The Korean Chaebol Who Said Don't Fall For Me

Seoul in December was freezing. Ji-woo had three jobs and one coat. The coat had a hole in the pocket. Her agency sent her to LK Tower, 45th floor. "Translate for Mr. Kang. Don't talk unless spoken to. Don't look him in the eye too long. And don't fall in love. The last translator was fired." The elevator opened. He was standing by the window. Black suit, perfect hair, face like a K-drama poster. Cold. 【entity-Kang Min-ho¦canonical_name=Kang Min-ho】 didn't turn. "You're late by 2 minutes." "Traffic—" "In Korea, traffic is not an excuse. It's planning failure." Ji-woo bit her tongue. "I'm Ji-woo Amara. Your translator." He finally turned. His eyes scanned her — cheap coat, brown skin, curly hair in a bun. Disappointment. "You are not Korean." "You noticed fast. I'm Nigerian-American." He frowned. "My grandmother asked for a Korean translator." "Your grandmother will understand me. I speak perfect Korean. And English. And Igbo, if she needs." For a second, something flashed — amusement. Then gone. He slid a contract across the table. "Rule 1: No personal questions. Rule 2: No photos of me. Rule 3: Don't fall in love with me. Clear?" Ji-woo smiled. "Rule 3 is safe. I don't like men who talk like a drama script." Min-ho stared. No woman had ever talked back to him. Outside, his secretary whispered: "She will be fired in 3 days." Inside, Min-ho felt his pulse do something strange. This was going to be a problem.