My heart started racing like it had just entered a treadmill on its own. Not the cute kind of race like 'butterflies in your stomach'. No. This was full-on, Formula 1, chaos-mode panic pumping through my veins.
And for what?
Because a pretty woman just got out of a luxury car and smiled at Mr. Jeon like she owned both his soul and his bank account?
I turned my gaze to him—and oh boy.
Mr. Jeon, the same man who once threw a three-minute tantrum over a missing stapler, was now standing there like the world's most expensive statue.
His face? Completely unreadable.
His posture? Stiffer than a frozen statue left in the Arctic.
And his eyes? Locked onto her like a deer caught in the high beams of emotional confusion.
And then the absurd thought hit me.
Am I... behaving like a homewrecker?
My internal monologue took a sharp left turn into nonsense. What home? Whose wreck? I don't even own a screwdriver, let alone the emotional power tools for that kind of demolition.
