The Jealous Episode(Or When the CEO Glitches Over Another Man).

~ Hailey Park ~

If someone had told me that working for Ethan Jang would eventually lead to me fake-dating him and getting trending hashtags dedicated to our “office romance,” I would’ve laughed, quit, and maybe changed my name.

But here we are. Day three of Operation Fake Dating the Emotionally Robotic CEO Who Secretly Cries Over K-Dramas.

And let me tell you he’s starting to glitch.

“Who is that?”

That’s how this morning starts.

Not with coffee. Not with our usual banter about my questionable punctuality or his caffeine-fueled god complex.

Just those three words.

I look up from my desk to find Ethan standing there tailored suit, expensive tie, and that faint expression of corporate homicide he gets when the world doesn’t follow his PowerPoint schedule.

I blink. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Sunshine.”

He doesn’t move. His eyes flick toward the bouquet sitting on my desk a massive arrangement of pink roses that smell like wealth, regret, and someone who uses “😉” unironically.

“Who,” he repeats slowly, “is that from?”

“Oh.” I smile sweetly. “My ex-boyfriend.”

His jaw flexes. “You don’t have an ex-boyfriend.”

“Everyone has an ex-boyfriend, sir. It’s a human rite of passage. Like acne or bad tax years.”

“I mean currently, Miss Park.”

I squint at him. “Do you… keep a database on my dating history?”

His silence is louder than thunder.

Oh my God. He does.

“You didn’t,” I gasp. “You actually background-checked me, didn’t you?!”

“I background-check everyone who works under me,” he says crisply. “Standard procedure.”

I fold my arms. “You mean you did a full CIA-level investigation to make sure your assistant isn’t secretly dating your competitors or watching K-dramas from rival networks?”

“Those are valid concerns,” he mutters.

“Sir, you need therapy.”

Later, in the break room, I find the culprit of the floral chaos a marketing manager named Daniel Kang.

Tall. Charming. Smile like it’s insured. The kind of man who says things like “You deserve to be adored” and actually means it.

He leans against the counter as I stir my coffee. “So, uh, did you get my flowers?”

I grin. “You mean the ones currently triggering my boss’s existential crisis? Yes. Thank you.”

He laughs. “I figured you could use something nice after all that gossip online. Must be stressful.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” I sigh dramatically. “My boss thinks fake dating is a management strategy.”

“Maybe he’s just into you.”

I snort. “Ethan Jang? The man would rather eat glass than admit feelings exist.”

“Still,” Daniel says with a teasing grin, “the way he looked at you in that umbrella photo? I don’t think that was acting.”

I’m mid-sip when—

“Miss Park.”

The voice. The tone. The sudden temperature drop.

I turn, and there he is — Ethan Jang, human iceberg, standing in the doorway with a face that could curdle milk.

“Sir!” I say, trying not to spill my coffee. “We were just—”

“Discussing flowers?” His gaze flicks between me and Daniel like a laser-guided missile.

Daniel, bless his oblivious soul, smiles politely. “Mr. Jang, pleasure to meet you. I was just telling Hailey—”

“Miss Park,” Ethan interrupts, emphasizing Miss like it’s a personal vendetta, “we have a meeting. Now.”

I blink. “We do?”

“Yes. Urgent.”

Daniel laughs awkwardly. “Of course. I’ll let you—”

But Ethan’s already walking away, not waiting to see if I follow.

Because apparently, when the CEO’s jealous, everyone has to suffer.

The “urgent meeting” turns out to be… his office.

Empty. No PowerPoints. No documents. Just an angry billionaire radiating silent chaos behind a mahogany desk.

“Sir,” I say after a full thirty seconds of tense silence, “if you called me here to glare in 4K, it’s working.”

He doesn’t look up from his monitor. “That man was flirting with you.”

“Congratulations on having eyes, Mr. Jang.”

“Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not deflecting,” I say innocently. “I’m observing. Like a good assistant should.”

He sets his pen down. “You shouldn’t encourage him.”

I cross my arms. “Encourage him? He sent me flowers, not a marriage proposal.”

“It’s inappropriate workplace behavior.”

“Oh, so now we care about that? Should I remind you of the holding hands in meetings policy violation? Or the fake dating dinners? Or the umbrella intimacy incident?”

His jaw tightens. “That was different.”

“Because you were the one doing it?”

He exhales slowly — the universal sound of a man trying to maintain composure while his blood pressure skyrockets.

“Miss Park,” he says finally, “as your superior—”

I cut him off. “You’re not my superior in the fake relationship hierarchy. I outrank you in romantic improvisation.”

He blinks. “That’s not a real hierarchy.”

“It is now.”

And then — just like that — he stands. Walks around the desk. Stops right in front of me.

I freeze.

Because suddenly he’s too close. The kind of close that blurs lines and fries neurons.

“You think this is a joke,” he says quietly.

“Pretty sure it started as one,” I breathe.

His eyes flick down to my lips for half a second — barely noticeable, but enough to short-circuit my soul.

“It’s not.”

And then he just… walks away. Like he didn’t just emotionally body-slam me with two words.

Later that afternoon, I get an email.

Subject: Next Scene — “Jealousy Arc.”

Attachment: A K-drama clip titled “When He Sees Her With Another Man.”

Underneath it, one line:

“We need to discuss emotional accuracy.”

Emotional accuracy. My foot.

By the time 6 p.m. rolls around, the office gossip has mutated into a full-blown soap opera.

Half the building thinks Ethan and I are secretly engaged. The other half thinks I’m cheating on him with Daniel from Marketing.

And I… might be crying from laughter in the restroom.

Until my phone buzzes.

ETHAN JANG: Lobby. Now.

I sigh, wipe my eyes, and go downstairs — where he’s waiting beside his car like the final boss of emotional repression.

“We’re going to dinner,” he says.

“Oh, another fake date? Should I bring a script this time?”

His jaw flexes. “This isn’t a date.”

“Then why the car?”

“Damage control.”

Of course. Everything’s damage control with him.

We end up in a quiet, hidden restaurant in Gangnam — the kind of place where everything costs more than my paycheck and the lighting is designed for emotional confessions.

I sit across from him, stabbing my salad like it owes me money.

“Are you mad?” I ask finally.

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

“Liar. You’ve been glaring since breakfast.”

“Your coworker crossed a line.”

“By being nice to me?”

“By touching your arm.”

I blink. “You’re seriously jealous over an elbow graze?”

He doesn’t answer. Which is a yes.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, grinning. “You’re actually jealous.”

He sets his fork down. “I’m concerned.”

“No, no, this is textbook K-drama jealousy. Next thing you’ll do is pull me away dramatically while shouting ‘She’s mine!’”

His gaze darkens. “If you want drama, Miss Park, I can give you drama.”

And suddenly I forget how to breathe.

The waiter drops off dessert, breaking the tension. I take a bite to ground myself.

But he’s still staring.

“What?” I mutter, mouth full of cake.

“Why him?” he asks quietly.

“Why who?”

“The man from Marketing.”

I blink. “Daniel? I don’t know. He’s nice. He smiles. He doesn’t schedule romance like quarterly reports.”

He leans back, eyes unreadable. “That’s your standard?”

“Low standards keep me alive, sir.”

He looks away, exhaling through his nose. And for the first time, I see it — not the CEO mask, but something raw. Something almost… hurt.

And it wrecks me a little.

When we leave, the air between us feels heavy.

I start walking toward the curb to grab a cab, but he stops me with one hand — firm, warm, steady on my wrist.

“Miss Park,” he says softly.

I turn. “Yes?”

He hesitates — like he’s weighing every word. Then:

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

I blink. “You don’t own how people look at me, sir.”

He nods slowly. “I know.”

And then, quieter — like he hates himself for saying it —

“But I wish I did.”

My heart flatlines.

He lets go. Walks back to the car without another word.

And I just stand there, heart pounding, rain starting to fall again like the universe’s favorite background track.

That night, another email arrives.

Subject: Episode 6 — Jealousy Evaluation.

Message:

“You were right. I might have gone off-script.”

And beneath it — an attachment.

A photo. The two of us outside the restaurant, taken by some bystander.

He’s holding my wrist.

I’m looking at him like I just realized something I can’t undo.

The caption already spreading online?

“He looks jealous. She looks dangerous. This isn’t fake anymore.”

And maybe they’re right.

Because the look in his eyes wasn’t acting.

And the flutter in my chest sure as hell wasn’t either.