"Congratulations, Jiah," my director says softly, leaning closer as if the words are confidential.
The rim of his champagne flute taps lightly against my sleeve, a gentle nudge rather than a celebration.
"To be hand-picked by the Chairman's office as lead secretary for the new CEO… do you understand what that means for your career?"
The hall glows.
Not bright, not loud — just expensive.
Crystal lights hang like frozen drops of glass. Soft gold reflections slide across polished marble floors.
Every table carries flowers that look like they've never seen dust in their lives. The entire executive hall of Daeyeon Holdings breathes quiet power.
I straighten my back.
Smile. Calm. Professional.
"Thank you, Director," I reply, lifting my glass because that's what the moment requires. "I'm honored. I just hope I can meet his expectations."
He grins immediately, pleased, proud — the way senior management smiles when something prestigious brushes past their department.
"You will. Everyone says the heir is brilliant. Young, but a shark. Ten years overseas. No public appearances. Frankly, nobody even knows what he looks like."
My fingers tighten around the stem.
A shark.
Of course he is.
You don't inherit the most powerful company in the country by being gentle. Daeyeon Holdings doesn't run on kindness. It runs on acquisitions, pressure, and people who don't blink when numbers hit terrifying heights.
Around us, conversations stay polished and low.
Executives. Directors. Senior staff.
The air smells like perfume and money. Glass clinks echo softly. Somewhere behind me, a small group laughs with careful restraint, the sound measured, rehearsed, corporate. Even celebration here follows rules.
I exhale slowly.
Two years.
Two years ago, I stand in this company as an intern clutching a laptop like a shield. No connections. No protection. Just a temporary ID card and a project assignment I'm terrified of ruining.
I remember the exhaustion.
Late nights that stretch into mornings. Coffee replacing sleep. Mistakes replaying in my head while staring at the ceiling of my tiny apartment. Watching others leave at reasonable hours while I stay because I refuse to be forgettable.
Promotion doesn't come easily.
Nothing here ever does.
But I survive. Then stabilize. Then climb. Proper department placement. Real responsibilities. Real pressure. Real visibility. Every step feels like dragging myself up a mountain built entirely from expectations.
Then the announcement hits.
New CEO appointment.
Not just any CEO — the heir. The hidden successor. The name whispered in corridors but never seen. Suddenly the building feels different, as if everyone stands a little straighter without knowing why.
Then the email arrives.
Chairman's Office.
Resume request.
I almost laugh when I read it. Actually laugh. Alone in my kitchen, phone in hand, thinking it must be some administrative sweep sent to half the company. Still, I update everything. Check every line. Submit it anyway.
No hope.
Just procedure.
A week ago, my phone rings.
Brief. Formal. Decisive.
Selected.
The salary figure alone makes my brain freeze for a full five seconds. Enough money to erase every financial anxiety I've ever had. Enough to make saying no feel almost insane.
So I say yes.
Of course I say yes.
Because this is Daeyeon Holdings.
Because opportunities like this do not repeat.
Because careers are built on moments exactly like this.
"Did you already sign the papers?" my director asks, lowering his voice slightly.
I nod. "Yes, sir. Everything is completed."
He studies my face for a second, then smiles with unmistakable satisfaction. "Good. Very good. This is the kind of move people wait decades for. I expect great things from you, Jiah."
Great things.
No pressure there.
Before I can respond, the lighting shifts subtly. Conversations taper. Attention pulls forward like an invisible thread tightening across the room.
The announcer steps onto the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this evening's executive appointment ceremony. Please welcome the Chairman of Daeyeon Group… Chairman Yu Gichan."
Applause fills the hall — smooth, unified, disciplined.
Chairman Yu walks with unhurried authority. No theatrics. No wasted movement. His presence alone changes the atmosphere, the way gravity changes when something massive enters orbit.
He begins to speak.
Growth. Vision. Legacy.
Words the company has lived by for decades. He thanks the staff, the executives, the global partners. Mentions performance metrics that once terrified me during onboarding but now sound like the company's native language.
Camera flashes spark constantly.
Media coverage is inevitable.
Reports. Headlines. Financial networks.
Every corner of the hall flickers with white bursts of light. Daeyeon's events are never private affairs. Power demands witnesses.
My pulse starts climbing.
Not from the speech.
From what comes next.
"And now," the announcer continues, voice carrying cleanly through the silent hall, "please welcome the heir of Daeyeon Holdings… our new Chief Executive Officer."
Something tightens in my chest.
The doors open.
Flashlights erupt violently, brighter than before. A storm of white light floods the entrance, forcing my eyes to narrow. For a moment, the stage dissolves into pure glare.
Then I see it.
A silhouette.
Black suit. Tall frame. Unhurried steps.
The figure moves through exploding camera lights like he's done this a thousand times. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just calm, controlled movement toward the podium.
My breathing stops.
Not slows.
Stops.
Because the flashes begin to fade.
Because the face becomes visible.
Because standing beneath the stage lights, wearing a perfectly cut black suit and an expression I know far too well…
…is Yu Enhyeok.
My glass nearly slips.
No.
No, that's — what?
My brain refuses to process the image in front of me. The polished CEO. The heir. The most powerful man in the building. The boy who once sat beside me in a noisy classroom, silent and infuriating and impossible to read.
Yu Enhyeok.
My ex.
For a second, the hall disappears.
Sound dulls. Light blurs. Memory crashes violently into the present. High school corridors. Shared bus rides. Stupid arguments. Stupid feelings. A breakup I convince myself is necessary, logical, unavoidable.
Ten years overseas, they said.
Nobody knows what he looks like, they said.
Bullshit.
I know exactly what he looks like.
I stand there.
Completely still.
Not the polite, composed stillness expected at corporate events, but the kind where my body simply forgets how to function.
The champagne glass rests in my hand, suspended mid-air, fingers locked around the stem like they belong to someone else.
Yu Enhyeok.
Here.
On that stage.
For years, I imagine this moment in harmless, stupid ways. Passing each other on a street. Running into him at an airport. Some quiet coincidence where time has softened everything and I can pretend my heart is no longer an unreliable traitor.
In every version, I am prepared.
Calm. Indifferent. Polite.
In every version, I have moved on.
Reality, apparently, has a cruel sense of humor.
Because nothing — absolutely nothing — in my worst anxieties includes Yu Enhyeok standing under the Daeyeon Holdings emblem as the newly appointed Chief Executive Officer.
My boss.
My actual, legally binding, contract-signed boss.
My stomach drops so hard it almost hurts.
The applause swells around me, loud and endless. Executives rise to their feet. Directors clap with visible enthusiasm. The sound crashes against the walls like a wave of approval, of loyalty, of expectation.
I cannot move.
Cannot blink.
Cannot breathe properly.
He steps closer to the podium.
The hall quiets with unnatural speed, as if someone has pressed a mute button on hundreds of conversations at once. Even the air feels tighter, charged with attention.
Then he speaks.
"Ladies and gentlemen."
That voice.
Lower now. Sharper. Controlled in a way that instantly silences the last fragments of noise. It carries across the hall without strain, clean and steady, the voice of someone entirely accustomed to command.
"I am Yu Enhyeok."
No hesitation. No ceremonial stiffness.
No trace of the boy I remember.
"It is an honor to stand before you today as the new Chief Executive Officer of Daeyeon Holdings."
The words are simple.
The impact is not.
There is no nervousness, no performative humility. He does not thank the position for accepting him. He does not soften his presence to appear likable. He stands there like the role has always belonged to him.
Like the company has merely been waiting.
"Daeyeon Holdings was built on discipline, precision, and decisions others considered impossible at the time," he continues, gaze sweeping across the audience with quiet authority. "That foundation will not change."
Silence grips the hall.
Absolute. Attentive. Heavy.
"We will expand. We will adapt. We will dominate where necessary."
A small pause.
Not for effect.
For certainty.
"Complacency has no place here."
Something cold slides down my spine.
Because the tone is not motivational.
It is a warning.
"I have no interest in maintaining comfort or tradition for its own sake," he says evenly. "Performance, accountability, and results will define this era of Daeyeon Holdings."
No raised voice.
No dramatic emphasis.
Yet every sentence lands with unsettling weight, each word precise, deliberate, final. The kind of speech that does not inspire applause — it demands alignment.
Executives listen like statues.
No shifting. No murmurs.
Just focus.
"We will move faster than the market. Think ahead of competitors. Operate without hesitation." His expression never wavers. "Those who grow with the company will be rewarded accordingly."
Another pause.
Brief. Surgical.
"Those who do not… will be replaced."
The temperature of the room seems to drop.
And the terrifying part?
No one looks offended.
They look impressed.
A ripple of energy spreads through the hall — not discomfort, but excitement. This is what Daeyeon respects. Ruthlessness wrapped in composure. Power delivered without theatrics.
He finishes without flourish.
Without sentiment.
"Thank you."
For half a second, nothing happens.
Then the hall explodes.
Applause crashes violently from every direction, louder than before, charged with something close to awe. People rise instantly. Smiles widen. Directors clap with open admiration.
I remain frozen.
Because at that exact moment —
His eyes lift.
And meet mine.
Directly.
No searching. No accidental drift.
Straight to me.
My pulse slams into my ribs.
There are hundreds of people in this hall. Rows of executives, media, staff. Yet his gaze locks onto mine with terrifying precision, as if he has known my exact position from the second he enters the room.
Recognition hits like a physical impact.
Like He knows I am here.
Of course he does.
Yu Enhyeok never misses anything.
The years collapse violently inside my chest. Memories I bury, justify, lock away — all of them surge forward at once. The way he used to look at me across a classroom. The way silence with him always feels heavier than words.
Except now there is something else.
Something worse.
Authority.
Distance.
An unreadable, impenetrable calm that makes the boy I remember feel like a hallucination. This man on the stage is sharper, colder, carved entirely from control.
And he is staring at me.
Not warmly.
Not angrily.
Just… knowingly.
My grip tightens painfully around the glass.
A sick realization coils in my stomach, slow and suffocating.
I sign the contract.
I accept the position.
I bind myself — willingly, eagerly, stupidly — to the office of the CEO.
To him.
The applause roars on, but it sounds distant now, muffled beneath the thunder of my own heartbeat. I cannot look away. Cannot breathe. Cannot escape the crushing weight of what this actually means.
I am not just seeing Yu Enhyeok again.
I belong to his office.
His schedule. His orders. His world.
And as his gaze holds mine from across the vast, glittering hall of Daeyeon Holdings, one thought settles dark and inescapable in my mind.
I didn't walk into an opportunity.
I walked into a trap.