, his gaze slid away as though he’d already lost interest. “She won’t last.”

The words weren’t cruel. Just factual. Mildly bored as if he was describing the weather.

Sol stiffened. Seriously?

Inhyuk forced a tight smile. “Give her a chance?”

Shio didn’t bother replying. He turned back to his desk, casually flipping through one of the files in front of him.

“Do whatever you want.”

The meeting was clearly over. Sol stepped back into the hallway, jaw clenched.

He didn’t even bother looking at her properly.

She exhaled slowly. Alright. Fine. Think whatever you want, CEO Ryu. Let’s see who quits first.

***

The next hour became a revolving door of utterly pointless instructions.

“Ms Im, bring me last quarter’s cafeteria expenditures.”

Ten minutes later: “Print out the full staff directory.”

Five minutes after that: “Get me the colour codes for the marketing files.”

Every time she returned to her desk and picked up a pen, the intercom buzzed again.

Sol clenched her jaw so hard her teeth hurt. He could easily do this himself. He’s literally right next to the filing cabinet.

But she got up anyway. Over and over again.

“Yes, sir,” she said as politely as she could manage, though what she really wanted to say was “do you enjoy wasting my time or is this a new hobby?”

She bowed her head slightly, turned on her heel, and walked out, muttering under her breath the moment the door closed.

Keep going, Im Sol. Bite your tongue. When he realises you’re not quitting… he’ll get bored of this.

Even if her pride took a few hits along the way.

From inside his office, Shio watched her walk out again. Shoulders straight, jaw tight, not a single complaint leaving her mouth.

She moved quickly, efficiently, even when it was obvious he was giving her menial tasks just to push her buttons. 

Most new hires would’ve cracked by now. They would’ve sighed, grumbled, or stared back at him with that offended “why are you making me do this?” look.

But she simply returned every time, replied with a stiff “Yes, sir,” and carried out the task. No hesitation. No visible resentment… except for the way her fingers curled around the folders a little too tightly.

Shio leaned back in his chair, one brow lifting slightly. So she’s stubborn. He didn’t know if that irritated him or piqued his interest. Either way, it made him speak before he could stop himself:

“Ms Im,” he called over the intercom, voice perfectly calm.

“Please come back. I need you to make me a list of all the coffee brands we’ve ever ordered.”

There was a tiny beat of silence on the other end, he’d almost imagined her swearing under her breath.

Then came her voice, level and composed: “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Shio smirked, almost annoyed at himself for doing so, and turned back to his paperwork.

Let’s see how long you last.

Chapter Text

A year ago.

The quiet hum of the office was broken only by the faint scratching of a fountain pen. Ryu Shio sat at his desk, posture immaculate, eyes scanning line after line of a contract with the same composure he carried into everything he did. His desk, as always, was spotless. Papers aligned, pens arranged by type, nothing was out of place.

Across from him, Baek Inhyuk looked like he had just crawled out of a war zone. He was hunched forward in his chair, tie loosened, shirt wrinkled and dark half-moons carved under his eyes. His fifth cup of coffee trembled in his grip, the bitterness mingling with the faint pine scent of Shio’s cologne.

“You’re going to work me into an early grave,” Inhyuk muttered, tossing a thick folder onto his desk. “I signed up to be your chief manager, not your personal assistant-slash-nanny-slash-errand boy.”

Shio didn’t look up. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m dying,” Inhyuk said flatly. “Look at me. Does this face look like it’s seen daylight in the last three weeks?”

Shio’s pen paused only long enough for him to lift his gaze. He studied Inhyuk for a beat: wrinkled shirt, drooping posture, the desperate way his hand clung to that coffee cup, before he went back to signing. “You’re handling everything just fine.”

“Fine?” Inhyuk sputtered. “Shio, I’m managing your schedule, fielding calls, drafting emails, making sure you don’t miss board meetings, and—” he picked up a crumpled list from his desk and waved it in the air, “—ordering your vitamins! Vitamins, Shio. I run an entire division and you’ve got me playing pharmacist on the side. Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

Shio didn’t look up. “At least you haven’t forgotten them.”

Inhyuk gaped. “That’s your takeaway? I’m drowning in paperwork and you’re worried about your calcium intake?” He groaned and dropped his head against the back of his chair. “I need sleep, man. A vacation. A secretary. Something. Best friends don’t let best friends die buried under paperwork.”

At that, Shio finally set his pen down. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was suppressing a smile.

“You’re the only one I trust with this,” he said simply. “Why would I hand my schedule to someone who doesn’t know how I think?”

Inhyuk sat up, incredulous. “Because I need to sleep more than four hours a night? You want me to keep being your secretary, manager, and therapist? I can’t. I physically can’t. I’m begging you, Shio. Please. Hire. Someone.”

Silence stretched between them, and for once, Shio looked almost conflicted. He wasn’t good at sympathy, and Inhyuk knew that better than anyone. But, there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes.

“Fine,” Shio said at last, leaning back in his chair. “Do whatever you want.”

Inhyuk blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“I don’t care,” Shio replied, already reaching for the next document. “But don’t expect miracles. They’ll quit within weeks.”

Inhyuk threw his arms into the air like a man freed from prison. “That’s the best thing you’ve said to me in months.”

But Shio had been right.

Over the next year, Inhyuk hired one secretary after another, who had arrived wide-eyed and eager, only to leave in tears, frustration or outright rage. Shio’s demands made survival a fantasy: colour-coded files by the hour, reports rewritten because he “didn’t like the font”, daily briefings scheduled at impossible times just to “test punctuality.”

Some quit within days. The longest had lasted three months before slamming her resignation letter onto his desk and storming out, muttering something about human rights violations.

Every time, Inhyuk pleaded. Every time, Shio shrugged. “They weren’t up to my standards. Incompetent.”

By the fifteenth resignation, Inhyuk was ready to give up. Then, one morning, he came across a resume that made him pause.

Im Sol. 

Her credentials weren’t dazzling; she didn’t attend a prestigious ‘SKY’ university, or have a decade of corporate experience. In fact, on paper she looked almost ordinary. But there was something in the way she’d worded her cover letter: steady, clear, with a touch of stubbornness. It wasn’t the polished, desperate politeness he usually skimmed through. This one read like someone who wasn’t easily rattled.

Inhyuk leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his desk. Maybe, just maybe, she was exactly what Shio needed. Or at the very least, she’d last longer than two weeks.

For the first time in months, hope flickered in his tired eyes.

Present day.

Sol slammed her notebook down on her desk, her jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.

“Coffee,” she muttered. “A list of every coffee brand Doogo has ever ordered. Alphabetical order, ranked by taste, bitterness, and the colour of their packaging.” She threw her pen onto the desk like it had personally betrayed her. “Who even does that?! Who cares if Brand 17 has blue packaging and Brand 18 has black?”

Her eyes flicked toward the office door she’d just come out of. The glass panels gleamed, hiding the tyrant behind them. Ryu Shio. Thirty years old. CEO. Professional sadist.

But she wasn’t quitting.
Not yet.
Not until Ryu Shio looked her in the eye and admitted she was staying.

Sol pressed her palms against her face and whispered into them, “You’ve got this. It’s just coffee. Coffee is harmless. You like coffee. Coffee has never hurt anyone.”

A laugh cut through her little pep talk. She peeked through her fingers. Baek Inhyuk leaned against the cubicle wall, arms folded, grinning like he’d just caught her talking to her plants.

“Rough day?” he asked, voice a little too cheerful.

She groaned. “Don’t even start. He wants an alphabetised list of all the coffee brands Doogo has ordered since the company was founded.”

Inhyuk’s grin faltered. “You’re kidding.”

“Oh, I wish I was. That’s forty years of purchase history. Forty. Years.”

“The man’s a menace. You know the last secretary only made it as far as ‘E’  before she threw her resignation letter in his face, right?”

Sol’s pen rolled off the desk. She bent to grab it, muttering, “Then I’ll make it to ‘Z’.”

He tilted his head. “Why are you like this?”

“Because,” she said, snapping upright, “I am not giving him the satisfaction. He wants me gone, fine. He’s not going to win.”

Inhyuk gave her a long look, like he was equal parts impressed and terrified. “Well… if you need coffee to survive this coffee list, you know where to find me.”

***

Two hours later, Sol marched back to Shio’s office with a thick bundle of papers. The weight of them was deeply satisfying.

She knocked on the door. “Come in.”

He didn’t look up when she entered. His pen scratched over a document as if she didn’t exist. Typical. Sol strode forward, set the stack down on his desk with a pointed thunk , and waited.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair, flipping through the pages. He didn’t even pause long enough to properly read them, just skimmed them like he was glancing at yesterday’s news.

“Do it again,” he said flatly.

Her mouth fell open. “Sorry?”

“You missed one.”

“That’s not possible,” she snapped before she could stop herself. “I went through forty years of supplier records.”

He slid his gaze up from the papers, slow and deliberate. “Then perhaps you overlooked the single-origin Colombian beans purchased in 1998.”

Sol stared at him. “You’re making that up.”

“I’m not.” He flicked the papers back across the desk. They scattered like oversized confetti at her feet. “Add it.”

Her hand clenched around the nearest page until the paper crumpled. Every instinct screamed at her to tell him exactly where he could shove his Colombian beans. Instead, she forced her voice even.

“Very well, sir. I’ll come back with the modified list.”

He gave a short nod and, just like that, dismissed her, eyes already back on another file.

Sol gathered the pages with sharp movements, pivoted, and stalked out before she said something that would have definitely gotten her fired.

When Sol left, the room settled back into silence. Shio twirled his pen once, twice, tapping it against the corner of the abandoned document in front of him. He didn’t even remember what he had asked her to rank anymore. Bitterness? Acidity? Market preference? He had made it up on the spot, like always, designed for one purpose: to break them.

And usually, it worked.

The last secretary had lasted barely an hour on the assignment before storming back with the file, slamming her resignation letter onto his desk, and declaring he was an impossible man. Before her, one had broken down in tears in the hallway. Another had tried to slip out of the building without even collecting his last paycheck. 

Shio hadn’t minded. Efficiency mattered more than feelings; he didn’t need some overeager stranger hovering around his office, pretending to be useful.

It all confirmed what he had already believed, that no one but Baek Inhyuk could be trusted with work that touched his desk. People lacked precision. They lacked discipline. Worse, they wasted his time.

Secretaries, to him, were a revolving door. Temporary furniture. Inconveniences with resumes.

So why was this one different?

Shio’s brows lifted ever so slightly as he glanced at the stack of pages Sol had left behind. She had actually done it. Alphabetised, cross-referenced with order dates, ranked and annotated with tasting notes that he couldn’t be bothered to read. He hadn’t expected her to finish. Certainly not to this level.

He leaned back in his chair, pressing the cap of his pen to his lower lip. The memory of her expression flickered across his mind. The way her jaw had tightened when he told her to redo it, how she hadn’t snapped back or crumpled but instead folded her frustration into a deceptively polite “Very well, sir.”

Most would have quit right there. She hadn’t.

“Stubborn,” Shio muttered to himself, though there had been the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth, something dangerously close to amusement.

But no. It didn’t matter. She would crack eventually. They always did. He would pile on more impossible tasks until she stormed out like the rest, and then Inhyuk could stop pestering him about keeping a secretary.

Still, as he returned to his real work, a thread of unease lingered, an itch at the back of his mind he couldn’t quite shake.

Because something about Im Sol told him that maybe this time, he was wrong.

Chapter Text

Im Sol arrived at the office before the sun had properly climbed over the city skyline, the soles of her new flats clicking lightly against the polished floor. No heels today, she had learned her lesson after the disastrous tumble on her first morning. Today, she was prepared.

Prepared in every way she could manage.

Her desk was already organised, sticky notes lined up in bright colors, tabs pre-opened on her computer, every possible report he might demand within reach. She had even practiced polite expressions and neutral replies in the mirror that morning, testing out tones of “yes, sir” and “I’ll get right on that.” None sounded particularly natural, but she hoped the effort would count for something.

And most importantly, sitting beside her keyboard was her secret weapon: coffee. Not just any coffee, but the coffee. Ryu Shio’s very specific order, one so finicky she’d almost laughed when Inhyuk rattled it off yesterday, especially after she’d spent the entire morning listing every coffee brand the company had ever touched. A tedious task, but strangely good practice.

She had committed it to memory, repeating the ratios under her breath as she ordered it from the café across the street. If anything could give her a fighting chance of surviving another day under Shio’s watchful eye, this was it.

The office was quiet, sunlight just beginning to pour through the tall windows when the sound of the elevator doors opening reached her ears. She straightened instantly, shoulders pulled back, hands folded neatly in front of her.

Ryu Shio entered the space with his usual air of unbothered authority. His suit draped perfectly, his steps unhurried yet purposeful, as though the entire building bent itself around his rhythm. His gaze flicked across the room, the barest acknowledgment of her presence.

Before he could say a word, Sol rose smoothly and held out the cup. “Your coffee, Mr. Ryu.”

He stopped, mid-step. One eyebrow arched as he regarded the extended cup, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Sol wondered if she’d made some horrible mistake—the wrong blend, the wrong temperature, the wrong something .

Then, slowly, he accepted it. His long fingers wrapped around the cup, and he studied the label as if testing her audacity. He lifted it to his lips, took a measured sip, and for the first time since she had met him, something shifted in his face. Not a smile, exactly. But not his usual impassive mask either.

A faint hum left him, followed by a low mutter. “...Not terrible.”

It wasn’t praise, not outright. But Sol caught the faintest thread of surprise in his tone, almost like an admission. She bit back a triumphant grin and instead lowered her gaze, murmuring, “I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t set the coffee aside either. Another sip followed as he walked past her, and the subtle tension in her chest eased.

Her first small victory.

She sat back down at her desk, heart thudding a little too fast, trying not to let her relief show. It wasn’t much, but in the battlefield that was Ryu Shio’s office, this was a win. And Sol was determined to take every win she could get.

The warmth of her small victory didn’t last long.

Barely fifteen minutes had passed before the shrill buzz of the intercom made Sol jump in her seat.

“Ms Im. My office.”

She pressed the button with as much composure as she could muster. “Yes, sir.”

Gathering her notepad, she entered his office. Ryu Shio didn’t look up immediately, his pen moving across a page with his usual precision. Only after a beat did he raise his eyes.

“Bring me the employee attendance records from the last five years. Organised by department, then by lateness frequency.”

Sol inhaled slowly. Then exhaled, even slower. “Of course.”

She bowed and left, shutting the door with a soft click before letting her shoulders sag. Five years of attendance records? That wasn’t just a quick file pull. That was a mountain.

For the next hour, Sol was buried in the archives room. Dust tickled her throat as she sifted through cabinet after cabinet, dragging out box after box of files. Her hands grew smudged with ink and paper dust as she stacked records on a cart, then wheeled them back to her desk.

Then came the real labor: collating the chaos into order. Department by department. Late arrivals, early departures, absences marked down with terse notes. She built spreadsheets, colour-coded by severity, then grouped by frequency. By the time she stapled the finished reports into tidy packets, her back ached and her eyes blurred from staring at numbers.

Still, she had done exactly as instructed.

Sol carried the stack into Shio’s office, set them carefully on his desk, and stepped back.

He flipped through the pages without much care, a casual flick of his fingers, a disinterested hum. Then, without looking up, he said:

“Cross-reference with performance reports. I want to see if punctuality correlates with productivity.”

Her grip on the folder tightened until the edges dug crescents into her palms. “Of course.”

She bowed once more and turned on her heel, forcing herself to maintain calm strides.

Back at her desk, she began again. Another round of file digging, another wave of spreadsheets. She hunted through performance evaluations, quarterly reviews, commendation letters. By noon, Sol had not only finished the analysis but formatted it into graphs, tables, and a concise one-page summary.

She carried the folder back into his office, set it down, and straightened.

Before she could stop herself, words slipped out. “For what it’s worth, sir, punctuality doesn’t seem to affect productivity. Some of our top performers are also the least punctual. If you’d like, I can prepare recommendations for a flexible scheduling policy.”

The air shifted.

Shio’s pen froze mid-stroke. He lifted his gaze, sharp and unreadable, fixing it on her as though he were studying a puzzle. For a moment, the only sound audible was the ticking of the office clock.

He was surprised. Not that she had completed the task, that was expected. But that she dared to offer an opinion. Worse, an opinion that contradicted the implication of his request.

His jaw moved once, slowly. “That won’t be necessary.”

Sol’s pulse thudded, but she inclined her head smoothly. “Understood.”

She bowed slightly, pivoted, and walked out of his office with her head held high, refusing to let him see the heat that had rushed to her cheeks.

Behind her, the silence stretched. Shio’s jaw tightened as he set down his pen, the report untouched before him. His office had never felt louder in its quiet.

By lunchtime, Sol’s head was pounding. Hours of squinting at spreadsheets had left her eyes dry, and the tension in her shoulders had bunched into one stubborn knot. She leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingertips into her temples. Just five minutes of quiet—

A paper cup slid into view.

She blinked up to see Inhyuk grinning at her, leaning against her desk like he had all the time in the world. “You looked like you were about to faint on me,” he said lightly.

Sol let out a startled laugh, the tension in her chest easing. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Please. Call me by my rightful title.” He puffed his chest. “Office morale officer.”

She snorted, taking the coffee gratefully. The first sip was perfectly sweet, just the way she liked it. “Seriously. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he said, his tone softer now. “Don’t let him get to you too much. Shio’s… well. He’s Shio. The trick is not to take it personally. Treat him like bad weather. You can’t change it, but you can carry an umbrella.”

Before Sol could respond, a pair of marketing associates walked by, overhearing.

“You’ll need more than an umbrella,” one whispered, stopping at her desk. “Noise-cancelling headphones, maybe. We’ve all been there. Survive week one, and you’ve got a fighting chance.”

“Don’t forget snacks,” the other chimed in. “Low blood sugar makes him meaner.”

The group chuckled softly, and Sol couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t alone in this battlefield.

What none of them noticed was the figure in the office behind the glass wall.

Shio’s gaze flicked from Sol to Inhyuk leaning too comfortably on her desk, then to the associates laughing with her. The muscle in his jaw ticked once. The sight of Inhyuk handing her coffee made something flare sharp and unfamiliar in his chest. 

With a sharp movement, he pressed the intercom button. “Baek Inhyuk. My office.”

Inhyuk’s grin faltered. “Uh-oh. The storm calls.”

He offered Sol a mock salute and ducked into Shio’s office.

“You rang?” Inhyuk said lightly, closing the door behind him.

Shio didn’t look up immediately, shuffling papers that didn’t need shuffling. “Why were you loitering at Ms Im’s desk?”

Inhyuk blinked. “Loitering? I was delivering coffee. Boosting morale.”

“You’re not paid to boost morale,” Shio replied coolly.

“You’re right. I’m paid to stop you from driving people to early retirement.”

Shio’s eyes snapped up, narrowing. “Careful.”

Inhyuk raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. What’s this really about?”

Shio’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He realised, belatedly, that he had no real reason for summoning him. He picked up a random sheet and tapped it against the desk. “These figures. Double-check them against the originals. I don’t trust the formatting.”

Inhyuk stared at him. “You called me in here… to double-check formatting?”

“Do you have an objection?”

“Only that you’re insane,” Inhyuk muttered, taking the papers. “But sure. Formatting.”

When he left, still shaking his head, Shio exhaled slowly, the irritation sitting stubborn in his chest.

Minutes later, the intercom crackled again.

“Ms. Im.”

Sol froze mid-bite of her sandwich. “…Yes, Mr. Ryu?”

“Don’t forget the investor briefing at three. And…” his voice dipped ever so slightly, “bring your notes.”

Her sandwich suddenly tasted like sawdust. She set it down as a thick binder landed on her desk with a heavy thud .

The investor briefing file.

It was a monster. Thick, unwieldy, an entire forest condensed into one book. She stared at it like it had personally insulted her.

Notes. Prepare the notes. That’s all he’d said. His? Hers? The board’s?

Sol groaned under her breath, dragged the binder closer, and cracked it open.

For the next hour, her desk was chaos. Pages spread everywhere, highlighters rolling dangerously close to the edge. She skimmed reports, flagged discrepancies, scribbled possible questions in the margins. Slowly, order began to take shape. By the time the clock inched toward three, the chaos had transformed into something almost elegant: a binder laced with colour-coded tabs, sticky notes marking potential pitfalls, and a summary so clear even a toddler could follow

She slipped into the conference room behind Shio and set the binder in front of him without a word, retreating to her seat in the corner.

The meeting began.

Shio opened the binder, clearly expecting disarray. His eyes flicked down the first page once. Then again, slower. His pen stilled.

When an investor questioned last quarter’s discrepancy, he reached without hesitation for the tab Sol had marked, sliding the sheet free as if he’d prepared it himself.

“As you can see,” he said smoothly, “the variance was corrected in the following quarter, aligning with projected figures.”

The investor nodded, satisfied. 

The meeting sailed on. Every query, every concern, had its answer neatly waiting beneath her tabs.

From the corner, Sol pretended to take notes but really, she was watching him. And…was that? Yes. The faint crease between his brows had softened. Ryu Shio, the poster child of impossible standards, actually looked… pleased.

The thought sent a ripple of satisfaction through her chest.

Shio turned the final page, closed the binder, and placed his pen down with deliberate care. His expression was unreadable, but inside, irritation prickled.

She was too competent. Efficient, resourceful, composed. Exactly what he demanded and exactly what he didn’t want to admit he needed.

So, he said nothing. No acknowledgment. No thank you.

Only a curt, “Meeting adjourned.”

Sol gathered her things quietly, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.

By evening, the office had emptied to a hush. Sol was still at her desk, bent over a stack of files Shio had labeled urgent . They weren’t. She knew they weren’t. But he’d insisted, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of quitting early.

When Sol finally rose, gathering her things into neat stacks, the clock was long past respectable working hours. The lights hummed low, the air heavy with silence. She crossed the hall and pressed the elevator button, her reflection dim in the glass.

The doors slid open.

Inside stood Ryu Shio.

Of course.

She stepped in, spine straight, and pressed the ground floor button. The doors closed with a soft sigh. Silence filled the small space, thick and suffocating. Shio stood with his hands in his pockets, posture casual, gaze forward. Sol clutched her notebook tightly, as if it were armor.

The elevator began its descent.

“You stayed late,” he said finally, his voice flat.

“You gave me three reports due today,” she replied evenly. “I finished them.”

“You could have left them incomplete.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes sharp. “Why would I do that?”

His gaze flicked to her, dark and cool. “Most people would’ve quit by now.”

“Well,” she said, matching his tone, “I’m not most people.”

Something twitched at the corner of his mouth; irritation, amusement, he couldn’t decide.

“Then quit,” he said quietly.

The word was deliberate. A provocation.

Her pulse stuttered, but she didn’t look away. “No.”

The syllable hung between them, sharp as glass.

For the first time, his composure faltered. Just slightly. A narrowing of the eyes. The faint tightening of his jaw. A hairline crack in the mask he wore so carefully. Then, just as quickly, it smoothed back into place.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

Sol stepped out first, her flats tapping firmly against marble. She didn’t look back. “Goodnight, sir.”

Shio remained inside, motionless, watching her retreating figure until the doors closed again. His reflection in the mirrored panel looked as calm and precise as ever, but a quiet tension lingered beneath the surface.

Competence. Stubborn competence. And for some reason, it grated on him more than incompetence ever had. Her tidy summaries, her calm replies, the irritating precision of those colour-coded tabs. She wasn’t flinching. Not even when he pushed harder. Not even when he set her impossible tasks.

And it annoyed him.

Chapter Text

The subway rattled her home, the neon lights of Seoul flashing by in fractured streaks. By the time Sol climbed the narrow staircase to her apartment, her legs felt like rubber.

The lock clicked open, and she stepped into the stillness. Her place was small, almost laughably so: a kitchenette the width of her outstretched arms, a low table by the window stacked with unpaid bills, and a single bed tucked against the wall. But it was hers. Every square meter had been fought for, saved for, earned through years of sacrifice to part-time jobs.

Sol set her bag down and reached for her phone. A notification blinked across the screen: rent payment due soon.

Her shoulders slumped. Right. Another reminder of why she had to survive this job, no matter how impossible Ryu Shio was. It had now been a week of his impossible tasks, constant demands and sharp-edged critiques. But, losing this job would mean packing her things, going home defeated, and letting her dream of living in Seoul slip through her fingers. That wasn’t an option.

Another ping followed. This time, her mother.

Are you eating well, Sol-ah? How is the new job? Don’t overwork yourself.

Sol sank down onto the bed, her throat tightening as she read it.

I’m fine, Eomma. Everything’s good here.

She typed back quickly, then tossed her phone aside before she could write more. What was she supposed to say? That she spent her mornings bracing for her boss’s glare, and her nights wondering if tomorrow she’d still have a desk? That her body ached from the constant tension of proving herself?

She lay back, staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of detergent and instant coffee filling the room. The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but it was her independence. It was the piece of Seoul she had dreamed of for so long.

“Just a little longer,” she whispered to herself, tugging the blanket to her chin. “I can’t give up now.”

Her eyes slid shut. For a while, the hum of the city outside filled the silence, and determination settled where exhaustion had weighed her down.

Morning light broke through thin curtains, pulling her awake before the alarm could. Sol forced herself up, slipped on her neat blouse, and tied her hair back with practiced precision. Today, like every day, she would be polite enough, efficient enough, and careful enough to survive.

Because no matter how sharp Ryu Shio’s words were, this job was hers to keep.

A month slipped by, and against all odds, Im Sol was still standing.

The office had started to buzz about it. Secretaries before her rarely lasted beyond two weeks, some barely more than a few days. Yet Sol showed up every morning, bright and punctual, carrying her tote bag and a radiant smile that made people forget how suffocating the workplace could be.

She had become friendly with most of the employees, remembering names, offering to print out an extra set of reports, even sharing snacks on the more grueling afternoons. More than once she had helped an overwhelmed junior finish their workload before a deadline.

By now, she had a rhythm. She walked in, greeted everyone with a cheerful “Good morning!”, and the atmosphere of the office seemed to lift in her wake. Even those who had doubted her started admitting that she was improving efficiency and morale.

Of course, her sharp tongue still slipped out sometimes, but she caught herself before it crossed the line. Enough to survive. Enough to stay.

At her desk, she scribbled notes across her notepad, one ear tuned for the familiar click of the intercom that summoned her at all hours. Ryu Shio was still impossible, still curt and demanding, but Sol was no longer startled when his voice called for her. She had learned how to anticipate his requests before they left his mouth, and it was slowly earning his grudging silence.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a few coworkers glancing her way and whispering. A small grin tugged at her lips. Maybe, just maybe, she could be the one to break the record

***

Inhyuk leaned against the doorway of Shio’s office, arms crossed, his usual grin in place. “Having a secretary is pretty nice, huh? With all your impossible demands, I’m surprised she’s lasted this long. You’re slipping.”

Shio didn’t look up from the document in front of him. “What are you talking about?”

“In my experience,” Inhyuk said, shrugging, “most people crack under your demands pretty quickly. But she’s still standing. I did a pretty good job at hiring her. She might actually break the record.”

Shio finally lifted his eyes, expression flat. “The record doesn’t matter. She’s just… persistent.”

Inhyuk’s gaze flicked toward the neat stack of meeting notes on Shio’s desk. Each page was marked with brightly colored tabs, little scribbles in tidy handwriting decorating the margins. 

“Persistent,” he echoed, smirking. “Funny, that looks a lot like efficient to me.”

Shio’s jaw tightened. He tapped the corner of the page with his pen, as though annoyed by the rainbow of sticky notes. “Her handwriting is atrocious.”

Inhyuk chuckled, unfazed. “You’re drinking her coffee right now, aren’t you?”

Shio’s hand paused halfway to his mouth. He set the cup down with a sharp click. “It’s just coffee. Anyone could bring it.”

“Mm.” Inhyuk tilted his head knowingly. “But no one else did.”

Shio scowled, but Inhyuk only grinned wider as he finally pushed off the doorway and strolled out.

The silence that followed was heavy. Against his better judgment, Shio turned toward the glass wall of his office. Sol was at her desk, bent over another one of his endless tasks, pen moving quickly across the page. When Inhyuk passed by, she looked up and greeted him with that bright, unguarded smile.

Something tightened in Shio’s chest. His frown deepened. She never smiled like that when she saw him.

The thought annoyed him more than it should have. He brushed it off quickly—what did it matter? He wasn’t here to be smiled at.

Still, irritation simmered beneath his skin. He pressed the intercom button. “Ms. Im, please focus on your work.”

Her startled reply floated back through the speaker: “Yes, Mr Ryu.”

Shio leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the window. Of course. Smiling wasn’t part of a secretary’s job description. He didn’t know why it bothered him at all.

The day unraveled in the late afternoon.

The tension in the conference room was suffocating. The Han Group’s executives sat across the polished table, their expressions stiff. Shio’s gaze was sharp, his words clipped as he tried to smooth over a scheduling miscommunication that had spiraled into something bigger.

“This company values precision,” one of the Han directors said coolly. “If you can’t even keep an agreed schedule, how can we trust you with the rest of the contract?”

Sol sat two seats behind Shio, notebook in hand, her stomach twisting. She had checked those schedules three times. Something must have slipped between their offices, but now wasn’t the time to defend herself.

Shio leaned forward, voice calm but edged with steel. “You know Doogo Corporation has delivered for your group before. One error doesn’t erase years of reliability.”

The director didn’t soften. “An error from your side, Mr. Ryu. What kind of CEO lets something like this happen? Was this an error from your secretary? A company this size, with someone like you at the helm… I expected better.”

Sol’s grip on her pen tightened. Heat crawled up her neck.

Shio’s jaw flexed, but before he could reply, Sol spoke up. Her voice was steady, though her pulse thundered. 

“With respect, sir, the confusion didn’t come from our side. I confirmed the meeting by email last week and received a reply from your secretary. If you’ll allow me—” She flipped open her neatly tabbed folder and slid a printed copy of the email across the table. “—here is the confirmation, timestamped. It seems there may have been a miscommunication internally.”

The director paused, eyes flicking over the page. The tension cracked slightly as he shifted in his chair.

Another executive cleared his throat. “In that case, perhaps we were too quick to blame. The arrangement tomorrow at ten still stands?”

“Yes,” Shio said smoothly, seizing the opening. “And as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll ensure our team presents the additional figures you requested. We value this partnership.”

The mood in the room shifted. Agreement followed, papers exchanged, hands shaken. The deal was secured.

Only once the clients had left did Shio exhale, the faintest trace of relief breaking through his composure. His gaze cut to Sol, who was gathering her notes quietly.

“…You handled yourself well,” he said at last. The words seemed to cost him. “That was… helpful.”

Sol blinked. Did Ryu Shio just skirt dangerously close to praise?

Inhyuk, who had been sitting near the back, burst into a grin. “Helpful? That’s all you’ve got? If she hadn’t stepped in, they would’ve walked. Just admit it, Shio, she saved your deal.”

Shio shot him a look of pure annoyance, but the silence that followed spoke louder than anything. His pen tapped once against the table.

Finally, clipped and low, he muttered, “…Thank you.”

Sol almost dropped her notebook. “I—oh. You’re welcome, Mr Ryu.” She smiled then, bright and unguarded, and for a second his breath caught.

Shio coughed, looking away quickly, the tips of his ears betraying the faintest color. Irritating. Completely irritating.

Inhyuk laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day. Ryu Shio, expressing gratitude.”

“Get out,” Shio said sharply, standing to gather his papers.

But as they all filed out of the room, Sol caught the faintest flicker in Shio’s expression, something she couldn’t quite name. Irritation, yes. But also something else, something that lingered long after they returned to the office.

The office had emptied quickly, the hum of printers and chatter replaced by the steady patter of rain against the windows. Sol was still at her desk, finishing the last of the day’s reports. The storm outside cast a muted grey light across the room, making the space feel quieter, almost intimate.

She glanced at the clock. Everyone else had left hours ago. The quiet was almost comforting, though the tension from earlier still clung to her shoulders.

Through the glass walls, she noticed Shio still at his desk. He sat motionless, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room. Papers were scattered neatly before him, a pen tapping absentmindedly against the desk, but he wasn’t reviewing them. He seemed… distracted, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

Taking a deep breath, she approached softly. “Sir… the files for tomorrow’s meeting are ready,” she said, her voice quiet.

Shio looked up, startled, then gave a brief, clipped nod. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but the tone carried weight. It was the second time today he had thanked her, and it felt significant.

Sol smiled faintly. “You’re welcome, sir. Was there anything else that you needed?”

A few moments passed in silence. Sol watched him, noticing small, unusual gestures: the way his fingers drummed lightly on the desk, how he stared toward the window with a faraway look, how his posture was just slightly rigid, not his usual controlled self. Something was off, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.

Finally, Shio spoke, voice low and clipped. “No, you can go home.”

Sol paused, sensing the subtle strain beneath his words. She nodded, gathering her things, her mind quietly concerned. 

“Alright,” she said, offering a small, respectful bow. “Good night, Mr Ryu.”

He gave a curt nod in return.

The silence stretched, thick with something she couldn’t name. Sol waited a beat longer than necessary, almost expecting a reply that never came. 

Sol stepped toward the door, glancing once at the rain streaking down the windows. The office felt smaller, quieter, and for a moment, the tension of the day seemed to ease, leaving only the soft rhythm of the storm. 

She couldn’t know it yet, but there was more beneath Shio’s distracted behavior than just the exhaustion of a long day.

Chapter Text

The clatter of silverware and the low hum of conversation filled the dining room, warm light spilling across polished wood. Weekly dinners in the Ryu household were tradition, non-negotiable, even for Ryu Shio. He sat in his usual seat, his posture impeccable and his expression neutral. 

To his left, however, an empty chair sat untouched, drawing his gaze for a flicker of a moment before he redirected his attention back to his plate.

“Shio,” his mother began lightly, pouring him another bowl of soup, “how are things at the company? You’ve been working yourself to death again.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Fine.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed, the way only a mother’s could. “And your new secretary? I heard from Inhyuk that she’s quite competent. Is that true? You finally listened to him?”

Across the table, his father lifted a brow. “Inhyuk speaks highly of her.”

“Mm.” Shio’s reply was clipped, indifferent. Though the truth was that Im Sol was turning out far less incompetent than he’d initially assumed, he wasn’t about to admit that here. “She’s fine.”

“Just fine?” his mother pressed, a hint of amusement tugging at her lips.

Before Shio could answer, his grandfather set down his chopsticks with a dramatic clack. He cleared his throat in the deliberate, theatrical way he did when he wanted the floor.

“Shio,” he began.“When are you going to get married?”

Shio’s chopsticks paused mid-air. His mother’s eyes lit up.

“That’s right! You’re already thirty. Don’t tell me you’re still too busy.”

Shio carefully schooled his expression. “I have enough on my plate as it is.”

His grandfather leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Your poor grandfather is getting old! I want to see my only grandson married before I leave this world. Do you not care for your poor old man?” He clutched his chest as if his heart might give out right then and there.

“That’s not it,” Shio said evenly, though his jaw tightened. “I just don’t have time to be dating or finding someone.”

His grandfather’s eyes lit up, ready to argue further, but before he could speak, Shio’s father cleared his throat, a quiet authority in his voice. 

“Alright, let’s slow down,” he said gently. “Shio, these decisions are yours to make. We’re only offering suggestions, not orders. You’ll know when the time is right.”

Shio’s grandfather leaned back, letting out a soft sigh, a mischievous grin still lingering on his face. 

“Hmm… fine. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll leave it in your hands. But just remember, your old grandfather has been known to notice a good match when it crosses his path.”

Shio’s mother smiled, nodding in agreement. “Exactly. No pressure, dear. Just… keep your mind open. That’s all we ask.”

Shio inclined his head subtly, acknowledging them without opening the conversation further. As the family returned to lighter topics, he quietly pushed his food around, thoughts already drifting back to tomorrow’s meetings and deadlines. 

Romance could wait.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as Sol shuffled through a stack of documents. The office was its usual sterile, polished self, yet the memory of last week’s rain clung stubbornly to her thoughts. 

She still remembered the heaviness in the air, the way Shio had seemed… off. The subtle tension had been impossible to ignore, though she had kept her distance, hovering briefly at his office door before deciding it was best to leave him to his storm.

And now, as she moved among the orderly desks and quiet hum of computers towards his office, he was back to his usual icy composure, as if nothing had ever cracked his cold exterior.

“Ms Im.” His voice cut through the quiet.

“Yes, Mr Ryu?” she replied, forcing her voice steady.

“You’ll accompany me to the external meeting this afternoon.” He didn’t glance up from the document he was signing, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

She blinked, momentarily stunned. “...Me?”

His pen didn’t pause. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

“O-of course! I’ll prepare the necessary files right away.” Sol scrambled to her desk, her fingers fumbling with her planner as her mind raced. 

An external meeting? Was she dreaming? Up until now, she’d been assigned to mind-numbing tasks, the kind that existed more to test her endurance than to advance the company. Yet lately, something had shifted.

Shio had stopped assigning tedious errands and trivial tasks. Instead, important documents and sensitive reports had begun appearing on her desk, each accompanied by the curt command: “By tomorrow.”

It was subtle, but the message was clear: he was beginning to trust her judgment.

Her pulse quickened as she packed her notes, checking and rechecking the briefing materials, the client profiles, and financial projections. This was a chance to prove herself in a way that mattered. Her stomach twisted with both nerves and determination. She knew mistakes were not an option. Not today.

As Sol moved toward the printer, she paused for a moment to glance at her reflection in the glass wall. The reflection staring back at her looked far more composed than she felt. Her hair was pinned neatly, her blouse buttoned straight, her posture rigid. But, the intensity in her eyes betrayed her racing thoughts. 

She took a steadying breath, reminding herself: this was more than just a task. It was a chance to earn his confidence, to stake her place beside him in a way that was impossible to ignore.

The ride to the client’s office was quiet, the hum of the car engine filling the space as Sol clutched the stack of files against her chest. 

Her mind raced through every detail, every number, every potential question that could come up. Her palms felt warm against the paper. 

This was her chance to prove herself, to show Ryu Shio that she wasn’t here temporarily, that she could actually handle the pressure of real responsibility.

Shio sat across from her, eyes focused on the city outside. “Have you reviewed everything?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sol said, straightening. “I went through the client notes and projections. I’m ready.”

He gave a faint nod, returning his gaze to the skyline, but the weight of his scrutiny lingered in the space between them.

The client’s office was immaculate, glass walls and polished floors reflecting the mid-afternoon sun.Shio led the way, documents in hand, voice calm and precise as he opened the meeting.  “Good afternoon. Let’s get started.” 

Sol followed, her heart pounding as she stood just slightly behind him. 

For the first few minutes, she stayed quiet, listening. Shio moved with practiced authority, controlling the discussion, redirecting questions and clarifying misunderstandings. Yet she couldn’t help noticing the small signs: the micro-exhale of frustration when a client interrupted, the faint crease in his brow as he absorbed a difficult question. It made him seem more… human, in a way she hadn’t expected.

When the client noticed a discrepancy in the quarterly projections and looked ready to press further, Sol instinctively stepped forward. 

“Actually,” she said, keeping her voice calm, “if you refer to the third-quarter report here,” she slid the corrected chart across the table, “you’ll see the discrepancy was due to a timing adjustment, and this error has already been corrected.”

The client’s eyebrows lifted, curiosity turning to understanding. “Ah, that explains it.”

The tension in the room shifted. Sol glanced at Shio, half-expecting the usual critique, but his expression remained neutral. For a fraction of a second, though, his posture softened and his jaw unclenched ever so slightly. So subtle it could have been imagined, but she noticed. 

A tiny crack in the ice.

The meeting continued. Sol contributed when necessary, anticipating questions and clarifying points before they arose. Shio observed, occasionally nodding or casting a brief, acknowledging glance. By the end, the client seemed satisfied, signing the contract without hesitation.

On the ride back, Sol let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. 

“You handled that well,” Shio said, breaking the silence. His voice was even, but there was something subtle in the tone that suggested approval.

“Thank you, sir,” Sol replied, cheeks flushing slightly. 

“Pay attention to the client’s cues next time. Subtle reactions matter more than words.”

Sol nodded, committing it to memory. When he handed her the folder for tomorrow’s meetings, their fingers brushed briefly. 

She caught her breath. “Ah, thank you.”

Shio inclined his head slightly. “Make sure this is ready by tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling faintly to herself. For the first time, she felt she wasn’t just surviving this job. She was proving she could keep up, that she could stand beside him in a way few others could.

And maybe, she thought, that understanding was the first step toward something neither of them expected.

The office had emptied for the night, leaving only the faint hum of computers and the soft glow of desk lamps. Sol sat at her desk, preparing the materials for tomorrow’s meeting, her pen tracing notes meticulously across the pages. The clock ticked steadily toward eight, but Shio remained at his office, hunched over spreadsheets and reports as if the day were far from over.

She stood up, carrying a stack of papers toward the printer. The machine whirred, then groaned.

“Ugh!” she exclaimed, giving it a frustrated kick. “Ow!”

The sound made Shio glance up. Foot stomping. Paper crumpling. And there she was—Im Sol, hair slipping over her face as she wrestled with the paper jam, grumbling to herself like the machine had personally wronged her.

“Really? Right now? You couldn’t wait five more minutes?” she said, glaring at the printer.

Before he could stop himself, a faint laugh escaped. It startled him more than the noise of the jammed printer. His chest gave a strange, quick thud. 

He froze, jaw tightening. Did I... just laugh?

Shio sat back quickly, straightening as if good posture could erase what had just slipped out. He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the empty room around him. No witnesses. Thank God. Still, the odd thump in his chest lingered.

Sol tugged the last of the crumpled paper free with a small victory noise. “Ha! Who’s the boss now?” she declared triumphantly, patting the side of the printer like she’d tamed it. The machine whirred back to life. She smiled, completely unaware of the quiet observer in the adjoining office.

That smile—

Shio pressed his lips together, fingers hovering above his keyboard. He willed his heartbeat to steady, but it only drummed harder.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

“Focus, Shio,” he muttered under his breath, shoving the feeling aside. He ducked back into his spreadsheets, typing furiously, as if numbers could drown out the strange warmth creeping into his chest.

Damn it, he muttered. Focus.

But the echo of her smile stayed.