Who would have thought that intelligence, resilience, sleepless nights, relentless studying, and graduation from a prestigious university… would guarantee you a comfortable job with a high salary?
A half truth.
The salary? Very real.
The comfort? Nonexistent.
And the proof…? Emily, and the CEO sitting across from her right now.
He sat behind his desk. Yes, he wore a business suit–but it was far from neat, as if it had been forced into him amidst the chaos of his day.
His tie hung slightly loose, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned and his hair was a wild mess without exception.
At that moment, he looked like sleep was the very last thing on his list of priorities. His eyes darted unnaturally fast between the glowing screens before him–three monitors filled with numbers, charts, and endless messages.
His fingers pounded the keyboard with sharp, deliberate, almost aggressive precision. Short, heavy breaths escaped him, and his questions came even faster.
This was the CEO: Ivan Alister.
A man who wasted no time, trusted no one easily… and hated surprises. Standing before him was a woman of unwavering composure.
Her eyes were sharp, cold, and calm—a combination that unsettled more than it reassured.
A secretary unlike any other: every movement deliberate, never adjusted her stance to please him, and never lowered her gaze.
"Was the meeting rescheduled without my knowledge?" Ivan finally asked.
Emily looked at him calmly. "Because the original timing would have cost the company a major partnership, not just a delayed meeting."
Ivan didn't look at her, not once, his fingers continued flying across the keyboard in sharp, relentless taps.
"Third-quarter report?" Ivan asked.
"Done. Sent ten minutes ago," Emily replied.
"Reason for Seoul branch stock drop?"
"Supplier change. The new contract addresses the issue."
"Shareholders' meeting?"
"Rescheduled by two days."
Suddenly, he stopped typing and fixed his gaze on her. "Who authorized the reschedule?"
"I did."
"I didn't approve of it," Ivan said.
"But the decision serves the company."
It lasted only a minute before Ivan returned to his usual mode: typing, focused. Emily leaned slightly, letting her gaze settle on the ornate glass frame above his desk—specifically, the gleaming gold medal.
"First Place - Annual Martial Arts Competition 2025"
He hadn't placed it there to boast or become the topic of conversation. Its presence or absence meant nothing. No one entered this office in his presence, and no one was allowed to see what lay beyond the closed door. Except her, the secretary he could never afford to let go.
She studied her situation for a brief moment, her gaze drifting toward the distant corners of the office before the words she had heard on her first day resurfaced in her mind.
"In my entire life, I never imagined a position like this would be filled with so much complexity."
"Many have held the secretary's position before you. All of them are intelligent. All of them are professional."
"Yet not a single one survived."
When Emily glanced over the list of names of those who had come before her, she found herself pausing, quietly questioning the reason behind their failure.
She had known from the beginning that the position of a secretary was never simple. It depended on the company. The nature of the work. The temperament of the one you served. Intelligence. Experience. And above all—endurance.
Her mind was crowded with possibilities. Assumptions. Scenarios. For a moment, she suspected the workload itself might have been the problem. The pressure. The expectations. But as the pieces slowly aligned, the answer revealed itself with unsettling clarity.
It had nothing to do with the job. It had everything to do with one man.And once again–Ivan Alister.
Emily stole a glance while he remained deeply immersed in his work, her mind replaying the reasons why so many had failed under this man. The result? She was the only one to emerge victorious.
Ivan broke the long line of her thoughts when he leaned back slightly, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, every muscle in his body taut as a bowstring. His back arched, his neck strained, and he let out a sharp exhale as if trying to shake off the fatigue.
He adjusted his posture, raised his hands slightly, and clapped them twice. The gesture meant one thing, and Emily knew it. She had sent him tomorrow's schedule.
She turned and walked away, a faint smile curling on her lips as she exited the company building.
When she reached her apartment, she opened the door quietly, greeted only by the weighty silence within. No one welcomed her, no one asked after her long day, no one waited for her with anticipation.
For Emily, comfort meant sinking into a hot bath, far away from everything. Even in the kitchen, nothing was any different. The same quiet stillness ruled the space.
The sounds of Emily's movements—her steps as she walked in, the soft rhythm of her footsteps, the refrigerator door opening—echoed more clearly than they should have.
From placing her food inside the microwave to the faint mechanical hum that followed, every small action carried a distinct, almost amplified sound. Emily was not someone who took her time eating. She had also always been the type to keep up with the news regularly.
As usual, she picked up her phone to check what had been happening lately. The bright screen greeted her with a warm image,
a dark-skinned mother holding her little daughter, smiling with unrestrained happiness.
The picture was overflowing with tender emotions. Her phone slipped from her grasp and landed on the table with a muted sound. She turned to the right, toward the glass window—toward her own reflection staring back at her.
The same wheat–toned skin.The silky brown hair, now cut short to her shoulders.Those sharp, gleaming black eyes… now heavy with loneliness.
Emily was no longer that cheerful, optimistic little girl whose radiant smile never left her face. The old, piercing screams returned, flooding her mind without warning. She froze in place.
Memories began to gnaw at her heart mercilessly. Her body trembled all at once; she bent slightly forward, clutching her chest as though trying to hold something together inside. Her lips pressed tightly shut, fighting to restrain whatever threatened to break free.
Images and colors slipped into her thoughts. The distant echo of old laughter rang faintly in her ears. It was as if time itself was trying to drag her back into the past—against her will.
And the harder she struggled to suppress it, the more unbearable it became. The pain was sharper than before, striking a deeply sensitive chord within her.
She could not endure it any longer. Tears began to fall, one after another, painting her cheeks with a soft, burning red. And just like that, the past returned.