Winter is Coming

It’s Monday (the best day of the week), and you start the morning with three garment bags, four coffees, and absolutely no will to live.

The building’s decked out like a luxury Christmas ad—fancy gold bows, tacky fake snow, and designer branded ornaments that more than likely cost more than your monthly rent. Is it pretty? Sure, maybe in that soulless rich-people-love-red-velvet kind of way. You’d probably appreciate it more if your fingers weren’t going numb around a cardboard drink tray and your shoulder wasn’t about to dislocate from hauling couture like a pack mule.

And surprising to approximately zero people, your boss has already texted you.

Director Lee: Where are you?

You check the time. 8:12am. Work starts at 9:00am. That’s so adorable. Apparently contracts are more of a fun suggestion when you’re at the bottom of the food chain.

You: Just got in, on my way up! 😊

You stare at the smiley face for three seconds before deleting it. He doesn’t deserve emojis.

The elevator walls are mirrored, which feels rude this early in the morning. You catch a glimpse of yourself: shirt wrinkled from your coat, collar slightly crooked, tie hanging on for dear life, hair doing that ‘I tried, then gave up’ thing that seems to be your new do. You look like the Before picture in a men’s skincare ad, and the dark circles definitely don’t match the brand mood boards.

The doors slide with a hum and reveal the un-magical top floor: open concept, glass walls, icy stares, and the giant lit-up company logo AESPA GROUP glares down at you like God—if God only cared about profit margins and engagement metrics.

You shoulder the door to your boss’s office open. He doesn’t even look up.

“Took you long enough,” he says, still typing. “Is that my Americano?”

You set the tray down with the restraint of a man choosing not to commit homicide.

“Yes. Americano, no sugar,” you say, handing it to him. “Just like you.”

“What was that?” He finally glances at you, eyes flicking over your face, then your shirt, quickly enough that it feels like judgment.

“Just like you ordered.” You smile back—the kind you reserve for people who can fire you.

He takes a sip. “Too much foam. Tell them to fix it next time.”

You make a mental note to throw yourself into traffic. “Yes sir.”

“Hey, and try to look less tired,” he adds, waving a hand at you. “We’re one of the biggest fashion houses in Seoul, not an accounting firm. Iron that shirt next time.”

“Sure thing, boss,” you say. “I’ll just stop sleeping and start photosynthesizing.”

But he’s already typing again, so technically you could have just insulted his entire bloodline and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Outside, the office hums with the chaos of fake productivity converged with real deadlines. People actually say things like “brand synergy” or “content pillars” with straight faces.

You head to the intern corner—a tragic little island made of two mismatched desks, one sad plant surviving purely out of spite, and a shit-ton of unspoken trauma.

Ningning is already there, legs crossed, lipstick perfect, scrolling her phone like she owns the Wi-Fi. Today she’s in a cream knit, white stockings, and a skirt short enough to be illegal in three countries.

She spots you and lights up. “My coffee hero!”

You set her cup down by her laptop. “One latte, minimal foam. Crafted with love and mild resentment, Your Majesty.”

“You’re the best,” she says, taking a sip. Her eyes flutter as she lets out an actual moan that draws a few looks from nearby desks. “God, marry me.”

“Tempting,” you say, taking a seat. “But I’m not sure I want to be your caffeine dealer for the rest of my life.”

She laughs, head tipping back, hair falling over her shoulders in perfect waves (you’re pretty sure her hair has a higher paying contract than you do). “Oh please, you love me. You’d last two weeks tops here without me. I make this place bearable.”

“You make this place an HR hazard.”

She leans forward, perhaps a little too far. “So, did he bite your head off again?”

“You mean metaphorically or literally? Because at this point, I’m not ruling anything out.”

Ningning chokes on her drink, giggling. “God, you’re dramatic.”

“God, I’m underpaid.”

“He really hates you, huh?”

“He hates the foam, my shirt, and my face.”

She gives you a once-over, not subtly at all. “Your face is fine. You could be someone’s office crush if you tried.”

“And yet, tragically, my main office role is ‘guy who carries things and gets blamed for the weather.’”

“Hot guy who carries things,” she corrects. “Be specific.”

“Thanks, I’ll put it on my resume,” you say, letting yourself look at her properly.

Ning Yizhuo, your fellow intern who started the same week as you. Perfect hair, glowing skin, and a perfume collection worth twice your monthly salary, probably. She’s the kind of girl the whole office notices—the kind that makes whispered excuses for why she’s allowed to leave early. And somehow, she gets away with everything.

You? You’re just The Intern. The one with the dark circles and the good emails.

Across the room, some guy from merch swings past and calls her name. She lifts a hand in acknowledgment without taking her eyes off you.

“You stayed late again, right?” she asks. “I saw your light on when I was leaving.”

“Yeah,” you say with a sigh. “Slides. Samples. Whatever else he remembered at 8:59 p.m.”

“Cute. He asked me to stay late too.”

You keep typing, pretending to care. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm.” She hums, smugly. “Team bonding.”

You look at her, raising a brow. “Pretty sure teams usually have more than two people.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. The movement shifts her sweater, gives you a quick flash of lace strap. “This was a very… focused meeting.”

“Focused on what?”

She just smiles. “Do you really want to know?”

No. You absolutely do not.

“You realize he’s married, right?” you say, leaning back. “And also your boss.”

She shrugs. “I realize I like nice things. And men in power like pretty things that laugh at their jokes.”

You drag a hand over your face. “You’re going to get promoted and leave me here, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she says with a smirk. “But I’ll remember you fondly when I’m rich.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember you when I’m haunting this office after I die from being overworked.”

Across the room, someone calls her name again, more insistently this time. She stands, smoothing her skirt down over her thighs, tugging the hem in a way that just makes it ride higher when she walks.

“Meeting or something?” you ask.

She winks. “Apparently. The execs like my energy. Wish me luck.”

“Luck. And maybe a moral compass.”

She laughs. “Oh babe, that won’t pay the rent. Gotta go now, try and hold the fort for an hour or so, pretty boy. And don’t miss me too much.”

She walks away like the hallway is a runway and she’s getting paid, and you absolutely do not watch. For more than three seconds.

Your phone buzzes again on the desk.

Director Lee: Reminder—meeting later about Winter.

You stare at it, each word capitalized and ominous. Winter. The Chairman’s daughter. The company princess. The allegedly terrifying, scary-smart, ice-cold heiress everyone likes to whisper about when they think nobody important is listening. Beautiful, brutal, and probably allergic to interns.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow flurries drift past the glass like someone shook a globe. But inside, the air suddenly feels a couple degrees colder.

Winter’s coming.

And something deep in your gut says she’s going to hate you on sight.

—

You make it to lunch without dying or crying, which honestly qualifies as a win.

People are traveling in packs, clutching salads and tablets, talking about metrics like they personally invented capitalism. You and your sad convenience-store kimbap end up at the far end of the break room, wedged between a plant and a recycling bin that probably sees more action than you do.

Ningning slides into the seat across from you without asking, tray loaded with something colorful and overpriced.

“You look like you just saw your paycheck,” she says, unwrapping her chopsticks.

“I did. It waved at me and vanished into my bills.” You stuff a piece into your mouth. “How was your Very Important Executive Meeting?”

She chews slowly, eyes sparkling. “They love me.”

“Shocking,” you mumble while chewing.

“Apparently I bring warmth to the room,” she says, dramatically covering her mouth. “Can you imagine? Me. Warm.”

“Of course,” you say sarcastically. “You’re like a space heater with legs.”

Really nice legs, unfortunately. Or fortunately. It really gets confusing how you feel about her.

“Exactly,” she says smugly. “Which is why I got personally invited to the big meeting next week.”

You pause mid-bite. “What big meeting?”

She blinks. “You didn’t hear?”

“No,” you say. “No one tells me anything unless it involves coffee or Excel.”

Ningning leans in, lowering her voice even though the room is too loud for anyone to care. “Winter’s coming. You know, the daughter of the Chairman who always has a stick up her ass.”

You chew slowly. “Are you speaking from experience or gossip?”

“Gossip, obviously,” she says, but she’s clearly enjoying this. “Apparently she used to secretly intern here before she left to study abroad. People still twitch when they talk about it. Said she made a senior designer cry once.”

“Okay, but to be fair,” you say with a hand over your mouth, “this place would’ve made the senior designer cry even if she didn’t.”

“True. But she did it as an intern. That’s talent.”

Talent of being someone’s daughter. Cute.

You set your kimbap down, appetite fading a bit. “So she’s coming back for what, exactly?”

“She finished her studies. Just in time for the busiest time of the year. Big holiday campaigns, end-of-year sales, strategic whatever—I stopped listening after ‘mandatory overtime.’ She’s coming in as some fancy ‘creative director for special projects’ or whatever title rich kids get when they’re born with a last name instead of a personality.”

You wince. “Can’t wait to disappoint yet another person.”

Ningning grins. “Oh, you’re definitely getting yelled at.”

“Why am I getting yelled at?”

“Because you’re in logistics,” she says, counting off on her fingers. “You organize samples, shoots, deliveries, and make sure everything appears magically where it needs to be. And she’s taking over ‘special projects.’ What do you think that means?”

You look down at your food that no longer looks edible. “It means I’m going to die in the storage room under a pile of clothes.”

“Honestly?” Ningning whispers. “She sounds kinda hot, so if you’re lucky it’ll be a pile of our new holiday thongs that she’s tried on.”

You stare at her. “You think everyone who could ruin your life is hot.”

“That’s my type,” she says cheerfully. “Dangerous and emotionally unavailable.”

“Therapy is right there,” you say, gesturing vaguely at nowhere.

“The only therapy I care for is shopping therapy,” she says, winking. “Look, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just pretend to be a cute, boring intern and she won’t even notice you.”

“I don’t exactly need to pretend.”

The word “Winter” continues circling your brain like a glitching notification as you finish your lunch.

You tell yourself it’s just another rich girl with too much power and not enough hobbies. That it probably won’t even matter—you’ll fetch some samples, send some emails, get yelled at maybe twice, and that’ll be it.

You’re wrong, obviously.

—

Winter arrives on a Wednesday.

The office has been buzzing since Monday, but Wednesday is when the anxiety graduates to full-blown performative. The place looks sharper somehow—less messy piles of fabric, more strategically placed lookbooks. People are suddenly ironing things again. Someone cleaned the microwave. There are actual fresh flowers at reception, which feels truly apocalyptic.

You start your day the usual way: sweating under coat and garment bags, juggling coffees, convincing yourself this is just paying your dues and not being emotionally waterboarded for a single line on your resume.

You dump caffeine on the right desks, take a quick detour to the sample room to double-check a delivery, then speed-walk toward the elevator with your head buried in your phone, trying to respond to three emails at once, hitting send just as you step out into the ground-floor lobby.

Which is exactly when someone says, sharply, “Watch where you’re going.”

You look up, briefly, enough to register a group of suits near the entrance—some familiar from the upper floors, some not. A cluster of reception staff and a man you’ve only ever seen in framed photos—Chairman, CEO, god of your employee handbook—standing beside a younger woman in a long, brown wool coat.

You register the coat first because it’s perfect. Then the boots—sharp, high heeled, expensive. Then the line of her slender legs, the straightness of her posture, dark brown hair tucked behind one ear in a way that looks effortlessly feminine and elegant.

You don’t register who she is right away; too busy holding garment bags in one hand, a half-empty coffee in the other, and moving too fast across the lobby as you angle toward the turnstiles.

There’s a subtle ripple—people turning, straightening, bowing slightly as they pass.

You don’t bow.

You’re mid-step, mid-sip, mid-“oh shit I forgot to reply all,” and your brain does that thing where it decides “continue walking” is more important than “corporate social etiquette.”

You walk right past the group—close, but not close enough to say you were acknowledging anyone—and head straight toward the elevator.

You’re a few meters away when the air behind you turns to ice.

“Stop.”

It’s one word. Calm. Flat. Not loud, but it lands like someone dropped a weight on the floor.

You freeze.

The lobby goes quiet in that particular way where everyone is absolutely listening while pretending not to.

Your hand tightens around the garment bags. You turn.

It’s her. She’s looking right at you.

Up close, Winter is… for lack of better words, a lot. Pretty feels like a cheap word for it. She’s breathtaking. The coat sits perfectly on her shoulders, not a speck of lint in sight. Her gaze is cool, steady, and absolutely unimpressed.

Beside her, your boss looks like he’s trying not to sweat through his shirt.

“Come here,” she says, looking right at you.

Your feet move before your brain can even attempt to protest. You step closer, aware of every eye in the lobby on your back.

She looks you up and down once. Not in a checking-you-out way. In an evaluating a piece of furniture way. Evaluating if it’s time to replace it, that is.

“You work here,” she says. It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” you say, then remember where you are. “Yes, I—yes, I’m an intern.”

“Yes, Ms. Kim, this is one of our interns,” your boss cuts in quickly, voice way too bright. “He’s new, still learning—”

“I didn’t ask you,” she says without looking at him.

He shuts up immediately.

She steps closer, heels clicking once on the marble. The top of her head reaches your mouth at best, but she feels much taller. Maybe it’s the shoes. Maybe it’s the confidence. Maybe it’s the fact that she could probably have you banned from the building with a single text.

“You saw a group of executives and staff bowing,” she says, studying your face. “You walked past without acknowledging any of them.”

Your stomach drops.

You open your mouth, then close it again. You could say you were distracted. You could say you didn’t realize. You could say you were carrying half a closet and had a mild panic attack.

“I—sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t think—”

“Clearly,” she says, coldly.

Okay. There’s a lot you could say back, but you like being able to pay rent, so you swallow it.

You bow. A quick, sharp angle. “I sincerely apologize for my disrespect, Ms. Kim. It was careless and unprofessional. It won’t happen again.”

She watches you. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

The silence stretches.

Your boss laughs too loudly. “He’s—ah—little rough around the edges, but he works hard. We’ll make sure he’s properly trained, won’t we?”

You stay bent for a half-second longer than necessary, then straighten slowly when it becomes clear she’s not dismissing you yet.

Her eyes flick to your boss, then back to you.

“We better,” she says.

Winter gives you one last look before turning away, coat sweeping behind her as she glides toward the private elevator, your boss and the others scurrying in her wake.

The moment the doors close, sound slams back into the lobby like someone un-muted the world.

You stand there, heart pounding, fingers cramped around the garment bags, coffee now cold.

Ningning appears at your elbow like she teleported. “Oh my god,” she whispers, eyes wide and delighted. “You just got main-character bullied.”

You drag a hand down your face. “God, I hate this place.”

—

Hell, as it turns out, is measured in business days. Winter doesn’t just vanish into some glass office and become a rumor again. She’s everywhere.

The first week is a montage of you discovering new and exciting ways one person can ruin your day without technically doing anything you can complain to HR about. Not that they’d even take your side.

On Monday, she sends an email at 9:01 a.m. to your boss and three other executives, cc’ing you as an afterthought.

Subject: Current intern utilization

Please send through a detailed breakdown of intern responsibilities, logged hours, and current project allocations by EOD. I’d like to assess whether we’re getting appropriate value from them.

By noon, your boss drops a spreadsheet on your desk and tells you to “clean it up” so Winter can “review your contribution,” so you spend the entire afternoon turning your own exploitation into a color-coded chart.

On Tuesday, she doesn’t email—you wish she emailed. Instead, she leaves a single-line comment in the spreadsheet at 7:14 a.m., visible to the entire leadership team:

“Some of these cells seem quite aspirational. Please revise.”

No explanation. No guidance. Just a digital eyebrow raise that somehow ruins your whole morning. You spend the next six hours re-verifying every number like you’re preparing evidence for a federal trial, only for her to leave another note at 3:02 p.m.:

“Better.”

Which, from her, somehow feels like a threat.

Come Wednesday, she actually summons you.

It’s a one-line message from her assistant, which is apparently a person who exists purely to deliver dread: “Ms. Kim would like to see you in her office. 3:00 p.m. Don’t be late.”

You spend the next three hours alternating between fixing a lookbook and planning your own funeral.

At 2:55, you stand outside her door, trying to look like a functional adult and not someone whose heart is pounding so hard it’s probably shaking the glass.

Her office is twice the size of your boss’s and somehow feels colder. White walls, a glass desk, a few carefully chosen campaign photos framed perfectly straight. There’s a single plant in the corner that looks like it has a trust fund of its own.

Winter sits behind the desk, laptop open and glasses on. Of course she wears glasses. Thin frames—unforgiving, sophisticated, and so, so hot.

“Come in,” she says without looking up.

You do. You don’t trip, which you choose to take as a good omen.

“Sit,” she adds, gesturing at the chair before you.

You sit. Your palms are damp and you have never been more aware of your own knees.

She finishes typing, hits a key, then finally looks at you. Her gaze is clinical, the way a doctor might look at an x-ray.

“You’re the intern from the lobby,” she says, again not as a question.

Why does she always talk like that? It’s so condescending, rude, and… hot as hell.

“Yes,” you say, then clear your throat. “I mean—yes, Ms. Kim.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Three months.”

“Department?”

You swallow. “Officially logistics and production support. Unofficially… coffee and PowerPoint.”

Her eyebrow lifts by a barely perceptible millimeter. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

“Honestly, not really,” you say before your brain can stop your mouth. “It’s sad, if anything.”

There’s a tiny pause. For a horrifying second, you think you’ve just signed your termination papers.

Then, very faintly, the corner of her mouth moves. But it wasn’t a smile.

“You’ve been handling sample flow and shoot logistics,” she says, like she already knows and is just testing you.

“Yes, Ms. Kim.”

“And you’re responsible for the current tracking system for the lingerie capsule.”

You hesitate. “I… built the sheet, yes. But it’s based on—”

“It’s inefficient,” she cuts in. “It doesn’t account for real-time changes or returns. It’s fine for basic catalog work, but not for what we need.”

Your spine stiffens a little. “With respect, I’m working with what we had—”

“With respect,” she says, and somehow makes the phrase sound like a knife, “you’re not listening.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You shut your mouth.

She taps a key on her laptop, spins it slightly so the screen faces you. It’s your spreadsheet, rearranged and ripped apart. Columns moved, formulas rewritten, conditional formatting doing things you didn’t know Excel could do.

“I redid it,” she says, simply. “This is the minimum standard I expect for the holiday campaign. You’ll use this version from now on.”

You stare. It’s… actually good. It anticipates things you’ve been dealing with manually—last-minute changes, missing sizes, delayed shipments. It’s cleaner, faster, smarter.

You hate that it’s smarter. You hate that she’s smart. And rich. And mean. And hot. So damn hot. Like, insanely hot.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “I can work with this.”

She nods like you’ve answered a math question correctly. “Good. Because you’re going to be the point person for one of my Christmas projects.”

Your brain bluescreens. “I—what?”

“I need someone to coordinate models and logistics for a limited-run lingerie shoot,” she says. “Scheduling, fittings, contracts, set prep. Production is overloaded. Your boss says you’re reliable.”

You think about the lobby. You think about your inbox. You think about all the ways this could go wrong.

“He also said you lack polish,” she adds, almost absently. “We’ll see which is more accurate.”

Your brain malfunctions, but you bite down on your first three responses.

“What exactly would I be responsible for?” you ask, unsure of what you’re hoping to hear.

“Everything that doesn’t require my physical presence. You will liaise with agencies, confirm models, ensure sample availability, coordinate with the photographer, and be on set. You will send me daily updates. I don’t like surprises.”

You nod, mind already racing. “Okay. I can—yeah. I can do that.”

“Can you?” she asks, folding her arms. “Because if you can’t, tell me now. I don’t have time to babysit.”

You sit up a little straighter. Somewhere under the humiliation and the nerves, something stubborn bristles.

“I can do it,” you say, confidently.

She watches you for a second, like she’s trying to decide if you’re lying.

“The shoot is in two weeks,” she says. “Find me three solid options for the lead model by Friday. Not influencers. Not whoever your friends follow on social media. Models. Professionals. Women who can sell the brand and the price point.”

“Any specific look?” you ask. “Body type, vibe, restrictions?”

“We’re selling luxury, not cheap sex.” Her nose wrinkles slightly at the last two words. “I don’t want anyone who looks like they’re here for a paycheck and an afterparty.”

You think automatically of Ningning, then shove that thought into a mental closet.

“Got it,” you say, nodding. “I’ll pull options and vet them before I send you anything.”

“Good. And try not to embarrass me again in the lobby.”

You flinch. “Y-yes, Ms. Kim.”

She looks back at her screen, effectively dismissing you.

You stand, heart pounding, brain buzzing with logistics and the cold, sharp reality that you’ve just been handed a live grenade with a silk bow on it.

As you reach the door, she speaks again.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

You turn. “Yes?”

“If you’re going to joke with me,” she adds, without looking up, “at least be funny.”

Your mouth opens. Nothing intelligent comes out. You settle for, “I’ll… work on that.”

“Do,” she says.

You escape into the hallway, adrenaline still snapping under your skin, and head straight for the only person who finds your impending doom entertaining.

Ningning listens to your recount with her chin in her hand, eyes bright.

“She gave you her project?” she says when you’re done. “Personally?”

“She gave me a bomb,” you correct her. “Personally. And set a timer.”

“That’s huge. You’re basically her guy now.”

“I don’t want to be her guy,” you say, sighing. “I want to be alive.”

“She trusts you,” she insists.

“She literally said she doesn’t want to babysit me.”

“In rich-girl speak, that means she thinks you might be useful,” Ningning says, putting a hand over your shoulder. “Congrats. You’re a tool. Her tool.”

You drag a hand through your hair. “If this goes wrong, I’m dead.”

“If this goes right,” she counters, “she’ll remember your name.”

You think of Winter’s mesmerizing eyes, the way she’d watched you bow in the lobby, the way she’d dismantled your spreadsheet and rebuilt it better in an afternoon.

You’re not sure which outcome is scarier.

—

By Thursday, your email outbox looks like you’re speed-dating the entire modeling industry. You send briefs, chase comp cards, haggle over rates you’re pretty sure are technically illegal. You put together a shortlist, then a shorter shortlist, then a Winter-proof shortlist.

By Friday, your days now become:

Mornings: inbox triage, contract language you’re technically not qualified to understand, calendar coordination with people who treat time like a rumor.

Afternoons: scramble to keep samples moving, confirm sizes, track down a missing box of embroidered bras that went on a scenic detour to the wrong warehouse.

Evenings: updates to Winter, who responds with timestamps that prove she never sleeps.

You think you’re being proactive by confirming a time with the studio before the photographer, and send a smug little “All set, just waiting on your final confirmation :)” email to Winter before you leave one night, then crawl home and face-plant into bed.

The next morning, there’s a reply waiting.

No studio is “all set” until you have a signed booking and a backup. Do not declare things done just because you’re tired.

You stare at the screen, heat prickling your neck. Then you scroll down.

Attached are two options for alternate studios she found herself, with their availabilities, rates, and lighting specs highlighted.

You hate how competent she is. You also hate that some twisted part of you finds that so damn attractive.

—

By the time the shoot week rolls around, you’re held together by caffeine, spreadsheets, and the fear of disappointing a woman whose shoe collection costs more than what you’ll ever make in your lifetime.

The morning of the shoot hits like a truck.

You’re at the studio before the sun is awake, hauling garment bags, checking hangers, arranging racks of silk and lace into something organized.

You’ve confirmed:

Lead model: booked, signed, confirmed twice.

Photographer: on board, annoyingly smug, claims he “works best with chaos,” which you take as a personal threat.

Makeup and hair: two artists who speak fluent eyeliner and disdain.

Catering: fancy pastries you can’t pronounce.

You’re standing in the middle of it all, checking the time for the fifth time, when your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Kim Chaewon’s agent,” a voice says too cheerily. “I just wanted to let you know she won’t be able to make it today. Something came up.”

Your stomach drops. “Something… like what?”

“Another campaign got confirmed last minute,” the agent says. “Bigger brand, bigger fee. You understand.”

You do understand. You also understand the part where your life flashes before your eyes and ends with Winter staring down at your grave and calling you inefficient.

“We have a signed contract,” you say, clinging to sanity. “Usage, day rate, all agreed. She can’t just not show.”

“She’s very sorry,” the agent says, in a tone that suggests she isn’t. “But this is non-negotiable. We’ll, of course, waive—”

You hang up.

Sure, it’s not professional. It’s not mature. But if you stay on the line, you’re going to say something you can’t afford.

You stand there in the half-lit studio, phone still in your hand, listening to the hum of the lights and the slow, approaching footsteps of your doom.

“Everything okay?” the photographer calls from across the room, fiddling with his camera.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… checking on something.”

Your brain goes into overdrive. Backup model. You have one. You have her number.

You call. It goes to voicemail.

You text. No read receipts.

You send three more messages in the span of five minutes, all increasingly less dignified. Nothing.

You can feel the panic starting to crawl up your throat.

Winter is going to kill you.

You’re halfway through drafting a desperate email to every agency contact you have when Ningning slips into the studio, waving at someone behind you.

“Wow,” she says, looking around. “Fancy. This is where the magic happens, huh?”

“Ning,” you say, throat tight. “The lead model just bailed.”

She blinks. “What?”

“She went for another job last minute with a bigger fee. Backup’s not picking up. The shoot starts in—” you check the clock, “—forty minutes.”

She whistles low. “Yikes.”

You swallow. “Winter is going to actually skin me alive.”

“Okay, relax,” Ningning says, leaning against a clothing rack like this is a casual chat and not the moment your career bursts into flames. “You have, what, photographers, makeup, studio, clothes? You’re just missing one hot person.”

“Really? Yes, thank you, so helpful.”

“Look,” she says, holding your shoulders a bit too long. “You can find someone. Call the agency again. Beg. Bribe. Offer your firstborn.”

“I can’t even afford a plant,” you say, turning away.

You’re in the middle of dialing the agent back when the air in the studio shifts, the way it does when someone important walks in.

Winter steps through the doorway like she’s arriving on set for a Vogue shoot about capitalism. Dark coat over a slate gray blouse, hair tucked neatly, expression already in that focused, clipped mode that makes your spine itch.

She takes in the room in one sweep: lights, backdrop, racks, crew, you.

“How are we?” she asks.

You want to die.

“There’s a… small issue,” you say, heart ready to stop beating.

Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “Define ‘small.’”

“Our lead model,” you say, forcing the words out, “took another job. She’s not coming.”

The silence that hits is deafening.

The photographer stops adjusting his lens. Makeup pauses with a brush mid-air. Somewhere, a hanger squeaks traitorously on a rack.

Winter looks at you.

It’s not even anger at first. It’s assessment and calculation. You almost wish she’d just start yelling instead.

“Explain,” she says, folding her arms.

You walk her through it as fast as you can: the call, the agent, the signed contract, the sudden bail. You mention the backup you can’t reach, and that you’re trying to get someone—anyone—on short notice.

Her jaw ticks once. “So,” she says slowly, “after I specifically told you I don’t like surprises, you’ve given me the worst kind of surprise.”

Your throat goes dry. “I—tried to—”

“You tried,” she cuts in, voice sliced clean. “You also failed.”

“I’m sorry. This is on me. I should’ve had—”

“Better backups. Better contracts. Better judgment.”

Your vision tightens at the edges. For a second, you genuinely think you might throw up. Not because she’s wrong—she isn’t—but because the truth hits hard when it’s delivered in public, in front of a whole crew.

“We’re here,” the photographer says weakly, trying to be helpful. “We can… shoot something. Details. Product. Mood stuff.”

Winter doesn’t take her eyes off you. “I didn’t line up talent, staff, studio, and product to shoot ‘mood stuff’. We are not an amateur brand scrambling for content. We’re supposed to look like we know what we’re doing.”

Ningning shifts at your side, like she’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.

Then Winter does something you absolutely do not expect.

She sighs.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. But it’s real—the kind of exhale you let out when you’ve already mentally moved from blame to solutions because you don’t have time to wallow.

Her gaze flicks briefly to Ningning. “What’s your name again?”

Ningning blinks like she’s just been yanked into the spotlight without warning. “Ning Yizhuo, ma’am.”

Winter’s eyes trail over her: the perfect hair, the flawless skin, the goddess-like figure. The way she’s already subconsciously posing, even just standing there.

“You’re an intern as well, aren’t you?” Winter asks.

“Yes, I am.”

She tilts her head. “Do you have any on-camera experience?”

Ningning’s smile is instant. “A little. Small campaigns. Some lookbooks. I’ve modeled before.”

Of course she has.

Winter looks back at the racks of lingerie, then at the set, and then at the crew. You can practically see the math happening in her head. Limited options, limited time. Salvage the day or let it die.

“Try something on,” she says, pointing at the dressing room. “Let’s see if you can be useful.”

Ningning’s eyes go wide, then bright. “Yes, Ms. Kim!”

Ningning reappears ten minutes later in a robe and a dangerous amount of confidence.

You’re fiddling with hangers just to keep your hands busy when she steps out from behind the changing screen. Studio robe hanging off one shoulder to flash collarbone and the top of a black strap, along with long, bare legs and glossy red toes.

“Okay,” she says, pivoting in front of Winter. “What’s my poison?”

“We start with the black mesh set,” Winter says, pointing. “Underwire bra, high-cut thong, and garter belt. Let’s go for the full look.”

Ningning hums, grabs the hanger, and disappears. You catch flashes in the mirror—bare skin, straps sliding over shoulders, a glimpse of white panties being peeled off and kicked aside—before you force your eyes back to your clipboard and pretend “SHOT LIST” is fascinating.

When she steps out, the room actually inhales.

Sheer black mesh bra, embroidery barely shadowing her nipples. A tiny matching thong, high-cut to bare hipbone and the dip of her waist. Garter belt cinched tight, suspenders clipped to stockings that run all the way up her thighs. Thin black heels to finish it, making her legs look endless.

“God damn,” the photographer mutters. “Yeah. That’ll do.”

Winter steps in, all business. She adjusts a strap, straightens the garter belt, tugs the bra a fraction higher.

“Stop fidgeting,” she scolds. “You’re not nervous. You’re in control.”

Ningning’s smile sharpens. “Yes, Ms. Kim.”

They move her onto the set—a low velvet chaise in front of fairy lights and shadow. First: simple poses, hand on hip, weight in one leg. Then Winter starts tuning her like an instrument.

“Sit. Lean back on your hands. Curve your spine. Chest forward, not your shoulders.”

Ningning arches, throat bared, hair spilling over one shoulder, lips parted on a faint breath.

“Look at the camera like it’s yours. Not like you want something from it.”

Next frame, Ningning’s eyes go heavy and lazy, one corner of her mouth tilting like trouble. Heat crawls under your collar.

They put her on her knees on the chaise, back arched, ass up, hands braced. The thong disappears between her cheeks, suspenders tight, stocking bands biting into her soft thighs.

“Chin over your shoulder,” Winter says. “You’re not apologizing for being seen.”

Ningning glances back, hair falling, eyes glinting. The camera fires in rapid bursts.

The second set is crimson: push-up bra, tiny thong with a gold ring at the hip, suspender belt framing her stomach like an invitation, and a fur-trimmed Santa coat worn open. In one shot she’s got one hand on the coat, the other hooked in her thong, like she might drag it lower if you behave.

And you are not behaving, internally.

Her lips are a deeper red now, glossed and slick. At one point she bites the tip of a gloved finger, eyes on the lens in a way that makes you twitch in your pants.

“Slide the strap down,” Winter says. “More. Stop right before it looks like an accident.”

Ningning eases it down, robe hanging from her elbow. From where you stand, you can see her pulse jumping in her throat.

“Hand to your thigh. Higher. Curl your fingers into the stocking.”

Her fingers trail up, stretching the sheer fabric and digging into skin. The motion drags the thong just enough to hint at more. Everyone is looking. You can’t not.

Winter never flusters. She stays behind the monitor, voice cool and precise, every tiny correction turning Ningning into something sharper, sexier, and a little more dangerous.

“Stop trying to be pretty,” she says once. “Be expensive.”

The next shot, Ningning nails it. Her whole body language shifts—slower, lazier, like you’re lucky she let you into the room. Her hand slides up her stomach, fingers settling under the band of her bra, thumb brushing the underside of her breast. The camera eats it alive.

By the time Winter calls, “That’s enough,” your nerves are wrecked and your cock is very aware of gravity. You’re half in love, half pissed, and fully aware your whole career just depended on a girl who can turn into sin itself in just three outfits.

Winter shuts her laptop. “We have what we need. Contact sheets by morning.”

You nod automatically.

She gives Ningning one last look. “You did better than I expected.”

“Thank you, Ms. Kim,” Ningning says, still a little breathless.

Then just like that, she’s gone, heels fading down the hallway.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Did you hear her compliment me?” Ningning whispers excitedly. “That was foreplay.”

You rub your temples. “Ning, I’m begging you to speak to a professional.”

Crew starts breaking down and you dive into clean-up: counting pieces, logging SKUs, making sure that everything that touched skin gets tagged for dry cleaning.

Eventually Ningning emerges in her own clothes again; makeup still intense, hair mussed.

“Okay,” she says, dusting her hands. “I’m going to hit the bathroom and take, like, forty selfies before this makeup dies.”

She flashes you a peace sign and vanishes down the hallway.

—

The studio empties out in slow waves. By the time the last light is powered down, it’s just you, a bored studio tech in the office down the hall, and racks of very expensive, very intimate fabric.

As you finish your last sweep, you spot something on a side table: a keycard with a sleek black leather holder.

You pick it up.

KIM MINJEONG, it says on the tiny embossed tag.

Of course she has a designer keycard.

You sigh and slip it into your pocket. You’ll have to run it up to her office before you leave or security will have an aneurysm.

That’s when you hear it. A soft, wet sound. A muffled, breathy whine. The faint rhythmic creak of something hitting something else.

You freeze.

The sound’s coming from further down the hall, near the storage rooms. You move without consciously deciding to, steps quiet on the cement floor, heart picking up with every little gasp that echoes.

It takes about two seconds to put the voice together with the picture you do not want but absolutely have in your head.

You stop in front of a slightly open door. Light spills out in a narrow strip across the floor.

You should turn around. You know you should. You should walk away and mind your business.

Instead, you look.

The room is a small storage space lined with metal shelves, boxes stacked in neat rows. In the middle of it, half-pinned against a stack of prop crates, Ningning is very much not in the bathroom.

She’s still in the black stockings from earlier, garter straps clipped and stretched. Her skirt is shoved up around her waist, blouse wide open, bra hanging loose around her ribs. Her hair is a mess, lipstick smeared, mascara a little smudged at the corners of her eyes.

Your boss has his pants around his thighs, shirt untucked, tie loosened and hanging crooked. One hand is braced on the shelf above her head; the other is on her hip as he drives into her from behind.

You see it all in one hot, paralyzed second: her cheek pressed to the cool metal, lips parted on a moan. Her ass slams back against him in short, needy pushes, stockings biting into the soft flesh of her thighs with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice ragged. “You perfect little whore. Your pussy is just phenomenal.”

Ningning laughs breathlessly, turning her head just enough that you see the lazy, satisfied curve of her mouth. “I thought you had dinner with your wife,” she teases, words breaking on a sharp inhale as he snaps his hips harder.

“I moved it,” he pants. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you on that set.”

Her nails scrape down the metal shelf to keep balance. “You liked it?”

“You were made for this,” he says, fingers sliding from her hip up to grab her shoulder, pulling her back onto him. “Our little secret weapon.”

Your heart is pounding. Your cock jerks against your zipper. You know you should turn around, walk away, and pretend you never saw this.

And yet, you don’t move.

He pulls out suddenly, hand on her hip to turn her around. She lets him spin her, back pressing into the crates now, skirt still bunched, thighs parted. His cock juts out, flushed and wet.

Ningning looks down at him and grins. “You’re really worked up today.”

“You did that,” he says.

“Mm.” She loops her arms around his neck, pulling him in. “Then I should fix it, right?”

She lifts one leg, hooking it over his hip. He grabs under her thigh, hefts her up against the boxes, and she wraps her other leg around him, caging his waist. For a heartbeat, they’re eye to eye, breath mingling, her chest pressed to his.

He thrusts back into her in one sharp push, and she gasps, head tipping back to thump softly against a crate.

“Oh god,” she breathes. “You’re so nice and big, Director-nim.”

He fucks her like he’s been thinking about it all day—rough, hurried, desperate. Every thrust rocks her up the crates a little as they creak in protest. Her skirt rides higher, flashing the tops of her stockings and the band of her panties dragged to one side, while his cock slides in and out of her in long, obscene strokes.

You can hear everything: the slap of skin, the wet drag, and the breathy little sounds she makes every time he buries himself all the way in.

“Say my name,” he groans.

She obliges, moaning it into his neck, biting at his collar. “Harder,” she whispers. “Come on, you can fuck me better than your wife, can’t you?”

He groans, almost collapses into her for a second. “You’re trouble. You’re fucking trouble.”

“And you love trouble,” she says, laughing, then gasps again as he changes angle and hits something that makes her whole body jerk.

Her hand slides between them, fingers finding her clit as she works herself in fast, tight circles, matching his pace.

“Look at you,” he says, watching her hand move. “Can’t even wait for me to finish before you start touching yourself.”

“Gotta help you along,” she pants. “You’re getting old.”

He hauls her down on him harder in retaliation. She squeals, then laughs again, breathless.

“You know Winter liked me too,” she sings. “She said I did better than she expected.”

Jealousy spikes in you at those words, but you’re not entirely sure which part.

“Of course she did,” he says. “You saved her ass. She should be thanking you on her knees.”

Ningning’s eyes glitter. “Well,” she purrs, legs tightening around his waist, “I’m more than happy to be the one on my knees for now.”

She squeezes him once more with her body, then pushes at his chest lightly. “Put me down.”

He lowers her, hands lingering on her hips as her feet touch the floor. She smooths her skirt down halfway, then drops to her knees in front of him.

“Does your wife suck your dick like me?” she asks, fingers curling around his slick shaft. “I bet she doesn’t even bother.”

“Ning—” he starts, already breathing hard.

She leans in and shuts him up with her mouth.

Her tongue flicks over the head first, tasting both of them, then she takes him in, lips sealing around him, hand stroking the base in time with her bobbing head. His head tips back, a low, broken sound tearing out of him.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so good at this.”

Her eyes flick up, lashes wet at the corners. Saliva glistens at the seam of her mouth, a thin strand stretching when she pulls back to lick along the underside of his shaft, slow and lazy, like she has all the time in the world.

You can’t breathe.

He pushes her back down, guiding her with a fist in her hair. She lets him, taking him deeper this time, until her nose almost brushes his stomach. The garter straps flex against her thighs as she steadies herself, fingers curling into his hips.

She gags softly, then breathes out through her nose and settles, throat flexing as she swallows around him.

“That’s it,” he pants, staring down at her. “Such a good girl. Serving your boss so well.”

The word lands like a slap. Your grip on the doorframe tightens until your fingers ache.

She leans in to lick a drop of pre-cum off the tip, then pulls back just enough to murmur, “Look at me.”

He does, eyes wide and shaking.

She opens her mouth, tongue out just a little, and starts stroking him fast. Her wrist snaps, and the wet slides of her hand and his low curses fills the tiny room.

“Fuck, Ning… I’m close,” he grunts, hand tightening in her hair.

She makes an encouraging noise, then wraps her lips around the head and bobs faster, taking him as deep as she can with each stroke. Her free hand sneaks back between her own thighs again, fingers pressing into the soaked crotch of her panties.

“Come for me, Director-nim,” she mumbles around his cock, words muffled, eyes locked on his.

That does it.

He groans, a broken, primal sound, hips jerking. Thick white spurts paint her tongue, her lips, the corner of her mouth. She lets it hit her, some of it dripping down her chin, onto her fingers where she’s still stroking him through the aftershocks.

You feel your own cock throb in your pants, shame and arousal twisted together so tight you couldn’t pull them apart if you tried.

She milks the last drops out of him with slow, lazy strokes, then closes her lips, swallowing it all.

“So yummy,” she says softly, licking a streak from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue.

He laughs weakly, sagging back against the shelves, breathing hard.

You step back from the door, finally, pulse punching in your ears.

This is crazy. You shouldn’t have seen any of it.

You move as quietly as you can down the hallway, back toward the main space, every breath loud in your own head. You don’t hear the door open behind you. You don’t hear your name. They’re too wrapped up, too busy smoothing clothes and straightening ties and returning to the world like nothing happened.

By the time you hit the elevator, your face is hot, your palms are sweaty, and Winter’s keycard feels like it weighs a hundred pounds in your pocket.

You jab the button for the executive floor, chest tight with about six different kinds of anger and something that feels suspiciously like heartbreak.

For yourself. For every late night you spent proving yourself while she proved something very different against a storage room wall.

You tell yourself you’re just here to return a key.

You tell yourself you’re not going to walk into Winter’s office with all this buzzing under your skin and do something stupid.

You’re wrong on at least one count.

—

Winter’s keycard burns a hole in your pocket the whole way.

You don’t let yourself think about what you just saw. About the way your boss’s hands looked on Ningning’s skin. About her loud, needy moans. About the way she didn’t push him away. About how, for all your late nights and extra hours and desperate attempts to be useful, that’s still the oldest promotion track in the book.

You focus on the one concrete task in front of you: return the key, leave, go home, and pretend your brain isn’t a blender.

You stop outside Winter’s office, straighten your shirt, and lift your hand to knock—and then freeze when you hear her voice through the door.

Not cold, this time. Not stern. More… frayed.

“…Not this again,” she’s saying. “You said you’d try. You always say you’ll try.”

A muffled male voice replies, too faint to make out the words. You catch the tone: defensive and desperate.

Winter laughs, but it’s a sharp, humorless sound.

“Busy,” she says. “You’re always busy. Do you know how many flights I’ve taken for you? How many times I’ve moved my entire week because you said you’d ‘see what you could do’?”

You stare at the wood grain of the door like it might offer answers.

You should go. You know you should go. Give the key to her assistant. Come back later. Set yourself on fire in the stairwell. Anything but stand here and listen.

Once again, you don’t move.

The guy says something again, and Winter’s voice spikes.

“No. Don’t you dare,” she snaps. “Don’t make this about how ‘hard’ you’re working. You think I’m not? You think I’m on vacation here while you’re fucking around?”

Your breath catches.

There’s a beat of shocked silence on his end, then more muffled words, faster now. Excuses. Denials. You can’t make them out, but you know the rhythm.

“Oh, please,” Winter says, voice shaking. “Do you think I’m stupid? You fly to Berlin and suddenly you’re ‘too tired’ to talk, but she’s in your stories. Did you forget we have mutual friends?”

Your chest tightens.

“I ignored it,” she goes on, voice climbing. “I swallowed it when you said it ‘didn’t mean anything.’ When you said it was just one time. Then two. Then ‘you were drunk.’ I let it go because you said you’d try.”

Her breathing’s audible now, quick and uneven, like she’s pacing.

“And what do I get for that? For pretending not to see you flirting with her in your own comments? For pretending not to care that everyone else did?”

More faint protest from the phone. You catch “overreacting” and “nothing’s happening now” in the blur.

“Overreacting,” she repeats, flatly. “Right. I ask you to come home for Christmas, for once, and I’m overreacting. I ask you not to fuck other people while you tell me you love me, and I’m overreacting.”

You swallow hard.

“I don’t want another video call,” she says, softer now but somehow worse. “I don’t want ‘maybe next year’ while you’re in someone else’s bed. I wanted you here. Just you. And you can’t even give me that.”

There’s a long pause this time. You hear her inhale, shaky. When she speaks again, her voice has gone oddly flat.

“Right,” she says. “Of course. Work comes first. She comes first. It always does.”

More muffled words, an attempted soothe, something that sounds like “you know I love you.”

“Don’t,” she cuts in quietly. “Don’t say you love me if you’re not willing to show up. If you’re not willing to stop cheating on me and pretending it’s a scheduling issue.”

Silence. Heavy silence.

Then, very clearly: “No. We’re not doing this anymore.”

Your hand tightens around the keycard.

“We’re done,” she says, firmly. “I’m done.”

There’s a burst of frantic noise from the speaker you can’t make out—your brain fills it in with apologies and promises you’ve heard in other people’s mouths. She ends it with two clean sentences.

“Goodbye. Don’t ever call me again.”

Silence. Then the sharp crack of something hard hitting a desk.

You flinch.

You wait. One second. Two. Ten.

Then, very quietly, you knock.

There’s a pause. Then Winter’s voice, calmer but still rough around the edges. “Come in.”

You open the door just enough to slip inside, closing it quietly behind you.

Winter is behind her desk, phone facedown, jaw tight. Her eyes are a little red at the corners, but her makeup is still perfect, which somehow makes it worse.

She looks up. Whatever you overheard gets buried under ice in half a second.

“What do you want?” she says, pretending to inhale instead of sniffling.

You hold up the keycard holder like a peace offering. “You left this at the studio.”

Her gaze drops to it, then back to your face. The tiniest muscle in her cheek twitches. “You came all the way up here just to play courier?”

“Figured security would tase me if I kept it,” you say, pressing your lips together cautiously. “And your assistant’s gone.”

“How long were you outside my office?”

Your stomach drops. “I—just now?”

“You were eavesdropping.” Her voice goes flat again, back to the tone from the lobby. “On a private conversation.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you say quickly. “I came to return your key, and you were already on the phone. I was going to leave, but then you were—” you stop yourself before you say ‘crying’, “—upset. I didn’t want to just barge in.”

“So you decided to stand there and listen instead,” she scoffs. “How thoughtful.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “That’s not—I’m sorry. I should’ve gone.”

“Yes. You should have.”

The silence stretches, tight and thin, like a rubber band ready to snap.

You move forward, set the keycard gently on the corner of her desk. “Here. I’ll get out of your way.”

You turn to leave.

“Stop.” she says, sharply.

Your shoulders tense. You face her again.

“Did I say you could go?” she asks.

Something in her tone makes your pulse jump. She’s sitting still, back straight, hands folded on the desk, but there’s a wound under the smoothness now, and it’s fresh and exposed. The emotional equivalent of a cracked screen under a perfect case.

“It was a mistake,” you say carefully. “It won’t happen again.”

“You keep saying that. In the lobby. In the emails. On set. You’re constantly sorry. It’s exhausting.”

You bite down. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

She stands. The movement’s unhurried, but it still makes the hair on your arms rise. She circles the desk, heels soft on the carpet, and stops in front of you, just close enough that you can smell her perfume—cool, sharp, something floral over something darker.

“You embarrassed me in the lobby,” she says. “You nearly wrecked my campaign today. And now you’ve completely invaded my privacy.”

You flinch. “I said I’m sorry.”

“Words are cheap. Show me you’re sorry instead.”

You blink. “How am I supposed to—”

“Kneel.”

The word hits like a slap.

You stare at her. “What?”

Her eyes narrow. “You heard me. You were so eager to bow in the lobby when there was an audience. Do it properly now.”

Your heart thumps once, heavily. Humiliation and anger spike together.

“That was—” you start, then stop, because arguing with your boss’s boss’s daughter is a terrible idea when you are on a six-month contract. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t have time for jokes,” she says, folding her arms. “Get on your knees.”

For a second, you consider telling her to fuck off. Walking out and letting the internship burn. But your legs move before your pride can veto it.

You sink down, knees hitting the plush carpet, thighs brushing the edge of her desk.

The angle puts your face level with her ridiculously tiny waist. From here, you can see the fine stitching on her blouse and the subtle curve of her hips under the pencil skirt.

“Now apologize,” she says, leaning against the desk.

You grit your teeth. “I’m sorry for listening when I shouldn’t have. I should’ve knocked and left instead of standing there.”

“Louder,” she sneers.

Your ears burn. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, voice rougher. “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have.”

She steps closer. One heel slides between your knees, nudging them apart a little. Your breath stutters.

“All you do is make mistakes around me,” she says condescendingly. “It’s almost impressive how incompetent you are.”

You look up at her. From this angle, the light hits her hair, throwing a faint halo around her head.

“Look, I’m sorry you had a bad day,” you say quietly. “That doesn’t mean you get to—”

Her hand snaps out, fingers wrapping around your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge hard enough to make your teeth click.

“Careful,” she warns.

The grip isn’t brutal, but it’s firm. Possessive. It sends a jolt of something hot straight down your spine.

“For someone in your position,” she murmurs, “you’re very comfortable telling me what I do and do not ‘get’ to do.”

Your pulse hammers as your hands flex uselessly on your thighs.

“I’m trying to apologize,” you mutter through her grip.

“And you’re not even good at that.”

She holds your face there for another few seconds, studying you. You don’t look away. You can’t. Her pupils are blown a little, whether from anger or something else, you don’t know.

Her gaze flicks down your body, slow enough that you feel it. You suddenly become hyper-aware of your position: on your knees, head tilted back, your cock half-hard from the mess of adrenaline, humiliation, and the lingering images of Ningning on her knees a floor below.

Winter notices. Of course she does.

She scoffs. “You’re hard?”

Your face goes hot. “That’s—no, that’s not—”

“You’re all the same,” she says in disgust. “My father, his partners, the men in London, my ex. You see pretty things and you think wanting them entitles you to something.”

“That’s not what this is. I’m not entitled to anything.”

“You’re not?” she asks, tilting her head. “You eavesdrop on people’s private conversations, you argue with your superiors, you accept projects you know you aren’t qualified for, and now you’re kneeling on my floor, looking at me like you’re holding back drool.”

“Who says I’m drooling?”

“Your eyes.”

Your jaw clenches. “Nothing I do is good enough for you. Honestly, what do you want from me?”

She looks down at you, eyes gleaming, lips pressed together like she’s holding something back. Then she exhales, a sharp little huff through her nose.

“I want,” she says slowly, “for you to stop being so useless when I’m having the worst week of my year.”

She reaches down, curls her fingers into your hair, and tugs your head toward her.

Your face is inches from the front of her skirt now. You can smell her heat under the faint perfume, something warm and incredibly alluring that cuts through the cold aesthetic of the office.

“I’m so tired of everything. Make yourself useful. If you’re going to be here, at least serve a purpose for once in your life. ”

Your brain blanks for a second. “You want me to—”

“Yes,” she says, pushing even closer. “Unless you’re too incompetent for that as well.”

The insult hits like a match thrown on gasoline. Humiliation twists with anger, and underneath both is a thick, throbbing thread of arousal that makes your voice come out low.

“You’re seriously asking your intern to go down on you. Do you know how insane that is?”

She tightens her grip in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp sting. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Last chance to say no.”

You should say no. You know you should. This is every rule broken at once. HR would set the building on fire.

Instead, your hands move to her hips, fingers brushing the smooth fabric of her skirt.

“I’m not saying no,” you hear yourself say.

Something flashes across her face—triumph, maybe, or relief—before her expression smooths out again.

“Good,” she murmurs. “I wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer anyways.”

She releases your hair long enough to gather her skirt in both hands and drag it up. The fabric slides over your fingers, revealing sheer black stockings clipped to a garter belt you didn’t know she was wearing. The straps disappear up under the hem of her blouse, into the shadow of the skirt bunched around her waist.

Her panties are simple, black, and very, very damp.

Heat surges through you as she hooks her thumbs in the waistband and pulls them aside, baring herself in the soft office light. Her folds are completely smooth, soft, and shockingly wet already.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she says quietly.

You swallow, lean in, and breathe her in, starting with a kiss just above her inner thigh, lips pressing into her warm skin.

She makes a soft, impatient noise, fingers sliding back into your hair. “Don’t tease. It’s unnecessary.”

“Have some patience for once in your life,” you murmur against her.

Then you move where she wants you.

Your tongue drags up the length of her slit, slowly, from her dripping entrance to her adorable clit. She’s impossibly delicious, like a forbidden fruit you never knew could exist.

She shudders, hand clenching in your hair. “Again.”

You obey.

You trace her, learning her rhythm, the places her breath catches. You circle her clit with the tip of your tongue, light at first, then firmer when she groans under her breath. Then you open your mouth wider, flatten your tongue against her, licking slow, steady stripes.

“Don’t stop to savor it,” she says, voice thinner now. “This isn’t for you.”

“Of course not, everything is about you, Kim Minjeong.”

Her hips jerk. “Shut up,” she says, but it comes out breathy.

She lets out a quiet yelp as you lift her up onto her desk in one smooth motion, spreading her legs wide apart. You suck gently, then harder, tongue flicking back and forth, pressure building in careful increments. Her breathing hitches, and her other hand finds your shoulder, nails scraping lightly through your shirt.

“Right there—” she bites off a sound, exhale turning into a low, involuntary moan. “Don’t stop.”

So you don’t. Why would you, anyway?

You add a finger, sliding it slowly into her. She’s dangerously tight and hot around you, walls clenching as she takes you in. Then a second finger, working them in a steady rhythm that matches your mouth.

She breaks. Not all at once. Little noises at first, trapped between her teeth, then larger, less contained. Your name twists through her teeth like she doesn’t want to even say it.

“Fuck,” she gasps quietly.

You grin against her. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you curse.”

She swears again, hips pushing against your face while her thighs tremble under your hands. “H-harder—faster—” she snaps. “Keep going—”

She cuts off on a sharp cry as you suck her clit just right, fingers curling inside her.

She goes rigid, then shudders. Her hand yanks hard at your hair, forcing you tighter against her, grinding her beautiful pussy against your mouth like she’s trying to fuse you there. You keep going, slower now, riding it out, licking her through it until she flinches away.

“Stop,” she pants. “That’s enough.”

You ease back, lips and chin slick, breathing hard. Your jaw aches. Your cock is straining painfully against your zipper.

She stands up, skirt still bunched around her waist, thighs parted, chest heaving. For a moment, the mask is completely gone. She looks defeated, flushed, and human, finally.

But the cold comes back like thunder after a strike of lightning.

She drops her skirt, smoothing it down with shaking hands, and looks at you like you’re back to being a problem.

“Stand up,” she demands.

You push yourself to your feet, blood rushing from your head straight to your cock. From this angle, you tower completely over her, which you’re suddenly extremely aware of. She’s so small that you could toss her around the room if you wanted to.

Her gaze flicks down, lingers, comes back up. “You’re still hard?”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, turns out I wasn’t the one who just came on someone’s face.”

Color hits on her cheekbones. “Don’t talk to me like that,” she says, grabbing your crotch.

Something in you finally snaps.

Maybe it’s the whole day. The studio chaos. The cheap satisfaction in your boss’s voice in the storage room as he finished in Ningning’s mouth. The way everyone gets to use everyone else, and you’re always the one on the ground.

Maybe it’s her letting a cheating boyfriend string her along for God knows how long and still acting like she’s above wanting anything.

Whatever it is, it breaks the last fine thread of your patience.

“No,” you say to her for the first time.

Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”

You step in, crowding her back until her hips hit the desk. Your hand finds her waist, fingers digging into the silk of her blouse.

“You don’t get to treat me like trash after using me for your own pleasure,” you say, voice low.

She scoffs. “Pleasure is a stretch.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

“I don’t need to answer your questions. Who are you, again?”

“I’m not a dog you can order around and then just walk away from.”

“That is exactly what you are. A dumb, worthless intern.”

“Then fire me,” you dare. “Replace me with someone more competent, but don’t lie to yourself. Don’t pretend you’re okay letting some guy cheat on you over and over while you only know how to grow a backbone with me.”

You grab her wrist as she moves to push you away, pinning it gently but firmly to the desk behind her.

“Let go,” she warns. “Don’t touch me without my permission.”

“Make me leave, then. Tell me to walk out the door and I’ll go right away. But don’t stand here acting like I’m the only bad decision you made this month.”

She glares up at you, fury and something darker warring. “You’re out of line. You don’t get to have opinions about my relationship that you eavesdropped on.”

“Your ex fucks other girls behind your back, but you’re still defending your relationship,” you say, pressing your bulge in between her thighs. “You’re allowed to let him walk all over you, but I’m not allowed to say you liked how I ate you out? Come on.”

Her lips part, then snap shut. You can see the battle happening on her face: the instinct to reassert control, to shut down, to freeze you out.

You ease your grip on her wrist a little to give her air. “Go ahead and tell me to walk out,” you murmur, “Hell, fire me if you want to. I already crossed the line of no return when I got on my knees for you. Just say the word and I’m gone.”

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t even seem to consider it.

Instead, after a long, tense moment, she exhales. “I hate you.”

You smirk. “Yeah? Prove it.”

“Have I not?”

You pull her in for a kiss that she isn’t ready for. It’s messy, rough—everything a first kiss probably shouldn’t be. Your teeth click, your nose bumps hers, and for a split second she’s frozen under you.

“God, I can’t stand you,” she whispers between breaths. “You’re the worst person I ever met.”

Then she grabs your shirt in both fists and hauls you closer, kissing back like she wants to bite through you. She tastes like expensive lipstick and herself. Her mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding against yours, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to draw a hiss from you.

You release her wrist and immediately put your hand on her hip, then her ass, dragging her flush against you. She gasps into your mouth when she feels your erection press into her through your slacks.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “You’re—”

“Let me guess—so hard?” you say, lips against her jaw as you trail kisses down to her neck. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you press your pretty little pussy against my face for half an hour.”

Your hands move on their own, tugging her blouse out of her skirt, fingers spreading over the bare skin of her waist. She shivers, arching into your touch.

“You know what I don’t understand?” she asks, but her voice is losing its edge. “What on earth gives you enough audacity to think for even a second that you deserve this? I can’t tell if I should be offended right now.”

“How ironic,” you murmur into her skin. “For someone with enough audacity to think the whole world should bow down to her for being born rich.”

“You might be the most annoying person I’ve ever met in my entire life.” She tries to hit you, but it ends up more of a shove that just rocks you both against the desk.

You slide a hand up, cupping her breast through her bra, thumb sweeping over her nipple. She inhales sharply, head tipping back.

“Take this off,” you mutter, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse.

“You can’t even undress me properly?” She pushes your hands away impatiently and undoes them herself. The blouse falls open, revealing a black bra that matches the stockings and garters—simple, smooth, and expensive. You reach behind her, find the clasp, and pop it open.

The bra slides down, and her tits spill into your hands. Gorgeous isn’t even the right word to describe them. Her chest is soft, warm, for some reason, her skin just smells incredibly enticing. You close your mouth around one nipple and suck, teeth grazing lightly. Her hand flies to the back of your head, nails digging into your scalp, dragging you closer.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “That actually feels good.”

You lavish attention on both, licking, sucking, squeezing just enough to make her whine. Your other hand finds the hem of her skirt, shoving it back up around her hips again, fingers skimming the garter straps, then the band of her panties.

She feels you there and tenses. “Did you lock the door?” she says, breathless. “Or were you too stupid?”

“Was I supposed to know this would happen when I went to return your keys?”

“Right, how could I forget?” she mutters. “You don’t know anything. Dumb as bricks.”

“Don’t worry, no one’s here,” you say, though you’re not actually entirely sure. “Everyone went home to avoid you because you’re such a bitch.”

She lets out a sharp, surprised laugh that melts into a moan when you suck harder. “I really hate you,” she says in between breaths. “You’re such a—ohh—”

You slide your hand between her thighs, pressing your fingers against the damp heat of her panties. “You hate me so much that you’re dripping wet. I guess dumb guys turn you on, that’s why you tolerate being cheated on.”

Her nails dig deeper. “You’re going to get fired after this.”

“Oh, is that a threat?” you ask, rubbing slow circles over her clit through the fabric.

“No, it’s a promise.” She bites her lip, hips grinding down on your hand despite her words.

You can’t take it anymore.

You step back just enough to fumble with your belt, ripping it open, yanking your zipper down. Your cock springs free, actual painful with how long you’ve been hard. You catch her staring, eyes widening as she catches her breath.

You take her hand and wrap it around you. Her fingers tighten on instinct, stroking once, and you have to bite back a groan.

“Show me how much you hate me,” you say, voice rough. “If I’m getting fired, I better get a severance package.”

Her hand squeezes, thumb smearing pre-cum along your length. “Interns don’t get severance, idiot,” she says, but there’s no bite left in it. “Clearly we need an IQ test for new hires.”

“Start with yourself. You’re fucking your intern in your own office.”

“Who says I’ll fuck you?”

“Me.” You pull back just enough. “Turn around.”

She hesitates, then does it—slowly and cautiously. She plants her hands on the desk, shoulder blades shifting under the half-open blouse, skirt hitched up enough to show the curve of her ass.

You step in behind her, one hand on her hip, the other dragging her panties aside again. She’s soaked, hot, and somehow so ready it makes your head spin.

“Last chance to say no,” you say, last shred of sanity clinging.

She glances over her shoulder. “Just shut up and fuck me.”

You line yourself up and enter her. She’s tight—so much tighter than you expected. But the resistance gives up slowly, her body stretching around you, taking you in inch by inch. You groan, gripping her hip harder, and she lets out a strangled sound, fingers digging into the desk.

“How does it feel, Ms. Kim?” you murmur, bending over her, mouth by her ear. “Your intern’s inside you.”

“Shut up—” she hisses, breath shaking. “I’m being generous because it’s about to be Christmas—”

You slide in the rest of the way, burying yourself all the way, and her sentence dissolves into a broken gasp.

For a moment, you both just stay there, breathing hard, bodies locked. She’s so tight you have to grit your teeth not to come embarrassingly fast. Her muscles flutter around you, adjusting and accommodating to your throbbing length.

“F-fuck,” you groan. “You feel so—”

“Move!” she cries. “If you’re going to fuck me, do it right for God’s sake!”

You pull back, slow, savoring the drag, then thrust in again, setting a rhythm that’s steady at first, then harder as she starts to push back into you.

The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room—wet, wild, and punctuated by her quiet curses and your low groans. The desk creaks under the shared weight and papers crumple under her hands.

“Is this what you wanted?” you mutter into her neck, thrusting deeper. “Someone to fuck you after all those months of being neglected by your ex?”

She moans, head dropping forward, strands of hair falling over her face. “Shut up…”

“You like it,” you say, grabbing her hips with both hands now, slamming her back onto you with each stroke. The impact makes her cute little ass slap against you. “You like being fucked like you’re not perfect all the time. Like you’re a person and not a press release.”

She makes a sound that’s almost a sob as her shoulders shake. “You don’t know a single thing about me or my life,” she gasps, words hitching on your rhythm. “So stop acting like you do.”

“I know you’re just a spoiled rich brat who thinks everyone should worship the ground she walks on.”

“No, not everyone, just you—aah!” Her voice breaks as you hit deeper, nails scraping the desk.

“You got off on making me kneel for you,” you say, breath hot against her ear. “Just how much do you love yourself?”

“Oh god. Just stop talking and keep fucking me like this.” Her hand flies back, groping blindly until she catches your wrist, nails digging in. It doesn’t stop you. It just anchors you.

You adjust your angle, aiming for the spot that made her clench around your fingers earlier. The next thrust hits it dead-on and she cries out, the sound strangled and desperate.

“Say it,” you demand, speeding up, snapping your hips against her. “Say it or I stop.”

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” she spits. “I’ll kill you if you stop now.”

You change to a tormentingly slow grind, dragging out of her almost all the way before pushing back in. “Say it,” you murmur, lips brushing her neck. “Say you like it. Say you want more.”

Her pride hangs on by a whisper. You feel it in the way she trembles, in the way her fingers claw at the desk, in the way her hips still, instinct fighting need.

Then it breaks. Finally.

“I like it,” she chokes out, voice cracking. “I—fuck—I love it. There, are you happy? Just don’t stop. Keep fucking me.”

You slam back into her, hard, then again, picking the pace back up. Your hand slides around her front, fingers slipping between her thighs to find her clit, working it in tight, fast circles that make her knees buckle.

“Say please,” you growl, wrapping your fingers around her tiny neck. “Beg for the first time in your life.”

“No—I’ll never—aaah—” Her protest melts into a moan as you rub harder and squeeze slightly tighter, thrusts driving her into the desk.

“Beg for me to keep fucking you.”

There’s a tiny, broken noise, then she cracks completely.

“Please… please fuck me…” she gasps. “It feels so good, please, please, please!”

“Look at you,” you say, half-laughing, half-groaning. “Always pretending to be high and mighty. Hey, Kim Minjeong, does aespa group know their heiress is just a dirty little slut?”

“Fuck you—aaah—don’t talk—fuck—harder—harder, harder, harder!” Her voice pitches up with each word, strangled and desperate.

She falls apart.

You give her what she begs for, driving into her with everything you have, the slap of your flesh echoing off the glass. Her moans bounce off the walls, nails digging helplessly into the glass as you hammer her through it.

“I’m coming—I’m gonna come!” she cries. “God, this stupid fucking intern is making me come again—”

She arches off the desk, back bowing, a raw sound ripping out of her throat before she bites it into a rough, strangled cry against her own arm. Her walls clamps down around you hard, pulsing in tight, relentless waves that drag you straight to the edge with her.

“Fuuck!” you cry, forcing a few more thrusts to chase the edge—before it slams into you.

You spill inside her with a loud groan, fingers clenching her hips, forehead dropping to the back of her neck. Hot, pulsing release floods out of you in waves, each contraction wringing another unintelligible sound from your chest.

For a while, there’s nothing but the harsh sound of your breathing and the faint tick of the clock while the both of you tremble quietly, still joined.

Eventually you manage to ease out of her. She sways, catching herself on the desk as your cum slowly leaks out of her pussy and trails in cloudy streaks down the backs of her thighs.

Winter came. And so did you.

—

The air shifts as the reality of what you’ve just done settles between you.

Winter re-buttons her blouse slowly, not looking at you. Her hair is a mess, her lipstick is smeared at the corners, and a faint flush still lingers on her throat. She keeps her eyes on the buttons, like if she doesn’t look at you, none of it counts.

“You should go home,” she says finally, voice shifting back to something more neutral, but still much softer than before any of this happened. “It’s really late.”

Your stomach tightens. You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “So am I really getting fired?”

She scoffs, reaching for her blazer. “No. But if you tell anyone about this, your life is over.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not exactly dying to brag about being the Chairman’s daughter’s rebound for her asshole ex.”

“Rebound? This doesn’t even qualify.”

“What is it then? A moment of weakness?”

She glares at you, then exhales, long and annoyed. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you say, bending to grab your belt. “Seems like you really needed that.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” she asks, smoothing her skirt down, trying to tame the chaos you just brought to it.

“Sometimes,” you say, and pause, debating if you should say anything more. “Also, don’t call him back. You deserve better than that.”

Her jaw flexes. “Go home, intern. Give that rock you call a brain some rest.”

“Just intern, still? Not even a tiny bump to ‘stress relief’ in the org chart?”

“More like liability.” She flicks a glance at your face and wrinkles her nose. “And can you wipe your mouth? You look like evidence.”

You lick your lips, her sweet aftertaste still lingering like it was branded to your face. “You taste really good, in case you didn’t know.”

“Get out,” she says, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they came back down.

You give a small, mock salute before turning toward the door. “Yes, ma’am.”

Your hand’s on the doorknob when she speaks again. “Don’t be late tomorrow. We still have a campaign to finish.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Ms. Kim. Wouldn’t want your sales to suffer just because your personal life exploded.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says dryly. “Sarcasm instead of some online courses and brain nourishment supplements.”

“You don’t pay me enough for any of that,” you say, cracking the door open.

You step out into the hallway, closing the door behind you with a soft click as you lean against it for half a second with your eyes closed, lungs still burning from her lingering scent still reminding you of what just happened.

Then you hear it.

The faintest scrape of shoe leather on polished floor.

You look up.

Further down the hall, half-turned like she just happened to be on her way to the elevator, Ningning stands with her phone in her hand.

Her makeup is mostly wiped off now, hair pulled into a messy knot, stockings long gone, bare legs peeking out from under her skirt. She looks smaller without the studio lights on her—but her eyes are bright, and there’s a tight little smile on her mouth that has nothing to do with joy.

“Hey,” she says lightly, as if you didn’t just drag your CEO’s daughter over her own desk. “Busy up here?”

Your blood runs cold. “How long have you been standing there?”

She tilts her head. “Long enough.”

“Why?” you ask, heart pounding against your chest.

She wiggles her phone between two fingers. The screen is dark, but you don’t need to see the gallery to know what’s in it.

“You know,” she says, voice sweet as poison, “for a place that spends this much on marble, you’d think they could invest in better soundproofing.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry as a dessert. “Ning.”

She just smiles wider. “Don’t worry,” she says, slipping the phone into her pocket like it’s nothing. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She steps past you, brushing against your shoulder as she walks away.

“For now.”