I’ve dealt with a lot of messy situations in my life—debtors who beg, who threaten, who disappear with their lies tucked under their tongues. Construction delays. Clients screaming over concrete inches and steel beams. My father breathing down my neck with every project I take on, reminding me that being the eldest son means never being allowed to fail.

But none of that prepared me for the day she came crashing into my life—literally.

It was late. The kind of Seoul twilight where everything turns golden and the streets are too narrow for a car like mine. I’d just gotten off a brutal meeting, my phone buzzing nonstop with subcontractors’ complaints, and I was cutting through a side street near one of our sites, one hand on the wheel and the other shoving my tie loose.

And then— Out of nowhere— She stepped into the road.

I slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched. My car jolted to a stop, inches from her knees. She looked up, stunned, her hands flat on the hood like she had just caught herself mid-fall.

For a second, we just stared at each other—my heart pounding, her chest rising and falling like she’d just run a marathon.

And then she exploded.

“You—absolute jerk!” she shouted, storming to my window. “Do you know how close you were to hitting me?!”

I rolled down the window, more stunned than angry. “You were walking into traffic.”

“It’s a crosswalk!” she snapped, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing with fury. “Are your eyes decorative?”

My brows lifted. “Did you just say my eyes are decorative?”

“Yes!” she fumed, arms flailing. “What kind of alpha thinks he owns the road just because he drives a—” she squinted at the hood “—black imported overcompensation-mobile?”

My lips twitched.

“Are you always this dramatic or is it just near-death experiences that bring out the poetry?”

She stepped back, breathing hard, as if she realized for the first time that I was twice her size and still sitting behind the wheel. But she didn’t back down. Not even when I stepped out of the car, towering a full 197 cm over her 167. She barely reached my shoulder, but her presence crackled in the air like static.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I muttered, dusting a hand through my hair. “You okay?”

She hesitated. “No thanks to you.”

“Want me to call someone? A ride?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffed. “I don’t need saving. Just watch where you’re going next time, skyscraper.”

She turned on her heel and stormed off.

And for some goddamn reason, I couldn’t stop watching her go.

Who was she? That omega with a mouth sharper than rebar and eyes like they could see straight through me. She’d called me out without hesitation. No fluttering lashes, no scared little act. Just raw, unapologetic fire.

I got back in the car, still gripping the wheel like I was holding onto the moment.

And just when I thought it was over—like I’d just run into a wild spark in the dark, meant to flash once and vanish—my phone lit up with a message from HR.

“New assistant starting tomorrow. Please be nice.”

I stared at the name in the file they attached.

Koh Kaori.

And I laughed, a low, disbelieving sound in my throat.

Of course it was her.

Because fate has a sense of humor. And apparently, it likes to throw fiery omegas directly into the paths of exhausted, overworked alphas who are too used to getting their way.

Let’s see how long that lasts.