Gon himself is a careless man in bed. She could have slit his throat too many times to count on two hands. But she doesn’t. It is simply not satisfying enough. Not yet.

The thing is, she isn’t helpless. Her own arrogance and presumption of his mindset paved the way to a colossal blunder of terrible judgement. Then again, desperate circumstances beget particularly risky measurements.

Truth to be told, she isn’t envious of Jung Moomyung. The king’s affection comes with a guillotine attached to it. Seo-ryeong is aware of the fires she’s tempting in her pursuit of the king. She is armed too. That innocuous hairclip holding up her ponytail, sharpened at its tip. Her stud earrings, poisoned once swallowed.

Gon himself is a careless man in bed. She could have slit his throat too many times to count on two hands. But she doesn’t. It is simply not satisfying enough. Not yet.

There are times, she admits, to have ponder on the direction her life would have taken, as though she has decided on a different dream, instead of demolishing the patriarchal Corean society and its antiquated monarch.

She likes to think that she would be at home, in a court, defending underdogs against the privileged, against the aristocrats overexerting their meagre rights. She may or may not settle with a pleasant and respectful man whose ambition is to aid her in her crusade for justice. One day, she believes they might even have children.

But when Koo Seo-ryeong wakes to sweat and chills, the tremors in her limbs are violent and locked to scream ‘no’, she knows that ship has sailed many moons ago.  

Koo Seo-ryeong is not known for waving a white flag at her most weakest. She never has learn the proper etiquette of graceful defeat. Why bother now? She pledges to have the last laugh.

Seo-ryeong has an abundance of patience and the desire for retribution. Revenge is sweeter, when it is served on a cold platter by a bastard of the royal stock and the street urchin extraction.

She is willing to wait.

It’s not until the annual Christmas celebration, Lee Gon officially appears before his starving citizens, decked in his royal imperial regalia with his too-many-teeth grin on state televised broadcast. He vows for the years ahead to be prosperous. Long lived the monarchy, he carols and the audience chants along. Long live Corea, he intones and the crowd roars in return.

His one-year in seclusion works wonder on an unravelling king. Gon trades boyish charm for a polished and matured regal look; the carefully groomed beard is eye-catching, but not the only one.  

Instantly, she notices minute differences the way only one who had enmeshed in a biblical intimacy.

His crow-black hair is longer now, combed to the back. His brows aren’t perfectly arched, with a scar marring the left but attempts were made to keep a symmetry of sorts. The inattentiveness that clung to his shadows for the last few months released its hold over Gon.

Behind him, Captain Jo Yeong is rigid as usual and undeniably closer than his standard distance. On his ring finger, the signet ring is a replica of Gon’s, not the Jo Clan’s. Well now, isn’t this an exciting find.  

The buzzing intercom breaks Seo-ryeong from her musing, demanding her attention. The caller’s ID flashing with each ring, in the shape of the penthouse’s logo. The front desk.

The logo switches to an auburn-haired concierge, with perky sea-green eyes. He is a face she’s accustomed to, over dealings made through the intercom. The gold-plated nametag above his pocket reads Ken.

“Excuse me, Miss Park, you have some guests,” he says, Canadian accent pronounced in his words. “Mr. Wook Kim and Miss Demi Kim.”

“Send them up, please,” she replies, Corean vowels tinting her inflection. “Thank you, Ken.”

The lavishly pastel and black schemed penthouse overlooks the Vancouver vista of skyscrapers and the English Bay Beach. Highly sought by the wealthy business moguls, upcoming entertainment stars and the upper class.

“This place is amazing. My cousin planned to buy it before he got married,” Seung-ah rambles, walking along the windows to gaze the cerulean waters beneath them. “But he broke up with his boyfriend before he could pop the question.”

“It’s not that bad,” Prime Minister Koo Seo-ryeong scoffs.

It is disconcerting to say the least, to appear before the highest government official, in casual indigo cargo pants, oversized white tee and neon coloured converse sneakers. Even alarming to see the Prime Minister of Corea dressed informally of college hoodie, supporting wayfarer black-framed glasses and lips devoid of its scarlet glory.

“You would think with the amount of money he embezzled, he could afford a better penthouse for his mistresses,” the prime minister sneers.

Next to Seung-ah, Nam-jin radiates the impression of a grunge aficionado separated from his herd. He coughs into his fist at the carefree admittance.

Seo-ryeong shrugs dainty shoulders. “I supposed that’s to be expected when he had four mistresses at a given time.”

“Who?” Nam-jin questions, in an obliviously loud stage-whisper. “Who is she talking about?”

Seung-ah scrunches her brows together. The prime minister’s marital status is common knowledge.

Then, Nam-jin earnestly blinks, waiting. “I feel like this is an inside joke or I just don’t get it.”

“Oh, right. You’re new.”  She leans closer, covers a hand over and whispers, “Her ex-husband. Chairman Choi Min-heon.”

“She’s married?” Nam-jin blurts, flinging an agape stare at their host. “Oh, wait. Is he still alive?”

“Divorced,” Seung-ah habitually corrects. She sighs. “He’s in prison.”

Prime Minister Koo disappears into the kitchen on stealth footsteps. Her rubber slippers barely squeak as she enters the living room with a tray of steaming coffee and tea. “Help yourself,” she says, gesturing to the sofa. “Please, sit.”

Grasping their respective mugs, they tentatively sit on the sofa and sipping coffee in synchronised mechanical movements to fill the silence.

Prime Minister Koo takes her place at the sole wingchair, with her legs crossed elegantly, even in mandarin-hued pegged pants. Plain clothes could not dull her famed exquisiteness. “So, has the parliament disintegrate into a puddle of mess yet?”

“For sixth time last month,” Seung-ah recalls, and hastily adds, “it wasn’t serious.”

“General Park Yong threw his shoe at Minister Lee Yoon-sang, missed and hit Deputy Prime Minister Sung Chan-ho,” Nam-jin supplies his extra observation. “Minister Lee called General Park a ringmaster of monkeys, that caused fight.”

Not any younger than she is, by a year at most, Choi Nam-jin is six foot of chaste ingenuousness, school-boyish looks and lacking of sorely needed tact. She winces at the possibility of ever being this green as an intern.

Seung-ah nudges her elbow onto his ribs, cutting off the unnecessary commentary. “His Majesty approved and recently passed your proposals and so, the landslide relief funds are being increased from 650,000 won to 2 million won per household.”

“He did? The man is a first-class medallist in nurturing grudges,” Prime Minister Koo mutters in disbelief, to no one in particular. “I thought he would reject the proposals on sight.”

Seung-ah sputters, “His Majesty said the calculations were feasible and chose the best plan for short term.”

“Well,” Nam-jin says, dragging the syllables into a whisper, “he still thinks it’s being written by the party’s vice president.”

Prime Minister Koo laughs, her mirth is blithe. “And here I thought Captain Jo had whipped him into shape.”

“In the interest of the citizens’ welfares, the office collectively decided to borrow Minister Yoo In-hyuk’s name on all your works.” Seung-ah glares at her understudy, resisting to urge to ram her elbow again at his ribs.

“Would you like me to rectify the mistake?” Nam-jin stammers.

“Not necessary. Just let him think I’m still nursing my trauma, too dysfunction to work on anything,” Prime Minister Koo says, deep-black tendrils quivering with glee. “Thank you for the updates.”

“Nam-jin, could you leave us for a moment? The library is to your left, in case you need some brushing up on your social skills.”

“As you wish, Prime Minister,” he says, darting to the library’s direction.

The prime minister baulks in her seat, eyes frantic searching for an exit. It lasts a blink. The tension on her steel-rod shoulders slackens, as she leans back into her seat.

“Madam Prime—”

“Stop, we’re not in Corea. Here, we are equals. You can call me, Seo-ryeong,” the prime minister easily intercepts, not insensitively. Her smile, Seung-ah finds, is cordially heartfelt. A far cry from the callous seductive temptress aimed for queendom painted by the tabloids.

“O-okay, Seo-ryeong,” Seung-ah says, her name rolls awkwardly off her tongue. She winces at her awful effort to sound relaxed.

“Now, I would like to hear the gritty truth, Seung-ah, about everything.”

Seung-ah tells her the unvarnished political climate, the ever-changing powerplays and its conspiratorial players, counting the members of her own party.

Lee Gon refuses to reverse the constitution, but he is far more lenient in accepting sound reforms and budget proposals. The displeasure is evident on his expression when he attends the cabinet meetings and finds her seat still unoccupied.

Jo Yeong is faithfully by his side, now shouldering a plethora of responsibilities often bared by enduring consorts and lifelong courtesans. The Captain of the Royal Guards, the rumours say, would die together with the king. Romeo and Juliet kind of affair, and consequences be damned.

Despite the prime minister’s absence, she remains popular among her constituents. Majority hopes for her return, and there were many, many letters wishing for a speedy recovery from the accident that nearly cost her life—that is a fabrication, a cover-up, of course.

“Did they suspect anything?” Seo-ryeong asks, sipping her coffee. “When you handed in your resignation?”

“Not at all. His Majesty even offered to write me a recommendation letter and reference and he did it.” Seung-ah digs into her briefcase for the documents—and she might went too far laminating the documents for framing purposes.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m thorough, ma’am,” Seung-ah enthusiastically insists.  

Seo-ryeong quirks a half-amused brow at her choice to use ma’am. “And they believed you resigned due to—”

Soft mews cackle statically through the speaker, interrupting them. Both women turn their attention to the baby monitor in between them.

“Hold on the thought,” Seo-ryeong utters, gesturing Seung-ah to follow her, and rises to her feet. Her limber footfalls are harried, now echoing on the hard grey marbled floors.

The nursery is a timeless contrast of sapphire blue on daisy white. Framed photographs depicting the various shades of blue skies hung on the walls. The centre is a whimsical pendant light to add a touch of fun. Not the kind she’d imagined a woman of the prime minister’s calibre would favoured.

“Keep an eye on him for a moment,” Seo-ryeong mumbles, tired. “I need to get his formula.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Seung-ah stutters, and peers into the crib, studying the infant inside.

The baby squeals, extending chubby spread-out fingers to grasp her index finger. Cherubic smile parting to a two-tooth grin. Lee Han, she finds, is an uncanny ringer for his father on first glance. With a headful of raven hair sticking wildly, he is the epitome of sweet innocence and cheery cluelessness. She guesses somewhere between six to seven months for his age.

“You were saying?” The older woman’s entrance is almost silent, sending sudden electrical shocks to Seung-ah’s anxiety-tipped nerves. She lifts the squirmy infant from his crib, bouncing the child on her lap.

“I t-told His Majesty that my grandfather has stage three stomach cancer,” Seung-ah splutters, opting to sit on the ottoman, gathering her scattered thoughts. “His death would impact the family business on every level. So the family wants all shareholders to return to discuss about the next directions we will take.”

Seo-ryeong switches her position, allowing the baby to feed comfortably. “Gon is too paranoid to simply let you resign from the RPAO,” she says, frowning, “especially when you’re in the thick of their dirty laundry.”

“I also signed a non-disclosure contract,” Seung-ah clarifies. “So, they scrubbed my devices clean and revoked my access to their systems. No records.”

“You’re far too smart for that.”

The praise, however faint, swells Seung-ah’s pride for her intelligence is overlooked, in favour of her diligent invisibility and steadfastness to her occupational responsibilities. Still, Seung-ah recites, a schoolgirl rattling off rules from the handbook, “Keeping any copies of confidential documents with the intention of blackmailing is treason.”

“Fail safes are the only way people like us survived our time in the office,” Seo-ryeong reminds, with a sickle smirk. “How did you retain the information you gathered over the years?”

Han tries his best in contributing to the conversation, babbling at random points. His mother tickles the soles of his feet, eliciting peals of laughter.

“I incorporated them into my unpublished fan-fiction. Every truthful thing turned fictional and they just skimmed over that,” she sheepishly confesses, cheeks reddening at the admission.

“Clever girl,” Seo-ryeong grins. “Now, it’s up to your decision, if you want to stay here, or move elsewhere. The only thing my useless ex was good for that he has an eye for prime real estate.”

Han declares his intention to convert Seung-ah into his second favourite person. Waves his pudgy little arms ardently, wanting to be held.

“He really likes you.” Seo-ryeong relents, handing him over. “This solves one conundrum.”

“I can move in here. It won’t be a trouble at all. I rather not uproot him from something so familiar.” Seung-ah rattles the plastic baby shaker in front of him, earning more delighted squeaks.

It’s not the child Seung-ah worries or herself, she’s not inept of taking care of a child. Her earliest lesson of money is earning her own wage despite her family’s sprawling business and buildings built with their names tacked on.  

“Paul is not a fussy child,” his mother says, eyeing him indulgently. “A little quiet, but he makes it up being easily amused.”

Try as she might, Seung-ah no longer has the luxury of naivete to hide behind. That one night of ghastly catastrophes linked two souls into puzzling sisterhood, and notwithstanding well-kept secrets are divulged unprompted.

“Should I tell him about you?” Seung-ah pauses, biting her underlip, deliberating her next two words and rushes through it, “His Majesty?”

“All in good time,” she replies, indifferent. “In the meantime, just let him be a normal child for a while,” Seo-ryeong continues, reaffirms her initial stance, the boy is to be raised ignorant of his parentage.

As a little girl, she isn’t fond of stories with parental separations, even with the promise of happy endings. “Are you sure about this, ma’am?”

Han’s change of heart is immediate. The boy belts for his mother’s comfort, Seung-ah returns him to the prime minister without any protests.

Seo-ryeong nods, rocking the yawning child in her arms. “With you, I know he’s properly cared for. I will visit when the conditions allow me.”

“There are ways, you know,” Seung-ah tries, in shushed pitch, “you can still raise him privately and away from the royal courts.”

“I wouldn’t put past Gon to take an interest in a child under my care, use him as a bargaining chip.” Seo-ryeong settles the baby back into his crib, pulling the handsewn, fraying blanket over him. “Knowing him,  my son won’t live beyond his childhood.”

“I could falsify the necessary documentations,” she offers, already inventing various scenarios to serve as backstories and smokescreens.

Seo-ryeong reasserts, sharp and concise, “This is safer for all of us.”

“Must you return?” Seung-ah says, but it leaves her lips as pleading murmurs. “The people are grown used to a caretaker government. I don’t think they even remember what it is like to have a proper government anymore.”

“I’m the prime minister, Seung-ah,” she says, wistfully. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve made promises to them and I’ll do my best to fulfil them until my term is over.”

Let it be known, Myung Seung-ah is not insensible or hard of hearing. She is terrifically persistent. “What about you, ma’am? What do you really want?”

“What I really want, it doesn’t matter.” Seo-ryeong scrapes a mellow smile, but the conviction doesn’t quite reaches her crescent eyes. “We all have sacrifices to pay, so we could change the empire.”  

Koo Seo-ryeong conceals herself beneath the veneer of an iron-sculpted woman with fearless grins and coy smirks—and her detachment is a pretence fooling no one.