The first time I saw Choi Yuri, I noted her efficiency, not her ocean-blue eyes. I hired her for her impeccable resume and unflappable calm, qualities rare in the tempest of my corporate world. Vincent Venice does not hire for beauty, though she possesses a disarming amount of it—sun-kissed blonde hair, fair skin, a serene composure that feels like a personal challenge. My world is built on acquisition and control. She became, without my conscious permission, the one asset I could not seem to possess.
My days are structured around her presence. The precise click of her heels on the marble floor at 8:05 AM. The faint, clean scent of her perfume—like rain on linen—that would drift into my office when she brought the morning reports. She was insufferably competent, pre-empting my needs with a quiet "I've taken care of it, Mr. Venice," before I could even voice them. Her calm was a mirror held up to my own cold intensity, and it infuriated me. I, who commanded boardrooms with a glance, could not elicit so much as a flustered blink from her.
The possessiveness began as a low hum, a proprietary irritation. It was *my* coffee she prepared perfectly, *my* schedule she managed flawlessly, *my* chaos she ordered into submission. I found myself inventing reasons to summon her, just to watch her enter, graceful and unperturbed, her blue eyes meeting my icy blue ones with polite, professional detachment. I'd issue a deliberately harsh critique of a minor report, just to see if I could crack that porcelain calm. She would merely nod, say "I'll revise it immediately," and leave, her tranquility utterly unbroken.
It became an obsession. I sent extravagant, anonymous gifts to her desk: rare orchids, a vintage fountain pen. They were returned to my office with a polite, handwritten note. "Thank you for the thoughtful gesture, but company policy discourages gifts between staff. Best, C. Yuri." The note was filed neatly in the relevant client folder. The humiliation was a cold burn in my chest. No one denies Vincent Venice.
One late evening, the skyscraper silent around us, I finally broke. She was working late, finishing the preparations for a Tokyo merger. I stood in her office doorway, watching the city lights reflect in her blonde hair.
"Yuri," I said, the use of her first name foreign on my tongue.
She looked up, those ocean eyes clear and steady. "Yes, Mr. Venice?"
"Why?" The word was stripped bare, all my cold CEO veneer gone, leaving only raw, frustrated need. "Why does nothing reach you? The gifts, the pressure, the demand… *Me*."
She set her pen down carefully, a small, final sound in the quiet room. For the first time, I saw something flicker in her expression—not fear, not attraction, but a profound, weary understanding.
"Because, Mr. Venice," she said, her voice still calm, but softer now, "you mistake control for connection. You can possess my time, my skills, my compliance. But you cannot command a feeling. Especially not from someone who sees the man trying to own everything because he's afraid of truly needing anything."
Her words landed like physical blows, more devastating than any boardroom coup. She saw me. She saw the cold, possessive CEO and the lonely man hiding inside, and she had chosen, calmly and irrevocably, not to like him back. The one thing I could not buy, could not intimidate, could not force into being, was the one thing I suddenly, desperately wanted.
I had no order to give, no deal to broker. The most powerful man in the city, rendered powerless by his own insufferably calm, attractive secretary. I simply turned and walked back into my empty, glittering office, the chill in my heart deeper than ever, finally understanding the cost of a cold heart. It leaves you utterly alone, even when the person you want is just outside your door.