C18 18

“Here, Vice President Park. These are all the current files needing a signature.” I sit back and let my new assistant Veronica lay them out for me. In a fit of rage two days ago for a missed document and a lax attitude to timekeeping, I finally cut loose the girl of five years. I have no patience for people who waste my precious time and make mistakes, and this one has all the new and shiny enthusiasm to do a good job. I know it won’t last.

“Did you archive all last month’s?” I lift a brow and pull the first black folder on top over, flicking it open.

“Yes, Ma’am. I sorted through, copied, and saved digital files to the central server and then organized the paper copies in the building file room.

“Why is this missing President Park’s signature?” I pause my pen over the budget request for one of our sub-companies. Irritated for the oversight. The very first one I open, and it’s not even completed.

“He must have missed it, Ma’am. It came from his secretary only moments ago. I’ll take it back.” Her face pales, and her voice fades, showing the same fear most of the employees in the building have for me. I throw down my pen on top of it with a harsh thrush and slam it shut, locking the pen inside. Already in a foul mood this morning, like most days, I wake up, and I blow out my air violently.

Inwardly I’m coiled tight, and although this isn’t a significant oversight, I can’t hold in the anger. This last week or so, I feel like he’s let so many tiny things like this slide, and I have no idea what’s wrong with him. His focus is elsewhere, and he’s been distracted in meetings to the point he’s had to have things repeated. Yesterday he missed a digit on a payment account and almost lost a substantial amount in an overpay if I hadn’t caught it. These are not Jyeon mistakes, ever.

“I’ll do it. He’ll be quicker if I take it to him myself. Don’t let this happen again. Check paperwork before letting it be handed over.” I snap at her. Pushing my chair back and stand briskly, catch the pen as it slides out from the file and shove it in my jacket pocket.

I waste no time in marching out and along the corridor, scowling his secretary’s way to tell her not even to try stopping me today, and she recoils back in her seat. Instantly meek and says nothing as I swing into his doorway. I’m in hurricane mode today, built up from a lack of sleep and too much stress these past weeks, and she shouldn’t intervene if she values her life.

His seat is empty, his desk is notably tidy, and there are no signs of him. I look around for him, knowing he hasn’t left. She would have told me that, at least, even with my death glare. Something like sixth sense tells me he’s here.

“Jyeon?” I yell out and spot his dressing room door is ajar in the far corner, past his lounge recess. He doesn’t reply, so I walk over and open it fully, seeing him standing in front of his full-length mirror as he changes his shirt. Already a fresh one on and yet unbuttoned as he fixes it around his neck and adjusts the cuffs. He knows I’m here but ignores me and isn’t phased about seeing him half-naked. It’s not like I haven’t before.

“I need this signed. I have to process it, and you missed it.” I hold out the file his way, snappish and sounding annoyed at the oversight, trying not to admire that well-maintained physique. He’s always been tall and athletic with a nicely cut body. Dressed like this, in pants and an open white shirt, it pains me in my stomach to still be this attracted to him. I could never fault him for how he looks or his sense of style. Jyeon would be the poster boy for dream man if we graded them on looks.

He turns to me and reaches for it, his shirt falling further open, and I spot the fading bruises across his left rib cage and forget all else for a moment as instant pain hits me in the chest. Suddenly knocked off my pedestal of anger and crumbled to wimp at seeing him hurt.

“You told me you were fine.” My entire attitude and voices change dramatically. I rush forward, fingers outstretched to touch what I can see, all thoughts of anything else drop out of orbit, and only my softer me wants to heal him. I want to cry for seeing these ugly blue purplish marks on his flawless tanned skin, but he bats my hand away. Putting me in my place and bringing me back to my senses.

“I am fine. Don’t touch me.” His cold tone stops me in my tracks, and I recoil with the iciness. It’s like a physical slap in the face, and yet my eyes are glued to the marks.

“Did you at least get seen? At the hospital, I mean.” I stammer out. Melting all icebergs in my heart and feeling for him because I know these are what happened when he protected me that day outside.

“They’re bruises, Sohla. I get worse from playing racketball with Bryant. Not life-threatening. Give me a pen.” He doesn’t look my way but instead flicks through the papers and holds out his hand expectantly. Shutting me down, rejecting my touch, and drawing that line in the sand once more. The cycle of our relationship.

Any softness or show of care from Jyeon is followed by weeks of him pushing me further away, so I don’t misunderstand what was a momentary lapse of judgment for him. How could I ever forget that? I rifle in my pocket and hand him the fountain pen, and he makes sure not to touch my fingers as he takes it.

“Why are you getting changed? Where are you going?” I bite my lip to curb the reaction to the wound he gives me with every cold rebuff and paste on the ‘I don’t care’ persona. Mentally telling myself that his bruises are nothing and I shouldn’t keep on at him.

“Lunch date. I’ll be back by two. Anything else can wait until then.”

“With whom? All company meetings go through me.” I reply in surprise, eyes widening as I try to mentally figure out who he could be meeting, especially without my knowledge. I’m thrown by seeing him hurt, and it’s knocked off my usual blank self.

“I never said it was a company meeting.” He signs my form and hands it back to me in record time with a thrust, not once looking me in the eye, and goes back to fixing his shirt before buttoning it up and leaving the top two open. I know his return to getting ready and acting like I’m not here is a signal I should go, but something inside me roots me to the spot. His leaving his shirt half done like that irks me.