The Elevator Scene( Take Two: When Gravity and Feelings Collide).

~ Hailey Park ~

You know that saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”?

Yeah, no. Whoever said that never had to ride an elevator alone with Ethan Jang.

It’s been three days since The Contract Kiss Disaster™ — also known as the near-death experience where my soul left my body mid–K-drama rehearsal — and now my life has become one long outtake reel.

The memes still haven’t died.

Corporate Confidential has published four separate “body language analysis” videos.

And someone in HR started a betting pool called “When Will the CEO Finally Melt?”

(Last I checked, I was the top contender for Cause of Meltdown. Great. Love that for me.)

So, when I walk into the office Monday morning and find an email waiting from the devil himself — a.k.a. Subject: Rehearsal 2: Elevator Scene — I immediately start Googling ways to fake my own death convincingly.

No luck.

Because five minutes later, the intercom purrs:

“Miss Park. My office. Now.”

Oh, here we go.

I walk in, clutching my iced coffee like a shield. He’s standing by the window, immaculate as ever — all crisp suit, dark tie, and existential dread disguised as authority.

He doesn’t turn around. “You’re late.”

“I stopped to pray for emotional stability,” I say.

“Denied.”

“Figures.”

He finally turns — and God help me, he’s holding a clipboard titled ‘Episode 8: The Elevator Scene — Revised Script.’

“Script?” I choke. “You wrote a script?”

“Improvisation invites chaos,” he replies smoothly.

“I am chaos!”

He gives me that unreadable, CEO death stare. “Exactly.”

Ugh. Touché.

“So,” I start, plopping into a chair, “what’s this elevator scene even for? Don’t tell me we’re doing public kissing practice, because my dignity’s still in the ICU from last week.”

He adjusts his cufflinks. “There was a leak. Photos of us leaving the café.”

I groan. “Don’t tell me people think that was a date.”

“They think it was a fight.”

I blink. “A fight?”

He nods. “They’ve slowed the footage down. Apparently, your ‘intense salad stabbing’ looked like emotional turmoil.”

I throw my hands up. “Oh for—! I was just trying to unalive a crouton, not declare war!”

He ignores me completely. “Therefore, to reestablish the illusion of harmony, we’ll film an elevator scene for the PR team.”

“Film?! As in cameras?!”

He nods. “Subtle footage. Discreet. Like a documentary on corporate affection.”

“Sir,” I say slowly, “you’re one PowerPoint away from producing your own K-drama.”

He doesn’t even deny it.

Fast forward to 4:00 p.m.

I’m standing inside the company’s glass elevator, holding a folder like it’s a crucifix, while Ethan Jang stands beside me looking like sin in a three-piece suit.

A camera crew “from Marketing” is pretending to fix a light panel nearby.

The elevator doors close.

The PR director whispers, “Just act natural!”

Yeah. Sure.

Because nothing says natural like faking romance with the human equivalent of a refrigerator.

“Relax,” he murmurs once we’re alone.

“I am relaxed,” I hiss.

“You’re gripping that folder like you plan to stab me with it.”

“Maybe I do.”

He sighs, presses the emergency stop button (??), and the elevator jolts to a halt.

I gape. “You—you just—WHAT?!”

“It’s part of the scene,” he says calmly. “Tension. Drama.”

“Sir, this is a building, not SBS!”

He steps closer. My brain immediately starts buffering.

“Remember,” he says softly, eyes locked on mine. “We’re supposed to look… in love.”

I swallow. “Right. Totally. In love. Sure. Got it.”

Except I don’t.

Because the air suddenly feels too hot, and his voice sounds like it’s doing illegal things to my pulse.

He moves closer.

One step.

Two.

Now he’s right in front of me — close enough that I can smell his cologne (the expensive kind that probably costs more than my rent).

“Miss Park,” he says quietly. “You’re supposed to look at me, not at the floor.”

“I can’t look at you,” I whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because you have… face.”

“Face?”

“Yes. An aggressively symmetrical face. It’s distracting.”

For the first time, he looks almost amused. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep scheduling me,” I mutter.

The elevator hums. The silence stretches. The PR crew outside probably thinks we’re about to confess undying love, but internally I’m one heartbeat away from a meltdown.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“The part where you trip.”

“The—what trip—OH MY GOD—”

Because before I can finish, the elevator jolts slightly (he probably pressed something), and I do stumble forward—straight into him.

And suddenly—

His hands catch my arms.

My face is an inch from his chest.

And my brain? Gone. Deleted. Replaced with static.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, voice low, like a forbidden OST track.

“I’m fine,” I squeak. “Just rehearsing… gravity.”

“Convincing,” he says, but his thumb is still resting against my sleeve — still.

And then — the doors slide open.

Standing there?

Janet from Finance. Again.

Holding another spreadsheet. Again.

“...Do you two live in elevators?” she blurts.

I jump back so fast I nearly slam into the wall. “JANET, HI! JUST… ELEVATING!”

Ethan clears his throat. “Confidential meeting.”

“Sure,” she mutters, walking off, probably texting the entire department ‘THEY’RE DOING IT AGAIN.’

Later, in the PR meeting, our Marketing Head says words I never wanted to hear:

“The footage looks incredible. We’re going to release it as a teaser.”

I choke. “A TEASER?!”

Ethan, perfectly composed: “It builds anticipation.”

“For what, our wedding?!”

He doesn’t blink. “If it maintains stockholder confidence, then yes.”

I swear, I’m going to throw myself down that elevator shaft.

That evening, we’re stuck working late. Again.

It’s just me, the hum of fluorescent lights, and one overly stoic CEO who occasionally mutters things like, “Emotional continuity must be maintained.”

I’m typing furiously when he says, “Miss Park.”

I hum. “Mmm?”

“About earlier.”

I freeze. “Which ‘earlier’? There are approximately twelve disasters today.”

He looks at me — and for a fraction of a second, his eyes soften. “The elevator. You handled it… well.”

I blink. “Is that a compliment?”

He pauses. “An observation.”

“Wow. Next time, just write me a Hallmark card.”

“I could,” he says simply.

“...You’re not serious.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then, deadpan: “I’ve been studying romantic dialogue.”

I nearly spit out my coffee. “Of course you have.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s for research.”

“Sir, you’re one tragedy away from becoming your own main character.”

He tilts his head, amused. “And what does that make you?”

I grin. “The underpaid comic relief.”

“You’re underpaid because you cause chaos.”

“I cause entertainment.”

He stares at me for a second too long — then murmurs, “Same thing.”

And just like that, my heart decides to moonwalk out of my chest.

The next morning, there’s a headline waiting for me.

[Dispatch Korea] “Ethan Jang and Assistant Hailey Park — Elevator Sparks or Corporate Strategy?”

Top comment: “If this is acting, give them both Oscars.”

I groan so loud Janet hears it three floors away.

My phone buzzes.

ETHAN JANG: Next rehearsal tomorrow. Office rooftop.

ME: You’re joking.

ETHAN: I never joke.

ME: That’s exactly the problem.

That night, I watch one of his favorite K-dramas out of sheer curiosity — Office of Hearts, apparently his holy scripture.

There’s a rooftop scene.

Rain. Confession. Almost kiss.

Oh no.

He’s not just faking a relationship anymore.

He’s storyboarding it.

And me?

I’m the idiot who agreed to be his leading lady.