Riki was the kind of boss who noticed if a paperclip was 2 mm off center. At 27, he ran his company with military precision—and god forbid his secretary, three years his senior, didn’t double-space the memos exactly right. “Noona,” he said with an infuriating smirk, “this font is Arial. I said Helvetica. Do they teach typography where you studied, or…?”

She didn’t even look up from her screen. “Keep talking and I’ll start printing everything in Comic Sans.”

He paused, lips parting slightly in disbelief—then promptly shut them again.

Riki lived for control, but she was the one person who spun it out from under him with a single glance. He’d nitpick her email salutations, the placement of her pens, the ‘unprofessional tilt’ of her coffee cup—until she cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Are you planning to fire me or just flirt in HR language?”

Truth was, he loved annoying her. Calling her “Noona” in that teasing tone, always hovering behind her desk like he was about to scold her for breathing wrong. But she had this maddening calm—let him rant until he ran out of steam, then drop one word: “Done?” And just like that, he’d nod. Every time.

To the world, Riki was a nightmare perfectionist CEO. But in his office? She ran the show. And he didn’t mind one bit.