At the New Year's Eve gala, the intern attends as a "human shield" for Karina, only to be pulled into a high-stakes heist to recover blackmail material. Trapped in a hotel suite, he and Ningning must execute their plan while witnessing a private moment that changes everything.
You are Karina’s unofficial date for the gala. This, of course, means you get to stand next to the most desirable woman in the room—while everyone assumes you’re either her gay best friend or an ambitious charity case.
The ballroom smells like money. Old money, new money, clean money, dirty money—and then there’s you: no money. It doesn’t matter that the tuxedo fits perfectly (courtesy of Karina dragging you to her personal tailor while you begged her to let you just rent something). It also doesn’t matter that you have a literal angel on your arm; you can still sense the invisible barcode on everyone else in the room and feel all the eyes scanning you only to come up with insufficient funds.
Needless to say, you feel like a complete fraud.
“Breathe,” Karina whispers, her hand tightening around your arm.
You look down at her and immediately feel under-qualified to breathe the same air.
She looks downright devastating in black—a dress so elegant that it brings you physical pain. It clings to her skin like her body has its own gravity, emphasizing every single curve that you have to consciously avoid thinking about every time you look at her.
“I am breathing,” you say, swallowing hard. “I’m just calculating how many months of rent are currently hanging from that chandelier.”
She looks up with you. “And what’s the verdict?”
“I’m going with maybe 86. Minimum.”
“And max?”
“Somewhere in the hundreds, surely.”
“How about we stop doing math?” She leans into you. “You’re my human shield tonight, remember?”
Yes, you remember. Of course you remember, but unfortunately, the shield is already cracking.
“If anyone asks,” you say, scanning the room, “I’m telling them I’m the entertainment.”
This, of course, is very believable considering how much of a clown you look like next to her.
You watch as a dozen pairs of eyes glide over Karina like she’s a limited-edition asset, and to nobody’s surprise, it takes exactly thirty seconds for the first son-of-someone to appear.
“Yoo Jimin-ssi,” he says excitedly, as if her name itself is a down payment to his next apartment complex. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
She smiles and bows politely while covering her chest. He’s visibly disappointed.
“Thank you. It’s nice to see you again,” she says, although you truly wonder if she actually remembers who he is.
He glances at you with the kind of look rich people reserve for valet staff. “And you are…?”
“Her emotional support employee,” you mutter.
Karina’s mouth twitches. “He’s a good friend of mine,” she corrects. “We work together.”
The man’s eyes do a quick calculation of your net worth based on your shoes, and looks back at her like he’d just received permission to flirt. “I’m Lee Daesung. My father—”
“I know who your father is,” Karina interrupts pleasantly, like she’s just complimenting his tie. “He’s the one who keeps calling mine to ‘catch up’ but somehow never forgets to mention that you’re single now.”
Daesung laughs too loudly, causing her to nearly flinch. He’s already failing the audition.
A second man slides in. Then a third.
They descend on her like vultures in fancy designer suits and shiny million-dollar watches. The sons of board members, the heirs to generational fortunes, the type of “promising young executives” her father wants to merge portfolios with.
They smile at you—polite yet dismissive smiles—before physically maneuvering their shoulders to box you out. Somehow, you’re slowly, strategically pushed away from your own date.
“Jimin-ssi, did you summer in Como this year?”
“Jimin-ssi, you simply must see the new gallery opening.”
“Jimin-ssi, pardon my forwardness, but your father mentioned that you broke up with your high school sweetheart?”
You stand there, holding her bag for half a second, then her drink, then nothing, then eventually the remnants of your own dignity, which isn’t much.
She flashes you an apologetic look over the shoulder of a man whose belt costs more than ten times your life insurance payout, but is then swept away by the tide of social obligation and familial piety.
So much for human shield, you think.
You step back, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray just to have something to do with your hands so that you don’t end up throwing them at some billionaire’s son.
That’s when you see her.
Across the room, standing like an ice sculpture, is Winter. She’s wearing all white, practically glowing in the sea of black suits and dresses.
Her ex is also there, of course. He’s dressed like he’s auditioning for Most Punchable Man of the Year, one hand over her back like he’s guiding her through an angry crowd. Except the crowd isn’t what she needs to be saved from. It’s him. He’s the problem.
He’s your problem.
Winter tilts her head as she listens to him talk about something to someone. God, you hate that. Why does she even care about what he has to say?
You know that it makes no sense to feel this way, but your jaw tightens anyway. Jealousy claws up your throat, and all you can do is wash it down with expensive champagne.
It shouldn’t even matter. You came here with Karina, the woman who laughs at your dumb jokes and listens to your work rants like they’re Ted Talks. The girl who looks at you with soft eyes and wears your cheap gift on her five-to-six digit handbags. You should be focused on her.
But instead, your eyes are glued to the way Winter’s ex’s thumb brushes the bare skin of her shoulder, and that makes you want to walk over there and break his hand.
“You’re doing it again,” a voice purrs beside you.
You don’t jump—you’re used to it now.
Ningning appears next to you, sipping a martini. She has no date. She doesn’t need one—she’s treating all the men in the room like a buffet and sampling freely. If anything, having a date would be detrimental.
“I’m not doing anything,” you mutter, taking another drink from a passing server.
She steps closer to you, voice dropping. “He looks smug, doesn’t he? Thinking he’s the king of the castle.”
“He looks like he owns her,” you say, the words tasting more bitter than the liquor.
“Relax,” Ningning says, clinking her glass against yours. “The night is still young. We haven’t even sprung the trap yet.”
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