Some people wake up to sunshine, birds chirping, and the gentle promise of a good day.
I wake up to my neighbor's dog barking, my phone alarm blaring K-pop at full volume, and the grim realization that my only decent dress shirt is still wrinkled from last week.
"Fantastic," I mutter, tossing it on anyway. Job interviews don't care about wrinkles.
I grab a cheap iced coffee from the convenience store (because artisanal cafés are for people who don't live paycheck to paycheck) and head toward the subway.
That's when disaster strikes.
Or rather—she does.
---
The Chaebol Princess
One second, I'm checking my phone. The next, a blur of designer fabric and expensive perfume crashes into me—and my coffee explodes all over my chest.
Cold. Wet. Sticky.
I look down. My shirt—the one I actually ironed—is now a brown, soggy mess.
Then I look up.
Standing in front of me is a girl who looks like she walked straight out of a drama set. Silky black hair, perfect makeup, a dress that probably costs more than my tuition. And she's holding a half-spilled $12 latte like it's a sacred artifact.
"Oops," she says. Not "I'm sorry." Just… "Oops."
I stare at her. "Did you just 'oops' ruining my only good shirt?"
She blinks, as if surprised I'm speaking to her. Then her eyes flicker over my outfit—the wrinkled shirt, the discount-store shoes—and her nose wrinkles. "Ugh. This is why I hate crowded streets."
Wow. No apology. No remorse. Just annoyance that I exist in her way.
I cross my arms. "You know, most people say 'sorry' when they ruin someone's clothes."
She scoffs. "Fine. Here." She digs into her purse and pulls out a black credit card, shoving it at me. "Buy a new one. Actually, buy ten. Just stop glaring at me."
I look at the card. Then back at her.
"You're kidding, right?"
She tilts her head. "Do I look like I joke about money?"
"No," I say, pushing the card back. "You look like someone who's never been told 'no' in your life."
Her mouth drops open.
"Keep your money, princess," I add, stepping around her. "Maybe try saying 'sorry' next time."
And with that, I walk away, leaving her standing there, stunned into silence.
---
The Aftermath —
As I head to the subway, I glance back once.
She's still there, staring after me like I'm some kind of alien.
"Weirdo," I mutter, but I can't help smirking.
Rich people. They think money fixes everything.
Little do I know—this isn't the last time I'll see Yoon Haewon.
And next time? She won't be so quick to throw cash at me.