The city's steel-and-glass canyon gave way to sprawling suburbs, then to the open, tree-lined roads that led out of Seoul.
Inside the silent cocoon of the sedan, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the soft rush of air against the windows.
Han Eun-woo sat with his profile to the window, a study in impenetrable calm. His gaze was fixed on the passing landscape, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, locked on some distant calculation.
Beside him, Lee Yoon-ah sat perfectly straight, her hands folded neatly over her tablet in her lap. Her eyes, however, betrayed her.
They flicked from the back of the driver's seat, to the window, and—ever so briefly—to the man beside her. The question he'd refused to answer clearly hung in the air between them, thicker than the tinted glass.
Business reconnaissance.
She'd discreetly scanned his schedule, his notes, the project logs.
Nothing. No site visits, no leisure-sector evaluations scheduled.
This was a detour into uncharted territory, and for a man whose life was a meticulously plotted grid, it was profoundly unsettling.
The car finally slowed, turning onto a private access road before gliding to a stop. The driver emerged, opening Eun-Woo's door first, then hers.
Yoon-ah stepped out, the crisp afternoon air a shock after the car's climate control. She blinked, her professional composure fracturing for a full three seconds as she took in the scene before her.
A grand, somewhat faded archway stood before them, its wrought-iron curves spelling out a name in cheerful, peeling paint.
Beyond it, she could see the silhouettes of a dormant Ferris wheel and the swooping tracks of a rollercoaster, all silent and still against the pale sky.
Her brow furrowed. "Why are we here?" The question was a soft, bewildered exhale, meant only for herself.
Eun-woo didn't answer. He simply adjusted his cuff and began walking toward the archway with that same purposeful stride he used to cross boardrooms. Yoon-ah hurried to catch up, her low heels clicking on the paved path.
A security guard by a side gate gave a sharp bow and ushered them through.
The silence inside was absolute.
No canned carnival music, no shrieks of laughter, no rumble of rides. It was a ghost town painted in bright, weather-faded colors.
"S-Sir," Yoon-ah ventured, her voice hushed in the eerie quiet. "Why are we here… at an amusement park?"
Eun-woo kept walking, his eyes scanning the empty ticket booths, the shuttered game stalls.
Yoon-ah looked around, a deep, familiar ache beginning to stir in her chest.
"Is it closed for the week? But even on a weekday, there should be some people…" Her gaze traveled upward, over the main arch, and landed on the park's name, displayed on a large, sun-bleached sign.
Her breath hitched.
Dotoragon Park.
Dotori... The Korean word for acorn.
A memory, sharp and sweet as a pinprick, flashed behind her eyes: her small hand closing around a smooth, brown acorn she'd found on the ground, her mother's warm laugh. "Make a wish and keep it safe, Yoon-ah-ya. It's a little piece of magic."
"I… I didn't know this place was still open," she murmured, the words feeling distant. A faint, nostalgic smile touched her lips as she looked at a carousel with chipped paint horses. "It's been a long time since I've been here hasn't it?"
"Do you know this place, Secretary Lee?"
Eun-Woo's voice, closer than she expected, made her jump slightly. He had stopped and was now standing beside her, his own gaze tracing the outlines of the empty park.
"Yes, Sir," she said, her voice regaining its professional steadiness, though it was softer now. "I came here with my… late mother." The admission slipped out, carrying a weight she usually kept buried.
She cleared her throat, steering back to the practical. "I thought it closed years ago, though. What are we doing here?"
Eun-woo slid his hands into his trouser pockets, a rare, almost casual gesture. "I know it too. It was the first amusement park I ever visited."
He paused, the statement simple but profound. "I heard a developer plans to buy the land and demolish it. Build another generic logistics center. I was assessing if it was worth making a counter-offer to preserve it."
Yoon-ah's eyes widened. "Oh. I see. So… you're considering buying it?" The idea of the cold, imposing CEO of Han Group buying a derelict theme park was so incongruous it short-circuited her logic.
"No," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
"Then… why?" The confusion was plain on her face now, her professional mask fully dropped in the face of this absurdity.
He could read her question as clearly as a memo. A faint, almost imperceptible something flickered in his grey eyes—not humor, but something akin to it.
"I said it earlier, didn't I?" he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Business reconnaissance. One should test a product before evaluating its worth, don't you think?"
Yoon-ah just stared at him. "Test… Sir? Test what?"
He finally turned his head fully to look at her, his expression utterly serious.
"This place, of course," he said, gesturing with his chin toward the silent, waiting park. "I'm here to see if it is fun or not."
* * *
The marketing team's bullpen buzzed with the low-grade, fluorescent-lit energy of noon. The air smelled of stale coffee, printer toner, and ambition.
In the slightly more privileged space near the window, a small cluster of desks signaled seniority. At one, a nameplate gleamed: TEAM LEADER RI MINHYUK.
Leaning against the partition with practiced ease was Park Dae-Chul, a man whose sharp suit couldn't quite disguise the perpetual look of someone trying to sell you something you didn't need.
He spoke with a slightly exaggerated, almost theatrical accent that he seemed to think made him sound more worldly.
"I can't believe this is, Team Leader! So, you really went and tied the knot, pal? Closed the deal?" Dae-Chul's grin was wide, clapping Minhyuk on the shoulder with a force meant to convey camaraderie.
Minhyuk leaned back in his ergonomic chair, the picture of a man savoring a moment. He offered a polished, humble-ish smile. "What can I say, Dae-Chul-ssi? The heart just… knows. It felt like the right time to make it official."
"The right time? It's the perfect time!" Dae-chul boomed, turning slightly to include a few eavesdropping juniors in his orbit.
"Our Yoon-Ah-ssi is one lucky woman. To have a catch like you, a rising star in Han Departments, ready to settle down? These days, men want to play the field forever. But you? A real man. A responsible man." He shook his head in mock awe.
"So, when's the big walk? Have you set a date? Don't tell me you're keeping the venue a secret from your own team!"
Minhyuk waved a hand, the humble act reaching its peak. "Ah, come on, you're too much. If anything, I'm the lucky one. Yoon-ah is…"
He paused, searching for the right, publicly acceptable adjective. "She's incredibly supportive. As for the date, we were thinking maybe in the spring, after the first quarter rush—"
A voice, cool and smooth as polished marble, sliced through his sentence.
"Team Leader Ri."
Both men looked up.
Jung So-hee stood at the edge of the partition. She was holding a tablet against her chest, her posture perfect, her face a mask of polite, junior-level attentiveness. But her eyes—those usually sharp, calculating eyes—held a flat, unnerving coldness.
Dae-Chul, ever oblivious, brightened. "Ah! So-hee-ssi! What's our cute, hardworking junior doing over here in the big leagues? Need some help with the printer again?" He took a step toward her, his body language oozing a condescending kind of charm.
So-hee didn't flinch, but she took a precise, tiny side-step, maintaining her distance without appearing rude.
Her smile was a thin, professional curve. "Thank you, Senior Park, but it's a project-specific matter. I need to discuss some final details on the Hanyang Line teaser assets with Team Leader Ri. Alone."
The last word was pointed, though her tone remained sweet. "The Director's office is asking for a revised timeline."
She turned her icy gaze fully on Minhyuk. The polite mask was there, but it was transparent. Beneath it was a demand, and a warning.
Minhyuk's own pleasant expression hardened. The warmth he'd been projecting for Dae-Chul evaporated, replaced by a guarded, tense neutrality. He stared back at her, a silent battle of wills passing between them in the space of a breath.
"So," she repeated, her voice dropping just a fraction, losing its sugary edge. "Team Leader. Can we talk?"
* * *
The stairwell was a concrete spine running through the glittering body of Han Group, a place of echoes and industrial silence. The only light was the stark, buzzing fluorescence from the landings, casting long, sharp shadows.
Jung So-hee stood one step above him, forcing him to look up slightly. The polite mask from the office was gone, scraped away by the sterile quiet.
"Why have you been ignoring my calls?" Her voice was a direct hit, no sugar-coating, no junior-level deference.
Minhyuk sighed, the sound heavy with a performative annoyance. He leaned against the cold railing. "I told you, didn't I? I thought we ended things on a… mutual understanding. Why are you trying to drag this out now, of all times?"
"Ended?" The word shot out of her, sharp as a crack. She took a step down, now level with him. "Is that all you have to say to me? After everything you promised me? After you said—"
"Look, Jung So-hee," he cut in, using her full name like a weapon to create distance. His voice was low, a blend of condescension and warning.
"I know we had our share of… fun. A distraction. But you're a smart woman. You should know when to back off. What I have with Yoon-ah is serious. I almost lost it because of a… careless mistake. I don't want to repeat history."
He closed the small distance between them.
His hand came up, not for a caress, but to grip her shoulder—a firm, almost paternal squeeze that felt more like a clamp than a comfort.
His eyes held hers, but there was no warmth in them, only a cold, managerial finality.
"So, let's just call it quits, alright?" he said, the pressure on her shoulder increasing subtly. "I like you. I do. And I wouldn't want to see a promising junior… unnecessarily complicate her career path over a misunderstanding."
He released her shoulder as abruptly as he'd grabbed it, turning on his heel and pushing open the heavy fire door to the main hallway.
The corporate cacophony—the distant hum of printers, the murmur of voices—spilled into the silent stairwell for a second.
He paused in the doorway, not looking back, his final words dropping behind him like a discarded memo, perfectly pitched to be overheard by anyone passing in the hall.
"Let's just work together professionally from now on, So-hee-ssi. I hope we can get along."
The door swung shut with a soft, definitive thump, sealing her back into the silence.
Jung So-hee stood frozen on the step.
The man who had whispered desperate promises against her skin in supply closets and love hotel rooms—who had sworn his fiancée was a lifeless obligation and that she was his real, electrifying future—had just looked at her with the same detached efficiency he used to dismiss a flawed marketing report.
The cold of the railing bit into her palm, but the fire in her chest burned hotter. That dismissive touch, those patronizing words—they weren't a rejection.
They were a challenge.
A slow, electric understanding sizzled through her, sharper than the sterile air. The promises hadn't been lies.
They had been premature.
His "serious" thing with that boring secretary? A temporary obstacle.
A phase of guilt he had to publicly perform. She was the reality he craved in the dark. He was just scared. He'd gotten spooked.
A smile bloomed on her perfectly painted lips—not mirthless, but triumphant. It was a secret she shared only with herself in the echoing silence. Her eyes, once cold, now glittered with a fierce, possessive light.
'So that's your game,' she thought, the words a venomous caress in her mind. 'You think you can put me back in the "junior" box? That you can hide what we are?'
The door to the stairwell was closed. But in her heart, a wild, certainty kicked open. He was hers. He just didn't know it yet. And she was going to remind him.