The elevator crooned as it rose, a steady rhythm that mirrored the ticking of the delicate golden watch on my wrist, A present from my parents.
7:53 a.m . Just enough cushion to appear punctual without seeming desperate.
Assistant Cha's voice echoed in my mind — a crisp directive, unyielding in its tone:
"Our workdays start at 8 a.m. Be on time — there's a lot that needs handling here."
Those exact words had become almost instinctual now, guiding my every step since my very first day, as though failure to heed them would have the forty-story monstrosity come crashing down.
My eyes flicked to the glowing elevator display — 19th floor.
A glance at the nearby floor overview plate followed, its glossy surface catching the fluorescent lights above.
Every floor of this towering temple of corporate excess had its unique ecosystem.
"Forty stories of indulgence, and yet they couldn't spring for separate elevators."
I let my gaze fall down, observing the tips of my polished black pumps. Jimmy Choo Love 100.
"Nothing expresses 'welcome to the elite' like squeezing into a metal box with office drones and their coffee-stained dress shirts."
And even after three years of navigating its many worlds, I still found myself marveling at the absurdity of it all.
Forty stories of pure indulgence for Chung Holdings.
A monument to the elite that probably costs more to clean than I'd earn in a lifetime.
"Why bother impressing outsiders when you can just squash their inferiority in an overcrowded metal box?" I mused silently, the practiced smile plastered across my face not so much as twitching.
Bright, approachable — everything a poster child of corporate enthusiasm should be.
That same pleasant smile my mother loved so much.
"Like spring incarnate," she'd say, acting as if my charm could melt glaciers.
A veneer, a mask.
It hid the ticking machinery underneath — the calculations, the observations, the biting sarcasm that sprang to life only in the solitude of my thoughts.
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As the elevator approached the 23rd floor, I straightened out my posture and smoothed over my trench coat with deliberate precision.
Appearances mattered — more than the work itself, most days - even in the trenches of corporate monotony.
I'd learned that from Assistant Cha — and from years of watching how the game was played.
To survive here, you didn't just work hard; you worked smart.
And maybe flashed a little of that 'helpful, happy Hye-Jin smile whenever deemed necessary.
And sometimes, when the occasion called for it, you played ruthlessly.
The elevator stopped with a harsh stutter. Caused by its ropes being forcefully halted.
The movement causing my heart to stumble.
I hated elevators.
My fear was silenced only after the doors slid open, and my feet stepped onto the familiar floor, into the dimly lit foyer.
My heels striking the marble with sharp, deliberate precision.
As if I hadn't just had a small panic attack caused by something as simple as an elevator.
Each echo seemed to declare my presence, a steady rhythm of confidence.
My posture remained impeccable; my expression serene but unreadable — ever the picture of collected professionalism.
Cheers to another day in the unending corporate chess match: Chung Holdings versus Kwon Corporations.
And me?
I was a pawn that had learned to navigate the board like a queen, watching every move, anticipating every play.
So, let today's game begin.
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I stepped out of the lobby and into the office space, where only the female staff was present — some settling in, others already immersed in their tasks.
It was always like this at Sung Law Group.
The men wouldn't bother showing up before 10 a.m., and the boss himself probably won't grace us with his presence until noon.
We women, however, kept the wheels turning, ensuring everything was in perfect order before the day truly began.
It was a well-oiled machine powered by silent efficiency and a whole lot of unacknowledged effort.
The room echoed the excessive luxury that seemed to permeate every corner of the building.
Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, their intricate moldings catching the soft glow of recessed lighting.
The marble floors — polished to a mirror-like sheen — gave the impression of standing atop a lake of liquid stone.
At the heart of the room stood a reception desk carved from black stone, its surface so perfectly smooth that the golden accents along its edges appeared to glow.
Behind the desk stood Assistant Cha, a vision of meticulous elegance.
Her tailored blouse, pristine pencil skirt, and flawless posture could rival any fashion model, yet her commanding presence reminded you she was far more than a decorative fixture.
She was the kind of woman who could make you feel underdressed in your best outfit, her grace defying her 53 years.
Cha's sharp gaze flicked to me, acknowledging my arrival with a subtle nod.
I returned the gesture without hesitation, adjusted my trench coat, and turned toward the imposing wooden door to the left of the reception.
Its grandeur was impossible to ignore — a masterpiece of rich mahogany, its polished surface reflecting the light as if it had just been lacquered.
The broad golden nameplate that read "Sung Jin-Hun" gleamed like a challenge, asserting its significance with every flicker of light.
Of course, my name wasn't anywhere near the door.
I was just his assistant, after all.
The absence of recognition didn't bother me, though — it was simply a reminder of the role I played in this grand theater of ambition.
With a deliberate motion, I pushed the heavy door open and stepped into my domain — a smaller reception area tucked behind the main office.
Modest in comparison yet equally polished- My sanctuary.
It was a place of quiet focus amidst the constant hum of corporate chaos.
As Sung Jin-Hun's personal assistant, I oversaw managing the administrative, legal, and commercial matters that kept everything running smoothly.
Scheduling, file management, drafting documents, client support, correspondence — every detail passed through my hands.
And mine only.
Before settling into my desk, I hung my trench coat neatly on the brushed silver hook next to the door.
The faint scent of lemon polish still lingered in the air, a testament to the nightly cleaning crew who maintained the immaculate order demanded by Sung Law Group's reputation.
My workspace, though modest compared to the sprawling opulence of the main offices, still exuded understated elegance.
The desk itself — polished oak with a smooth glass overlay — felt like it had been plucked straight from an elite design catalog.
A small, carefully curated arrangement of stationery sat in perfect alignment on the right side, while a sleek, white Apple monitor dominated the left.
The chair, upholstered in rich cream leather, was as much a statement piece as it was functional.
It reminded me that even in the shadow of my superior, appearances mattered.
Behind me, the walls were adorned with framed certificates and awards — not mine, of course.
Sung Jin-Hun, celebrating his strategic brilliance (and conveniently ignoring the debris of lives left in his wake).
A filing cabinet stood in the corner, its minimalist design betraying the chaos it contained — an organized disarray of case files that passed through my hands daily.
Here, surrounded by order and precision, I began my morning routine with practiced efficiency.
Calls to arrange appointments, requests, and complaints to process, meetings to oversee, documents to organize for client discussions — it was a symphony of tasks, and I was the conductor.
By the time Sung Jin-Hun would arrive — likely with another mistress in tow — everything would be in perfect order.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee would waft through the air, papers would be stacked neatly, and the faint hum of productivity would mask the undercurrent of tension that seemed to permeate every corner of this building.
That was my role, after all: To ensure the chaos of the day never reached his door.
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