VIII.

Strange. Very strange. It was supposed to be a normal day at work. Documents to go through, designs to be checked, models to be prepped then photographed. Irene would arrive on the dot at 9 in the morning, through the elevator doors, with Wendy waiting beside it, holding a cup of coffee that they both knew Irene never drinks. The same routine that Seulgi goes through and watches every day. Yet since two days ago, something had been different. Something very strange.

Was it how Irene would be ten minutes late to work, every day, since she came back from Korea? Irene was strict on time. Wasted time is wasted money, she liked to say. And she led a great example, arriving on time and leaving, more often than not, hours later than the others.

Or was it how Wendy would end up standing there, waiting for ten minutes, with a cup of coffee in her hand that she always had to reheat even though it just ended up straight to the bin? The poor soul. How Wendy was able to tolerate Seulgi’s gremlin of a friend was beyond her. Wendy had patience, which most of the employees in Aeris didn’t. Some of the employees had come and gone, ever changing much like the stock market. Only a few had managed to stay. Those who knew the merits and benefits of working in the world’s top fashion brand and those who just happened to have a strong iron will.

Wendy had just that. Relentless, never giving up, never giving in. Very admirable. Bless her heart. That pure and very kind heart, which always found a way to forgive Irene’s oppressive parades. Wendy was cute. An actual cinnamon roll. How could Irene be that mean to a cinnamon roll? Was she allergic to cinnamon rolls?

Allergic. Yes. Maybe that was the strange thing. That Irene would jolt and be startled by the cinnamon roll’s expected presence right outside the elevator doors. That Irene would walk the other way, with rushed scrambling footsteps to her office, a very obvious attempt at avoiding the company’s cinnamon roll.

“How was Korea? Did Wendy help you?” Seulgi had asked at one point.

Irene had looked at her with shock and was that a tinge of embarrassment? “D-D-Don’t even ask!”

What had happened in Korea? Between Irene and the cinnamon roll? Seulgi was just glad that Irene was too flustered to scold her about setting her up. Seulgi had yet to speak to the cinnamon roll, who seemed to be as puzzled as her, judging from her expression, about Irene’s strange behaviour.

There was the possibility of asking her, maybe over a cup of something warm. Wendy could use a hot cup of tea or coffee or perhaps a cup of nice, hot chocolate, especially on a cold winter’s day such as today.

* * *

Irene rubbed her temples with her fingers. One swirl of a massage, two... Sleeping had been problematic recently with what all these thoughts hanging from the edges of her brain, circulating like a storm, swirling up her sanity leaving it jumbled and jagged and messy.

She observed the bags underneath her eyes through the small mirror that was right next to her pencil case. Terrible, oh so terrible.

Irene didn’t even notice that her calendar had been unturned and was still on the month of November. She didn’t notice that the cactus on her desk was not at a perpendicular angle to her computer screen. Everything was misaligned. Literally everything.

Even Irene.

It didn’t help that there was this bubbling feeling in her stomach that would rise every time she would get a sight of Wendy. Was it her indigestion? From the cup noodles? Cheap food destroys an appetite, preservatives almost a poison to one’s stomach. And yet, the noodles…they tasted somewhat…good. Refreshing. Spicy. Sweet? Her face heated up from the chilies, right?

These thoughts. Confusing, delightful, annoying, amusing thoughts. Mostly about Wendy…as ridiculous as it might seem. Irene’s reflexive avoidance were counteracted by these thoughts in her head, memories of their little trip in Korea, replaying themselves over and over, becoming more pleasant each time. In her office. In her house. In her bed. In her sleep. And when she would try to distract herself from these thoughts, to focus on her work—the papers to review, charts to organise, presentations to prepare—her attempts would be futile. Wendy was haunting her. Almost.

The armnapping was admittedly…cute—annoying—annoyingly cute? There was Wendy knowing about her allergy, which was…nice. And the aspirin, too… Irene could still feel Wendy’s touch. Warm, soft, gentle hands that held hers with a certain firmness, a contrast to Wendy’s lenient personality. Fingers that were a little bit plump, not quite as slim as Irene’s. Wendy’s touch felt reassuring.

Irene released a heavy sigh, somehow sounding very breathy than what she wanted it to be. She leaned back on her chair and crossed her arms. Work. Must focus. Work. Work. Documents. She sat up straight now and then looked at her computer screen. She opened up files of future projects. A busy month for Aeris with that festive holiday fast approaching.

Hmm…Christmas. What would Wendy’s plans be for Christmas? Would she go back home? Would she like to go back home? Of course, she would. It was a public holiday! A time to spend with family, eat roast turkey or rice cakes or kimchi or whatever food they ate in Korea during Christmas. She wouldn’t spend it here. Alone. In London.

Ugh. Wendy again? Work! Must finish all this work. Maybe a break? Irene needed a break. Some fresh air would be lovely. Irene stood up and left her office. She could see her employees tense up at the sight of her. She headed for the balcony, walking past some of them. She sneakily scrutinized their jobs. Eyes of a hawk. There must be no slacking in this company.

She passed Wendy’s desk. Empty. A pile of papers on her desk untouched. Where did that woman go during work hours? Irene felt herself fume up. A part of her anger stemmed from her worry, directed mostly upon Wendy. A genuine curiosity as to where her personal assistant had gone.

There was no hesitation, no thought given upon it when she asked the whole floor, “Where is Wendy?”

A shaky voice spoke up from somewhere, “T-They’re at the café downstairs. M-Ms. Kang—she’s with Ms. Kang.”

Seulgi. No surprise. Irene stomped her way to the company’s café, her heels clacking with each step. She was rushing, pushed b