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“Kim Seokhoon-nim.” Yujun dips his head. “It has been a long time. Have you been well?”
“Yes.” Kim bows in return and eyes me speculatively. Who is this girl he does not know holding the hand of someone he does? he silently questions.
“This is Hara Wilson. Hara, Kim Soekhoon and Park Soomin. They are old friends.” Yujun makes the introductions.
The girl stiffens at my name. She recognizes me—not me personally, but whatever was on the forums or in the press that trended for days right before I took the job at IF Group—she remembers. He does, too.
“Oh, this is your sister . . .” His eyes fall to our clasped hands.
Yujun’s fingers flex around mine, an angry gesture. And, I, who hate confrontation, jerk my hand away and shove my fingers into the pockets of my pants. The girl backs away, clearly not wanting to greet me. She tugs at the arm of her male friend. The guy makes a half shrug and says, “Sorry,” in Korean, and he walks away, too.
Yujun is furious. I can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him in waves. He takes a step toward the couple. I haul him back with two hands. “No. Don’t.”
“It’s not okay,” he seethes. “That bastard’s father went to jail for tax fraud and embezzlement, but they can’t be polite and greet you.”
I knew that it wasn’t okay, but I also knew that Yujun couldn’t force someone to accept me, not by punching them or with words.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I can’t keep last night’s encounter out of my head. The part where the girl physically recoiled keeps replaying over and over.
While there are no laws that keep Hara and Yujun apart, traditions will. . . . Choi Wansu did not send Yujun away or prepare dating profiles for you because she does not think you are good enough for Yujun or that he is not good enough for you. She does it because she loves you and does not want to see you in pain. . . . I realized that I could never have an open relationship with her. You know what happened in her last relationship? Her boyfriend hid her away like she was a bad secret and then dumped her for a Korean girl. I realized that I can’t do that to her again.
I can’t imagine a relationship where one person is the source of constant embarrassment and pain for the other. How would that work? It wouldn’t.
I stare at my screensaver. I need a distraction. There must be something I can do. I’m going to have to have a frank talk with Bujang-nim, and if there is truly nothing for me to do, then I need to move to another division. I don’t know what that would be. Maybe I could monitor the security cameras. That wouldn’t require language skills.
He’s not at his desk this morning. When his phone rings, I jump up and answer it before anyone else even raises their head. To my everlasting joy, the person on the other end speaks English. They’re from LA and want to know when the marketing materials for an upcoming trade show will be delivered.
“I’ll leave a note and we will get back to you right away.”
The phone rings again almost before the receiver is fully settled. This time the speaker is Korean and I don’t understand a word. In halting, horribly pronounced Korean, I ask for their name and number. The answer comes fast and I’m sure I get it wrong. I repeat it, but before I can get out the last digit, the person has hung up.
Chaeyoung makes a disgusted noise. Guess we won’t be moving into frenemy territory soon. She must’ve lost her desire to cozy up to celebrities.
I shoot her a glare. “If you have something to say, say it.” She glares back but remains silent. “I thought so.”
I stomp over to my desk and stare at Soyou’s empty chair. She’s been gone for a while. I wonder where she is. Bujang-nim shows up about ten minutes later. All fired up, I ask him for more work.
He brushes a hand across his chin. “I sent you a project.”
“I worked on that two weeks ago.”
His eyes fall to the awkwardly penned Hangul on the sticky note. “I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, you could study your Korean.”
Chaeyoung snickers.
I clench my fingers into fists and push my nails into my palms to control my flaring temper. She’ll meet Ahn Sangki over my dead body. Cheeks burning, I lift my chin. “Sure. I’ll do that.”
Back at my desk, I pull out a notebook and start lettering the Hangul characters. Soyou appears, looking uncharacteristically mussed. Her usually tidy hair looks as if she’s run her fingers through it several times in frustration, and her skirt is askew. It’s the sign of a bad morning. I’ve been there, and if we were closer, I’d slide her a chocolate bar or maybe send her a funny gif, but we’re not, so I keep my hands and thoughts to myself. She shucks her slightly scuffed heels and shoves her feet into her office slippers—the ones most employees wear at their desks. When she slumps into her chair, her shirt pulls to one side, revealing a bruise on her collarbone. Strict Soyou making out with someone in the bathroom at IF Group strikes me as unusual, but it’s definitely a hickey. The security guards are sort of hot. Maybe she’s hooking up with one of them. Even so, I’m sure she would be mortified if she knew what she was revealing.
