The final event of the day was the high-profile fashion magazine interview—a crucial moment for Bok Soo's global image. The interview was being conducted live online, and I was positioned just off-camera, holding the portfolio of his upcoming concepts.
My mind was a dangerous, swirling mess. The constant adrenaline of our secret touches—the hand on my back in the elevator, the kiss in the restroom—had completely destroyed my ability to focus. Every time Bok Soo spoke, I didn't hear the flawless interview answers; I only saw the desperate fear in his eyes at the gala and the possessive hunger on the jet.
The interviewer, a sharp, intimidating woman, shifted the conversation to Bok Soo's personal influences.
"Mr. Kang, you've recently become very invested in sustainability and technology," she stated. "I understand you have an elaborate plan for a new digital campaign. Can you confirm the estimated return on investment for the first quarter?"
Bok Soo smiled charmingly. "My team has finalized the details. Peter Bella, can you provide the exact figures for the Q1 projection?"
It was a test. He often asked me to deliver technical details to prove his organization. This was my moment to shine, to prove that I was more than just a convenient body in his bed.
I reached for the portfolio, my heart hammering. I opened the file to the projection page, my eyes scanning the dense spreadsheets. The numbers were there—millions of dollars, calculated down to the smallest decimal.
But the moment I tried to convert the numbers from Korean Won to U.S. Dollars (as required for the international magazine), my mind seized. The exhaustion, the anxiety, the guilt over the debt—it all rushed in, blocking out the mathematics. I saw my father's worried face, the C minus, and the dark reality of my failed education.
"The Q1 projected revenue..." I stammered, my voice cracking. "The return... is projected at... eighteen million dollars."
Silence. The camera continued to roll. The interviewer raised a curious eyebrow.
Bok Soo's eyes, fixed on me, narrowed instantly. It wasn't anger; it was a cold, devastating disappointment.
I looked down at the sheet. The actual figure was eighty million dollars. My exhausted, broken mind had mixed up the numbers, confusing the interviewer and making the entire campaign look like a small-scale failure. The mistake was massive, public, and catastrophic.
Ms. Kim, standing near the doorway, let out a strangled gasp.
My face went scarlet with shame. I had failed. I had ruined a professional moment and publicly confirmed my own inadequacy. All the shame about my bad grades and my financial burden came crashing down, vindicated by this single, glaring, public error.
Bok Soo broke the silence. He didn't look at the interviewer. His cold eyes were locked entirely on me. The disappointment was crushing.
Then, he did the unthinkable. He stood up slowly, calmly, and walked around the desk. He didn't reach for the portfolio. He walked straight up to me, standing close enough for only me to hear him.
He placed his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers resting gently, dangerously, on my skin—the exact spot he rested his head when he needed comfort.
"Peter Bella is correct," he said smoothly, addressing the interviewer, his voice radiating complete confidence, even as his fingers tightened slightly, demanding my obedience. "The eighteen million she referred to is the projected initial marketing investment for the launch. A small, necessary cost."
He pulled the portfolio from my numb fingers, his movement concealing the page with the glaring eighty million figure.
"However," Bok Soo continued, his voice ringing with authority, "the full Q1 revenue projection, as you requested, remains at eighty million dollars. She was simply focusing on the smaller details of the initial outlay."
He didn't just correct my error; he rewrote reality to protect me. He sacrificed his flawless image of professionalism and risked confusing the entire audience just to save me from public humiliation.
He then turned his gaze back to the interviewer, completely composed. But before he left my side, he leaned in, his lips brushing my ear.
"You will never doubt my worth again, Peter Bella," he whispered, his voice low and possessive. "But you will never make me lie for you again either. This debt is now yours."
He walked back to the interview desk, leaving me trembling and reeling. He had saved my job, my visa, and my dignity, but in doing so, he had placed a new, impossibly heavy debt on my heart. I had forced the flawless idol to make a clumsy public mistake.