Every woman on the floor had a problem. A tall, expensive, suit-wrapped wet dream named Mr Jay Park

CEO. Office crush. Global threat to self-control.

You could feel it in the air when he stepped out of the elevator—every female neck in the department did that synchronized swivel thing. Whispered sighs, fluffed hair, lipstick checks. Like clockwork.

And guess what? She had it worse. She worked under him—his personal secretary. Literally seated is his glass-walled room, typing emails while trying not to fantasize about what that jawline could do in poor lighting.

He walked past her desk, close enough to feel, far enough to miss—then paused.

“Coffee,” he said, barely glancing. “Black. No sugar.”