As Life Would Have It...

𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺. Not the crisp scent of new beginnings—but the rotting, perfumed kind that came from secrets buried in velvet coffins. Serena Choi stood beneath the looming glass façade of VaroCorp Tower, her black pumps soaking in the stormwater pooling at the edge of the sidewalk. Seoul’s skyline blinked above her like a pulse she couldn’t touch anymore. She used to be part of this world—limos, launch parties, signature scents with her name on them. Serena Choi: “It Girl.” Page Six darling. Every chaebol’s fantasy. Her smile was once a currency. Now it was worthless. Now she was the shameful footnote in her father’s legacy. A scandal without an ending. Now… she was an assistant. Not the “executive” kind. The coffee-fetching, file-carrying, nobody-sees-you kind. She tapped her access card. It blinked red. She tried again. Still red. A guard strolled over, uninterested. “You’re new?” “I’m on Mr. Varo’s team,” she said, her voice polite but low. The guard squinted. “You’re that Choi girl, huh.” No explanation needed. The name still haunted headlines. Her father’s empire—Choi Global Holdings—had imploded under charges of embezzlement, insider trading, and illegal arms involvement. But it wasn’t her father the press crucified. It was her. "Yeah, right this way," the guard mumbled after a long look, finally buzzing her in. The top floor of VaroCorp Tower was so quiet it sounded expensive. The floors were dark herringbone wood, accented with gold-lined glass and tension. The elevator doors opened. And there he was. Dominic Varo. CEO. Power broker. Cold-blooded royalty. He stood facing the window, arms folded behind his back. His black suit was flawless—custom-tailored, like it was sewn directly onto his skin. The Seoul skyline glinted behind him, but his reflection in the glass looked sharper. Serena stepped out silently, clutching the quarterly files she’d worked all night to finish. He didn’t move. He never did. “You’re late,” he said. No greeting. No glance. She checked the time on her phone. “It’s 8:55.” “I said be here at 8:45. I didn’t say arrive with the rest of the staff.” There was no point arguing. The man didn’t breathe oxygen—he inhaled authority and exhaled control. “I’ll do better,” she said, placing the file carefully on his desk. He finally turned, slow and deliberate, like a king pausing during a public execution. His eyes stopped on her face. For one breath. Two. She didn’t look away. And something flickered. Not softness. Not anger. Recognition. “Serena Choi,” he said smoothly. “You were the face of Belle Luxe perfumes four years ago. I remember your ad in Vanity Seoul. ‘Power in bloom,’ right?” She blinked. That line was long buried. No one remembered that. No one cared. “Interesting slogan,” he added. “Too bad your empire wilted.” A slow, hot rage curled in her chest. She gave a polite smile. “Even wilted roses can poison,” she murmured. He tilted his head. “Maybe. But only if they’re not already crushed.” She didn’t understand why he hired her. Everyone warned her to stay away from VaroCorp. It was the city’s sharpest blade. Dominic Varo was worse. He wasn’t just feared—he was respected, which was scarier. The kind of man people didn't say no to. She heard the rumors. That he destroyed his father. That he didn’t believe in love. That every woman who’d entered his life left with bruises invisible to the eye. So why her? Why hire the most scandal-coated heiress in Seoul? She wasn’t stupid. The Varo family wasn’t known for charity. This was something else. That night, she stayed late to sort Dominic’s itinerary for a corporate event—some gala full of society’s darlings and snakes in ballgowns. She moved between file stacks, her heels clicking on the marble. “Most assistants don’t stay past ten,” Dominic’s voice came from behind her, low and calm. She didn’t flinch. “Most bosses don’t demand 50-slide decks in three hours.” He stepped forward. She didn’t turn. “You hate me,” he said. She turned then. “No. I don’t hate you, Mr. Varo.” “I see it in your eyes.” She studied him. “What you see is a mirror. You’re just not used to it showing cracks.” A silence. Then, he smiled. Not kindly. “Come with me,” he said. They sat across from each other in his private lounge. No press. No board members. No assistants. He poured himself whiskey. Didn’t offer her any. “You have debts,” he said. She blinked. “Excuse me?” “₩890 million in medical bills. Your mother’s cancer treatment in Osaka. Three defaulted loans. A sister in university with tuition you’re secretly paying from a shell account. I know everything.” Her heart pounded. He kept going. “You haven’t used your real credit card in two years. You haven’t been photographed voluntarily since the Choi collapse. You’ve disappeared from the world that once worshipped you.” She swallowed hard. “Is this blackmail?” “It’s a job offer.” He slid a black folder across the table. Sleek. Heavy. Cold. She opened it slowly. A contract. Marriage contract. Fake. Six months. No intimacy. No legal entanglements. Just appearances. Her reward? ₩3 billion and a silent clearing of her name. She stared at it, breath stuck between disbelief and fury. “You’re insane.” “I’m pragmatic.” “Why me?” He leaned forward, eyes unreadable. “Because no one would ever believe it’s real. And because you’re desperate enough to say yes.” The insult should’ve burned. But he was right. She was drowning. And he was offering her a yacht—one with blades hidden under the hull. Still, her pride whispered: No. Walk. But her mother’s face, pale and wired to tubes in a hospital bed far away, whispered louder: Survive. Her apartment was small. One-bedroom, two if you counted the kitchen-s***h-dining nook. It smelled like old books and rose tea. She didn’t sleep that night. She read the contract ten times. Clause 13: No public displays of affection unless prearranged by PR. Clause 18: The marriage may not exceed 180 days. Early withdrawal by either party will incur public relations penalties. Clause 26: All rumors will be managed under VaroCorp’s strategic department. And finally… Clause 30: No falling in love. Ever. She laughed. But it wasn’t funny. Before signing, she asked for a meeting. Dominic was already expecting her. He stood on the rooftop garden of VaroCorp Tower, coat flapping in the cold. “I’ll do it,” she said. He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “But I have one condition.” A flicker of surprise. “I choose the story.” “The story?” “Our fake love story. How we met. Why we’re in love. How you ‘fell’ for me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?” “Because if I’m going to survive this lie, I want to control the myth. I may be desperate. But I’m not helpless.” A long pause. Then, slowly… he nodded. “You’re not what I expected, Serena Choi.” She turned to go, her heels tapping against the stone floor. “No one ever is,” she said, without looking back.