My boss’s daughter is the worst

Your boss, the illustrious Mrs. Baek, is a bitch. Not fully a bitch but like 2/3s a bitch. But her kid is almost no better.

When you first started at Mrs. Baek’s literary agency, Jiheon was doing her first internship. Despite being the boss’s daughter, she was a genuinely great coworker — funny, down-to-earth, witty — with a bratty streak about a mile long. You grew close, despite her mother’s best attempts to stifle it.

“Oppa, can you—”

That phrase echoed through your head for months.

“Oh, oppa, can you get me water too?”

“Oh, oppa, can you take my picture?”

“Oh, oppa, it’s cold — can I wear your jacket?”

That last one defined things more than the rest. She never gave it back, by the way.

The relationship ended when her internship did. She went back to university, and Mrs. Baek made it quietly, and firmly clear that outside contact was not welcome. You understood — five-year age gap, boss’s daughter, professional suicide waiting to happen. And even though she still had your lucky jacket, all the luck in the world couldn’t make you ask for it.

So imagine your surprise when that same jacket is draped over your desk chair the morning you come in. Four and a half years later. You stare at it. Then you scowl, sit down, and get to work, because you know exactly what this means.

Sure enough, your desk phone rings less than twenty minutes later.

“Mr. Fortune. My office. Now.”

You roll your eyes, push back from your chair, and make the three left turns to Mrs. Baek’s office.

She’s standing when you enter, which is never a good sign. And next to her, smiling — is Jiheon.

Except it isn’t quite the Jiheon you remember. The girl you knew has been replaced by a grown woman whose smile is polished and practiced, carrying something sharp beneath it, as a letter opener slipped into a greeting card.

“Mr. Fortune,” Mrs. Baek says, “I believe you remember my daughter.”

You nod.

“Good. You’ll be her mentor for the next several weeks. As one of my top literary analysts, you will shape her into someone at your level — or better. If you can’t manage that, I’d suggest you start updating your résumé.” She lets that land. “Are we clear?”

You nod again. Jiheon watches you with that practiced smile. Mrs. Baek gestures, and Jiheon falls into step behind you as you leave.

Back at your cubicle — organized stacks, color-coded tabs, a Kirin figurine standing guard at the corner of your desk — Jiheon surveys the space and rolls her eyes.

“I genuinely cannot believe my mom hasn’t fired you yet.”

The warmth you’d been quietly bracing for isn’t there. Her tone is flat and sharp, like she’s misplaced it somewhere and isn’t looking for it. It tells you everything you need to know about how the next few weeks will go.

You keep your voice even. “Well, Ms. Ba—”

“If you call me that, I will either hit you or tell HR you’ve been inappropriate with me.” She says it like she’s discussing the weather.

“Okay. Jiheon.” You pause. “How much do you remember from your internship?”

“Most of it, honestly.”