the CEO's secret boyfriend

Lee Ha-jun had 34,000 won in his bank account, a hole in the sole of his left shoe, and the growing suspicion that the universe had a personal grudge against him. He stood on the wide sidewalk across from the Kang Group headquarters in Gangnam, head tilted back, staring up at the glass tower like it might suddenly decide he wasn’t worth the elevator space. The building was all sharp angles and mirrored surfaces, the kind of architecture that looked like it had never once worried about late rent or the price of instant noodles. It reflected the gray Seoul sky and the slightly less impressive buildings around it with equal coldness. Ha-jun half expected it to lean down and say, You do not belong here. Kindly remove yourself before security notices. He checked his phone again anyway. The email was still sitting in his inbox, neat and final. Lee Ha-jun. Start Monday. 8:30 a.m. 32nd floor. Your access card will be ready at reception. Welcome to Kang Group. No exclamation marks. No soft corporate encouragement. Just the facts, delivered with the emotional temperature of a parking ticket. Somehow that made it more intimidating. People who sent warm, cheerful onboarding emails were usually lying. People who sent emails like this one might actually mean every word. Ha-jun looked down at his shoes. The left one had given up three weeks ago on a rainy Thursday. He had tried glue first. Then cardboard cut from a delivery box. Then he had simply accepted that every step on wet pavement was now a small act of humiliation. The thrift-store blazer wasn’t much better. It only fit through the shoulders if he didn’t take deep breaths, and it still carried the faint ghost of someone else’s cologne when the weather turned humid. He had steamed it in the shower that morning and told himself it counted as effort. Thirty-four thousand won. After the subway ride and the triangle kimbap he had eaten standing up outside the station, it was probably closer to twenty-eight. Last night his mother had called from Busan and asked, in that careful voice she used when she didn’t want to sound like she was checking up on him, whether he was eating properly. He had said yes. He had not told her that “properly” currently meant whatever was discounted at the nearest convenience store after 9 p.m. The salary listed in the offer letter still made his stomach do complicated, hopeful things. It wasn’t director money. It wasn’t even senior-analyst money. But it was enough to stop the late payment notices and maybe, if he was careful and lived like a monk, put something toward the hospital bills that had been sitting on his mother’s kitchen table for the last year and a half. Hope was a dangerous habit. Ha-jun had mostly managed to quit it. This job was threatening to drag it back, kicking and screaming. He adjusted the strap of his worn messenger bag, squared his shoulders, and walked through the revolving doors before he could talk himself out of it. The lobby smelled like expensive air conditioning and money. Everything gleamed under soft recessed lighting. The floor was the color of storm clouds and polished to a degree that made him briefly concerned about slipping in his traitorous shoes. Receptionists with perfect hair and the kind of posture that suggested private pilates glanced at him, performed rapid silent calculations, and looked away again with the polite disinterest of people who had already decided he was either lost or interviewing for a position that would not last past probation. Ha-jun kept walking. Chin up. Shoulders back. Pretend the hole in your shoe is a deliberate fashion choice. Pretend you have more than 28,000 won and a growing case of imposter syndrome. Pretend you belong in a building where the plants alone probably had better health insurance than you. The elevator to the 32nd floor was silent and fast enough to make his ears pop. When the doors opened, a woman was already waiting with the calm efficiency of someone who had never once been late to anything in her life. Dark hair pulled into a low, neat twist. Blazer that actually fit. A tablet held like it answered only to her. “Lee Ha-jun?” she asked. “That’s me.” “Park Min-ji. I’ll get you set up.” She handed him an access card that still felt warm from the printer. “Temporary login is on the back. Don’t bother laminating it yet. People get optimistic.” Ha-jun clipped the card onto his blazer. “Optimistic about what?” “Surviving the first month.” Min-ji’s smile was thin but not unkind. “You’ll be shadowing the strategy team. Desk is already assigned. Don’t touch anything on anyone else’s desk without asking. Don’t send company-wide emails for any reason whatsoever. And if you somehow end up on the executive floors, pretend you took a wrong turn and leave immediately.” Ha-jun raised an eyebrow. “Is Director Kang that scary?” Min-ji’s expression flickered for half a second into something more complicated than standard corporate caution. “He’s that private. There’s a difference. Most people here prefer not to find out which one matters more.” She turned and led him through a maze of open-plan desks and glass-walled meeting rooms. A few people glanced up as they passed and offered the automatic new-hire smile. Most stayed locked on their screens with the focus of people who had deadlines and no spare energy for curiosity. Ha-jun catalogued details without meaning to: the expensive ergonomic chairs, the complete absence of anyone drinking from a beat-up reusable bottle, the quiet, expensive hum of a company that moved serious money every single hour. His assigned desk sat near the edge of the floor with a partial view of another glass tower across the street. The computer was already powered on. A welcome folder sat perfectly squared in the exact center of the desk, as if someone had measured it with a ruler. Ha-jun set his messenger bag down carefully, the way you put down something that doesn’t quite belong. Min-ji hovered for another few minutes, walking him through passwords, internal systems, emergency contacts, and which bathroom was considered acceptable versus which one people only used if the good one was occupied. Then she left him with a final, almost gentle warning — “Try not to break anything expensive” — and disappeared into the controlled chaos of the floor. Ha-jun sat. The chair was better than any chair he had ever owned. He opened the welcome folder and found a detailed building map, system access guides, a list of internal portals, and one clean, quietly threatening line at the bottom of the first page: Kang Group does not tolerate disruption. He let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know the bar is set high.” For a while he just sat there, letting the reality of it settle. The soft clatter of keyboards. The low murmur of phone calls. The faint scent of expensive coffee drifting from somewhere down the hall. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul continued its usual Monday morning rush. Inside, Lee Ha-jun — 28,000 won, one failing shoe, and a hope he still didn’t fully trust — logged into a system that cost more than his entire apartment building and tried to look like he belonged. He lasted four minutes before he started wondering what Kang Se-hyun actually looked like when he wasn’t carefully framed on the lobby display screens. He lasted six minutes before he told himself it didn’t matter. He was wrong on both counts. But that particular realization was still several wrong elevator buttons, one late-night report, and a half-open door on the 38th floor away.