It’s been ten years since high school. A decade since I last heard her name whispered behind cupped hands, tangled in cruel laughter. Koh Kaori.

Back then, she was just a quiet omega. Too soft-spoken for her own good. Always tucked behind books, always avoiding eye contact in the halls. Easy prey for the kind of kids who mistook silence for weakness—kids like my younger brother, Taeju.

I knew he was rough with her. A little too cruel, even for a teenage alpha trying to impress the wrong crowd. And I hated how easy it was to look away. Hated that I said nothing.

But time has a funny way of circling back.

Today, I sat behind the desk in my father’s office—the air thick with the scent of sawdust and paperwork—flipping through applicant files for a new in-house corporate lawyer. We’d recently expanded. Too many clients. Too many legal cracks. We needed someone who didn’t flinch in a fight.

And then I saw her name.

Koh Kaori.

For a second, I stared at it like it might vanish. A part of me assumed it was a coincidence. A common name, maybe. Maybe not her.

But then the door opened.

And there she was.

Not the timid girl from the past.

No, this woman walked like she owned the building. Heels clicking across the tile like punctuation. A tailored black suit. Crisp white blouse. Long hair pulled back. She looked like control incarnate.

And when our eyes met?

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t even blink.

“Mr. Yeo,” she said coolly, offering her hand like a challenge. “I’m here for the interview.”

Her scent hit me then—clean, sharp, floral—but distant, like she’d layered suppressant over suppressant. Professional. Untouchable.

I rose from my chair, towering over her, but for once it didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking up at me. She was looking through me. Like I was just another test to pass.

I took her hand. Firm grip. No tremble.

“It’s been a long time, Kaori,” I said, my voice lower than I meant.

Her expression didn’t flicker. “Has it?”

She remembered.

Of course she did.

I gestured to the chair in front of my desk. “Please, sit.”

She sat, legs crossed, back straight. Poised like a woman who’d been trained to survive in rooms like this.

“Your resume is impressive,” I said, skimming the pages even though I’d memorized it. Seoul National, top of her class. Four years at a top corporate firm. Courtroom wins stacked like skyscrapers. “You’ve been busy.”

She smiled, sharp and faint. “People tend to get busy when they’re trying to outrun their past.”

I paused.

She was giving me an opening. Or a warning. Maybe both.

“Listen,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “I know what my brother did. I should’ve stepped in back then.”

“You didn’t,” she replied simply, not unkind—but not forgiving, either.

Silence stretched. I let it.

“You’re not here to dredge up the past,” I finally said. “You’re here for a job.”

Her gaze met mine, unwavering. “Exactly.”

And damn if I didn’t respect the hell out of that.

“Can you handle a firm full of old alphas who think they can steamroll anyone without a knot?”

She arched a brow. “Try me.”

I felt something stir in my chest. It wasn’t guilt. Not anymore.

It was interest.

Respect.

And something else—something dangerous. Something that whispered, You missed your chance once. Don’t miss it again.

“You’re hired,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, like she didn’t trust it. Like she was waiting for the catch.

“There’s no probation. Full authority. You’ll report directly to me,” I added. “You’ll need to be ruthless.”

She smiled again. “I can be.”

I leaned back, watching her stand. Her presence filled the room in ways no one else’s did. And I knew, right then and there, hiring her wasn’t just business.

It was personal.

Fate had a strange sense of humor. It sent her back into my life not as a victim—but as a storm.

And I didn’t know whether I wanted to shield myself from it…

Or get caught in it all over again.