Hyun-Jin and I made our way down to the private VIP room.
Now, when I say VIP, I don't mean "a little bit fancier than the regular rooms." No. This was like walking into a K-drama chaebol heir's living room. Plush velvet chairs, porcelain countertops, polished black marble floors, a scent that screamed money—heck, even the chandelier looked like it required a passport just to hang there.
I blinked. "Damn… how do these people have money for this kind of luxury?"
A voice answered me—cool, smug, and way too punctual. "We do, Miss B."
I turned around, and there he was. Jun-Ho. My personal financial warden. The man who made me live like I had a student loan even though I practically owned three buildings.
He leaned casually against the marble counter like he paid for it (spoiler: he probably did), all dressed in a black suit that looked custom-tailored by the gods of minimalist capitalism.
"These were the most cost-effective," he added, smirking as he ran his fingers along the countertop like it was his pet project.
I raised a brow. "Cost-effective? This table alone looks like it charges you 100 won per second just to look at it."
"You're not wrong," he said without flinching. "But according to my calculations, we got the best deal. Including tax."
That's Jun-Ho for you. The human embodiment of a spreadsheet.
I squinted at him. "You're still mocking me, aren't you?"
"That depends. Are you still spending your weekly allowance on iced coffee and overpriced scented candles?"
"Tch. Those candles bring peace to my soul."
"They burn holes in your budget."
I let out a dramatic sigh. "I still hate you since college, you know."
He chuckled. "Hate me all you want, B. I'm the reason your empire isn't bleeding money like a bad nose job."
He wasn't wrong. Back in college, Jun-Ho was a finance prodigy with zero resources. I helped him pay his tuition and lent him money to start his first venture: a small consulting firm out of a basement with one sad little desk and a whiteboard he stole from a lecture hall. Now? He's got his own financial empire.
Not only does he manage multiple companies globally—close to 300, according to his last humble brag—but his firm now oversees my business investments, handles my personal finances, and somehow manages to bully me into living like I'm on a fixed income.
"You're like an evil genius," I muttered. "A charming, numbers-obsessed vampire who feeds on my joy."
He winked. "Flattery won't increase your weekly budget."
"Wait." I narrowed my eyes. "How many companies did you say you're handling now?"
"Roughly 300 under the main umbrella. If we count subsidiaries, we're nearing 500," he said, sipping his espresso like he didn't just drop a financial nuke in the room.
My jaw hit the floor. "WHAT?! Then why is my budget capped at 250,000 won a week?!"
"Discipline," he said sweetly. "And because you spent your last weekly allotment on dog sweaters for a dog you don't even own."
"That chihuahua looked cold!"
Hyun-Jin, who had been silently judging us the entire time, finally cracked a smile.
"And don't look at me like that, Hyun-Jin. You're still mad he stole your spot as my favorite 'oppa,' huh?"
Hyun-Jin scoffed. "I'm not mad. I'm just saying I've never given you a weekly allowance. That's true love."
"You never managed my budget either, which is why I bought an espresso machine that sings K-pop."
Jun-Ho looked at me like he was calculating the ROI of my existence. "Miss B… please, let's stay focused. They're waiting inside."
"Ugh. Fine." I grumbled. "But I'm still not forgiving you for rejecting my idea to install a chocolate fountain in the lobby."
"That was a health hazard."
"It was a vibe."
He opened the door for me with a chuckle, and I walked in, muttering under my breath. "Just wait until I figure out Excel. Then I'll show you who's boss."
"Sure, B," he said with a smirk. "But until then? Enjoy your budget ramen."
I hate how much I love this man sometimes.
We walked into the room and—BAM—I almost turned around and left. I was not prepared. It was like walking into a live taping of a low-budget reality TV show. On the left: stiff, nervous applicants pretending they weren't about to soil themselves. On the right: my entire circus of emotionally constipated lunatics pretending they had any business being here.
These bastards. And I mean bastards with a capital B. Every time I try to do something quietly, peacefully, without public spectacle—here they come. Like seagulls to french fries.
Everyone looked at us like we were the final twist in a soap opera. The silence was thick. Eyes widened. Mouths slightly agape. One girl clutched her resume like it was a Bible. I could practically hear the sound effect: dun dun DUN.
And then—clarity. It hit me. The "THEM" Hyun-Jin referred to earlier. It wasn't about my guest. It wasn't about anyone specific. It was about all of them. I've been deceived. Bamboozled. Gaslit. Betrayed. I swear to the heavens above and hell below—I will not let this pass. I will hold a grudge so long it will be passed down in my will.
I spun toward Hyun-Jin and Jun-Ho like I was ready to unleash divine fury. I whispered, barely restraining myself from combusting on the spot.
"WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYONE HERE AGAIN?!"
It was less a question, more a violent weather event.
"I'M HERE TO DISCUSS THEIR SALARIES!" Jun-Ho announced with the pride of a man who just invented electricity. His head high, chest puffed, eyebrows wiggling like he just won something.
Sir, what salaries? We haven't even interviewed them yet.
"I'M HERE, I'M YOUR ASSISTANT!" Hyun-Jin shouted like he was defending his PhD thesis. He even raised a hand like I was taking attendance.
I turned to face the rest of them, slowly, dramatically—like a horror movie villain. You could hear the betrayal sizzling off their skin.
Then, as if on cue, the twins panicked.
"W-WE NEED TO BE HERE!" Jae-Won said, voice cracking like puberty had returned for a second round.
"We're here as managers!" Jae-Young added while pointing at his brother. "We need to assess them ourselves!"
Yes. Because that's your job now. Very manager-like of you. Are you also planning to build a psychological profile or just vibe-check them into oblivion?
"Oh, I'm here to appraise them," Min-Young chimed in casually, like she was appraising vintage furniture. "They all passed." She gave a tiny nod like she was blessing the peasants.
"I'm here to see if they can talk well," Ji-Won added, crossing her legs and leaning back. "We had a nice chat. They were pretty conversed."
PRETTY CONVERSED?! What does that even mean?! I don't know what's worse—the fake job roles or the made-up grammar.
LIKE WHEN DID THIS BECOME A THING?! These people once made a designer cry because she used Helvetica. Now they're evaluating communication skills?!
"Naturally, I'm here to discuss business, love," Hyo-Seop said with a flirty grin that should honestly be illegal. He even winked. Winked. I'm going to set him on fire.
The way he and Jun-Ho bounce delusions off each other like volleyballs is a scientific phenomenon. They need to be studied under a microscope.
"Well, I handle their contracts. I have to be here," said Kyung-Pyo, sipping his coffee like the one sane adult in a room full of toddlers and feral cats. Thank you. The only valid response so far. A gold star for you.
"Noona! I have nothing else to do! Can Min-Hyun and I just hang out here?" piped up little Sunoo with puppy eyes so powerful they should be registered weapons.
Honestly, I would've kicked them out too if they weren't basically my children. They're harmless. Clueless, but harmless.
Then there was Ji-Hoon.
He said nothing. Just stood there. Silent. Eyes cold. Calculating. You know that look in crime dramas when they pan to the guy who's about to commit an unspeakable act? Yeah. That. I'm 90% sure he's scouting which applicant to kidnap and drop into the ocean. Respectfully.
Then I saw them. At the very back. Standing. Looming. Giving off final boss energy: In-Hyeop and Song-Kang.
They were just... staring. From the shadows. Like nightclub bouncers at a tea party. Their arms were crossed so tight, their muscles looked like they were holding grudges. They weren't here to assess anyone—they were here to evaluate threats.
I sighed. Long. Dramatic. Loud. The kind of sigh that says I did not survive childhood, taxes, and three mental breakdowns to end up in this circus.
I facepalmed so hard I saw flashes of my past lives. Massaged my temples. If I concentrated any harder, I might've opened a portal to escape.
That's when the vibe shifted. The tension evaporated. Everyone in the room started to fidget like guilty schoolkids. And then—
"Miss—" Hye-Eun called softly, hesitantly. She entered with Shin-Hye, Jane, In-Hyuk, and... Hyung-Sik.
Oh, sweet soft-spoken Hyung-Sik. Our Forge Master. Director of production. The man behind everything in production, every stitch, every fabric miracle. He rarely shows his face. The factory is his domain. Board meetings are his battlefield. He's like a production goblin who lives ivn spreadsheets and diesel fumes.
He's reliable. He's shy. He's like a cinnamon roll dipped in acid. But somehow... cute. Cute in a "please don't cry if I raise my voice" way. Naturally, the rest of the team treats him like Voldemort. Not out of fear, but because they don't want me to talk to him.
"You always leave me out," he mumbled sadly. "I rarely get to see you, but you never—"
I slammed a hand over his mouth before he revealed my true identity as B. Not today, buddy. Not in front of guests. I gave him a look that screamed DO. NOT. EXPOSE. ME.
He blinked. Understood. I slowly released him.
"Jovy, I missed you," he whispered like he wanted to die in my arms.
And just like that—the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees. Everyone looked ready to lunge. If glares could kill, Hyung-Sik would've spontaneously combusted and resurrected five times already. Sniper lasers. Poisonous intent. The rage of a thousand jealous boyfriends in one room.
This. This is why they exclude him. Because he has the gall—the absolute audacity—to say nice things to me. In public. In full Dolby surround sound.
I decided to end the horror show.
Turning to the applicants, who looked like they were about to start crying or praying or both, I cleared my throat.
"Wow. Perfect attendance. I couldn't be more than happy," I said with enough sarcasm to power a solar panel.
I strutted to the front. Jane, like the MVP she is, handed out the resumes. The Murder Council accepted them with too much enthusiasm, like they were evaluating gladiators.
I clapped my hands twice—clap clap—and the room snapped to attention. Everyone straightened up.
"Really?" I heard Hye-Eun whisper under her breath, already annoyed. Everyone looked like I just canceled their birthday party.
See, two claps means no talking. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada. They hate it. Which is why I love it.
It was a system we built back when we started hiding my identity as B. When I enter as Jovy, they're not allowed to interfere. No questions. No comments. No dramatic sob stories. And definitely no impromptu dance evaluations, looking at you, Jae-Young.
The last time they were allowed to speak, someone asked a girl to calculate profit margin while blindfolded and standing on one leg.
So now? Silence. Mandatory. Sacred.
And Hye-Eun? She doesn't need words. She intimidates by existing. She could make someone drop out of the interview just by adjusting her glasses.
And now... the interview begins.
Or, more accurately...
The chaos resumes.
______________________________________________________________________________
Without another word, the interview began. It was as if the entire room collectively took a dramatic breath—and I mean like, Korean drama soundtrack swells in the background kind of breath.
Then I saw them.
Three of the guys I met in the park yesterday… except they looked nothing like the dusty, rugged, borderline-homeless street dudes from before. They were… glowing. Polished. Styled. As if some fairy godmother dumped them into a K-pop idol incubator overnight and shouted, "Transformation sequence: ACTIVATE!"
And wait—there's a fourth one?!
Are they cloning themselves now? Multiplying like sexy Gremlins?
Like, I'm sorry—do they really need to be THIS attractive? For what? For who? How dare they look like they just stepped off a runway sponsored by Greek gods and Dior Homme?
I blinked. Twice. Maybe three times. This had to be a trick. A hallucination brought on by caffeine withdrawal and unprocessed trauma from middle school.
"Let's start from the right," I said, pointing my pen at the walking heartthrob sitting there, pretending he wasn't fully aware of the chaos he was causing.
I glanced down at his resume. Writer. For the largest news company in the country. Excuse me? I squinted. Suddenly, my tablet buzzed—Song-Kang sent me a pop-up with deeper background data.
Thank heavens for my built-in spyware system in the form of a deadly crack-head with a strong sense of justice and unlimited data.
I looked at the screen. Interned at KBS. Impressive. But then—
"Wait, what?" I muttered, reading the reason for his termination. He was laid off because… the team couldn't publish a proper article? That's like firing someone because the printer ran out of ink. Make it make sense.
I paused. Suspicious. "Wait… Are you Hye-Jin's friend?"
He blinked, then nodded. "Yes. Byo Won Seok."
His smile. Soft. Shy. Adorable.
Instant damage. Critical hit to the heart.
Then, like a damn boomerang, the memory came back full-force. A film reel rolled in my brain, grainy and dramatic.
"You're pretty, Jovy."
OH MY GOD. HE'S THE GUY.
HE'S. THE. GUY.
I internally screamed. I could hear the sound of glass breaking in my mind. I wasn't ready for this. Not with them in the room.
He leaned forward slightly, confident in the way only dangerously charming men could be. "Don't you remember? I was the one who said you're so pretty."
And just like that—the room went nuclear.
Song-Kang, who had been chill and casually typing away on his phone like an FBI agent, dropped it. The phone. Hit the floor. Shook the earth. He looked up like he'd just heard a war crime.
Oh, hell no.
I looked around, and every guy in the room had collectively entered their villain origin arc. Ji-Hoon's eyes narrowed. Hyun-Jin's jaw clenched. Jun-Ho was already whispering to Hyo-Seop, probably forming a kill squad. The twins looked like they were about to throw hands and furniture.
Even Min-Hyun—sweet baby angel Min-Hyun—was gripping the armrest like it personally offended him.
The girls? They were absolutely living for it. Holding in laughter like they were watching the finale of a scandalous dating show. I swear I saw Jane pop popcorn from thin air.
I scanned each of the applicants again. And oh no. Oh NO. If eyes could kill, there wouldn't even be bones left. These men would rip him apart like K-drama second leads who dared to flirt with the main girl.
I had to act fast. Damage control before this beautiful fool gets yeeted into the void.
"Ah—Ahhhh. I remember now," I said, voice cracking like cheap porcelain. "Enough of that. Next question!" I squeaked, flipping a page on my tablet that didn't need flipping.
"Why… did they let you go?" I asked, trying to keep eye contact like I wasn't melting internally. Which I was. Slowly. Passionately. Like cheese on a hot pan.
He hesitated. Clearly uncomfortable. His lashes fluttered like Disney princes. My inner monologue went feral. Why is his nose that perfect? How does one achieve that symmetry? Was he born or carved from marble?
"Work politics," he finally said with a sigh that could start a tragic OST. "Hye-Sin, who's on our team… she would've been laid off if she didn't let someone go. I volunteered."
Excuse me??? NOBLE too?! A beautiful man with a heart? I'm filing a complaint to the universe for not preparing me for this encounter.
My tablet buzzed again. Song-Kang, probably listening to everything like a wiretapped mob boss.
Noona. He's telling the truth.
Their team is struggling. Their editor keeps rejecting their articles.
I still don't approve of him.
Okay, thank you for the background check and the passive-aggressive warning, Gremlin. Love that for us.
"I see… That must've been hard," I said, trying to be the professional boss I occasionally pretend to be.
But then—I lost all grip on logic.
"Though honestly, with your looks?" I blurted out. "A writer doesn't fit you. You're way too handsome and hot for that."
…Excuse me, what.
WHAT.
My brain, screaming: DELETE. UNSEND. CONTROL-Z. PLEASE, LORD.
His smile widened. Oh no. Not this again. He knows. He knows. I could feel the air pressure in the room drop. I swear the lights flickered. The boys were vibrating with rage.
"I—I mean," I backtracked, "You're good-looking! Like, objectively! Scientifically! Why not use it? Right? Hehe…"
"Hehe." That was the best I could do. A dying robot laughs. That's what I went with.
The temperature of the room reached DEFCON 1. If someone coughed wrong, someone else was going to explode. I could feel Min-Young recording everything. Ji-Won was already composing a group chat recap in her head.
I had to move on before someone threw a chair.
"ANYWAY!" I practically shouted, grabbing the next resume like it was a life raft. "Let's go to the next person!"
Someone save me.
Also—someone protects that man. He has no idea what kind of lion's den he just flirted in.
-End-