My Boss is a Secretive K-Drama Freak?!!

~Hailey Park~

If hell had a reception desk, I’m pretty sure it would look exactly like the 27th floor of Jang Corporations.

White marble. Chrome desks. The faint scent of overpriced toner and despair.

And me — Hailey Park, resident caffeine courier, emotional punching bag, and personal assistant to Ethan Jang, Seoul’s very own corporate Terminator.

The man doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t breathe unless it’s to say, “Fix it.”

I once watched him fire an intern mid-yawn. Mid-yawn, people. The poor girl hadn’t even finished inhaling.

It’s 1:57 a.m., and I’m still in the office, because my boss doesn’t believe in “after hours.”

He believes in “Hailey, the shareholders’ deck better sing like a BTS chorus by morning.”

I’m hunched over my laptop, eyes burning, when I realize my espresso machine has given up on life.

Much like me.

“Come on, baby,” I whisper, smacking the side of it. “Don’t die on me now. I still have two slides left and zero will to live.”

It gurgles pathetically. Then dies.

Just like my dignity.

That’s when I remember — the CEO’s private espresso machine upstairs.

The one imported from Italy that costs more than my entire yearly salary.

He guards it like a dragon hoards gold, but desperate times call for caffeine crimes.

So I sneak upstairs. Quiet. Like a broke ninja in heels.

The hallway’s dark, except for the faint glow seeping out of his office.

Weird. He should’ve left hours ago.

No one stays past midnight except… well, me and the cleaning crew.

I peek through the glass door.

And there he is.

The devil himself.

Mr. Ethan “I Don’t Do Emotions” Jang.

Sitting on his couch. Tie loosened. Eyes red.

Crying.

Not the elegant movie tear kind.

No. Full-blown, ugly crying.

And on his laptop screen?

A K-DRAMA.

“Moonlight Lovers: Episode 15.”

I freeze.

He sniffles.

On-screen, someone’s dying.

He whispers—softly, brokenly—

“Don’t die, Eun-bi… you promised him a rooftop date…”

…Oh. My. God.

I slap my hand over my mouth to stop a gasp-slash-giggle-slash-scream combo.

Because what is happening?

This man once told me, and I quote, “Feelings are for inefficient employees.”

And now he’s clutching a tissue like it’s the Holy Grail?

Then—of course—he notices me.

Because of course he does.

Our eyes meet.

He blinks once. Twice.

I consider pretending to faint.

His voice comes out calm, deadly, and horrifyingly low.

“How much… did you see?”

“Um,” I squeak. “Define ‘see.’”

He slowly closes his laptop.

Wipes his face like nothing happened.

Then says the scariest sentence of my career:

“Miss Park, step inside. We need to discuss… confidentiality.”

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on his couch, holding a cup of imported espresso I no longer want, while he paces like a man whose entire life is unraveling because of a single tissue.

“Miss Park,” he says finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What you witnessed tonight… was a misunderstanding.”

“Right,” I say. “You misunderstood your tear ducts into producing saline emotion juice.”

He glares.

I grin.

I am too sleep-deprived to fear death.

“Hailey,” he says in a warning tone that probably makes interns cry. “If word of this reaches the board—”

“Oh don’t worry,” I interrupt. “Your secret is safe. I’d never ruin a man’s reputation over his… Eun-bi problem.”

His jaw twitches.

“Her name,” he mutters, “is Kim Eun-bi. And she didn’t deserve to die.”

I blink.

“Sir… she’s fictional.”

He exhales sharply, like I just insulted his family.

“Clearly, you’ve never loved something truly meaningful.”

I almost choke on my espresso. “You mean… N*****x?”

That’s how it starts.

The bribery. The threats. The unholy partnership between Seoul’s coldest CEO and the assistant who caught him mid-drama meltdown.

By the next morning, he’s back to his usual robotic self — crisp suit, deadly tone, zero soul.

Except now, he keeps popping into my cubicle like a weird, dramatic ghost.

“Miss Park,” he says one day, holding out a file. “Read this proposal. Does it make you… feel something?”

“Like what, sir? Existential dread?”

He stares. “No. Emotion. Yearning. Betrayal. The essence of storytelling.”

“Sir,” I deadpan, “it’s a quarterly sales report.”

He sighs like I’ve failed him spiritually.

Later, during a board meeting, I nearly choke when he ends his presentation with a quote that is definitely from “The Heirs.”

“Sometimes love is not about possession… but protection.”

Everyone claps like it’s some deep philosophical wisdom.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, silently screaming.

Then comes the incident.

A tabloid rumor about “Ethan Jang seen with mystery woman leaving late-night cinema.”

Spoiler: it’s me. Because I was literally his assistant carrying files, but the internet doesn’t care about context.

So now, to “control the narrative,” he decides we’re pretend dating.

Pretend.

Dating.

As in: hand-holding, couple photos, and apparently, “practice confession scenes for authenticity.”

I tell him it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

He tells me, dead serious, “I need to perfect my delivery before Season 2 drops.”

“Season 2 of what? Your emotional development arc?!”

He doesn’t laugh.

But the corners of his mouth twitch.

Just a little.

And for the first time, I see it — the tiniest crack in his armor.

Maybe… beneath the spreadsheets and arrogance and tax-audit energy, there’s a man who just wants someone to watch K-dramas with.

Or maybe I’m just sleep-deprived and stupid.

Both can be true.

Still, that night, when I’m about to leave, I pass his office again.

The lights are off — but through the door, I hear it.

Soft music.

Familiar dialogue.

“If we’re fated, we’ll meet again in the next life.”

And a low, quiet whisper.

“You will, Eun-bi.”

I smile to myself, shaking my head.

My boss — the man who once filed an HR complaint because I sneezed too enthusiastically — is a secret romantic disaster.

And I’m the only one who knows.

God help me.

Because this is only Episode One.