The Color Of Secrets.

Chapter Two

Saturday mornings in Seoul were meant for lazy sleep-ins, not chaos. But chaos lived rent-free in Zara’s shoebox apartment.

“Z, I swear to God, if you burn water one more time—” Ji Yoon’s voice tore through the room as he wrestled with a frying pan. His long, slim frame hunched over the stove, hair sticking up like a rooster, pajama pants sagging dangerously low. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.

Zara sat cross-legged on the floor in an oversized shirt, eyes half-shut, scrolling her cracked phone. “Water doesn’t burn, dumbass.”

“Then what the hell is this?” Ji Yoon pointed at the pot, where instant noodles floated in a suspiciously dark broth.

She shrugged, taking a bite from stale toast. “Flavor.”

Ji Yoon gawked, hand on his chest like she’d just insulted his ancestors. “Flavor? Zara, you’re not just a bad cook. You’re a war crime.”

“Eat it or starve, princess.”

“B****.”

“Slut.”

They glared at each other for half a second before bursting into laughter, the kind that shook their shoulders and echoed off the thin walls. For all their cussing, they were stitched together by loyalty too deep to question.

Ji Yoon flopped onto the mattress beside her, stealing her toast without asking. “Anyway. You wanna see something holy?”

“If it’s your crusty ass in the mirror, I’ll pass.”

He rolled his eyes, swiping through his phone. “No, i***t. This.” He shoved the screen in her face.

Zara blinked at the blinding glow. On the article was a man. Not just any man—he looked unreal, like he’d been carved out of arrogance and perfection. Broad shoulders filled out a sharp black suit, his tie precise, his hair slick like ink. His gaze was cold, detached, the kind that could silence a room without saying a word.

The headline screamed:

“Kim Minho of Kim Minho Couture: Seoul’s Fashion Prince Expands Global Empire.”

Ji Yoon fanned himself with the phone. “Do you see this? This isn’t a man. This is God’s favorite child. If sin had a face, it’d be Kim Minho. My ovaries don’t even exist, and yet they’re quaking.”

Zara scoffed, snatching the phone for a closer look. “He looks like the type who yells at waiters for breathing wrong. Probably wears cologne called ‘Pretentious Rich Bastard No. 1.’”

“Don’t be jealous just because he’d never notice you.” Ji Yoon snatched the phone back, eyes dreamy. “Rich. Gorgeous. Fashion genius. Zara, this is the man I’d sell my soul for.”

Zara opened her mouth with another sarcastic jab—but the words got stuck. Her chest tightened. The photo stared back at her, and suddenly she wasn’t in her apartment anymore.

The drizzle.

The gates.

The echo of her footsteps across marble.

The muffled moans behind a closed door.

And then—him. The man from the car. The one who nearly ran her over and looked at her like she was nothing.

Her toast slipped from her fingers, landing forgotten on the floor.

Ji Yoon was still rambling about Minho’s net worth and “those cheekbones that could kill,” but Zara didn’t hear him anymore. The memory was clawing its way up, raw and unrelenting.

Her chest heaved. Her eyes widened. And then—

“OH MY GOD!” Zara screamed so loud the neighbors banged the wall.

Ji Yoon jumped, toast flying from his hand. “Jesus Christ, woman, are you possessed?”

She snatched his phone again, shaking it in his face. “That’s him! That’s my boss!”

Ji Yoon blinked. Once. Twice. Then his mouth curled into that evil little smirk she hated. “Wait, wait, wait—are you telling me Minho is the same asshole who almost turned you into roadkill?”

Zara groaned, shoving her hands through her hair. “Yes! That cold-faced jerk with the car. It’s him. He didn’t even apologize! Just gave me that stupid look, and now—ugh—I work for him!”

Ji Yoon cackled so hard he nearly fell off the bed. “So let me get this straight. The fashion god of Seoul almost runs you over, still hires you, and your dumb ass takes the job?”

“Shut up, Yoon!” Her voice cracked, cheeks flushing hot. “I needed it, okay? I really needed it.”

But her words were already fading into the background. The memory pulled harder, dragging her down.

⸻ FLASHBACK ⸻

Her sneakers squeaked against the polished marble as Ms. Lee led her through the endless hallway. Zara’s chest was still tight, anger from earlier simmering under her skin. Twice now she had cursed at the same man — once in the street when he almost flattened her, and again when she caught him watching while she’d stumbled near his office door.

And now she was supposed to smile and act polite?

“Just breathe,” Ms. Lee whispered, her tone calm and warm. “Mr. Kim values order and quiet, but he is fair. Show him you’re serious.”

Zara forced herself to nod, though her throat felt dry. Her mind hissed: He’s the jerk. He’s the asshole. Why am I even here? But her wallet reminded her—rent, bills, food. She needed this job.

The door to the home office opened.

It was like stepping into another world. Sleek glass walls framed the view of Seoul, a dark oak desk sat at the center, and bookshelves lined in perfect symmetry stretched to the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of leather and something sharper, like coffee and steel.

And behind that desk sat Kim Minho.

Sharper eyes. Not a word of welcome. Not even the courtesy of standing. His gaze flicked up once, cut through her, then dropped back to the papers in front of him.

“Credentials,” he said, voice flat, devoid of warmth.

Zara froze. For a second, her mind went blank, and her fingers almost refused to move. This was it. The asshole from earlier. The man she had screamed at in the street. The same man she’d called out again just outside this very office.

And now he was her potential boss.

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to say something—anything—to defend herself, to explain, to soften the fact that she’d already cursed him out twice today. But her tongue refused to obey. His gaze was too sharp, too cutting. She wasn’t at fault, but she still felt small under it, like her voice would only make things worse.

Swallowing, she pushed her folder forward with both hands.

He didn’t thank her. He didn’t even look at her. Just flipped through the papers in silence, the rustle of pages louder than her heartbeat. When his eyes paused on her barista certificate, her chest tightened.

Still, no word. No reaction.

Then, without warning, he opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, black-bound document. He slid it across the desk toward her.

“Read.”

Her brows knit together as she picked it up. The title alone made her throat dry: Household Regulations & Employment Contract.

The first page hit her like a slap.

• Employee must reside in the designated maids’ quarters within the mansion.

• Entry into the master’s room is strictly forbidden without direct consent.

• Morning duty begins promptly at 6:30 AM. Morning coffee must be prepared before departure for work.

• Employee must not enter the master’s private office at any time.

• Strict politeness is required at all times. Disrespect, rudeness, or loud behavior will not be tolerated.

• Uniform must be worn during working hours.

• Absolute adherence to house rules is mandatory. Violation results in immediate termination.

• Access to the last room in the hallway is strictly forbidden.

• Core duty: prepare coffee. Any other task assigned must be carried out without complaint.

Her eyes dragged down the page, disbelief tightening with every line. Live in the maids’ quarters? Don’t go to the office? Don’t be loud? Don’t touch the last room in the hallway?

This wasn’t a job description—it was a prison manual.

She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she almost tasted blood. Every nerve in her body wanted to explode with sarcasm, to say Are you kidding me? Who the hell writes this kind of nonsense?

But the number at the bottom of the contract silenced her.

The pay was massive. More than she had ever seen offered for such a simple job. Enough to cover rent, bills, school fees, maybe even save.

Her fingers trembled around the pen. Shut up, Zara. Just sign. You can scream about it later.

She signed. Her name looked shaky on the paper, like even her handwriting wanted to escape.

Minho closed the folder with a soft thud. He opened his mouth as if to speak—something sharp and final—but before the words could come, his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the caller ID, and in an instant, his expression changed. Serious, darker. He picked it up without excusing himself. “I’ll be there.” His voice had dropped lower, harder, and then he stood.

Without another look at her, he strode out of the office, the air in the room shifting with his absence.

Zara sat frozen, unsure if she should breathe or leave or scream.

Ms. Lee finally stepped forward, her smile soft but firm. “You did well, Ms. Park. Go home. Prepare yourself. You’ll move into the mansion on Sunday.”

Zara blinked, still gripping the pen like a lifeline. “Sunday?”

“Yes. Don’t be late.”

And with that, Ms. Lee ushered her out, the sleek office door closing behind them like the lid of a box she wasn’t sure she should’ve climbed into.