[CONTENTID1]CHAPTER 01[/CONTENTID1] [CONTENTID2]First Impressions[/CONTENTID2]

[CONTENTID3]It all started the morning I landed back in Korea, a shiny new MBA from Harvard in tow.

June 18th, 2016.

This is it. After over 5 years of higher education, I was finally done. Naturally, I got completely, utterly, and disgustingly wrecked with my old undergraduate SNU buddies that night. It was the start of a new life as a supposedly legitimate working adult, and with the kind of family I have, even the Kardashians would be jealous.

I had nothing to be worried about.

Here’s the 411 on my family. My father is a prominent chaebol leader turned politician, and he owns the entire group of Mulya companies that he’s had to relinquish once he started focusing more on his political ambitions. So automatically, the largest subsidiary which he led was given to me. That was how I got my first high-profile, high-paying job that I wouldn’t be able to lose no matter how much I ed around. And as a single woman in her twenties, I used to do that a lot.

Of course I got more serious once I actually started the job. And even if I screwed up bad enough to lose this one—only to help the company save face—there was another equally lucrative one already lined up.

There’s no way to say this without sounding like an , but the world is my oyster, and I am its darling, precious pearl.

So even though it was a little irresponsible to be getting faced before starting a new job, what harm could it really do, right?

Wrong.

Because the next day, I woke up to the most inhuman headache of all time and the end of my freedom. It was noon when I finally emerged from my room, hair disheveled and breath the smell of bird poop. Rubbing my eyes, I tiptoed down the enormous marble staircase of my castle of a home, hoping to snag a glass of water while going unnoticed by any member of the household. The last thing I needed with this headache was to get questioned by my nosy servants or berated by my image-obsessed parents—

“Ah. Still alive, are we?”

But of course, as my luck would have it, there he was. My father. Perched at one end of the long dining table, an assortment of traditional Korean dishes in every color laid out before him. It took everything in me to stifle a groan. Why the hell is he having lunch at home today?

“I will not have the cops drag my wasted daughter through my gates at 3 in the morning anymore, do you hear me?” he barked, glaring at me through the rim of his glasses. If he thinks I can actually digest anything he’s saying, he’s wrong. “Especially not when the Minister elections are drawing near. I won’t have you out there foolishly risking the reputation of our entire family when the crooks at the National Assembly and every other Minister bribing them is out looking for dirt on me.”

“I’m sorry, father,” I mumbled, bowing low just to get this over with. “I promise it will never happen a—”

“Oh, I’ve already made sure of that, Iseul.” My father cleared his throat and right on cue, another man walks in. Someone I’ve never seen before in my life. Now who in the —

“This is Kim Jongin. From this day forward, he is going to be your bodyguard.”

He appeared from behind the marble staircase like a Greek god cut from stone. And the first thing that came to mind was holy he’s handsome. Because he was. His magnetic, obsidian eyes were the first thing that stood out, his strong jaw second, and his exquisite proportions third. Because good lord, his shoulders. They’re broad. He’s tall and gorgeous and every bit the textbook definition of a prince.

He is also made entirely of shades of brown and black. His hair is espresso, his skin honey beige, his suit raven, and his irises indecisive, sometimes hazel, sometimes licorice. In fact, the brightest pop of colour on him… is his plump, cherry red lips.

Did my stomach rumble because it was lunchtime, or because of him?

Suddenly, the aforementioned cherry red lips parted to speak.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Seo,” he said in a smooth, deep voice that reminded me of rich cream. He bowed politely and held out his hand. “My name is Jongin.”

The moment our hands touched, I swear I felt electricity burst from my fingertips. An involuntary rush of butterflies swarmed my stomach and I mentally slapped myself for already having this sort of reaction to a man I barely met for a full minute—and a man in my service, at that.

“Jongin,” I repeated softly, testing his name on my lips. The syllables roll off almost too easily. It was almost too easy to imagine getting used to saying it.

The corner of his lips curved into a small smile. And as much as I hated to admit it, my breath halted in my throat. Instantly, I knew I’d need more of that smile. And suddenly, the punishment my father imposed seemed more like a reward.

At least on the first day I met him.

10 months later, dad’s officially the Minister of Economy and Finance. My fashionista mother is a prominent figure in Mulya Shopping who is not unknown in the Seoul high society, and I’ve become the CEO of Mulya Hotels & Resorts, Mulya Group’s largest subsidiary. I’ve also moved out of my parents’ sprawling mansion in the outskirts of Seoul to live at a penthouse in Gangnam minutes away from the office.

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