The Office Scandal, (or How to Accidentally Trend on the Internet).

Hailey Park.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned working for Ethan Jang, it’s that emotional whiplash is part of the job description.

One minute, he’s an emotionally constipated CEO who scolds me for “typing with too much enthusiasm.” The next, he’s sending me emails titled Episode 5: The Almost-Kiss Scene like this is some kind of corporate love story produced by N*****x and Satan.

And now?

Now he’s telling me to “act natural” while we walk into a board meeting holding hands.

You heard that right. Holding. Hands.

The kind of public display of affection that causes HR to have cardiac events and employees to whisper like they’re narrating a reality show.

“Sir,” I whisper harshly as we step into the elevator, “why are we doing this?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Damage control.”

“For what? Did someone discover your secret K-drama fan account again?”

He shoots me a warning glance — the kind of look that says don’t push it, Park — and presses the elevator button with unnecessary aggression.

I cross my arms. “You’re lucky I’m devoted to chaos, because otherwise, I’d quit just for this level of weirdness.”

His jaw twitches. “There’s been a rumor.”

“About you crying over fictional characters?”

“About us.”

I blink. “Us?”

He nods once, like it physically pains him to admit we share pronouns. “Apparently, someone saw us during the rain incident yesterday. It’s been… misinterpreted.”

Oh no.

No, no, no.

I whip out my phone — and instantly regret it.

Because right there on the company gossip site Corporate Confidential, the top trending post reads:

“JANG ETHAN CAUGHT IN SECRET ROMANCE WITH HIS ASSISTANT???”

[with attached blurry photo of us under one umbrella — and yes, it looks disgustingly romantic.]

“Oh my GOD,” I whisper. “They even edited sparkles and cherry blossoms into the photo. We look like the season finale of Crash Landing on You!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is why we need to maintain the illusion.”

“The illusion that you have feelings? Sir, that’s too much character development for one quarter.”

He ignores that. “If we don’t act like it’s real, it becomes a scandal. But if we pretend it’s real, the board will see it as a publicity move — humanizing. Marketable.”

“Marketable?! You’re turning my humiliation into a PR campaign!”

“Correction: our humiliation.”

By the time the elevator doors open, I’m fuming.

He, on the other hand, looks like he just walked out of a cologne commercial. Calm. Composed. Satanically handsome.

We enter the conference room, and every executive head swivels toward us like we’re the new drama airing on SBS.

Someone coughs. Someone else whispers.

And then — click! — I hear it. A phone camera.

Oh, hell no.

Before I can say anything, Ethan tightens his grip on my hand. Not a subtle squeeze. No. The man lifts our joined hands slightly, as if we’re starring in a press conference for our imaginary engagement.

“Good morning,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “Let’s begin.”

And then he just— proceeds.

Like we’re not holding hands in a corporate meeting about profit margins.

I stare at him. He doesn’t flinch.

He discusses numbers. Strategy. Investment trends. All while his thumb casually brushes against my palm.

Sir. Please. My nervous system is filing a complaint.

Thirty-five excruciating minutes later, the meeting ends. I yank my hand away the second the last executive leaves.

“What was that?!” I hiss.

He looks at me, maddeningly calm. “Method acting.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Which is basically a yes.

“Fine,” I say. “If you want method acting, you’ll get it. But I’m going full K-drama lead mode, and trust me, I don’t do subtle.”

He arches a brow. “You’re threatening me with… enthusiasm?”

“Emotion,” I correct. “Something you’re allergic to.”

And oh, I make good on that threat.

That afternoon, I “accidentally” bring him coffee — in a cup with hearts drawn all over it.

In front of everyone.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I say in the most dramatic voice possible, “don’t forget to drink your coffee before your meeting! You get cranky when your blood sugar’s low!”

The entire floor stops breathing.

Ethan freezes. A muscle in his jaw twitches like it’s trying to break free and run away. “Miss Park.”

“Yes, sugar muffin?”

He blinks once. Twice. I can see the existential crisis in his eyes.

“You’re testing me,” he says flatly.

“Me? Never.”

A pause. Then: “You drew a smiley face on the lid.”

“It’s called brand consistency. We’re a couple, remember?”

“Not a couple,” he mutters, rubbing his temple.

“Fake couple,” I correct cheerfully. “Still counts.”

By 3 p.m., the entire building is buzzing.

The receptionist smiles knowingly when I walk by. Someone leaves a bouquet on my desk. There’s a company-wide Slack thread titled ‘Is It Just Me or Is Mr. Jang Glowing Lately?’

He’s not glowing. He’s glowering.

At me. Constantly.

Until… he isn’t.

Because at 6 p.m., when I’m packing up, he appears at my desk — silent, unreadable.

“Dinner,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

He looks me dead in the eye. “If people think we’re dating, they’ll expect us to be seen together outside the office.”

“So this is—what—damage control date number one?”

He nods. “It’s business.”

“Right,” I mutter. “Business with candles and awkward sexual tension.”

“I heard that.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting in a private booth at a ridiculously fancy restaurant.

He’s in another one of his expensive suits — probably worth more than my entire rent — and I’m wearing the dress I panic-bought two years ago for a cousin’s wedding that got canceled.

The waiter brings wine. I drink half my glass before the bread even lands on the table.

“This feels illegal,” I mutter. “Fake dating my boss? HR is going to burn me alive.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. He’s just watching me — that unreadable expression again.

“Why do you always assume the worst, Miss Park?”

“Because every time something good happens, it’s usually a setup.”

“Not everything has to be a setup.”

I laugh softly. “Says the man who scheduled ‘emotional rehearsal’ into my G****e Calendar.”

His lips twitch — the tiniest hint of amusement. “You exaggerate.”

“You literally titled it ‘Rain Scene Practice.’”

A beat. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckles.

And not the cold, corporate chuckle. A real one. Low, quiet, warm.

My heart does a double take.

“I didn’t know you could laugh like that,” I say before I can stop myself.

He leans back slightly, eyes on me. “You talk like I’m a machine.”

“Sometimes you act like one.”

“Maybe I was,” he says, voice quieter now. “Before you started teaching me… scenes.”

And just like that — silence.

A different kind this time. Soft. Strange. Dangerous.

I look away, fiddling with my napkin. “You know this is supposed to be fake, right?”

“Of course.” His tone doesn’t change — but his gaze doesn’t leave me either.

Fake.

Sure.

So why does it feel so… real?

When we step outside later, the night air is cool, the city lights glittering like they’re watching us.

He’s walking beside me, hands in pockets, quiet. Then, suddenly, he says,

“They’ll probably take pictures.”

I sigh. “Then let’s make it look good.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Lean in.”

“Miss Park—”

“Do it before the paparazzi miss their shot!”

He hesitates. Then steps closer — and suddenly I’m pressed against him, the scent of expensive cologne and quiet chaos filling my lungs.

My hand brushes his chest — heartbeat steady, strong. His breath catches.

And I realize… mine does too.

“Convincing enough?” I whisper.

He looks down at me, eyes dark. “Too convincing.”

For a second, I swear he’s about to kiss me — right there, under the city lights, with the whole of Seoul watching.

But then he steps back, clears his throat, and says,

“Good work today, Miss Park.”

Like he didn’t just rearrange my heartbeat.

That night, I check my phone.

There’s a photo of us online again — him looking at me, soft, unguarded. Me laughing.

The caption reads:

“When your boss looks at you like that… it’s not fake.”

And for the first time since this madness began, I’m not sure it is.

Because somewhere between all the fake rehearsals, the umbrellas, and the stupid coffee hearts…

I think I might be falling for the man who learned love from K-dramas — and is slowly, awkwardly, trying to write one with me.

God. Help. Me.