The elevator in Yu Group doesn't make noise.
It just moves.
Smooth. Slow. Claustrophobic.
Like it knows exactly where it's taking me and doesn't care if I'm ready.
I fix the collar of my blazer anyway, even though I've already done it twice. My reflection stares back from the mirrored walls—too neat, too calm. Someone I don't completely recognize.
I'm not the girl who used to shout into the wind or cry over strawberry milk anymore.
I'm a secretary now.
That's what the badge says.
That's what pays my rent.
The doors slide open.
His office is all glass and sharp lines. Clean in a way that feels cold. It smells like cider—strong, hot—and something metallic underneath it. Pressure, maybe.
Yu Enhyeok stands by the window with his phone to his ear.
Even from behind, I recognize him.
The shoulders are broader. The posture harder. The boy who used to sit beside me has been carved into something else entirely. A man built for boardrooms and quiet destruction.
"…If the numbers don't change by tonight, cancel the entire deal," he says, voice low and flat. No anger. Worse. Certainty.
He hangs up.
Doesn't turn around.
I place the coffee on his desk. Black. No sugar. Fourth cup today.
"Secretary Seo," he says.
Not my name.
My title.
"You're three minutes late with the briefing."
My fingers curl at my sides. "I apologize, Director Yu."
The words taste dry. Heavy.
Once, I used to say his name out loud just to hear how it sounded.
Once, we shared a desk scratched with old pen marks. Shared silence. Shared afternoons that felt endless.
Once, I was the only one who ever saw the Iceberg of Class 2–3 thaw, even a little.
Now he turns.
His eyes meet mine like I'm a report he's already decided to reject. Cold. Distant. Professional.
They stop briefly at my throat.
Nothing flickers there. No memory. No recognition. No hint that he ever stood between me and a crowd once, voice sharp with defense.
"Don't let it happen again," he says, leaning forward over the desk.
He's close enough that I smell the coffee on his breath. Bitter. Burned.
"You of all people should know," he adds quietly, "I don't like being kept waiting, Jiah."
My heart stumbles.
The way he says my name—soft, almost careless—does more damage than his tone ever could.
I want to step back.
I want to remind him of who I used to be.
But the contract lying on his desk says I'm here for five years.
Five years under his authority.
Five years under his name.
He isn't my seatmate anymore.
He's my boss.
And the look in his eyes tells me one thing clearly—
he didn't forget me.
He just waited ten years to remind me what it feels like to lose.