Title: The Hidden Schedule
The next three days were a blur of humiliation and exhaustion. My job wasn't about filing or phone calls; it was about fetching ridiculous items, handling demanding stylists, and mostly, just waiting for Kang Bok Soo to decide he needed something.
He barely spoke, but his non-verbal flirting was relentless. Whenever I delivered his coffee, his long fingers would brush mine. If I was standing nearby, he would turn his head slowly, catching my eye and holding the gaze until the raw heat in his look made my cheeks burn. Then he'd smirk—that arrogant, possessive smile—and look away, leaving me a trembling, guilty mess.
He knows I'm attracted to him. The thought made me sick, especially because of how much I disliked his cruelty. It fed right into the insecurity about my looks; he was playing with me because he could.
I tried to focus on my mother's illness. I needed money. The only way to get money was to do this job perfectly.
On the fourth day, Ms. Kim handed me a thick, messy stack of papers. "This is Kang Bok Soo's travel itinerary for the next month," she snapped. "It's a disaster. He refuses to look at it. Figure out the optimum schedule that maximizes his time for shooting and minimizes travel fatigue. He needs a perfect plan, Peter Bella. He has to feel like he's barely moving."
This wasn't an errand; this was a complex puzzle. This was my element. Back at the university, I lived for problems like this—logistics, optimization, efficiency. This was the only place my perfect grades had ever shone.
I didn't sleep that night. I used graph paper and studied routes, time zones, agency demands, and flight restrictions. I ignored the deep, aching worry about my parents. I ignored my reflection. I just worked. I boiled down fifty pages of chaos into one perfectly structured, color-coded, single-page schedule.
The next morning, I handed the finished schedule to Kang Bok Soo while he was in his dressing room, preparing for a photoshoot.
"I reorganized the trip. This cuts travel time by almost eight hours and adds two hours of unscheduled rest time between events," I explained, proud despite myself. "It's efficient."
He glanced at the page. Just a single, lazy sweep of his eyes.
"Efficient," he repeated, the word sounding like a mockery. He dropped the sheet onto the counter next to his makeup brushes.
Then, he did something unexpected. He moved closer, blocking the doorway, trapping me in the small room. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne and his own skin overwhelmed me.
He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that thrilled and terrified me. "You're very clever, Peter Bella. It's almost... charming."
My heart slammed against my ribs. "I just did my job, Mr. Kang."
"Did you?" He reached out, his hand hovering over my arm, but not quite touching. "Or did you just earn yourself a promotion?"
He straightened up and walked to the wall where three large, identical suits were hanging. "I'm going to a gala tonight. I need to know which suit is perfectly pressed, which one needs steam, and which one has a tear in the lining."
"Ms. Kim usually handles the wardrobe," I protested, confusion warring with fear.
He stepped back and looked at me, a dangerous glint in his eye. "I need you to handle it, Peter Bella."
He then delivered the cruelest instruction yet, one that forced her to confront her greatest physical insecurity.
"Take them all off the hangers," he ordered, his eyes holding mine as he spoke. "And since you'll be close to them, you can start by checking the tailoring on the pants. Make sure there are no defects on the inside seams."
He knew exactly what he was asking. The task required me to physically handle his expensive clothes, to be alone in the dressing room for an extended period, and to focus my attention on his stunning, unattainable physique through his clothing—a stark contrast to my own feelings of inadequacy.
He smiled again, that non-verbal, flirty invitation that was simultaneously an insult. "Don't be shy. I'll be back in thirty minutes. And Peter Bella? Perfect score only."
I was left alone with three of his suits, feeling the heat of his gaze even though he was gone. He didn't just accept my efficiency; he used it to justify forcing me into a position of deeply uncomfortable, intimate servitude.
The war had just begun.