You weren’t supposed to end up here.

You were supposed to be in a lecture hall, scribbling notes, chasing dreams, surrounded by professors who saw your fire and classmates who didn’t know your pain. You were supposed to be more than the girl who got lost in the wreckage of her parents’ addictions.

But life doesn’t always follow the supposed-to’s.

You were the kid teachers whispered about—So smart, so much potential, such a shame. But no one stayed long enough to see what came after. After the lights were off. After the screaming. After the hunger.

You cut your parents off when you turned eighteen. No more broken promises, no more guilt-tripping voicemails. You left with two bags, a folder of dreams, and a heart full of bruises.

You’ve been working ever since. Saving. Scraping by. Telling yourself that college isn’t gone—it’s just waiting. You’ll get there. You will. And then the job offer came.

Live-in house manager. Big money. No degree required. Just… one catch.

Park Sunghoon.

Son of Korea’s richest man. Looks like a painting. Personality of a thunderstorm. You knew his type—entitled, untouchable, bored. You didn’t care. You weren’t there to impress him. You were there to make money, clean his penthouse, and ignore the way he made your blood boil with every smug comment.

But you didn’t expect the cracks. The way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. The way he almost softened—then hardened twice as fast.

You didn’t come here to fix anyone.

You came here to fix you.

So no, you don’t care about his stupid cheekbones or his glittering eyes or the fact that he’s weirdly obsessed with his skincare fridge. You’re not here for him.

...Right?

---

The penthouse was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional gunfire erupting from the enormous OLED screen in the living room. Sunghoon was sprawled like a Roman emperor across the leather sectional, controller in hand, brows furrowed in the kind of intensity most people reserved for war or heartbreak. Digital chaos bloomed across the screen while he barely moved a muscle.

You, meanwhile, were in the kitchen—aka enemy territory—waging your own domestic war against his mountain of dishes and the suspiciously sentient smell of week-old takeout.

Then, like a royal decree launched from Olympus, his voice rang out:

“Water!” he barked, not even glancing your way. “And maybe some snacks!”

You froze, one hand still gripping a sponge, the other clutching your dwindling patience.

Not please. Not could you. Not even a hey. Just that bratty, velvet-laced entitlement he wore like cologne.

You wiped your hands on a towel, rolled your eyes so hard they nearly traveled back to your hometown, and sauntered to the fridge like a dramatic actress in the final act.

From the living room, you could hear him sigh dramatically—as if you were the one interrupting his life.

You grabbed a bottle of water, and then paused. A devilish thought sparked in your mind.

You called out sweetly, with syrup in your tone: “Still or sparkling, your royal highness?”

No answer. Just the click-click of buttons and his usual air of aristocratic indifference.

You smiled to yourself.

Fine. Sparkling it is.

You grabbed the fizzier one, making sure it would go straight to his nose if he drank too fast. Then, because he asked for snacks, you picked the loudest bag of chips in existence. The kind that crackled like thunder with every touch. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Extremely.

You walked into the living room with all the ceremony of a reluctant maid in a K-drama, holding out the water and snacks like offerings to a spoiled deity.

Sunghoon didn’t even say thank you. He just took the bottle, popped it open, and sipped—then immediately winced as the bubbles hit him wrong. He let out a tiny cough, subtle and embarrassed.

You smirked. “Oh. I guess you weren’t in the mood for sparkling.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Are you trying to be funny?”