Holiday chaos erupts when Winter's toxic ex returns to the company, pushing the intern and Ningning to form a risky alliance for revenge. Amidst gift exchanges and gala preparations, a surveillance mission reveals shocking secrets that shatter the intern's view of his boss.
The lobby shouldn’t be this quiet—not with the cheery Christmas playlist that’s been waterboarding everyone since December started.
That guy—Winter’s ex? Unlike you, he doesn’t look like a mistake. We’re talking perfect coat, perfect hair, perfect face—the kind of man who looks like he’s never had to search “how to sincerely apologize to a girl you care about” at 2am.
“Minjeong-ah,” he says gently, using her name like a deactivated keycard that still works. “I know I’m the last person you wanted to see, but I couldn’t let the year end like this.”
Winter doesn’t move.
She stands there in her coat with her arms folded, posture so straight that it looks forced, even for her. The mask is up, but you can see the little seams where it’s been glued together from when it once cracked. Because of him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says.
“I know.” He takes one careful step closer, stopping at the exact distance where ‘respectful’ borders ‘too close’. “I just want to apologize to you. For everything. I’ve… changed.”
Sure he has. Everyone changes. That’s what they call it when the consequences come knocking.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he continues, voice loud enough for the receptionists to hear, but soft enough to cosplay sincerity. “Just five minutes. To say I’m sorry. Properly.”
The entire lobby becomes an audience. Keyboards are clicking in a robotic rhythm from people pretending they’re not actively listening to the most expensive gossip in Seoul. A security guard suddenly finds a very interesting spot on the second floor that conveniently has the best view of the scene, and even the Christmas playlist seems to drop in volume, like Mariah herself wants in on the tea.
Beside you, Karina is as stiff as a whiteboard. “There’s no way she’s going to fall for that, right?” she whispers, though it’s unclear whether she’s talking to Winter or the universe.
To nobody’s surprise, Ningning materializes next to you out of nowhere and lowers her sunglasses. You don’t even question why she has them on to begin with.
“Wow,” she breathes. “He’s good. If I didn’t hate men, I’d almost believe him.”
“You don’t hate men, Ning,” you mutter without even looking over. “You hate men who can’t do anything for you.”
“Hm, I suppose you’re right,” she hums. “I wonder which category this guy belongs to.”
Winter stares at him. You wait for the explosion—for her to call security, for her to annihilate him with one sentence the way she does to you when you format a slide wrong.
But instead, she looks around—at all the wandering eyes, at the reception staff pretending to type, and of course, at you holding a box of Christmas desserts like a rejected butler.
“Not here,” she says quietly.
His face brightens with relief so immediate it’s actually insulting. “Okay. Anywhere you want.”
“My office,” she says, already turning.
She walks toward the elevators without looking back. He grabs his duffle bag—and yes, of course it’s designer, because guilt is nothing without expensive accessories.
The elevator doors slide shut and the numbers start to climb.
Ningning pushes her sunglasses back up and sighs happily. “Incredible,” she says, like the holiday spirit finally touched her. “That right there is going to ruin at least three people’s lives. God, I’m excited.”
The lobby collectively pretends to remember it’s employed, and you just stand there holding a ridiculous box of sweets like you and Karina were catering for a funeral.
Because honestly? Depending on how this apology of his goes, you might all be dead.
You expect the rest of the day to be a bloodbath. Surely the fallout should be somewhat immediate, so you sit at your desk, bracing for the impact. It’s so predictable: Winter’s going to demand coffee, or ice, or for you to come in and take notes while she screams at him—so you keep your email client open on one screen and Slack on the other, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
But it never comes.
Instead, there is silence. Total, unnerving silence.
Normally by 2pm, you’re drowning in emails that read like she’s personally offended you’re alive. But today? Nothing. No “where are the revisions?” No “get in here right now.” Not even a passive-aggressive smiley face following a threat.
Your inbox is empty in a way that feels like the server is broken.
At first, it’s incredible. You actually finish things. You send files without being audited like a war criminal. You drink water. You eat one of the chocolate hazelnut cookies that Karina bought and feel, briefly, like a human being with rights.
But then the silence starts to kill you from the inside, because you know deep down somewhere in your soul that silence from Winter isn’t really peace. Not the kind you want.
Her office door stays shut and the blinds stay drawn, like she’s trying to keep the sun out, or the truth in. You know because you happen to walk past her office on “accident” so many times your phone’s step counter files a complaint to Apple.
Printer, water, then printer again. Next, a fake phone call to a vendor you stopped working with three months ago. Then, another printer trip because you “forgot” you already printed.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No raised voices, no crash out, no ice-cold Winter sarcasm—just the sound of the heat blasting through the vents above you and the distinct sensation that something is happening behind that door that you’re not allowed to see.
You know he’s in there. You know she’s in there.
Are they fighting? Are they talking?
Or are they doing what you were doing with her in the executive room two nights ago?
By 4pm, you’re definitely not enjoying the quiet anymore, and Ningning catches you hovering near the hallway like a starving stray cat.
She leans on the wall by the break room, scrolling on her phone like she’s plotting her next demonic ritual on Notion. “Stop lurking,” she says without looking up. “You look like you’re having withdrawals.”
“I’m not lurking,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m passing by.”
“Passing by for the seventh time.”
You glare at her.
She finally looks up. “He’s still in there,” she says, because she can’t help herself from torturing you. “Delivery guy brought sushi.”
Your stomach drops. “Sushi?”
“ Expensive sushi,” she adds dramatically. “The kind you eat when you’re forgiving someone or making the same mistake again. And something tells me this is about to be both for Winter.”
You swallow, forcing your voice to stay flat. “Good for her.”
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