You don’t have a lot of positive things to say about your new boss as of now, but he is exceptionally good at driving you crazy.

 

“No, Sir,” you say into the phone clamped between your shoulder and cheek, arms occupied with the blazer you’re trying to slip into. “I didn’t forget. I’m on my way right now, actually.”

 

Sunday mornings, you think, might just be the worst.

 

On the other end of the line, Lee Mark makes a sound that tells you he most definitely does not believe the blatant lie you just told him. At least it wasn’t the task yet, you soothe yourself. As soon as Mark starts tsking, you’ve learned, it’s over.

 

“Miss Y/L/N,” he says slowly, “do we need to have another talk about your punctuality?”

 

You sink your teeth into the sharp answer forming at the tip of your tongue before it can leave your lips. It would be a lot easier for you to be punctual if he didn’t constantly additional appointments into a schedule that is already brim-full.

 

“No, Sir,” you repeat dutifully as a hand grabs your blazer by the neck and finally helps you slip into it. You send Johnny a hand kiss to convey your eternal gratitude but he, still in his pajamas like any regular person should be on a Sunday morning, just waves it away and trudges off into the kitchen for coffee. “Like I said, I’m on my way right now. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 

Lee Mark is silent for a moment, then he makes a tutting sound and your blood runs cold. “You better be,” he says, “I’m counting on you.”

 

Then the line goes dead.

 

It’s a mad dash down the stairs of your apartment building that nearly ends with you breaking your neck and spraining several bones before you make it out onto the curb. Then you run two blocks until you finally reach a busier street, panting, and hail a taxi. The brisk morning wind has nothing on you now, red faced and panting as you are. In the confines of your damned heels, your feet ache.

 

The business luncheon organized by SM & CO is, in the end, nothing but a who’s who of the most important business men and companies in the country. Lee Enterprises needs to be represented too, of course. It’s just that your boss seems to have forgotten to tell you that it would be represented by the CEO himself, and that your presence would be required as well.

 

The worst part about Lee Mark – and there are a lot of bad things about him, this much you now – is his incorrigible idea that you need to read his every wish off his lips without him ever saying it out loud.

 

The venue is a beautiful garden nestled among skyscrapers and traffic jams, lush greenery dotted with the white and pink and yellow of roses. It’s like an oasis, a shelter, in the chaos and constant noise of the city, but it’s populated right now with stiff men in grey suits and even stiffer women in even greyer skirts. They look completely out of place.

 

It isn’t hard to find Mark. He’s standing at the edge of the crowd, checking his phone. His dark blue suit is immaculate as always, hair slicked back without a single strand out of place, shoes shined. He’s not talking to anybody, and that doesn’t surprise you.

 

Lee Mark is a brilliant businessman, built a company from nothing to towers that touch the skies, but he’s not much for people. He doesn’t smile enough, is the problem you think. He’s better with numbers than charms.

 

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mark greets without looking away from his phone when you finally push through the last group conversing about the stock market. “You’re late.”

 

You made it half-way across town in a record-breaking fifteen minutes which you considered rather successful, especially because you spent an unholy amount of money on bribing the driver to go faster. Of course it wasn’t enough for Lee Mark though. He accepts nothing short of perfection.

 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, trying to keep your panting to a minimum. “My alarm didn’t ring.”

 

Mark looks up then, gives you a searching look that has your toes curling. “Your phone again?” he asks, and when you nod, he raises a single eyebrow. “You really need to get a new one.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” you agree. He’s right of course. Your phone is a ty thing with a broken battery and a cracked screen, but you don’t exactly have the money to replace it right now. Also, you abhor the thought of Lee Mark telling you what to do in any part of your life that doesn’t immediately concern work.

 

He gives you another probing glance before turning away. “Your blouse is done up wrong.”

 

As he observes the people around you, you feel the blood rushing into your cheeks and turn away to button your blouse correctly, hoping nobody will see. It wasn’t like you had a lot of time this morning after his first call woke you from a very nice dream where you work literally anywhere but Lee Enterprises. You exchanged a shower for copious amounts of deodorant, actual make-up for a bit of concealer and mascara you applied in the taxi under the constant safety hazard of almost poking out your own eyeball, and you’re almost completely certain you already wore this outfit earlier this week.

 

Lee Mark has the ability to unmake the things that make you feel like a person, until you’re left with only the bare outlines of who you used to be. You really wish you didn’t need this job so desperately.

 

“Are you ready?” Mark asks, still with his back to you.

 

“Yes,” you agree, and then pause. “Wait. What exactly are we here for?”

 

Mark tsks again, lower this time, and you wouldn’t be surprised to find yourself jobless by tomorrow. “The Moon merger? I need to get in their lawyers’ good graces.”

 

“Oh. Right.” That just means you need to make eyes at a few middle-aged men and possibly smooth out any damage Mark might do when he decides to talk. “In that case. I am ready.”

 

Mark nods. “Alright. Took you long enough, after all.”

 

Then he’s strutting through the crowd and you hope – dream, pray, wish – he’ll actually fire you. Anything’s better than this.

 

~~

 

In all honesty, you probably wouldn’t even have gotten this job if it weren’t for your connections. You’re by no means qualified to be secretary to one of the most successful CEO’s in the country, and there must certainly have been several applicants much better equipped for this job than you are.

 

Connections might be a bit of a big word to describe the nepotism going on here, actually. Your best friend Johnny apparently knows the guy who was roommates with Lee Mark at college (bless his poor soul) and he got you this job after Johnny begged him to find you something for months.

 

You used to be embarrassed about being pitiful and prospect-less enough for Johnny to take your career into his own hands, but now you think he might have just done it to get back at you for the time you accidentally told his crush he liked her while really drunk. Your job might have seemed like an escape from the bills stacking on your desk at first but now you feel like you fell head-first into hell.

 

Lee Mark is the worst boss in the history of time, and you have the stories to prove it.

 

He makes you get his suits from the dry cleaners. He calls you at two am to go over his schedule for the week as if he doesn’t have to sMoonp like a normal person. He makes you run across town during your own lunch break to get the salad he likes from a tiny Greek restaurant. He demands that you know the name of every single person you might cross at any possible event despite not remembering them himself. He expects you to be available at any given moment of the day.

 

At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if you went grey at thirty.

 

You stare at the green light blinking at you from the landline, indicating that Mark is calling. It seems like it’s mocking you.

 

For a moment you consider ignoring it, but then you pick up the receiver anyway. “Yes, Mr. Lee?”

 

“Come see me in my office for a moment.”

 

And that’s it. No please, no thank you, nothing, just an order barked down the line and not even the curtesy to wait around for an answer. Lee Mark is a very busy man, and you assume he has no time to waste on pleasantries.

 

Getting out of your chair, you nearly burn your tongue off by downing the last of the coffee you’d just made yourself.

 

From his own desk, Moon Taeil gives you a small, sympathetic smile. It’s the sort of expression you imagine a man might give his fellow inmate being led to the electric chair, or something equally sinister. You’re really in for it now.

 

Lee Enterprises’ headquarters are five stories of large glass windows and open space offices that stretch over the top floors of one of the city’s highest skyscrapers. The cubicles are alive with hundreds of workers typing reports, the air filled with the soft humming of computers and the steady whir of printers spitting out statistics in an endless rhythm of commerce. And this is just one of four official places of business: there’s another office in Hong Kong, one in New York, one in London, and a fourth, brand new one just recently founded in Tokyo.

 

The man himself, father to a whole empire, keeps his office private and wood-paneled, his large desk at the center of it free of trinkets or family photographs. There’s a pair of low leather couches grouped around a coffee table in one corner of the room and a group of large shelves groaning under the weight of the thick books stacked high on them in the other. The only piece of decoration in the room (because you’re above considering the actual Pollock on the wall mere decoration) is a bowl piled with iridescent glass marbles the purpose of which you’re yet to make any sense of.

 

Mark is sitting at his desk, the skyline stretching out behind him, a panorama window opening sight to a sky littered with the fluffy white of clouds and jagged buildings reaching into it like giants stretching out their arms to steal the sun. Somehow, Mark manages to be more intimidating than the view behind him.

 

He says your name without looking up. “Have a seat.”

 

The two designer chairs in front of his desk are all leather and metal, as uncomfortably as they are stylish. You suspect Mark chose them for that exact reason, as if he wants to keep any visit or appointment he might have as short as possible.

 

Your heart is going mad in your chest. As you take your seat, back ramrod straight, your knees tremble with enough force to knock together. You twist your hands into tight balls in your lap.

 

Despite how much you hate it, despite what you thought last night, you really need this job. Lee Enterprises pays well, well enough for you to pay off the crippling student loans weighting heavy on your back, and it’s not like you have many other prospects. Your degree in Comparative Literature is, as you’ve come to learn, not necessarily the sort of qualification that ropes in a lot of job offers. Your mother had tried to tell you, but, in the headstrong optimism of youth, before you’d ever had to pay for your own internet access, you hadn’t listened.

 

If Mark fires you, you have no idea how to pay your rent, how to pay for your next meal. You’ll be lost.

 

Mark doesn’t pay you any mind. He’s focused on whatever it is he’s typing, his face illuminated in a blueish glow by his computer screen, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The anxiety gnaws at you like a life animal.

 

When he finally does look away from his work, lips pinched, you’re so charged you think you might be buzzing with it. “I need you Friday night.”

 

At first, you’re relieved. There was a whole scenario building up in your head, playing like an especially sad movie, in which you get kicked out of your apartment and end up living under a bridge, begging for change and warming your hands on a pile of cardboard boxes somebody has set on fire. At least it seems like you’ll be able to escape the bridge for a little while longer.

 

Then you think about it. “I can’t Friday,” you say, decidedly. “I really can’t.”

 

Mark raises an eyebrow in a perfect arch. “You can’t?” he inquires, and the question carries so much disbelief it almost makes you blush.

 

“I can’t,” you confirm, trying to keep any waver out of your voice. It’s okay, you tell yourself. You’re allowed to say no sometimes. “It’s my best friend’s birthday. We’re having this huge party, and I’m like the main planner, so I can’t miss it, I really…”

 

At the sight of Mark’s completely unimpressed expression, you trail off. Of course he doesn’t want to hear your petty reasons for skipping out on a work event. He’s never wanted to hear anything about your life.

 

“Miss Y/L/N,” he begins slowly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms in front of his chest. He’s looking at you with something so stern in his eyes that you can feel your toes curl in your shoes. “This is your job. We all have to make sacrifices for our career at times.”

 

“But, Sir…”

 

He raises a hand to silence you. “This is important to me,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that tells you he’ll have no more discussions. “It’s important to our company. I really don’t ask a lot of you –“ at this point you have to keep in the scoff – “but I do ask this, and I ask that you behave accordingly to my orders. I’m your superior, and I want you to show loyalty to me and to Lee Enterprises. It’s just one night. I’m sure your friend will understand.”

 

You think of Johnny, of how you’ve spent every birthday with him since both of you were in diapers and wonder if he really will. You barely understand yourself.

 

It’s just that there’s something in Mark’s voice, a quiet, underlying threat. Do this or you’re out, it seems to say.

 

You really need this job.

 

“Yes, Sir,” you agree finally, after a long, silent moment, get out of the chair and give a tiny bow before leaving his office, your hands in fists by your sides.

 

~~

 

Johnny doesn’t understand, but he’s nice about it. Sort of.

 

He doesn’t blame you, just gives a quiet sigh and tells you to quit. “I’m sure you can do better,” he says and pats your back, as if he’s forgotten completely that he’s the one who got you the job in the first place. He doesn’t want to show it, but you know he’s disappointed, the same way you are, and it makes your chest feel tight and aching, like somebody’s dropped a heavy weight on it.

 

To make up for your absence at the party, you take Johnny out for Mexican food and drinks on Thursday night.

 

Come Friday morning, you find yourself at your desk, bleary eyes hurting from all the glass reflecting the bright sunshine, head aching with too many Tequila shots and stomach queasy from too many Burritos and too many Margaritas. Even the painkillers aren’t doing a proper job. You hate yourself for getting so drunk.

 

When somebody drops a large box on your desk, it catches you so off guard you nearly topple from your chair.

 

Mark is looking at you with his jaw clenched. The pinstripes of his suit make you feel sort of like you’re swimming, your stomach churning worryingly. “Are you hungover?” he asks, disdain dripping from every word.

 

You pause. “No?”

 

Mark obviously doesn’t believe you. A tsk leaves his lips and you feel yourself stiffening in apprehension. “Well, you look like hell.”

 

Jeez. Thanks. You sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself.

 

He taps a finger against the box on your desk. It’s rectangular, a glossy white material wrapped with a silky ribbon. “This is for you,” he says. “For tonight.”

 

You blink rapidly, staring at the box, or more specifically, the label printed at the top. Chanel. “What?” you ask, a little breathless.

 

“It’s a black-tie event,” Mark tells you. “I doubt you have anything appropriate, and I can’t have any representative of Lee Enterprises look… underdressed.”

 

Of course. You should have known this wasn’t about being kind. To add insult to injury, he’s right. You really don’t have a single black-tie appropriate item in your closet.

 

“I can’t accept this,” you say, rising from your chair to push the gift back in his direction.

 

Mark stops you with two hands placed firmly on the opposite side of the box. “Yes, you can, and you will. I’m preserving the company’s reputation, and by extension my own, by putting you in some appropriate clothing. That’s it.” He leaves his hands where they are for a moment longer, as if he’s afraid you might throw the box at his head as soon as he takes them off. Then he straightens back up and tugs his suit jacket back into place. “Take the afternoon off. I need you well rested tonight.”

 

You stare at his retreating back, fingers still on the Chanel box, your heart beating a confusing beat against your ribcage.

 

Strange.

 

~~

 

Mark takes your arm as soon as you get out of the car. It’s strange, because you don’t think he’s touched you even once in the five months you’ve been working for him, and now he won’t stop.

 

It’s nothing that makes you uncomfortable, not inappropriate in anyway, just a feather-light touch against your elbow or the slightest pressure of his palm against your back. You, however, remain completely aware of every inch of skin that so much as traces yours.

 

The dress you pulled from the box Mark had left you with is more formal and more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in your life. It’s lengths of green silk that shimmers in the candlelight, long enough to trail across the floor with every step, thin straps lying snug against your shoulders and crossing in the back where it dips low enough to be a little suggestive but not yet explicit. Mark’s tie, you notice, is made of the same green fabric, and you have absolutely no idea what that means.

 

“You should smile a little more,” Mark suggests, arms crossed in front of his chest and with an expression on his face as if you’re the one without social skills.

 

All around you, the walls of the large ball room are covered in mirrors. Whoever’s hosting this event has rented a baroque-style chateau somewhere outside the city for the night, and it’s all gold and candelabras. Fat, pink-cheek cherubs watch you from the ceiling where some second-class painter went berserk on pastel shades and cloud shapes. A soft breeze drifts through the opened French doors and carries with it the tentative scent of a summer night. A pianist is playing Mozart until it sounds like elevator music, and men and women chat mergers and numbers as champagne and red wine flows freely.

 

It’s all very tasteful, and you feel very out of place.

 

“Yes. I probably should,” you admit, which is about as much rebellion as you can possibly get away with, and down the last of your champagne.

 

You can feel Mark’s disapproving gaze on you, but it doesn’t stop you from handing a nearby waiter your empty flute and grabbing a new one. The liquid tickles pleasantly on its voyage down your throat.

 

Mark says, “Don’t get too drunk.”

 

Don’t tell me what to do, your mind supplies, but you just give him a saccharine, tooth-rotting version of your regular smile.

 

“Yes, Sir,” you agree, and drink nearly the whole glass in one go.

 

Mark’s nose twitches in distaste, but then he catches sight of something in the crowd and straightens his back. You didn’t think that was possible, since he’s straight as a board already, but here you are.

 

Lee Mark never ceases to surprise you.

 

“There’s Moon Eunwook,” he tells you.

 

Moon Eunwook. You’ve seen that name often enough in the files you type up or reports you make copies of, have heard it in several phone calls and written it down a hundred times in Mark’s personal calendar.

 

“The one whose company you’re buying?” you ask, just to be sure.

 

“Trying to buy,” Mark corrects, leaning down a little so you’ll understand his whispering. The movement has his fingers tracing over your forearm and you feel your hairs rise up in response. Down, boys, you think, appalled. “The whole thing’s still up in the air. Please try to be on your best behavior.”

 

Then he strides forward, a steady hand pressed to your back that pushes you along with him. “Mr. Moon!” he calls, and he’s actually smiling. You think you might be having a .

 

You didn’t even know Lee Mark was capable of smiling.

 

Mr. Moon is a small man with a prominent beer belly protruding over the waistband of his pants. He has a friendly face, intelligent eyes framed by round glasses and hair the color of snow. He smiles at Mark. This, you think, is a man who has lived a long life, and enjoyed it.

 

“Ah, my boy,” he greets and takes Mark’s offered hand, shakes it enthusiastically before clasping him on the shoulder once. “How are you, how are you?”

 

“Very well, thank you,” Mark answers, and there’s a fondness in his voice that seem genuine. You’d be less surprised if the cherubs on the ceiling suddenly turned real and fluttered to the floor on their tiny wings. “And this is Y/N.”

 

It catches you off guard to be introduced so suddenly, almost as much as Mark using your first name does. You don’t think he’s ever done that before. Distantly, you realize that his hand is still where he placed it earlier, and it’s heavy and warm against your skin.

 

“Of course, yes!” Moon Eunwook’s smile is the warmest thing you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. “I’ve heard so very much about you. Enchanting, really!”

 

Then he bends over and grabs your hand, presses an enthusiastic kiss to the back of it. His lips are dry and chapped, his beard a little scratchy, but it draws an amused laugh from you anyway. You never knew CEOs of multi-million-dollar companies could be this cute. The only other one you know personally certainly isn’t.

 

You’re about to answer when Moon Eunwook beats you to it, apparently too excited to keep quiet. “I was beginning to think dear Mark would never introduce this elusive fiancée of his to me.”

 

The smile slides from your face. “What?” you say, more of a statement than an actual question, and feel suddenly cold.

 

Mark laughs, but there’s a certain nervous quality to it. The hand on your back presses a bit more firmly, but you suspect it’s out of nervousness. “She always gets shy when she hears I’ve been telling people about her.”

 

Okay. What the .

 

Moon Eunwook laughs, delighted. “Ah, no reason to worry! He speaks of you only in the highest regards! You must be one very special girl.”

 

You have known Mark for six months. You don’t think he’s said a single kind thing to you in all that time.

 

Lost and a little angry, you turn to Mark, eyebrows raised in obvious question. What the hell is going on here and why am I involved in it?

 

Mark’s face remains in its usual mask of stoic politeness, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Go along with it, he seems to say. Please.

 

You remember how ready he was to fire you if you missed out on this night, remember his desperation when he’d asked you to come. It’s an uncomfortable moment when you realize that you can’t get out of this thing now, not without exposing Mark and losing your job in the process.

 

A part of you – and you’ll admit that it’s the petty, unkind part you thought you left behind in a time when you used to start fist fights with boys who tried to steal your crayons in kindergarten – wants to do just that. Why should you lie for a man who has never shown you any sort of courtesy? Who has done nothing but made your life a living hell for as long as you’ve known him?

 

But then you think of all those bills, and the disappointed curve of your mother’s mouth when you tell her you’ve lost your job. It’s just one night, you tell yourself. You can do this.

 

So you paint a smile on your face, and act like your life depends on it.

 

~~

 

Three torturous, winding, never-ending hours later, you get into a car and let that damned smile slide off your lips like butter melting in the sun.

 

Mark gets in after you, and the moment he’s closed the door, you pounce.

 

“What in the name of God was that?” you ask, your voice rising a few octaves.

 

Calmly, Mark leans forward and tells his driver your address. Then he pushes a button and waits until the dark glass partition separates the front and back of the car. “It was… a little white lie.”

 

“You told that man I’m your fiancée, that’s hardly little.” You’re really having trouble with not screaming, try to remember that this is still your employer, no matter how badly you want to slam his head against the window right now. “Actually, you told the whole party I’m your fiancée, when, in fact, I’m not. I’m your secretary, in case you’ve forgotten.”

 

“I have not forgotten.” Mark is horribly calm, and it makes you so angry you feel like whacking your purse over his head. Repeatedly. “It’s what I needed for the merger to go through.”

 

You exhale loudly. “I don’t understand,” you say, and the confession takes quite a lot from you.

 

Mark sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. You think this might be the first time you’ve ever seen him exhausted, as if tonight’s charade had asked more of him than he was willing to give. You certainly know that you’re tired, a pounding headache forming somewhere behind your temple. Mark, however, has always seemed so functional, so clean-cut to you that you’d assumed he was above human emotions like exhaustion. Sort of like a robot.

 

“Moon Eunwook,” he says, slowly, “is a very… traditional man. He has no children to leave his company to, but he has a very firm idea of what sort of man he wants to have it run by after he’s gone. A lonely bachelor… is not it.”

 

You blink, surprised to hear Mark call himself lonely. That seems too sentimental for a man as analytical as him.

 

Mark must be lonely, certainly. As far as you know, he doesn’t have a girlfriend, has barely any friends or hobbies that would take him out of the confines of his office. It’s sad almost.

 

You hate him, but you also pity him, and you wonder which of these emotions is worse

 

“So you… what? Needed me to make him think you’re a family man who’s going to run his business accordingly?”

 

Mark nods, and you can feel his gaze on you, as if he’s gauging your reaction. Under the weight of that, you feel horribly small. “Something like that,” he agrees.

 

You mull this over for a moment, find you’re not quite as appalled as you thought you might be, which confuses you. In your lap, you start fiddling with your own fingers. “Why me?” you ask.

 

Mark shrugs, casually, and answers, “You were the first person I could think of.”

 

Your cheeks feel hot.

 

“So, what… what now?”

 

“I’ll need you to play along. At least until the merger is over, then we can just pretend we’ve separated.” Mark pauses, and when he speaks again, something like uncertainty creeps into his voice. “Would you do that?”

 

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully. “Can I think about it?”

 

Mark nods. “Yes.” It’s uncharacteristically kind of him, so of course he ruins it a second later. “I’ll need your answer by tomorrow, though.”

 

You scoff and turn to look out of the window, watching the lights of the city whirr by.

 

~~

 

Monday, your face is plastered on the gossip column of every single newspaper in the country.

 

The girl that tamed the beast! one headline reads, while another claims A Modern Day Cinderella Story – CEO loves Secretary. You hadn’t been aware that people were quite that interested in your employer’s love life, but now it turns out he’s one of the most sought-after bachelors on the continent.

 

And somehow, you’re caught in the middle of this show.

 

Even at work you can’t stop thinking about the articles, pull up the website of some scandal-hungry gossip magazine and stare at a picture of yourself and Mark for too long. His tie matching your dress, his eyes you in what was probably annoyance but could be, in the right light, mistaken for something like affection. You don’t know how to feel, scared and overwhelmed and even a tiny bit flattered maybe, in some guilty part of you.

 

The whole office knows too, which is mortifying. There’s people glancing at you every few minutes, a group of girls by the water dispenser who stopped their talking as soon as you walked by only to resume the moment you’ve passed, heads bent together and voices excited, scandalized. When you were using the photocopier earlier, a dude you know works in accounting and have seen only a few times, gave you a lewd smile and wiggled his eyebrows. “The boss, huh?” he’d asked, almost conspiratorially, before you’d made a run for it.

 

Come noon, you’ve made up your mind. No way you’re going to let all your co-workers believe that you’re cheap enough to start a secret affair with your boss. You do have some dignity left.

 

Mark emerges from his office with something clutched in his hand. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say his steps are hesitant as he approaches you, the roll of his shoulder nervous.

 

“I have a gift for you,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

 

Your heart drops to the vicinity of your knees, and you can’t explain why. Not again. “I can’t… I can’t accept your gifts.”

 

“Yes, you can. You did it before.” He deposits something on your desk with a heavy thud, his expression stern. There’s that furrow between his eyes again, and suddenly you remember what he looked like when he smiled, how it might feel to have that expression directed at you. “This one will be a relief to both of us.”

 

You lower your eyes to what he’s dropped on the tabletop and all traces of reluctant, embarrassing excitement vanish. You really don’t know what you were expecting, another Chanel dress, something to buy your cooperation. You can’t explain why you were expecting anything in the first place.

 

“I need you available,” he says, like that’s the most normal thing in the world. “That phone of yours dying all the time isn’t going to work out, long-term.”

 

Long-term. Somehow you feel like he’s talking about more than just your job as his secretary.

 

There’s a sMoonk, brand new iPhone dropped on the Moon file, the blinking light from the landline heralding a call reflecting in the surface.

 

“Consider it an apology for Friday,” Mark says, almost quietly, and you wonder if this is how he settles everything. Wonder if he thinks you’ll just nod and say thank you and move on.

 

You clench your teeth, stare at the phone, and can’t even bring yourself to say thank you. Lee Mark, you think, is a despicable human being.

 

He shrugs, buries his hands in his pockets and disappears in that wood-paneled cubicle of his office again, without a second glance.

 

You unlock the phone and stare at the only saved contact (Lee Mark, a work number, a private number, an email address) and wonder when your life became so sad.

 

You’re out of your chair and pushing open the door to his office before you can think any better of it.

 

“Alright,” you say, too loudly, and something satisfied curls low in your stomach at the way Mark looks up from his work, obviously startled. “You want me to go along with your little charade, yeah? Then there’s going to be some changes around here.”

 

Mark’s eyebrows furrow and you can see the way his fingers flex around his pen. That’s about as much of a physical reaction as you’ve ever gotten out of him, and you feel strangely proud of it. “I’m your superior,” Mark reminds you, something almost dangerous in his voice. “Watch your tone.”

 

You huff, unimpressed. “You are the one who needs me, Mr. Lee. I can tell the truth at any moment and have your whole deal blow up. I’m sure there’s several gossip columnists just dying to talk to me.” Mark’s left eye twitches, just a little, and you’ve never felt more powerful. It’s sort of like flying, and you feel a little lightheaded with it. “I’m the one calling the shots here.”

 

Beneath all that anger, there’s something like admiration on Mark’s face, and you feel like you grow ten sizes in that glow. Your heart is beating too fast, your palms are a little sweaty, and you’re sure that by now there’s red spots crawling up your neck.

 

Mark leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. He nods once. “Alright then. Let’s hear your conditions.”

 

For a moment, you pause. Since you hadn’t thought you’d get this far, you haven’t actually considered about it yet. Ultimately though, this is an easy question to answer.

 

“No more two am calls,” you say, confidently. “And I don’t want to get your suits from the cleaners or buy your groceries or anything like that ever again. I’m your secretary, not your slave.”

 

“Alright,” Mark agrees, easily. “What else?”

 

“You have to discuss things with me. You can’t just drop stuff on me all the time, like last minute meetings. I’m a really diligent worker,” you say, protective of your own reputation, annoyed at the light he paints you in sometimes, like you’re worthless, like you’re doing a bad job. “I’m punctual and reliable, I work quick. It’s just when you keep on changing everything on a whim and then don’t tell me about it that I mess up. You can’t do that.”

 

“I know you work hard,” Mark says, quietly. It’s almost a compliment, you think, and it sits weirdly in your stomach, warm and foreign, and for a moment you lose your train of thought.

 

You catch yourself and go on, “And about this… relationship, or whatever.” You gesture vaguely between him and you, feeling the embarrassment tickle at your toes. “We’re going to need to lay down ground-rules. Who to talk to about it, what exactly we’re going to say, how long it’ll go on, what I’ll need to do to make it believable.” For a second, you halt yourself to inhale deeply, try to relax the stiffness in your muscles a little. Since Friday night, you have been tense and scared and you hadn’t even been aware of it. It feels as if this is the first breath you take that actually reaches your lungs. “And I want you to give an interview, to tell people that this is real and I’m not just some… gold-digger who tried to sMoonp her way into your fortune. Or something.”

 

Mark agrees, “That all sounds very reasonable. Anything else?”

 

You take a second to think. “Also. I want a raise,” you add.

 

Mark nods. “Done.”

 

A moment passes. You point at the painting on the wall. “And the Pollock.”

 

“Now you’re pushing it.”

 

“Worth a shot.” You nod. “Okay. I’ll leave then.

 

When you walk from his office, even as the whole office throws you disapproving glances, you think this must be what triumph tastes like, and suddenly you understand why Mark likes winning so much.

 

~~

 

It’s different, after that.

 

Not at work, where everything remains the same old, apart from the whispers that follow your every step. You still get Mark his coffee, make sure to arrange the files on his desk in just the order he likes them in before he comes to work every morning, you answer his phone calls and write his emails, do all the things you used to do before.

 

Everything else, however, is so different it makes your head spin.

 

Mark takes you to events as his plus one, no longer a silent ghost standing to the back and sweeping in to supply names or net worth, but as his fiancée, a steady presence by his side as you greet people and smile politely and stick close to him. You’ve been to countless dinners and soirees and brunches, have shaken so many hands you’re afraid of spraining your wrist, have met more people than you could possibly ever remember.

 

And Mark keeps his word. There are no more two am calls, no more suits to pick up from somewhere, and no more shopping lists dropped on your desk. He starts treating you like an actual employee, apart from the nights when he treats you like his fiancée.

 

He’s different around you, even at the office though. More careful somehow, still rigid but kinder about it now. He doesn’t snap at you, doesn’t nag quite as much. Sometimes, he even manages to greet you before rattling off just what is he wants you to do today.

 

This morning, before you ever even made it to the office, your heel got caught in a ventilation grid and snapped clean off. You’ve been stumbling around with one foot inches higher in the air than the other the whole day. And then Mark comes back from his business lunch.

 

There’s a pair of shoes in front of you. You stare at them, the black satin, the high heels, the letters spelling Christian Dior against the soft leather of the inside.

 

“Yours broke,” Mark says, almost shily. “I really need you to come to that meeting with me tonight, and I can’t let you walk barefoot.”

 

You want to protest, want to push the shoes back at him. But something inside of you stirs, some quiet kind of realization when he won’t meet your eyes. Perhaps Mark doesn’t know any other way to express his gratitude. Perhaps, when you spend your life surrounded by nothing but money, you un-learn how to speak any other language.

 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and though his smile is brief, you don’t think you’ll ever forget just what it looks like.

 

~~

 

It’s disconcerting, spending so much time with Lee Mark, because it makes you understand that he’s an actual human being, not some kind of working machine created with the sole purpose of putting you through hell.

 

You see his exhaustion, how the social events with all their small talk and fake smiles drain him, see his fear and insecurity in the face of deals that might not go through, his constant self-doubt when it comes to smooth-talking and charm. You see the man beneath the mask of designer suits and well-practiced frowns and it frightens you just how much you like him.

 

After another dinner, in the back of his sMoonk Rolls Royce, Mark says quietly, “I didn’t realize, you know?”

 

It’s been a long night and your feet ache horribly, your eyes threaten to droop shut. You’re stuck somewhere halfway to drunk, fingertips buzzing pleasantly, head a little fuzzy. You’d tried to drown your anxiety in bucketsful of champagne when you’d seen that the actual Prime Minister was in attendance and you were supposed to go up and introduce yourself.

 

“Hhm?” you hum, voice equally as soft. You’ve grown accustomed to that back of this car, the smell of leather, the soft seat almost like a bed of down feathers beneath you. You’ve grown accustomed to the gentle embrace of the dark here, no sound but the quiet hum of the engine. You’ve grown to like it, feel strangely at home.

 

“I didn’t realize what I was doing, how I was wearing you out with all those tasks,” he hesitates, and there’s something vulnerable in Mark’s voice. Suddenly, you wish you were more awake. “You should have said something sooner, I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have been so horrible.”

 

“Would you really have been?” you ask, and your voice is almost startling.

 

Mark’s exhale is shuddery, scared. “Yes. Of course. I would have.” He pauses. “I’m not… I’m not as heartless as you think.”

 

I don’t think you’re heartless at all, you want to say, but your pride chokes the words before they can take shape.

 

The darkness has a certain quality of making you brave, of making you do things you never would under the glaring scrutiny of daylight. It’s safe somehow, secure. It’s easier to show yourself, and you suspect this is what fueled Mark’s confession. Your chest aches, just a little.

 

Bravely, you reach across the miles of empty space between you and lace his fingers with your own.

 

~~

 

The patisserie is a small building nestled between giants, flowerboxes in front of the windows and candy-striped awnings providing shade on the patio. Mark and you sit near the sidewalk and the busy shoppers running past, somewhere that is at least haphazardly secluded but still open enough for the paparazzi to get a few nice shots.

 

“What do you mean you’ve never seen a Disney movie?” you ask, appalled, and nearly pour scalding tea all over your hands in your outrage. “Didn’t your parents ever take you to the cinema?”

 

Mark hesitates, the amused quirk to his mouth disappearing as quickly as smoke in a gust of wind. “My parents didn’t really have time for me.”

 

Your hand stills with your tea cup paused mid-way to your lips. You want to ask, want to know more about him, but you’re scared he won’t answer. Somehow, the thought of Mark as a child, tiny and chubby-cheeked and wearing dungarees, makes you want to laugh just as much as it makes you want to cry.

 

“We were living from paycheck to paycheck. They were out of the house all day and when they came back at night, they had better things to do than care about me.” He shrugs, as if it isn’t a big deal and stirs more sugar into his tea. “It’s fine. I made something of myself.”

 

Somehow, you don’t think it’s fine at all.

 

He changes the subject quickly, pointing a finger at you. “So, what’s your favorite Disney movie, then?”

 

“The Lion King,” you say instantly, then flush a little at how quickly that answer came. It’s good though, this change of subject. You’re not sure you could stand to find out much more about Mark’s past. “I watched it like two hundred times. Mufasa dying broke my heart.”

 

Mark’s smile makes you breathless. His whole face goes crinkly, his eyes slanting upwards a little, his gums and white teeth showing. Your heart answers with a peculiar flip-flopping motion, as if it’s doing cartwheels in your chest.

 

He’s about to say something when the plate with the donuts you ordered finally arrives, and then he flushes the same color as the awnings, all the way up to his ears. On the pastries, with red frosting, somebody has written Congratulations! and drawn a few perfect hearts.

 

“It’s…” Mark clears his throat, obviously embarrassed, and shifts in his seat. “I know the owner. Taeyong is… a romantic.”

 

You grin, take one of the donuts and sink your teeth into it. “Sweet,” you say, and wink at him even as you chew.

 

Mark nearly chokes on his tea.

 

~~

 

“I know you said not to call at two am.” Mark sounds genuinely distressed. “But this is an emergency. Really.”

 

You blink at the TV that’s still on and throw a quick glance at Johnny, fast asMoonp and drooling on the back of your couch. “Uh. Okay,” you say into the receiver, already looking around for your shoes. “I’ll be over in like… fifteen minutes?”

 

You expect a report meant to be finished come morning, maybe some international call he needs help with. Somehow all of Mark’s emergencies seem to be business related.

 

What you don’t expect, however, is to be nearly knocked over by a dog as soon as the elevator doors open to his penthouse. It’s a tiny, clumsy puppy with cream colored fur and a dark snout, running circles around your legs and slobbering all over your hands.

 

“Taeyong gave him to me,” Mark explains and you look up from where you’ve started rubbing the puppy’s belly. You’ve been in Mark’s apartment countless times, to deliver his suits or load his refrigerator with groceries, but somehow it’s different now. There’s something unraveled about him you have never seen before. His hair is a little unkempt and he’s undone the top button of his shirt. “Well, dropped him on me, more like. He says I have to take care of him now.”

 

Funny. You always assumed Lee Mark to be the sort of man who wears his cufflinks even to sMoonp.

 

“I don’t want a dog,” he says quietly.

 

You look down at the puppy, rolled obediently on his back to allow the belly rubs, all four paws stretched high into the air. His tongue is out on one side and you can’t keep in the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You really like that Taeyong guy.

 

“Nonsense,” you scold. “Everybody wants a dog.”

 

“Not me, I…”

 

“Oh, come on, Mark.” Somewhere between fake dating and taking him out for the first Frozen Yoghurt of his life, Mark and you have foregone the last names. “Look at him! He’s so cute.”

 

As if he knows that you’re talking about him, the dog gets up, tail wagging fast enough that it goes a little blurry and runs to its new owner. There, he jumps up and down excitedly, digging his paws into Mark’s pants and yapping happily.

 

“Look how much attention he needs,” you comment from where you’re still kneeling on the hardwood floors. “He’s just like you.”

 

Mark scowls, but just for a moment. The he gives in and sits down himself, lets the puppy climb into his lap and at his chin, overeager and excited.

 

The sight makes you feel warm and tingly and strange, Mark all relaxed, sitting on the floor of his own apartments, as if he’s finally taken off some kind of armor he’s worn for years.

 

“Cute,” you say, quietly, and can’t be sure whether you mean the man or the dog in front of you.

 

You sit on that floor, the dog running between the two of you with never-ending energy, until long since after the sun has come up. You can’t remember the last time you felt that content.

 

~~

 

Jung Jaehyun, it turns out, is the reason you got this job in the first place.

 

He’s a very attractive man, Mark’s age, and equally as successful. The two went to college together.

 

“He looks happy,” Jaehyun remarks, smiling benignly as he sips his whiskey sour. You’re at another function, this one a charity gala for a children’s hospital. Jaehyun had approached you one and a half drinks ago. He’s easy to talk to, charming, witty, and you like him. You didn’t know Mark had any friends to begin with, let alone ones that are so sweet. “I’m glad I got you that job. You’re good for him.”

 

That scares you a little. You look down at the bubbles in your drink and shrug. “I sure hope so.”

 

Jaehyun laughs. “No, really, I mean it. I haven’t seen him this happy in forever.” He pauses. “Actually, maybe I’ve never seen him this happy. He almost looks like a real human, not the alien he actually is.”

 

Guilt makes it hard to swallow. The thought that all of this is a lie, that none of it is true, twists your insides into a tight coil.

 

What a horrible person you are, you think. Lying to Mark’s friend who only wants the best for him.

 

“Hey, listen.” Jaehyun leans a little closer across the table, and the candle light reflects in his dark eyes. “I don’t know you, but Johnny and Mark won’t shut up about you, so sometimes it feels like I do.” The idea that Mark talks about you with his friends nearly knocks the breath from you. “I know you’re really independent. If this ever gets too much… working for Mark and being with him… Just let me know. There’s always a position for you at my company, okay?”

 

His smile is dazzling as he gives you a reassuring pat on the back, and then he’s sauntering away through the crowd, drawing the appreciative glances of all the women in attendance, and some of the men.

 

From across the room, Mark casts you a quick glance as if to ask are you okay?

 

You can’t look at him.

 

~~

 

The next day, you knock at his office door and enter once he asks you to, idle somewhere by the door with your hands twisting in front of your body. It’s a Saturday, which means that there’s almost nobody else around.

 

Mark glances at you over his computer screen. “You okay?” he asks, and there’s genuine concern in his voice.

 

“Mark…” you begin, then trail off, clear your throat. He closes his laptop. “How much longer is this going to go on?”

 

When Mark swallows, his hands tighten around the edge of his desk. He looks nervous. “Until the merger is finalized.”

 

You hesitate again, anxiety like a heavy weight in the pit of your stomach. You step closer until you stand next to his chair, behind his desk, and clean an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder. You’ve never seen the office from this point of view before, but you can’t even tear your eyes away from his face. “And… and after that?” you ask, and your voice is tiny, terrified.

 

Mark clears his throat and gets up, withdraws from where you invaded his personal space. Your heart sinks.

 

He steps to the window, watches the tiny cars pass by hundreds of feet beneath you. “There are things I want,” Mark says, his hands buried in his pockets, his back to you, “and things I can’t have. Lately the lines between them have been blurring.”

 

“What does that mean?” you ask, even if you have a pretty good idea. Mark has a funny habit of surprising you, in the worst of ways.

 

He turns around and there’s something like worry on his face. “It means I want you. Badly.”

 

You look at him for a very long moment. Your heart is an ocean, restless in the storm.

 

You say, “Then have me.”

 

His first kiss is tentative, as if he isn’t sure he isn’t making a mistake, as if he’s worried you might change your mind. His palms are warm and steady where they cup your cheeks, and when you reach out your hands, place them on his chest, you can feel the rapid hammering of his heart.

 

He does have you, but only later in his apartment. If there was any part of you that was hoping to be ed over his glass desk, well, then nobody ever has to know about it.

 

Mark is incredibly gentle with every touch, every kiss, as if he can’t believe you’re allowing him to touch you, can’t believe any of this is real. He’s tentative, fingers ghosting across every inch of your skin, lips trailing featherlight kisses as he spreads you out on his huge bed, as he slides between your legs and tangles his tongue with your own.

 

It’s a game to get him to lose control, one you’re all too ready to take on. It’s what you’ve been doing ever since he asked you to play at being his fiancée, you realize as you flip him over and climb to straddle his hips, leaning down to his lower lip into your mouth, to let your tongue trace over his teeth.

 

You do an awfully good job of it too, you realize. With every roll of your hips against him, Mark unravels. It’s almost like unwrapping one of his presents, you think, peeling back layer after layer until you finally get to the contents.

 

Mark whimpers at the first graze of your fingers over his , pants when you sink your teeth, lightly, into his clavicle, keens when you sink down on him, your walls wet and tight around his . Finally then, when you set a slow, stuttering, torturous rhythm, do you break him.

 

He sits up, fingers digging into your thighs tightly enough to leave bruises and takes over then, slamming into you repeatedly until you’re his name into the crook of his neck like it’s the only word you know, until you taste the salty tang of his sweat on your tongue, until both of you come in a tangle of limbs and praises and pleads and tongues.

 

You stay like that, tangled together, for a while, your ankles locked behind his back, his arms wrapped tight around you, your hearts thundering against your ribcages. Then you laugh, still breathless, and lean back a little to look at his face.

 

You trace your fingers over the shape of his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, lean forward to sink your teeth into his lower lip. “You have me,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, as if the confession might break this fragile thing between you should you say it any louder. “You’ve always had me.”

 

Mark buries his face in your chest, and the sigh he lets out sounds almost like relief.

 

~~

 

You do get ed over that desk, just the next morning.

 

After you’ve taken Simba for a walk, you make Mark drive you all the way to the offices in his Jaguar just for that purpose, just like you made him drive to Taeyong’s yesterday to get donuts you ate at three am, famished. It’s a nice change, getting to boss him around for a while.

 

It’s a quick, heady thing, perhaps the best you’ve ever had. Mark bends you over the desk and then s you on a pile of files you’d copied for him earlier, desperate, frantic, so good it shattered any kind of resolve you had before. You come with two fingers shoved in your mouth so you won’t alert the janitors and Mark muffles his groan into your shoulder as his hips stutter against yours and he releases into the .

 

Later, when you get dressed, a sort of quiet clarity overcomes you.

 

Mark is back in his suit, but he’s not wearing his jacket yet, hair a mess from where you ran your fingers through it, a hickey the size of your thumb growing on his neck. He’s beautiful like this, and you ache so much with it you think you might fall apart.

 

“Mark…” You hesitate. “I don’t think we can keep doing this.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

You shrug, a little helpless in the face of his wide eyes. “I don’t think I can keep on being your secretary.”

 

Mark blinks at you, obviously caught off guard. By his hips, his fingers flex. “Why not?”

 

“Because I want to be your girlfriend.”

 

He scrambles. “But you are!” Mark calls, too loud, taking a step in your direction. “You are my girlfriend, of course you are! Did you think you weren’t? I’m sorry, I should have made it clear, I’m so bad at this, I…”

 

“Mark,” you interrupt him quickly, putting a calming hand on his arm. “I know, don’t worry. What I meant is… I can’t be both your girlfriend and your secretary. It just isn’t working out.”

 

Mark exhales loudly, obviously confused and frustrated because of it. If there’s one thing Mark doesn’t like, it’s not understanding something. “What?”

 

“Jaehyun offered me a position at his company.”

 

He bristles. “Jaehyun? You can’t work for him.” Mark’s protest is immediate, and it almost makes you laugh. “What will I do without you? Who’s going to pick out my ties and who’s going to go to Taeyong’s with me and who’ll have donuts with me at two am and who…”

 

“I’ll still do all those things with you,” you interject before he can break out into one of his rants. “I’ll just do them as your girlfriend form now on. Just think about it. It might be good if you finally learned what a secretary is actually for, you know? We’re not really supposed to do any of those things.”

 

Mark pauses. “But you do them.”

 

“Yes,” you agree quietly and step close to him, tug at his tie so it lies flat and perfect against his chest again. “But that’s because I love you, silly.”

 

Mark’s smile, you think, really is the eighth wonder of this world. He ought to show it more often. “You love me?” he asks quietly.

 

You nod and rise to your tiptoes to press your lips against his. “Of course I do.”

 

“Well,” Mark rubs his nose against yours and then buries his face in your hair, most likely to hide some expression he’s embarrassed about. “I guess it’s okay if you resign then.”

 

“Oh, really?” you mock, eyebrows raising even as your arms wrap around his shoulders and you press yourself as close to him as possible. “Did the almighty CEO give me his permission, then?”

 

He’s quiet for a moment and then, softly, he says, “You never needed my permission for anything, anyway. You never will.”

 

You smile against the starched fabric of his shirt, fiddle with the mother-of-pearl on his cufflinks. “I know. It’s nice to hear that you know it too, though.”

 

The curve of his smile presses against your cheeks and then your nose and then your forehead as he presses careful kisses all over your face. “I love you too,” he whispers, finally, against your mouth. “I have for a really, really long time, I think.”

 

I know, you want to say, want to , but he’s already kissing you breathless against his desk, and you forget your train of thought completely.

 

Sunday mornings, you think, might just be your favorite.