The First Impression
Ashling's first week at Hyundai HQ was a storm. Not of paperwork or deadlines—though there were plenty of both—but of whispers.
"Too young."
"She's a foreigner."
"Director of Marketing and Finance? Nepotism."
"Kang Young Kwang's wife, isn't she?"
She ignored it all, walking into the boardroom with heels clicking like a metronome. Her posture was a shield, her voice cool and precise. Slides appeared on the screen, graphs lined in perfect symmetry, figures checked three times over. She dismantled sloppy reports with a flick of her pen, asked sharp questions, and made executives shift in their leather chairs.
The whispers grew. Ice Princess. Untouchable. Dangerous.
Ashling let them think it. If they feared her, they wouldn't dismiss her.
But in quiet moments, the façade strained.
The Small Cracks
On Tuesday evening, she spotted interns hunched over keyboards long past dinner. They looked up in surprise when she returned, arms full of takeout bags.
"Eat," she said simply, dropping boxes of kimbap and bottled tea onto their desks.
Their eyes widened. "Director, we—"
"No one works well hungry," she cut in, already moving on.
Wednesday afternoon, an analyst froze mid-presentation, stammering through a misaligned slide. Ashling, instead of skewering him, leaned over, clicked the projector into place, and whispered, "You've got this." He finished strong, cheeks pink with relief.
By Thursday, a secretary dropped a stack of papers in the hall. Ashling crouched down without hesitation, gathering pages. "Careful," she murmured, lips twitching faintly. "Floors here eat documents for breakfast."
Word spread fast: the Ice Princess wasn't ice at all. She was steel—sharp, unyielding, but not cruel.
Kwang's Presence
And then there was Kwang.
Every morning, he drove her to HQ in his sleek black car. Sometimes he rolled down the window, grinning at the security guards like a schoolboy.
Every evening, he waited at the curb, leaning against the hood like a scene from one of his dramas. His cap pulled low didn't hide his height, or the way staff peeked from windows, whispering.
Sometimes he came inside.
On Friday, Ashling returned from a meeting to find him sprawled on the office sofa, flipping through her finance reports as if they were movie scripts.
She stopped short. "What are you doing here?"
"Research," he said solemnly. "For my next role as… boring finance guy."
Her staff stifled laughter. Ashling shot them a look sharp enough to silence a room, but when she turned back to Kwang, he was already grinning.
"Out," she ordered.
He stood, saluted. "Yes, Director Kang."
The staff whispered for days afterward about how their boss—so terrifying in meetings—hadn't managed to hide the curve of a smile tugging at her lips as he left.
The Rooftop
By the end of the month, the weight of boardrooms pressed heavy. That Thursday, Ashling sat at her desk long after sunset, rubbing at her temples.
A knock came. She looked up to find Kwang in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
"Come out with me."
"I can't," she sighed. "Too much work."
"One hour."
"Not possible."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You're drowning. Let me pull you up for air."
Something in his tone—gentle, not demanding—made her pause. Against her better judgment, she closed the laptop. "One hour."
The rooftop garden was small but quiet, tucked above the chaos of Seoul traffic. Kwang had a knack for finding hidden places—like this one, with string lights draped across railings and mismatched benches scattered among pots of lavender.
He handed her a paper cup of coffee. "Not wine and lanterns this time. Just caffeine and stars."
Ashling sank onto a bench, inhaling the bitter steam. "Better than a boardroom."
They sat in companionable silence at first, the city glowing below.
"Why do you do it?" he asked suddenly.
"Do what?"
"Carry all that steel around."
Her lips twitched. "Because if I don't, they'll eat me alive."
He studied her quietly. "But you're more than steel."
Ashling turned, startled by the certainty in his voice.
"You think I don't see it?" he went on. "The kimbap for interns. The way you helped that analyst. The papers in the hallway. You don't have to pretend with me, Ash."
She looked away, throat tight. "You're observant."
"I notice," he said softly.
The silence stretched, warmer this time.
The Story She Never Told
Without planning to, Ashling found herself speaking.
"My mother thinks marriage fixes things. Keeps people stable, makes them easier to control. She doesn't understand that…" She trailed off, then shook her head. "Never mind."
Kwang didn't press. He just sipped his coffee, waiting.
She exhaled slowly. "I was in love once. Deeply. I thought it would be forever. But one day he just… left. No explanation. No fight. Just gone."
The words hung in the night, heavier than she expected.
Kwang's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. "And you never got closure."
"Closure is a luxury," she said bitterly.
"No," he countered. "Closure is respect. You deserved at least that."
She blinked at him, startled. No one had ever said it so plainly.
For the first time in years, something eased in her chest.
The Almost Touch
They sat quietly after that, stars blinking above.
At one point, her hand brushed his as they reached for the coffee cup. Neither pulled back right away.
Ashling's pulse skipped. She withdrew quickly, masking it with a sip.
Kwang only smiled faintly, as if he understood without words.
Back at the house, Ashling lingered by the garden gate as he unlocked the door.
"You're impossible," she said softly.
Kwang glanced back, eyes glinting with humor. "And yet, here you are. Spending an hour you swore you didn't have."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her with the smallest smile.
When she finally closed her bedroom door, she leaned against it, heart unsettled.
For the first time since the contract began, she wasn't thinking about how to survive twelve months.
She was wondering what might happen if she stopped surviving—and started living.