The Interview (Or: How I Accidentally Became Korea's Sweetheart an my Boss's Emotional Support Disaster).

~ Hailey Park ~

Let me just say this loud and clear for everyone in the back —

I. DID. NOT. SIGN. UP. FOR. THIS.

When I accepted this job, I expected caffeine abuse, unpaid overtime, and emotional trauma delivered via PowerPoint.

Not to be Korea’s accidental sweetheart because my boss decided to have a midlife crisis in HD.

Now every news outlet in Seoul and possibly half of Asia thinks I’m secretly dating Ethan Jang, the man whose idea of affection is not firing me yet.

So here I am, sitting in a PR conference room, in full makeup (that I did not consent to), surrounded by executives plotting our fake love story arc.

Across from me sits him Ethan “Emotionally Constipated” Jang in his stupidly perfect black suit, scrolling through fan tweets like he’s reviewing stock reports.

“#JangLeeLoveLine is trending again,” he says, like he’s reading quarterly profits.

“Of course it is!” I snap. “You’re the human embodiment of a K-drama cliffhanger! People think you proposed to me on the roof!”

He tilts his head, unbothered. “Technically, I didn’t deny it.”

“Technically, I can throw this coffee at you.”

He looks up. “You wouldn’t.”

“Sir,” I hiss, “you underestimate the power of caffeine-fueled rage.”

PR Director Soo-Min claps her hands before I can test my threat. “Okay! Let’s rehearse. Dispatch interview, 3 p.m. sharp. We need warmth, chemistry, sincerity—”

Ethan interrupts. “Authenticity.”

“Sure,” I mutter. “Let’s be authentically insane.”

Soo-Min continues, “You two will be sitting close, maybe hold hands—”

“Hold WHAT?!” I choke.

Ethan, without looking up: “Noted.”

“I’M SORRY, WHAT WAS THAT NOTE?!”

He flips a page on his tablet. “Hand-holding establishes credibility. The fans will expect it.”

“The fans can expect therapy!”

He sighs, like I’m the unreasonable one. “Hailey, you can’t contradict the narrative. We’re giving them closure.”

“Closure? Sir, this isn’t Descendants of the Sun. It’s Hailey Park Tries Not to Commit Arson.”

He smirks — a rare, dangerous sight that should come with a health warning. “Then let’s make it worth the ratings.”

I swear my soul leaves my body for a brief moment.

The lights. The cameras. The absolute death of my dignity.

I’m sitting next to him on a plush sofa that probably costs more than my yearly rent. There’s a journalist in front of us with the smile of a woman who knows she’s about to break the internet.

She leans in, eyes gleaming. “Mr. Jang, Miss Park — is it true that you two fell in love during office hours?”

I choke on my own air. “WHAT—”

Ethan calmly cuts in. “It started… unexpectedly.”

I whip my head toward him. “Excuse me?!”

He doesn’t look at me. Of course he doesn’t. He’s in full-on CEO-turned-romantic-lead mode, speaking in that low, tragic K-drama tone.

“There were disagreements,” he says smoothly. “She challenged me. I was… intrigued.”

“Sir, I challenged you because you threatened to fire me over font size.”

The journalist giggles like this is banter. “So opposites attract?”

“Oh, definitely,” Ethan says, deadpan. “She’s chaos. I’m structure.”

“And together you make… balance?” the journalist coos.

He pauses, then looks right at me. “War.”

I almost spit out my water. “Accurate!”

The audience laughs. I glare at him. He smiles — that infuriating, smug, swoon-worthy smile that’s probably why T*****r thinks he’s capable of feelings.

Then — THEN — the journalist says, “So tell us, what’s your favorite thing about Miss Park?”

My brain: abort mission.

My heart: traitorously interested.

He leans back slightly, pretending to think, because apparently drama runs through his veins like caffeine runs through mine.

Finally, he says, “Her unpredictability.”

I blink. “Is that code for ‘annoying’?”

He glances sideways. “No. It’s code for… alive.”

The entire room collectively sighs.

Me? I’m internally screaming into a void.

“Oh wow,” the journalist gushes. “That’s so romantic!”

I’m about to clarify that it’s NOT when his hand — HIS ACTUAL HAND — slides over mine under the table.

My brain immediately malfunctions.

He’s cool, calm, collected. I’m over here short-circuiting like a broken rice cooker.

He whispers, without looking at me, “Play along.”

“Play along? Sir, you’re one K-drama OST away from an HR complaint.”

“Smile,” he murmurs.

“Smile? I will strangle you.”

But I do. Because apparently I’m now method acting as “The Idiot Who’s Accidentally in Love.”

The interview goes on. The journalist asks if we’ve had any “romantic dates.”

Before I can yell “NO,” Ethan answers, “We had dinner last week.”

I stare. “That was a staff meeting with instant noodles!”

He turns, his eyes annoyingly soft. “Semantics.”

“Sir, noodles are not romance!”

“Depends on who you share them with.”

The audience gasps.

I malfunction.

He’s clearly enjoying this — the smug curve of his lips, the quiet amusement in his eyes. This man is thriving on my suffering.

And then, as if scripted by the devil himself, the journalist asks, “Would you say you’re exclusive now?”

I open my mouth to deny. But Ethan beats me to it.

“Yes.”

The room erupts in flashbulbs.

I whip toward him, whisper-yelling, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!”

He keeps smiling for the cameras. “Damage control.”

“YOU JUST CONTROLLED US INTO A FAKE RELATIONSHIP!”

“Exactly.”

The interview ends with him guiding me out like the world’s calmest arsonist, while I’m two seconds from emotional combustion.

I slam my bag on the desk. “Sir, I have a question.”

He looks up from his computer. “Yes?”

“WHY AM I YOUR FAKE GIRLFRIEND ON EVERY NEWS OUTLET IN KOREA?!”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Public sympathy improves market perception.”

“Market perception?! I’m trending as ‘Hailey Park the Hope of the Nation!’”

“Congratulations.”

“I WANT A RAISE.”

He types something. “Approved.”

I freeze. “…Wait, really?”

He looks at me, unreadable. “You’ll need hazard pay.”

“Oh my God, you’re serious.”

“I always am.”

I groan, flopping into a chair. “You’re insufferable.”

He stands, walks around his desk, and stops right in front of me.

“Miss Park,” he says softly, “I told you before — don’t fall for me.”

I squint up at him. “Trust me, I’d rather fall down the stairs.”

He leans closer. “Be careful. That could be our next episode.”

“Sir, I swear—”

But then his phone dings. He checks it, smirks slightly, and shows me the screen.

It’s a headline:

“Fans Speculate Rooftop Confession Scene Was Real: Is Jang & Park the New Nation’s Couple?”

My jaw drops. “We’re the nation’s couple?!”

He shrugs. “Apparently.”

“Oh, no. Oh no no no no.”

He smirks. “Smile, Miss Park. The nation is watching.”

“Sir, the nation can watch me commit homicide.”

“Be gentle,” he says, stepping closer again. “We’re still trending.”

And then — AND THEN — because apparently my life is directed by a lunatic, he whispers, “Tomorrow’s shoot. 7 a.m. Conference room.”

I glare. “What are we shooting now, ‘The Breakup Scene’?”

He gives me that maddeningly calm smile. “No.”

“What, then?”

He pauses. Then, with that devilish gleam in his eyes, says,

“The Morning After.”

I—

I can’t breathe.

He walks away, as if he didn’t just end my life with two words.

I sit there, clutching my chest, whispering to the universe:

“Dear Lord, please grant me patience — because if I get strength, I’m using it on him.”