Chapter 2: The Stalker in the Office
The scream was silent, trapped in the cavern of her chest. Rachel jolted awake, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic bird. For a disorienting second, she didn’t recognize the ceiling above her—it was low, painted a soft grey, not the vast, textured plaster of Micheol’s penthouse. The smell was different too: the faint, familiar scent of sandalwood incense from a stick burning on the windowsill, overlaying the cold city air seeping through a cracked pane.
She was in Yunari’s apartment. Her apartment. The memory of the previous night crashed over her in a hot, suffocating wave. The weight of Micheol on her, the taste of his mouth, the terrifying surrender of Yunari’s body to his touch. She curled onto her side, pulling the warm, downy comforter over her head, trying to hide from the ghost of his possession. The sheets here were soft cotton, not silk.
A buzz. Then another. A persistent, angry vibration from the nightstand. She reached out a hand, her fingers fumbling for the phone. The screen glowed fiercely in the dim light of the room. Seventeen missed calls. All from the same contact, saved under a single, chillingly simplistic emoji: a tiger.
Micheol.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She could almost feel his impatience radiating through the glass. Part of her, the part that was still Rachel, the reader, screamed to ignore it, to block the number, to change the locks. But another part, a deeper, more instinctual part that was learning to be Yunari, felt a cold knot of fear tighten in her stomach. This man didn’t take no for an answer. He saw people as possessions, and possessions didn’t get to wander off.
She threw the covers back and swung her legs out of bed. The floor was cool beneath her feet. The apartment was tiny, a single room with a kitchenette squeezed into one corner. It was neat, almost austere, a stark contrast to the decadent clutter of the penthouse. Posters for Tears of a Withered Flower and other series she recognized from her own world were tacked to the walls, the animated characters’ exaggerated smiles feeling mocking now. This was the life Yunari was so eager to escape. This was the life Micheol had promised to replace.
In the small bathroom, she faced the mirror again. Yunari’s face looked back, pale and drawn, shadows under her eyes. She looked young. So unbearably young. Nineteen. Rachel was twenty-seven. Those eight years felt like a chasm of experience she desperately needed to bridge right now. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it a small anchor to reality.
She dressed quickly in the kind of clothes she found in the closet—a simple black knee-length dress, elegant but understated. Armor. She ignored the seventeen missed calls and the three tersely worded texts that followed. “Where are you?” “Answer me.” “We need to talk.”
The boutique marketing firm where Yunari worked was a twenty-minute subway ride away. The case felt good in her hand—a tangible piece of a life that was supposed to be separate. She kept her head down on the train, avoiding eye contact, trying to blend into the morning commute. The normalcy of it was a lie. Nothing was normal.
The elevator in the sleek, anonymous office building smelled of disinfectant and anxiety. She pressed the button for the fifth floor, leaning against the mirrored wall, watching her reflection—Yunari’s reflection—pale and tense. The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Her desk was in a open-plan area near the back, next to a large window overlooking a narrow alley. And he was there.
Kang Micheol was leaning against her desk, one hand in the pocket of his impeccably tailored suit, the other holding a single, deep red rose. He was speaking quietly to her manager, Mr. Kim, who was nodding along obsequiously, a nervous smile plastered on his face. The entire office was pretending not to stare, but the air was thick with silent scrutiny.
Micheol’s eyes found hers the moment the elevator doors opened. His predator’s smile was in place, but his eyes were flat and cold, like chips of obsidian. He’d found her. Of course he had.
“Yunari,” he said, his voice smooth and carrying, cutting through the office hum. “There you are. I was getting worried.”
Mr. Kim practically bowed. “Mr. Kang was just inquiring after you. I’ll… leave you to it.” He scurried away, throwing her a look that was equal parts sympathy and warning.
Rachel’s feet felt rooted to the industrial carpet. She forced them to move, one in front of the other, walking the long gauntlet to her desk. The rose came into focus. It was perfect, velvety, its stem wrapped in a black silk ribbon. A cliché? Sure. But in his hand, it felt less like a romantic gesture and more like a marker, a brand.
“You left without saying goodbye,” he murmured when she was within earshot. His tone was intimate, meant only for her, but she knew everyone was listening.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She gestured vaguely toward her computer screen, a pointless attempt to normalize the situation. “I have a lot of work to catch up on.”
He ignored the hint, his gaze sweeping over her. “You look tired. You should have stayed. I would have taken care of you.” He extended the rose. “A small token. To brighten your day.”
She didn’t take it. The stillness stretched between them, becoming heavy, dangerous. The polite smile on his face didn’t flicker, but the temperature around them seemed to drop.
“Seventeen calls, Micheol,” she said, quietly, so only he could hear. “That’s not worry. That’s something else.”
A flicker of surprise, then annoyance, crossed his features. This wasn’t the script. Yunari was supposed to be flustered, apologetic, grateful for the attention. She was supposed to take the rose.
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You embarrassed me. Slipping out like a thief. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care?”
“I needed air,” she rebutted, meeting his gaze, drawing on every ounce of Rachel’s courage. “I needed to think.”
“Think about what?” The question was a trap.
She thought of the image on her phone. Na Hae-soo’s sad, elegant face. “About what we’re doing.”
His expression hardened completely then. The charming facade evaporated, leaving behind the raw, uncompromising man beneath. He placed the rose on her keyboard, the thorns catching on the keys. “We’ll talk about this tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven. Don’t be late.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the silent office. The rose lay on her desk, a bloody accusation. The scent of it, thick and sweet, clawed at the air. She could feel the eyes of her colleagues burning into her back, their judgments and whispers already beginning.
She reached out, her fingers trembling, and picked up the rose. The thorn pricked her thumb, a single bead of blood welling up. She looked at it, then at the retreating figure of Kang Micheol stepping into the elevator. He didn’t look back.
The elevator doors closed with a final, metallic thud. The office slowly returned to its manufactured buzz, but the atmosphere was charged, different. She was no longer just Yunari, the pretty young intern. She was Yunari, the girl with the powerful, angry lover.
Sitting down slowly, she opened a browser window on her computer. She clicked the search bar again, but this time, she didn’t type Na Hae-soo’s name. Instead, her fingers hesitated, then typed a different query, one born of a desperate, burgeoning plan: “Kang Corporation shareholder meeting,” followed by a date.
She wasn’t just going to wait for him to pick her up. If she was trapped in this story, she would need more than resolve. She would need leverage.
The sharp scent of the rose on her keyboard was cloying, an invasive sweetness that made her want to gag. She focused on the computer screen, the dry corporate language of Kang Corporation’s investor relations page a welcome anesthetic. She typed "Na Hae-soo" into the internal directory, her pulse quickening when a single result appeared: Head of Charitable Foundations, office on the tenth floor. So close.
Her thumb, where the thorn had pricked it, throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pulse. She brought it to her mouth absently, the metallic taste of blood a grounding tang on her tongue. And with it came an unwelcome surge of memory: the weight of his body, the specific scent of his skin, a feeling of terrifying completeness that had momentarily silenced every warning bell in her head.
This wasn't her memory. It was Yunari’s. But the ghost of the sensation was disarmingly potent, a deep, cellular pull that resonated beneath her disgust. It felt like love, or something her body had been conditioned to mistake for it.
“Rough morning?” Her coworker, Soo-jin, slid into the adjacent cubicle, her eyes flicking meaningfully to the rose. “Your… friend seems intense.”
Rachel forced a tight smile. “You have no idea.” She minimized the browser window, her face heating.
“The good ones always are,” Soo-jin sighed, not unkindly. “Just be careful, Yunari. Men like that, they’re used to getting what they want.” She gestured with her head toward the elevator. “And they don’t like it when things don’t go their way.”
The words were a perfect echo of her own fears. Yet, even as she nodded in agreement, a treacherous part of her argued. But he came here. He was worried. He brought a rose. The thought felt alien, a script implanted in her mind, and it frightened her more than his anger.
The workday blurred into a fog of pretend productivity. Each time her phone buzzed, her heart jackknifed. But it was only a notification from the manga app she’d subscribed to on Yunari’s phone. Tears of a Withered Flower, Chapter 43 Updated. She didn’t open it. Living it was horror enough.
At precisely five, she was the first to leave. The city air felt like a pardon. She walked quickly, not toward her apartment, but aimlessly, needing the anonymity of the crowd. The phantom sensation of his arm around her waist lingered, a ghost limb.
She found herself outside a small, quiet café and ordered a strong coffee. Sitting by the window, she watched people live their ordinary lives. She opened her phone again, this time searching for news articles about Na Hae-soo. There were few, mostly from society pages: a gallery opening, a charity auction. In every photo, Hae-soo’s smile was polished, impeccable, and utterly joyless.
A text message appeared, slicing through her research. The tiger emoji.
My driver is outside your apartment. 7 PM.
He hadn’t asked. He had informed. The bluntness of it should have solidified her resolve. Instead, that conflicted part of her uncoiled, a flutter of anticipation mixing with the dread. It was the same part that remembered how his annoyance in the office had quickly shifted to a desire to possess her again. The inconsistency was its own addictive drug.
She paid for her coffee and walked home, her steps slowing as she approached her building. A sleek black sedan was indeed idling at the curb, the driver standing patiently by the rear door. He nodded to her, his face a neutral mask. There was no escape.
Upstairs, her apartment felt like a stage set for a life that was no longer hers. What did one wear to a negotiation with a man who thought he owned you? She chose a simple navy-blue dress, something Rachel would wear. Armor.
At seven o’clock exactly, her phone buzzed. Come down.
She took a last look in the mirror. Yunari’s beautiful face stared back, a mask of apprehension. But beneath it, Rachel’s determination was a cold, hard stone. She unlocked her phone and pulled up the note she’d drafted. The time, date, and location of the Kang Corporation shareholders' meeting. A list of names from the board of directors. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
As she rode the elevator down, the dual currents within her intensified. The dread was a cold nausea. But the other feeling, the pull, was a low hum of anticipation, a deeply ingrained response to his presence that she despised. The doors opened to the lobby. The driver was holding the car door open.
The car door closed with a soft, final thud, sealing her in the scent of leather and his cologne. The driver slid into the front seat, his eyes meeting hers briefly in the rearview mirror before focusing on the road. The partition went up without a sound, isolating her in the luxurious silence.
She leaned her head against the cool window, watching the city lights smear into streaks of gold and white. Her thumb traced the edge of her phone, the draft note about the shareholders' meeting a secret shield against the panic rising in her chest. Every traffic light felt like a countdown.
The car glided to a smooth halt not at a restaurant, but in front of a modern, low-slung building she recognized from society pages. A private gallery. Of course. He wouldn’t choose some loud, public place where they might be overheard. This was a stage for controlled intimacy.
The driver opened her door, his hand a silent invitation into the night air. She stepped out, her heels clicking on the polished stone pathway. SHE GETS THERE.
The gallery was all cool marble and stark white walls, the air humming with a silent, expensive chill. It was a vacuum where sound died, each footstep echoing like a gunshot in the cavernous space. He stood before a massive canvas, a swirl of violent black and red strokes, as if waiting for her reflection to appear beside his in the polished concrete floor.
“You’re late.” His voice was calm, a flat line in the sterile quiet. He didn’t turn to look at her.
“The traffic was bad.” It was a weak defense, and they both knew it. Her words felt small, swallowed by the vastness of the room.
He finally turned, his eyes scanning her from head to toe, lingering for a moment on the simple lines of her dress. A slight, almost imperceptible frown touched his lips. He’d noticed she hadn’t worn something he’d chosen. “This piece,” he said, gesturing to the chaotic painting. “It lacks discipline. All emotion, no control.”
He motioned for her to follow him deeper into the gallery. “I had them open privately for us. I dislike distractions.”
“It’s a Tuesday night. How did you even manage that?”
“I manage everything, Yunari.” He stopped beside a smaller, delicate sculpture of a woman bent under an unseen weight. “That’s what you need to understand. When you left this morning, you created a complication. I don’t enjoy complications.”
A waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne on a tray. Micheol took both, handing one to her. His fingers brushed against hers, a deliberate, lingering touch. The memory of his skin against hers last night surged back, a visceral heat that contradicted the cold air. She took the glass but didn’t drink.
“Seventeen calls is more than a complication, Micheol. It’s… a lot.”
“It was necessary.” He sipped his champagne, his gaze fixed on the bent figure of the sculpture. “You were upset. I don’t like you being upset. It’s my job to fix things.”
“I don’t need you to fix me.” The words came out sharper than she intended.
He smiled then, a thin, knowing curve of his lips. “Don’t you?” He reached out and gently straightened the strap of her dress, his knuckles grazing her bare shoulder. A shiver, unbidden and unwelcome, raced down her spine. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold.”
“We can fix that.” He took her glass and placed both his and hers on a nearby pedestal. His hands enveloped hers, his warmth a shocking contrast to her chilled skin. “You think I’m a monster.”
She said nothing. Her silence was her answer.
“I’m not a monster, Yunari. I’m a realist.” He pulled her slightly closer, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her. “This world, it’s a system of balances. Of agreements. What I have with Hae-soo is one agreement. What I have with you is another. They are separate.”
“They’re not.” She tried to pull her hands back, but he held them fast. “They’re not separate at all. I saw her picture. I know what this is doing.”
His grip tightened. “You know nothing about it.” The pleasant facade vanished, his voice low and sharp. “You live in a world of fantasy, of stories. This is reality. My reality. And you are in it.”
He released her hands, leaving her skin feeling burned. He plucked the champagne flute from the pedestal and held it out to her again. This time, it felt like a command. “Now, we are going to have a pleasant evening. You are going to drink this, and we are going to look at art. And you are not going to mention my wife again.”
She looked at the bubbling liquid, then at his impassive face. The fizzing bubbles seemed to mirror the frantic energy inside her. This was the crux of it. To drink was to acquiesce, to step back into the role of the placated mistress. To refuse was a declaration of war.
Her thumb found the tiny, healing puncture from the rose’s thorn. The faint throb was an anchor.
She took the glass. She didn’t raise it to her lips.
Instead, she held his gaze and asked, “Is that part of our agreement? The one where I stop being a person with thoughts?”
A shock, pure and unadulterated, flashed in his eyes. It was there for only a second, replaced by a slow, dangerous calcification. No one talked to him like this. Especially not her. He took a step closer, invading her space, his body blocking out the rest of the gallery.
“You are testing limits I didn’t know you had.” His voice was barely a whisper, cold as the marble floor. “Be very careful.”
“Or what?” The words were out before she could stop them, a reckless challenge fueled by a mixture of terror and a strange, exhilarated freedom.
He didn’t answer with words. He simply looked at her, his expression a neutral mask that promised nothing good. The chill in the air no longer came from the air conditioning. It radiated from him. He turned and walked away, expecting her to follow.
She stood there, clutching the full glass of champagne. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She had drawn a line. And he was now on the other side of it, watching her, deciding what to do about this new, inconvenient version of her.
She placed the untouched glass back on the pedestal. The crystal clinked softly against the marble, a tiny sound of defiance in the crushing silence. He didn’t look back. He knew she was still there. He knew she would follow.
He didn’t look back, his stride confident as he moved toward a display of twisted metal sculptures. The air grew colder, or maybe it was just the ice in his demeanor seeping into her bones. She remained rooted, the untouched champagne flute a small monument to her defiance.
Her breath hitched, the sterile gallery air suddenly too thin. All the pent-up fear, the disgust at her own traitorous body, the memory of Hae-soo’s sad eyes, all coalesced into a tight, burning knot in her chest. The seventeen missed calls, the rose with its thorns, the weight of him in the penthouse—it all crashed down at once.
“I’m not doing this anymore,” she said, her voice trembling but loud enough to echo. Micheol stopped, turning slowly with an expression of cold curiosity. “I’m not going to continue this,” she yelled at him, the words tearing from her throat raw and sudden.
Tears welled, hot and embarrassing, spilling over before she could stop them. “I won’t be your second option, or your hidden secret you stash away in a penthouse.” She swiped at her cheeks, the salt tang sharp on her lips. “I love you, but I need to love myself more.”
The admission hung in the vast space, shattering the polished silence. He stared at her, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes held a terrifying stillness. She stood her ground, her entire body shaking with the force of her sobs.