The Devil Wears Prada | 1
Summary: You're a recent college graduate with big dreams. Upon landing a job at prestigious Runway magazine, you finds herself the assistant to diabolical editor Jeon Jeongguk. Questioning your ability to survive his grim tour as Jeongguk's whipping girl without getting scorched.
Relationship: reader x editor/ceo?ish jeongguk
Tags: slow burn, kind of, jk is an asshole, well, more like miranda, romance, bits of angst kinda, smut (eventually)
Notes: I watched Devil Wears Prada a few days ago and remembered I had the book. Decided fuck it, I wanna create a universe where JK is Miranda. So, here's that? First portion follows book then steers off into my writing. I'm sure this has been written 100 times but it get's preeeeetty good.
WC: 29k (yep)
Status: On Going (4-5 Parts), also available on AO3
You knew nothing as you entered the infamous Jeon Publication’s building for your first interview. You had no idea that the city’s most well-known and connected socialists and media executives obsessed over every single detail the magazine had to offer. For the first time in your life, you were met with identical copies of the girls you saw on Instagram, and Pinterest. You had never seen a real pair of designer shoes in your life, shoes that you could bet cost more than your monthly rent.
You had never laid your eyes on such beautiful men. Perfectly toned— but not overly muscular, the type that resembled the male models you saw on magazine covers when you stood in a checkout line.
You check your phone, it was exactly eleven A.M. You stand in line to board the elevators, taking in a deep breath. The variety of women you encounter remind you of runway models: skinny and poised. Their lips never stopped moving, and their gossip was punctuated by the sound of their stilettos clacking on the floor. You were sporting an unflattering “guest” sticker on your thrifted black blazer as you boarded the elevator.
You allow yourself to relax for a moment during the swift, quiet ride. Deep, sultry, and most important of all— expensive perfume mixed with leather fills the metal box encompassing you all. The doors opened silently, reverently to a variety of stark white reception areas. All filled with chic furniture and slim bodies.
“I can’t believe he’s actually dating Suzy. She. Is. Such. A Bitch. I mean, really— how can he put up with her?” Chattered a twenty-something girl in a leather blazer and thigh high heels sprinkled with Louis-Vuitton symbols, looking more suited for a late night in Soho than a day at the office.
“I know. Total bitch. She’s not even that pretty,” agreed her friend, with an empathetic shake of her head.
By the will of whomever, you arrived at the sixteenth floor and the elevator slid open. You were on time. Interesting. If you’re comparing your potential work environment to an average day at a high school, that is. When you slither out the elevator, you’re presented with a sign that reads ‘Jeon Human Resources Office’ in glowing white letters.
The human resources receptionist eyes you carefully as you saunter closer to her desk. She introduces herself as Jennie and without another word she points toward a space encompassed by chairs and scattered magazines. You sit down, eyeing the pieces that are closest to you.
You look down at your cheap, mismatched suit and very wrong shoes and wonder why you even bothered. “So dear, you’re looking to break into magazines, are you?” The woman from the desk asked, eyeing the magazines beside you.
You nod, rubbing your sweaty palms against the rough texture of your worn out pants.
“Dear, can you tell me the name of the editor in chief of Runway?” She begins, looking pointedly at you for the first time since you sat down.
Nothing. Completely and totally blank, you couldn’t remember a thing. You’d never read an issue of Runway in your life. Who cared about fucking Runway besides supermodels and people who can flush one-hundred dollar bills in the toilet? It was a fashion magazine for fucksake, you weren’t even sure if it even had any writing in it at all.
You stammered for a brief moment, different names of editors you just forced yourself to remember moments ago all swirling in your head, dancing in mismatched pairs. Somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, you were sure you knew his name— after all, who didn’t? There was only one man as prominent in this industry as him.
“Uh, I can’t quite remember the name. But I know I know it, of course I know it.” Your hands flapped around in an attempt to make your words more believable. “I mean, everyone knows his name, I just, I can’t recall-“
The receptionist stared at you for a moment, her dark eyes fixated on your reddening face. “Jeon Jeongguk,” she near-whispered, with a mixture of reverence and fear. “His name is Jeon Jeongguk.”
Silence ensured. For what felt like hours, neither of you spoke, but then, Jennie must have made a decision to overlook your crucial fuckup. You didn’t know then that she was desperate, aching, to hire another assistant for Jeongguk. Desperate to stop him from calling her day and night, grilling her about potential candidates, schedules and quite literally everything else.
Jennie was tired, overworked, and desperate to find someone, anyone, who Jeongguk wouldn’t reject. And if that meant in the tiniest near-impossible possibility that you would get hired, it’s a chance she would take.
Jennie smiled tersely and told you that you were going to meet with Jeongguk’s two assistants. Two? Who needs two assistants?
“Yup,” she confirmed as if she read your thoughts with an exasperated look. “Of course Jeongguk needs two assistants. His current, senior assistant, Namjoon has been promoted to be Runway’s beauty editor, and Irene, the junior assistant, now has Namjoon’s old position. Which means, the junior position is open for someone!” Her pointer finger lightly poked your chest, “Someone like you.”
“Listen, __, I know you’re fresh out of college and probably not completely familiar with the inner workings of the magazine world.” She paused dramatically, searching for the right words to not offend you with. “But, I feel it’s my duty, my obligation to tell you what an incredibly magnificent opportunity this is. Jeon Jeongguk…”
She paused again, just as dramatically, as if she were mentally bowing to the man. “Jeon Jeongguk is single handedly the most influential person in the fashion industry, and, obviously, one of the most prominent magazine editors in the world.” She ecstatically flailed her arms around the office. “As you can clearly see.”
“The chance to work for him, to watch him edit and meet the famous writers and models, to help him achieve all he does each and every day, well, it’s a job million girls would die for.”
Jennie was now grinning ear to ear, her hands found their way into a death grip around your shoulders. “Not to mention, he’s gorgeous.” She finished her monologue with a wink, releasing you.
“Well- I mean, yes, it sounds wonderful.” You expressed, briefly wondering why Jennie was trying so diligently to talk you into something that a million other girls were apparently dying for. However, there wasn’t time to think about it. She picked up her phone and sang a few words, and within minutes she was escorting you to the elevators to begin your interviews with Jeongguk’s two assistants.
You were beginning to think Jennie was starting to sound a bit like a robot, but then came your meeting with Irene. You were now on the seventeenth floor, waiting in Runway’s unnervingly white reception area.
It took exactly forty five minutes, you were counting, before a tall, thin girl emerged from being one of the glass doors. A calf-length tight black skirt hung from her hips, and her long black hair was curled and completed with a pearled pin that read ‘Dior’ attached near her temple. Her skin was flawless, even from where you were sitting you could tell there wasn’t as much as a single blemish on it. She didn’t smile.
She sat beside you, looking you over, earnestly but with little actual interest. Then, unprompted, whom you presumed to be Irene launched into a description of the job. Her voice monotone as if she’s gone through this a dozen times already. As if she had little faith that you were any different from the rest, and as a result wasn’t planning on wasting much time on you.
“It’ll be hard, no doubt about it. There will be fourteen-hour days, you know— not often, but often enough,” she rattled on, not looking at you. “Plus, it’ll be important for you to understand there will be no editorial work. As Jeongguk’s junior assistant, your only responsibility is to accommodate his needs. From ordering his favorite coffee to going on shopping trips with him. Which are, always fun. I mean, you’ll get to spent time with this marvelous and gorgeous man. And gorgeous he is,” she breathed, looking as if she was in a daze, staring at the ceiling in awe.
“Sounds great,” You said and meant it. Half of your friends immediately began working after graduation and had already clocked in half a years worth into their entry-level jobs. It didn’t matter what they were doing, banks, advertising firms, it all sounded like shit to you. And on the slim chance they had free time to meet up all they would do is whine about their long days, their coworkers, and above all, their utter boredom.
While you weren’t particularly ecstatic about fashion, you’d rather do something you loosely deemed “fun” than get sucked into the life all your friends were dealing with.
“Yeah, it is great. Like really great. Anyway, nice to meet you. I’ll get Namjoon for you to meet, he’s amazing.” As quickly as she finished and departed behind the glass, another figure appeared.
The striking man introduced himself as Namjoon, Jeongguk’s senior assistant who’d just been promoted. But you couldn’t focus at all, why did everyone who worked here look like supermodels? Namjoon was wearing a tailored black suit, from the shirt underneath to the blazer that hugged his muscles as if it was destined for him. His dyed-grey hair was parted to the side, combed but not completely slicked down with gel. Black rimmed glasses that had ‘Prada’ engraved onto the side of them rested on his soft nose bridge. To say you were in awe of the man was an understatement.
“I’m Namjoon, as you’ve probably already been told,” he started, pushing his glasses upwards with his middle finger. “Nice to meet you, I was just promoted to an editor position, which is one of the bonuses of working for Jeongguk.” Namjoon’s lip quirked up, eyes bright with adoration.
“Don’t get me wrong, the hours are long, and the work is tough, but Jeongguk is amazing. You’ll get to skip years and years of working your way up the ladder with just one year for him; if you’re talented, he’ll send you straight to the top.” Namjoon rambled on. You were beginning to get the impression that everyone here had a hard on for Jeongguk.
“We probably won’t see each other often, but, feel free to stop by my office if you need any assistance.” His eyes loosely scanned over your attire, not in a demonizing way but with pity?
When Namjoon wrapped things up he went to notify yet another interviewer. So what if you didn’t know who Jeon Jeongguk was? Everyone else certainly seemed impressed enough. You figured having the prestige of Runway on your resume was sure to give you more than enough credibility when you eventually applied to work for other companies. Besides, weren’t millions of girls dying to get this job?
After another half an hour of ruminations, a slender woman came into the reception area. She said her name, but it didn’t register in your brain. You were busy trying to process the abundance of information that's been lodged in your brain within these few hours.
After another look-over, the girl led you to Kim Taehyung’s office, Runway’s executive editor and an office favorite, apparently. Your first thought upon meeting Taehyung was— why was he working in an editorial magazine when he could very clearly be on the actual Runway. He was tanned, brown hair covering his eyebrows, yet, his face didn’t lose it’s expressiveness. Taehyung sported a deep crimson suit with a white button up underneath, and a black vest on top of it.
Taehyung talked to you for hours. When you weren’t busy drooling over how gorgeous he was, you listened to what he was saying. Taehyung seemed like he genuinely loved his job, excitedly speaking about the “word” aspect of the magazine.
“I know it's surprising but, I have nothing to do with the fashion side of this place,” he declared proudly, winking at you, “crazy I know. So, save those questions for someone else.”
When you told him this job sounded appealing, and that you had no particular interest or any background in fashion, Taehyung’s smile only grew wider. “In that case, __. You might just be what we need around here. I think it’s time for you to meet Jeongguk, and if I may offer a piece of advice? Look him straight in the fucking eye and sell yourself. Sell yourself hard and he’ll respect you.”
Taehyung bent forward, “Jeongguk is hard to please, but he respects honesty. Just make sure you don’t pass out, he has that affect on people.”
As if on cue, the nameless girl from before swept in and escorted you to Jeongguk’s office. It was exactly a forty-second-walk from Taehyung’s, but you could sense all the eyes on you. They peered at you from behind the frosted glass of the editors’ office and from the open space of the assistants’ cubicles. You didn’t want to imagine what they were thinking of you. How you had the balls to saunter into the worlds most prestige fashion magazine’s building in your thrifted, non-designer clothes: expecting to be hired.
And then you were standing in his office, a wide-open space of huge windows and bright light encompassing it. No other details made an impression that day; you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.
You’d never seen a picture of Jeon Jeongguk, you didn’t know he even existed till a couple hours ago. But, fuck, was he a looker. Jeongguk was wearing an off-white cream colored suit. Unlike Namjoon, who had a vest and tie underneath, Jeongguk wore a button-up that matched the color of his blazer exactly, no vest or tie in sight.
The first two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, leaving glistening collar bones for you to ogle at. A variety of rings covered his hands, you noted briefly that his right hand was covered in what appeared like tattoos. When your eyes moved upward, you sharply breathed in.
Jeongguk’s hair was jet black, parted similarly to Namjoon’s, but much longer. His bangs were curved, giving the appearance of volume in his hair. While the other side was slicked back, tucked behind a pierced ear. Is that an eyebrow and lip piercing?
Jeon Jeongguk was fucking gorgeous, and that was putting it lightly.
He had turned his heard upward to look you in the eye, but he did not stand to greet you. Jeongguk did not smile, and your brain was finally beginning to register why Taehyung warned you to not pass out in his presence.
Jeongguk’s eyebrows were lightly knitted, and that’s when you noticed: he was staring at you, intently, mentally noting your mortifying attempt at grace with what seemed like amusement. Condescending and awkward, yes, but, not, particularly mean-spirited. He spoke first.
“Who are you?”
Your name stammered out of your mouth.
“And what brings you to Runway, __?” He asked, dragging out the ending syllables of your name, never taking his eyes away from yours.
“Well,” you stammered, awkwardly moving your legs to cross the other, “I interviewed with Jennie and she told me that you’re looking for an assistant.” You began, voice shaky. When he nodded, your confidence increased slightly. “And now, after meeting with Irene, Namjoon, and Taehyung, I feel like I have a clear understanding of what you’re looking for in an assistant, I’m confident I’ll be perfect for the job.” Jeongguk looked amused for a moment but continued to seem unfazed.
It was in this exact moment you realized you desperately wanted this job, in the way people yearn for things they know are unattainable. It might not be law or doctoral school, but fuck, it felt like a challenge— a real challenge. Because you were an imposter here, you knew you didn’t belong, had known that from the moment you stepped onto the Runway floor.
“Yet, you don’t read Runway?” Jeongguk leaned over his desk, peering at you even more intently than before.
“No.”
“And before today, you had never heard of me?”
You bit your lip, the confidence you boasted minutes ago diminishing into nothingness. He had set you up with the first question, elevating your confidence just to crush it with the reality that you were nothing more than a phony.
“Uh, well, no.”
“And you have no style or sense of fashion.” Jeongguk was no longer looking in your direction, eyes focused back on whatever catalog he was looking at before you barged into his office.
“Well— that depends on-“
“That wasn’t a question.” Jeongguk’s eyes bounced from the model on the paper to you, then back to
the paper.
“As I said before, I’m confident that I can be-“
Jeongguk released the magazine from his fingers, letting one side flap back onto the desk. He widened his legs and leaned back into his chair, elbow resting on the arm rest. He then raised his pointer and middle fingers in the air, and with an unchanged expression, he spoke, “That’ll be all.”
You blinked, mind drawing a blank. Did he just kick me out? That easily? That’s it? You lightly scoffed, taking one last good look at Jeongguk before turning around, heading for the door. What a fucking asshole. Sure, you didn’t fit in. Fuck, you really didn’t fit in. But, to not give you a chance? You just wasted god knows how many hours talking to everyone around here, essentially being taught how to work the damn job before you even got it. Just for him to dismiss you like a piece of lint on his designer suit.
You stop. Might as well give him a piece of my fucking mind.
“Listen, you’re right. I don’t fit in here. I’m not glamorous, covered in designer from head to toe. Fuck, I bought this watch off of Depop.” You lift your arm, pointing at the Seiko watch you haggled off a teenager on Depop. “And as you’ve so generously mentioned, I clearly don’t know anything about fashion.”
You take a hesitant step forward, this is depressing. You were begging at this point, for an ounce of recognition from a man you knew nothing of hours ago. From a fucking stranger. “But, I’m smart. I learn fast and if you hire me, I will work hard.”
Jeongguk doesn’t respond, but you notice the quirk in his brow. His eyes dismiss you when you hear a voice drawing closer from the hall.
“Jeongguk, we got the exclusive on the red silk for Seokjin, the piece with the huge feathered arm.”
You don’t hear the remainder of the unknown person's sentence because you bolted through Jeongguk’s glass doors and toward the elevator without a glance back.
What the fuck?
“Hello?” You mumbled, glancing at the clock beside your bed and seeing it was 7:15 A.M. Who the hell calls at this hour? On a fucking Saturday, nonetheless.
“__, Good morning! I hope I’m not calling you too early,” Jennie, who’s voice you recognized immediately, sang. Voice full of sunshine, as if she’d been up for hours. Which she probably was.
“Anyways, I’m sure I didn’t. Especially since you’ll have to be an extra early bird soon enough! I have some amazing news for you, though. Jeongguk was very impressed with you and he even said he’s looking forward to working with you. Isn’t that just wonderful? How does it feel to be Jeon Jeongguk’s new personal assistant? Remember how many girls would die-“
Your head spun, you’ve been up for— you glance at the clock: 7:18 A.M. You’ve been up for exactly three minutes and somehow within that time frame you’ve become Jeongguk’s new assistant. You make a sad excuse of trying to lift yourself up from the bed, hoping it might clear your head and turn Jennie’s words back into English. Instead, you slam your head against your very firm pillow, groaning once you’ve made contact with the hard surface.
Was she asking if you’d like the job? Or officially declaring it as if you have no other choice but to accept it. You couldn’t make any sense of anything she said, anything besides the fact that Jeon Jeongguk liked you. Liked you of all the who knows how many people that have tried to get the job, people who might actually know something about fashion.
“—for. Never forget that! Um, this should mean that you’re ready to start Monday morning, right? Jeongguk will be away on vacation then, so it should be a great time for you to start. You’ll have time to get to know everyone and how everything around here works! They’re all amazing, so, don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll all love you!” Acquainted? Wasn’t Jeongguk here just yesterday? What? Starting Monday? Everyone will love me?
“Um, well-“ You walked through Jeon Production’s yesterday and you were awakened from a deep sleep not even a full twenty-four hours later to be told you’re expected at work on Monday. It was Saturday— legally, was this even fucking legal? Did Jennie have to call you on a weekend, and at seven o’clock in the goddamn morning? Why the rush? What was so important about Jeon Jeongguk that he needed you this badly, this soon? And why was Jennie scared-shitless of him?
“—I think Monday will-“
“Perfect! I’ll see you then!”
Jennie hung up, leaving you with a bruised forehead and a new fucking job. A whole new job. Not only a new job, but the job. A year is all you need, you’ll whoo Jeongguk and force him to send you in Namjoon’s words “straight to the top” and the hell away from the fashion world.
You throw your phone into an unspecified direction, hoping it doesn’t flop onto the ground and crack. You had two days before you started working. That’s it— just two. You frown, you hadn’t actually accepted the job, not officially at least.
Jennie never uttered the words “We’d like to make you an offer,” she’d prematurely assumed you’d happily accept the offer. She didn’t even mention the word “salary.” You almost laughed out loud. Was this some sort of fear mongering they’d perfected? Wait until the next Jeongguk victim is finally in deep sleep and then throw them some life-changing news? Or, did she really just assume anyone would accept an offer at Runway, regardless of negotiating salary or anything else, matter of fact?
Jennie just concluded you’d jump all over the chance, be ecstatic for the opportunity. As you’ve already heard a million times, a job millions of girls would and are apparently dying for. And, as they always were at Jeon Publication, she was fucking right. You had no time to debate and ponder what your salary would be, this was once in a life-time opportunity and you would have to be nuts to turn it down. You were one year away from your dream job. You had to take this. Fight all odds and grab that fucker by his Runway balls.
You push the revolving door to enter the Jeon Publication’s building, the lobby glowing behind the glass doors in the early-morning darkness. For a brief moment, it even looked warm and inviting. Needless to say, the revolving door fights you on your way in, not budging as you try to push it with your hand.
Harder and harder you push, until eventually your entire body is very ungracefully pressed against the glass. The door finally gives, sliding slowly at first, tricking you into pressing more weight against it. It then picks up momentum, the glass beneath you whipped around, hitting you from behind and forcing you to trip over the only pair of stilettos that you own.
The man behind the security desk laughed.
“Lighten up princess! Not the first time I've seen that happen, and won’t be the last,” he chuckled, bald head glistening against the lamps mounted on the walls. “They get ya’ good here.”
You look at the bald fucker, deciding in that moment you hate him, hoping that one of those lamps falls off the wall and slams against his head. You smile anyway.
“I’’m, __.” You unwrap your scarf, placing it into your hands. “Today’s my first day at Runway. Jeon Jeongguk’s new assistant.”
“Oh shit!” He roared, throwing his head back in fits of laughter. “I’m so sorry for you! Damn! Hey, Rob, check this out. Pretty girl over here is one of Jeongguk’s new Runway bimbos! Where you from, girl, bein’ all fuckin’ friendly n’ shit? He’ll fuckin’ eat you alive.”
Before you could take the bell that rested on the counter and slam it against his hideous face, a bulky man wearing an identical uniform came over and looked you up and down. You fully expected him to join his idiotic co-worker’s rage of laughter, but it didn’t come. Instead, he turned his kind face to yours and looked you in the eyes.
“Ignore that old shit, I’m Jongin and that’s Shonwu,” he motioned to the first man, who looked annoyed that Soobin acted like a decent human being. “He’s just mad that no one believed in his stupid modeling company, so, don’t pay him no mind.” Soobin picked up a sign-in book from behind the desk, “Just fill this stuff out and I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Don’t forget to tell ‘em you need a card with a picture from HR.”
You nodded, taking the sign-in book from Jonghin. “Good luck today, you’ll need it.”
You were too nervous to ask him to explain, besides, you did your research. You spent the entirety of the weekend researching your new boss.
You googled his name and was bombarded with thousands upon thousands of search results. Jeon Jeongguk, twenty-six, born in Busan, South Korea. Moved to the Upper East Side of New York when he was six. His family unlike many immigrant ones, were fucking loaded. His brother, Jung-hyun was heir to the family company— a manufacturing company that was conveniently located in Manhattan.
His mother, much to your surprise, was a superstar of the high-end fashion world. She designed for countless companies: Prada, Chanel, Dior, Hermes, you name it and she fucking designed it. That however, didn’t guarantee a position as the chief editor of Runway. No. Jeongguk apparently had to work for that title.
Jeongguk graduated high school and completely avoided college, heading straight to take a job as an assistant for an up and coming French designer. He aided him in helping him put his shows together each season. After a few years, and possibly some help from his mother, Jeongguk finally began to make a name for himself. Not a lingering title of being thee Jeon Hayoon’s son, but his own title.
Jeongguk rose quickly, ruthlessly, through the ranks of the magazine world. Unlike women, riveting men in the magazine world were nearly extinct. You pair that with a gorgeous face and an even more brilliant mind— Jeongguk was one of a kind.
He spent seven years at French Runway before Clarke transferred him to the number-one spot at American Runway, the ultimate achievement. Jeongguk eventually took over the entirety of the building, renaming it “Jeon Production’s” one year later.
Fortunately, you had three days before Jeongguk would return from his vacation at Jeju. Meaning your ass was safe for the next few days while you got a grip of the job. You signed your name into Soobin’s book and buzzed through the turnstiles for the very first time. “Good luck!” Soobin called after you, just before the elevator doors swiftly closed shut.
Upon your arrival you noticed Irene looked— different. She wore a wrinkled and sloppy white T-shirt and black cargo pants as she waited for you in the reception area. She clutched her Starbucks with a death grip, causing you to momentarily wonder how the paper cup hasn’t caved in half yet. She flipped through a new December issue. Her high heels planted against the glass off the coffee table, a black Aerie bra peeking through the completely transparent of her shirt. Lipstick smeared around her mouth by the coffee cup, and uncombed, straight hair spilled over her shoulders. You almost didn’t recognize the Irene you saw on Friday morning.
“Hey, good to see you,” she muttered, giving you your first official up-down look-over by someone other than the bald-fucker at the security desk. “Nice shirt.”
Your heart surged, fluttering at the comment. Was she serious? Or sarcastic? Her monotone voice made it impossible to tell. While you weren’t stalking Jeongguk during the weekend, you scavenged your entire closet and picked out the best it had to offer. This sweater was your first choice. You prayed that she wouldn’t notice the hole you stitched up yesterday.
Irene looked at you for a moment longer, squinting her eyes and pursing her lips as if she hadn't finished her full Runway critique of your outfit. She then swung her feet off the table and sighed dramatically.
“Let’s get to it. You’re lucky he’s not here,” she added in what you would soon recognize- and come to adopt yourself- as the Jeongguk Panic Marathon. When someone says anything bad about Jeongguk—however justified— paranoia that Jeongguk would find out overwhelms the speaker and an expression that can only be explained as ‘I’m about to shit myself’ reflects on the face.
Irene slid her card through the electronic reader, you walked side by side in silence, winding through the many hallways to the center of the floor, where Jeongguk’s— and yours— office were located. You watched Irene toss her bag and coat onto one of the desks that sat outside of Jeongguk’s ghostly office.
“This is your desk, obviously,” Irene motioned to a smooth, white, L-shaped desk that sat opposite of hers. It had a white iMac computer, a phone, and some pens and paper clips on top of it. “Most of my stuff is still there, since it’s easier for me to order new stuff for myself.
Irene went on a rambling spree, explaining to you that the three-year assistant program she— and you— were completing would guarantee a spot in the fashion world. You hoped that one year would be enough before you’d be able to get the fuck out of here. Irene proceeded to also explain that Namjoon had already left his old office area for his new post in the editor department, where he was responsible for receiving the test samples for makeup, moisturizers and then writing documents on them.
The rest of the staff started to swarm in at around nine-thirty. The biggest department was in fashion, of-course. Nearly everyone stopped by Jeongguk’s office today, to gossip with Irene, overhear any new gossip dealing with Jeongguk, and most obvious of all— check out the new assistant.
Within an hour you had met dozens of people, everyone flashing enormous, toothy white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in meeting you. Whether that was because you didn’t belong— positively or negatively, was for you to find out. You didn’t know Runway had so many men working for it. That being said, you also didn’t know your boss was a man either so there went all your expectations.
The art director, Min Yoongi, had come in a black suit topped off with a skirt that rested on top of his pants. It was your first time seeing a skirt so fabulously pulled off with a blazer and pants, and fabulously did he pull it off.
Everyone looked nearly twenty-four, and only few looked over a day over thirty. For the first time in your life had you seen so many elegant and beautiful human beings. Collectively, the entirety of the staff was mind-blowing. Men and women alike wore heels, or heeled boots, gracefully sashaying over to your desk with manicured fingers. You were overwhelmed, in the best way possible.
You’d genuinely enjoyed meeting all your coworkers: everyone appeared sweet and genuinely interested in what you had to offer. Irene had stood by your side, seizing every opportunity to teach you a thing or two about whatever topic was at hand. Quickly going over who was really important, who to ignore, who to not piss off, who Jeongguk knew personally, who was worth befriending. When you brought up Yoongi, Irene’s face lit up.
“Oh!” she breathed, more excited than any conversation you two have yet had. “Isn’t he amazing?”
“Yeah! I’d never seen a skirt styled in that way, he pulled it off well.”
Irene smiled widely, “Well, you do know who he is, don’t you?”
You wracked your brain, trying to remember if your weekend research hunt would pinpoint something, anything. He had to be famous, or somewhat important for Irene to ask you if you knew who he was. “Uh, no clue. Is he famous?”
Irene blinked slowly, raising her eyebrows in disbelief or disgust, you couldn’t tell. “Duh,” she emphasized, tilting her head forward. “That's Min Yoongi.” She waited. You waited. You looked around. Nothing. “You know who he is, right?” You frown, shrugging your shoulders and shaking your head.
“He’s one of the most famous art directors in the world, not to mention, one of Jeongguk’s actual friends. Isn’t that crazy? He knows Jeongguk behind closed doors?” She turns her head, leaning against your desk in a dream-like state.
You answered a few phone calls with a repeating “Jeon Jeongguk’s office,” and both you and Irene were worried that Jeongguk might make an appearance and call himself. Panic set in on your eighth call of the day.
“Jeon Jeongguk’s office.”
“Babe— do you have-“
“__, are you enjoying your first day?” A deep, rough voice asked. Your heart hammered against your chest, Jeongguk sounded like he just awoke from a nap. He sounded—
“I’ll be needing a new suit.”
You cupped a hand over the receiver and went still, “Irene, it’s him.” You waved the receiver in the air, hoping it would get her attention. “He needs a suit!”
Irene turned to see your panicked face and grabbed the receiver, hanging up without a mere “goodbye”. She pressed a button to switch Jeongguk to her line and walked back over to her desk with a triumphant stance.
“Jeongguk, it’s Irene. What can I do?” She grabbed her iPhone, waving it in the air until the face ID unlocked and opened what you presumed to be the notes app. “Yes, of course. Do you want us to pick up Suzy’s skirt too? Great! Chao!”
She hung up the call and turned back to face you, rolling her eyes at you. “Looks like you have your first job, cupcake. Jeongguk needs a suit for some banquet tomorrow. I’ll cover his girlfriend's skirt.” She turned around, resting her elbows on the surface of her desk as she rummaged through her phone some more.
“By the way, we need it on his plane by tonight.” Irene added, looking over her shoulder momentarily.
“Um, well, what kind of suit?”
“He didn’t say exactly,” Irene dropped her phone onto her desk and grabbed the receiver once more, dialing a new number.
“Hobi, hey sweets, it’s me. He wants a suit and a skirt for Suzy and I need it all on his jet by tonight. How the fuck would I know? No clue. Yeah, whatever, see you later, thanks.” She turned to you, “Suzy can be annoying about her skirts, so leave that to me. Jeongguk didn’t specify what he wanted so I’ll choose that too. He only likes a handful of suit brands so we won’t have to worry too much, I know his taste well enough to predict what he’ll want. By the way, that was Hoseok from the fashion department, also one of Jeongguk’s personal friends. He’ll call a lot, so get used to it.”
You were beyond surprised to find out getting Jeongguk a suit for personal use was a grander operation than any heist you played in GTA. You or Irene would call about fifteen different fashion assistants, all of which were connected to different luxury brands and designers. They would immediately begin calling all their contacts and tell them that Jeon Jeongguk— yes, thee Jeon Jeongguk, was looking for a very specific item.
Then, within minutes, everyone on the fucking planet that worked at Armani, Chanel, Prada, Versace, Dolce Gabbana and quite literally every other brand would send over whatever they had in stock in hopes that Jeon Jeongguk would find it bearable. This was even more entertaining to watch unfold than the Jeongguk Panic Marathon.
That became a daily occurrence, one where Jeongguk would call about something specific and Irene would send you off to pick up a few things. Once you got the hang of how things around here worked, the days flew by.
On your way back from picking up one of Jeongguk’s Rolex watches, you asked the driver to pull over at a cafe and decided at the last minute to get him a croissant and your favorite laté. His eyes widened when you handed him the croissant and latte, leaving you to wonder if the gesture made him uncomfortable.
“Kinda figured you might be hungry, too.” You said, “You drive around all day, probably don’t have time to get lunch for yourself.”
The driver, who’s name you learn is Sihyuk, eyes you from the rear-view mirror, his eyes glistening. “Thank you, I appreciate it. I’ve been driving the Jeon girls for years and they’re not the most pleasant of the bunch. You, on the other hand, are very nice,” he said, lifting his late in the air with a smile.
You frown at the thought of the other girls treating him rudely, but, the moment passed when you both munch on your croissants and listen to a Korean song Si-Hyuk played through the radio.
"Listen, you know Runway, right? The fashion magazine? He's the editor in chief." You groaned into the phone, rubbing your palm against your forehead hoping it'll stop you from throwing the damn thing at the wall.
"Ah yes, I know which one! One with all celebrity gossip right? Did you hear Dolly Parton—"
"No, no. Not that— it's a fashion magazine. With, y'know, fashion?" You sighed. "Anyway, it's J-E-O-N, yes, Jeongguk. Well, if you could get back to me, soon, I'd appreciate it." Almost like I'd appreciate not getting fired.
It was Friday morning, meaning you only had one day left before you were whisked away by the freedom of the weekend and away from the nightmare that consisted of your new job. You had been trying to convince the curator at Christie's that Jeon Jeongguk was someone very, very important. Someone important enough to bend the rules of an upcoming private auction.
Suzy wanted a specific piece from an upcoming Christie's auction, a rare vintage Hermès Kelly bag that had belonged to Grace Kelly herself. The auction wasn't for another month, and it was strictly invitation-only for their most elite clients. More impossibly, pre-bidding had already closed. The bag was estimated to sell for over $500,000, and Suzy had apparently seen it in a private viewing and "simply had to have it" for an upcoming charity gala.
Your mind couldn't even wrap itself around why anyone would spend that much on a handbag, or why it had to be this specific one. For all you knew, Hermès could make her a brand new one that looked exactly the same. But no, it had to be this exact bag, with this exact provenance, and it had to be ready before the auction date.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the phone. You picked it up with the same indifference that Irene had trusted you to speak to Jeongguk with.
“Hello? I don’t like to be kept waiting, __.” You almost jumped out of your seat the moment you heard him pronounce your name. You tried to calm yourself because Jeongguk was in another country, halfway across the world.
“I don’t understand why it takes you so long to speak after answering the phone,” he stated. “In case you haven’t noticed, Princess. When I call, you answer. Then, you respond. It’s pretty simple. See? I call. You answer. Do you think you can handle that, __?” Jeongguk’s voice was gravely, has it always been this deep?
You nodded like a three-year old who had just been yelled at for throwing a temper tantrum, even though Jeongguk couldn’t see you. “Yes, Jeongguk. I’m sorry,” you said softly. You were sorry. In that moment, that is. Sorry that you hadn’t spoken up sooner, sorry that you were a human being with feelings. Sorry that you constantly forget, even though you’re constantly reminded, Jeongguk’s time is more important than your own.
“Good, girl.” Your throat dries at his words. Is this even appropriate? Is he allowed to say— “Now after wasting all my time, can we begin? Did you confirm my reservation with Seokjin?”
“Yes, you have an appointment with him at Soho at two-thirty.”
“Mm, alright. And dinner with Suzy?”
"Good, girl." Your throat dries at his words. Is this even appropriate? Is he allowed to say— "Now after wasting all my time, can we begin? Did you get any progress on the Kelly bag?"
"I— I've been trying to reach Christie's but—"
"But what, __?" His voice dropped even lower, if that was possible. You could hear rustling in the background, the sound of what you imagined to be him leaning back in his chair. Waiting. Always fucking waiting for you to disappoint him.
"They won't bend on the auction rules. Not even for—"
"Not even for me?" He cut you off again, this time with what sounded like amusement. You couldn't tell if it was directed at your incompetence or the audacity of Christie's to deny him. "Do you know why Suzy wants that bag, __?"
You swallowed hard. "Because... because it belonged to Grace Kelly?"
A dark chuckle echoed through the receiver. "No.. She wants it because I told her she couldn't have it." There was a pause, the kind that made your skin crawl. "And now you're telling me the same thing?"
"Jeongguk, I—"
"I don't want excuses. I want that fucking bag." His voice had taken on an edge you'd never heard before. "You have until Monday. And, __?"
Your hands were trembling. "Yes?"
"When I land tomorrow, I expect you to have better news for me. Do you understand what happens if you don't?"
You didn't respond. You couldn't.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, Jeongguk. I understand."
"Good." The line went dead, leaving you with nothing but the sound of your heart threatening to burst through your chest and the impossible task of acquiring an unavailable half-million dollar handbag in less than 72 hours.
Fuck.
The weekend was so close. The freedom of binge-watching Love is Blind on Netflix for twenty-four-hours straight without a certain someone nagging into your ear. Freedom to throw your new— iPhone 15 Pro— somewhere far, far away from you without the constant worry of a phone call that could determine the entirety of your career.
You could no longer bear the fourteen-hour workdays. Your feet, upper arms, and lower back, parts of your body you weren't even aware could ache have finally began to register the pain of slaving away for the sake of fashion.
The glasses you've worn all your life had been replaced with contacts. You'd begun to lose weight too. Something was in the air, you supposed, or perhaps it might have something to do with the fact that food was shunned in the office. Not to mention, you've already weathered a nasty sinus infection, and it has only been four weeks. You're only twenty-three for fucksake. And now this— this impossible fucking task.
To top it all off, Jeongguk called this morning. It took him a brief five seconds before he began to outline exactly what he wanted— what he demanded. And it took you twenty seconds to register what the fuck he was trying to say.
You learned quickly that in Jeon Jeongguk's world, it was better to do something wrong and spend a great deal of time and money to fix it rather than to admit you didn't understand his rushed and incoherent instructions and ask for clarification.
So, when he mumbled something about getting the Kelly bag for Christie's and having it sent to Paris before the auction, intuition alone told you this was going to interfere with your sweet, sweet, weekend. When he hung up abruptly minutes later, you looked to Irene with panic.
"What, what the hell did he say?" You moaned, slouching against your office chair, hating yourself for being too scared to ask Jeongguk to repeat himself. "Why can't I understand a single word that man utters? It's not me, Irene. I speak English, I have for the past twenty-three years. I know he does this to personally drive me crazy."
Irene looked at you with her usual mix of disgust and pity. "The exact vintage Kelly bag that belonged to Grace Kelly herself is going up for auction at Christie's next month. Suzy saw it at a private viewing and now she has to have it for some charity gala," she summed up coldly, daring you to comment on the ridiculousness of the instructions. You were reminded, once again, that Irene would do anything— really, anything— if Jeongguk so much as uttered the words. You rolled your eyes and didn't say anything.
You decided at that moment you were not going to sacrifice a single second of Love is Blind to do his bidding. You had an unlimited amount of money and power (his) at your personal disposal. Thus, you spent the rest of the day arranging for Christie's to bend their rules.
First, a call to Margaret Chen, Christie's head of private sales. You'd done your research— every fashion magazine had covered the upcoming auction, dubbing it "The Sale of the Century." More importantly, you'd discovered that Margaret had been trying to get Runway to feature Christie's fashion auctions for years.
"Christie's Private Sales Office, Margaret speaking."
"Hi Margaret, this is __ calling from Jeon Jeongguk's office at Runway."
A pause. The sound of shuffling papers. "Oh! Yes, of course. How can I help you today?"
You took a deep breath. Time to channel your inner Jeongguk. "We're interested in the Grace Kelly Hermès bag from the upcoming auction. Mr. Jeon would like to arrange a private sale before it goes to auction."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. The consigner has specifically requested—"
"Margaret," you interrupted, trying to keep your voice steady. "I understand the protocols. But surely you understand what it would mean to have Jeon Jeongguk's support for Christie's fashion division? A multi-page spread in Runway featuring your upcoming auctions?" You paused for dramatic effect. "Or perhaps you'd prefer I tell him you couldn't help?"
Another pause. Longer this time. "Let me see what I can do. In the meantime, I'll have my assistant send over the authentication documents and provenance records."
You hung up and immediately typed out an email:
Dear Margaret,
Thank you for taking my call earlier. As discussed, Mr. Jeon is deeply interested in acquiring the Grace Kelly Hermès bag (Lot 247) prior to auction. We understand this is an unusual request, but Mr. Jeon has authorized me to offer 20% above the high estimate to secure an immediate private sale. As mentioned, Runway would be delighted to feature Christie's fashion division in an upcoming issue, highlighting the incredible pieces that pass through your hands. Mr. Jeon personally believes that auction houses like Christie's are the guardians of fashion history. I look forward to working together on this. Best regards, __ Office of Jeon Jeongguk Editor-in-Chief, Runway
You attached one of Jeongguk's business cards to the email and hit send. If this didn't work, nothing would. Jeongguk didn't care if you made promises on his behalf— it saved him from bothering with the details— but he'd probably be livid seeing you basically offered to whore out his magazine. To an auction house, no less.
Four short weeks earlier you would have quickly canceled all plans if Jeongguk called and wanted you to do something for him on the weekend. Now— now, you were an experienced, in the bald security workers words "Jeongguk slut"— enough to bend the rules a little.
Besides, Jeongguk and Suzy won't be at the airport themselves when the bag arrived. Thus, you saw no reason to be the one to deliver it to him. Dial, dial and within an hour you had a fully emerged plan.
Margaret, who had fallen for your promises of Runway coverage faster than you expected, would have the bag transferred to Paris via Christie's own art shipping service. No chance of anything going wrong there. She would have Christie's white-glove delivery service drop off the bag with the doorman of his Paris apartment, and then you would have Jihoon confirm the delivery.
If all goes well, Suzy could wake up in her private Parisian penthouse and clutch her half-million dollar handbag to her chest. It warmed your heart, truly.
Minutes after the shipping arrangements had been made, Margaret called back. Although it'd be a grueling task and she was likely to get in trouble, she'd be happy to accommodate Jeongguk's request. Not forgetting to mention how much she looked forward to working with Runway. Your weekend of Single's Inferno was locked in. Amen.
For most people, the ringing of a phone was a welcome sign. Someone was trying to reach them, say hello, ask about their day, or make plans. For you, it triggered fear, intense anxiety, and heart-stopping panic. You loathed the cell phone but could not ignore it. It kept you tied to Jeongguk like an umbilical cord, refusing to let you grow up or out from your source of suffocation.
It was crazy, really, Jeongguk called constantly, like he was the one who couldn't live away from you. It made you wonder if the man could do anything for himself— truly. You felt like an experiment, your body had begun responding viscerally to the ring of your phone. Bring. Increased heart rate. Briiing. Automatic ass-clenching and shoulder tensing. Briiiiing. For fuck sake, why can't he leave me the fuck alone, please— consider me fucking dead— immediate sweat all over your body.
Throughout your glorious Love is Blind weekend binge you never considered your phone might've gone out of service and had just assumed it would've rung if there was a problem. Mistake number one. There was a problem. A big fucking problem.
You shut Netflix off and roamed a couple hundred square feet around your small studio apartment until T-Mobile decided it wanted to work again. You held your breath and opened the pit of hell that was your voicemail.
Three typical automated spam calls. Your mom wishing you a good Christmas and New Year. And then, there it was, almost unexpected but not quite, that dreaded husky voice ringing in your ear. "__, I’ve just landed in Paris. Naturally, I expected to be met at the apartment with warmth, gratitude, and a proper reception. Instead, it’s ten a.m., and yet—still—no sign of Suzy’s bag. Can you tell me why that is?" A pause. "Call whoever you need to assure me that it'll arrive here soon. And remember, I don't like to be kept waiting, sweetheart."
The bile in your throat begins to rise. As usual, his message lacked all niceties. No hello, no good-bye, no thank you, just his unusual use of— pet names? What are you, his fucking dog? But more than that, it had been left nearly half a day ago, and you still had not called him back. Grounds for dismissal, you were going to lose the job. You knew it, you could feel it, and there was nothing you could do about it.
Like an absolute amateur, you had assumed your plan would go swiftly and perfectly, completely forgetting to call Christie's to confirm the delivery. You opened your contacts, quickly finding Margaret's number and dialing it.
"Christie's Private Sales, this is James speaking."
Your heart sank. "Hi James, this is __ from Runway. Is Margaret available?"
"I'm afraid Ms. Chen is in a meeting. Can I help you with something?"
"Yes, actually. I need to confirm a delivery to Paris yesterday, the Grace Kelly bag for Mr. Jeon?"
"Oh! Yes, of course. Let me check the system." The sound of typing. "The bag was delivered to the specified address yesterday morning at 8 AM Paris time."
You frowned. "You're sure about that?"
"Absolutely. I have the delivery confirmation right here, signed by the concierge."
"Oh my god, thank you, thank you so much James," you said, scribbling down the confirmation number. "Have a good New Years and Christmas."
"You too, and good luck to you."
You sat in your darkened room, and with a deep breath, you dialed Monsieur Charles' number.
"__, dear, how are you? We're so delighted to have Suzy and Jeongguk back with us so soon," he lied. Irene told you that Suzy was one of th, if not, the worst residents at the 7th District complex. So bad that the entire staff knew her by name. Irene apparently went with Jeongguk to Paris Fashion week last year and his girlfriend wouldn't, in Irene's words "stop fucking complaining about her fifty-million dollar penthouse".
"Yes, Monsieur Charles, and I just know they're both so thrilled to be back in Paris," you lied back. No matter how accommodating the poor concierge was, Suzy and Jeongguk found fault with his every move. They really were meant to be, like two soul-sucking dementors that found each other. Sucking the literal hell out of everyone around them. To Monsieur Charles' credit, he never stopped trying, and never stopped lying about how much he loved to have them around. "Listen, I'm wondering if that delivery from Christie's made it up to the apartment?"
"Well of course, dear. That was," A pause. "Six hours ago. The Christie's team delivered it personally before eight in the morning. I sent our most trusted porter to escort them."
"Interesting. I received a message from Jeongguk saying he didn't receive the package. But, I checked with Christie's who said they delivered it, and now, with you who remembers it arriving at the apartment. How could he not receive it?"
"Seems like the only way to solve this is to ask the man himself," he trilled in a fake-happy voice. "I'll connect you."
You had hoped, yearned that it wouldn't come to this. That you'd be able to identify and fix the problem without having to speak to the devil himself. What the hell were you supposed to tell him if he insisted that he never received the package? How do you argue with a brick-wall? Were you supposed to suggest that he didn't know how to look for a fucking handbag, and that he merely missed it on his way in? Or were you supposed to go through the whole thing, private shipping and all, and get him another half-million dollar historical artifact? Oh no, maybe next time you should hire a secret service agent to accompany the stupid fucking bag on its journey overseas to ensure that nothing compromises its safe arrival? Some food for thought.
"Sure, Monsieur Charles, thanks for your help."
A few clicks and the phone was ringing. You could feel your phone sliding against your sweaty palm. You wiped the back of it against your joggers and tried to not think about what would happen if Jeongguk saw you wearing sweatpants in his office. You're fine, show him how confident you are, you coached yourself. He can't kill you over the phone.
"Yes?" You heard from a faraway place, jolting yourself out of your self-help thoughts. It was a woman, who you presumed to be Suzy. A thick British accent piercing her words.
"Hi, it's Jeongguk's assistant," you crooned, hating yourself for feeling small in her presence. "Is Jeongguk there?"
A pause. "Uh-huh," was all you heard from afar, she was walking away from the phone.
A moment or two later, Jeongguk was on the line.
"__? This better be important. You know how I feel about being interrupted spending time with my fiancé." Your mind stuttered over his words. Fiance? Since when was he fucking engaged? You were going to rat that fucker out to everyone in the office. You wanted to scream. Are you fucking kidding me, you little shit? You think I'm calling you for my goddamn health? Because I couldn't go one mere weekend away from your unbearable voice? And what about me spending time with my girls? You thought you'd pass out from the anger, but you took a deep breath and dove right in.
"Jeongguk, I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I'm calling about the Kelly bag. I heard your voicemail saying you hadn't received it yet, but I've called Christie's and the concierge and—"
Jeongguk interrupted you mid sentence and spoke slowly and surely. "Sweetheart. You need to start listening when I speak. I said no such thing. Suzy received the package early this morning, it actually came so fucking early it woke us both up."
You couldn't believe what you were hearing. You didn't dream that he'd left you a message, did you? You were too young for early-onset Alzheimer's, right?
"What I said was I didn't receive Grace Kelly's bag, as I had requested. The package came with another vintage Kelly bag, some random one from the 1960s. I'm sure you can imagine how disappointed my sweet girlfriend is. You think any vintage Kelly will do in her apartment, is that why my order was fucked up? I need you to explain why my orders weren't followed."
This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. You were going to choke him the day he walked into the office. Grab him by the balls. And. Choke. Him. Out. You had to be dreaming right now, living in some ultra-realistic Lucid Dream where everything resembles reality. You wouldn't even let yourself consider the absurdity of what was happening.
"Jeongguk, I do recall you requesting Grace Kelly's personal bag, and I ordered that specific one," you stammered, hating yourself for how nervous he made you. "I spoke with Margaret Chen at Christie's and was quite sure she understood exactly which bag you needed, so I can't imagine—"
"__, what did I just say? I’d hope you would think wisely before you spew some nonsense at me, or did you miss that part too? You know how I feel about excuses, and I'm not interested in hearing yours right now. I expect you not to fuck up like this again, do you understand that?" He hung up.
You stood there for what must have been a full five minutes, listening to the sound of the heavy New York traffic outside. Your mind raced, full of questions. Could you kill him? You wondered, considering the probability of getting caught. Would they automatically assume it was you? Of course not, you concluded— everybody, at least at Runway, had a motive.
You unlock your phone. Could you really have misunderstood his message when you listened to it earlier? You called the cell phone and replayed the message. “__, you won’t believe it. Naturally, I expected to be met at the apartment with warmth, gratitude, and a proper reception. Instead, it’s ten a.m., and yet—still—no sign of Suzy’s bag. Can you tell me why that is? Call whoever you need to assure me that it’ll arrive here soon. And remember, I don’t like to be kept waiting, sweetheart.” Nothing was really wrong. He may have received the wrong style of table, but he deliberately gave the impression that you’d just made a tremendous, career-ending mistake.
He had called with no concern that his ten A.M. call would have reached you at two A.M., on your most perfect weekend in months. He called you to drive you a little crazier, push you a little harder. He called you to dare try to defy him. He called you to make him hate you that much more.
Thus far, the week after New Year's had been relatively easy. The office was still busy unwrapping and cataloging the spring collection samples. Jeongguk would be returning from Paris at the end of the week but wouldn't be in the office until Monday. Irene felt confident in your ability to handle him, and so were you. After his little trick with the voicemail, you were ready for anything Jeon Jeongguk would throw at you.
You two had run through everything, and taken nearly entire five pages of your notebook doing so. You glanced down at the notes, hoping you'd remember everything. Coffee: Starbucks only, a grande Americano or Cold Brew if he wanted it hot. Breakfast: Norma's delivery, "The Zillion Dollar Lobster Frittata" with sevruga caviar. Newspapers: newsstand in lobby, New York Times, Daily News, New York Post, the Washington Post, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and the New York Observer. And on and on it went, listing his favorite wine and his most-hated wine, his doctors' names and addresses and home phone numbers, his household help, his snack preferences, his preferred bottled water, every size he wore in every article of clothing known to man. You were surprised Irene hadn't asked you to write down the size of condoms he wears.
You made lists of people he wanted to talk to (always), and separate lists for people he never wanted to talk to (never ever). You wrote and wrote as Irene revealed things throughout your weeks together. You wrote so much you developed a callous on your middle finger— wrote so much till you felt like there was nothing in this world you didn't know about Jeon Jeongguk. Except, of course, what made him so fucking important to everyone that you had to fill five entire notebook pages worth of shit he liked and didn't. Why, exactly, were you supposed to care?
"Oh fuck! He's on his way in. He'll be here in ten minutes," Irene announced loudly, struggling to hide her attempts of remaining calm.
Your heart stopped. "What?"
"Jeongguk is on his way into the office. At this very moment. Now. We need to get ready, like, ASAP."
"On his way into the office? He wasn't supposed to be back until Saturday?" Your voice cracked embarrassingly.
"Well, clearly, he's changed his mind. Now! Fucking move it people!" Irene's eyes found yours. "Go downstairs and get his papers ready and then lay them out like I told you. When you're done, wipe down his desk and leave a glass of Pellegrino on his left side with some ice. And __?" She paused, eyes narrowing. "Don't fuck this up like you did the Kelly bag."
As you raced out of the office, you could hear Irene's rapid-fire sailing four-digit extensions and all but screaming, "He's on his fucking way! I know! Hurry up and tell everyone!" It took you three seconds to wind through the hallways and pass through the fashion department.
Assistants were frantically straightening clothes on the racks that lined the halls, editors were racing into their offices, where you could see them checking their reflections in any reflective surface available. As a publisher walked out of the men's bathroom, you glanced past him and saw Hoseok, looking frenzied, checking his black cashmere sweater for lint while popping far too many Altoids in his mouth.
You were dying to stop and watch the scene unfold. But, you had less than ten minutes to prepare for your first real meeting with Jeongguk as his actual assistant, and you sure as hell weren't going to blow it. Not after the Kelly bag disaster. You broke into a sprint.
"Sweetie! You know Jeongguk's on his way in, don't you?" Jennie called from the receptionist desk as you flew by.
"Yeah, I know. But how do you?"
"Honey, I know everything." She winked, and your stomach dropped. "Now hurry up, one thing's for sure, Jeongguk does not like to be kept waiting."
You leapt into the elevator and called out a thank you to Jennie. "I'll be right back with the papers!"
The two women on the elevator started at you in disgust, and you soon realized you had been screaming. "Sorry," you said, trying to catch your breath. "We just found out our editor in chief is on his way into the office and we're not anywhere near prepared." Why are you explaining yourself to strangers?
"Oh my god! You must work for Jeongguk! Let me guess, you're the new assistant? __, right? You know Suzy was also an assistant?" The brunette flashes what must've been four dozen teeth and pounced forward like a piranha. Her friend brightened instantly.
"Uh yeah, Jeongguk's new assistant," you said, repeating your own name as if it wasn't yours. Wait, what was that about Suzy? His fiancée was his old assistant? The pieces started clicking together in your mind. No wonder he needed everything done perfectly. No wonder he—
You didn't have much time to ponder the thought, the moment the elevator hit the lobby and the doors opened to the white marble you moved ahead the two brunettes and bolted through the doors. You tried your best to not slam into a group of very unhappy-looking lawyers, and nearly flew into the newsstand in the corner of the lobby, where a little old man named George directed a smooth showcase of shiny titles and observably sparser cluster of diet soft drinks. Irene had introduced George to you before Christmas as a part of your training, and you were trusting he could help you now.
"No!," he cried as soon as you started hauling the newspaper out of their wire racks by the register. You turned to see George learn down and ferret under the register, his face turning a bit too red under the pressure. "Got it!" he cried once more, springing back to his feet with the agility of an old man with no working legs. "Specifically for you, sweet cheeks. I save them on the side for you everyday, so you don't ruin my showcase. And to make sure I don't run out, too." He winked.
"George, thank you. I can't even put it into words how much you just saved my ass. Should I get the magazines now, too?"
George smiled, "I sure do. It's Wednesday and they all came out on Monday. Your boss probably don't like that too much," he said, knowingly. And again he reached under the register and rose with another armful of magazines, and after a quick glance, confirmed they were all the ones on my list. No more. No less.
ID card, ID card, where the hell was your ID card? You reached down into your white-button down and found the silk lanyard that Irene had made out of one of Jeongguk's Hermés scarves. "Don't ever wear it when he's around."
"Here you go, George. Thanks for the help!"
He swiped your card down the reader on the side of the machine and placed the scarf lanyard around your neck. "Run!"
You grabbed the plastic bag and ran, pulling your ID card out to swipe it against the security turnstiles. You swiped and pushed. Nothing. You swiped and pushed again, this time harder. Nothing.
"I'm going to kill someone." You muttered, and hopped over the stupid fucking turnstile. Fuck this job. You dove into the elevators and raced past Jennie, who kindly opened the doors to the floor. You even remembered to stop at the mini-kitchen and grab the Baccarat goblet that was just for Jeongguk. You peeled around the corner and smashed directly into Yoongi. He looked both annoyed and panic-stricken.
"You know Jeongguk's on his way in right now, right?" he asked, looking you up and down.
"Sure am. I've got his newspapers and water right here. So if you'll excuse me…"
"Hey!" he called as you ran past him, an ice cube flying out of the glass and landing outside the art department. "Remember to change your shoes!"
You stopped dead in your tracks and looked down. You were wearing a pair of old, very old Nike air-maxes. The ones that were once white but now have soiled into a very ugly yellow color. The rules of dress— unspoken were obviously relaxed when Jeongguk was away, and even though every single person in the office looked fantastic, each was wearing something they would swear up and down that they'd never, ever wear in front of Jeongguk.
You had broken a sweat by the time you made it back into the suite. "I've got everything. The only thing is, I can't wear these shoes, right?"
Irene tore the headset from her ear and flung it down onto her desk. "Oh my god, hell no." She picked up the phone, dialed four digits, and announced, "My dearest Hobi, bring me a pair of Louboutin's in a size…" She looked at you.
"Seven."
"Seven. Now. No, Hobi, I'm serious. She's in fucking Nike's. Yes. Jeongguk will be here any minute. Thank you."
Within the four minutes you'd been downstairs, Irene had managed to switch her joggers to leather pants and her own ugly air-maxes into open-toe stilettos. Not to mention she cleaned the entire office suite, including both of our desks. She also had slicked on a fresh coat of lip tint and added some bronzer, even pinning her 'Dior' hairpin into her hair.
You grabbed the bag from George and shook out the newspapers in a pile in Jeongguk's office. You consulted your five-page notes on Jeongguk and put the newspapers in correct order. First, the New York Times, followed by the Wall Street Journal, then the Washington Post. You placed each slightly on top of the other before they all fanned out across the table in formation. With the exception of The Book: that was to be placed directly in the middle of his desk.
"He's here! Come out here, now! He's on his way up," you hear Irene hiss from the desk area. "Jihoon just called and said he dropped him off."
You put The Book onto his desk and place the Pellegrino onto the corner. You dart from the office, taking one last look to ensure everything was in an acceptable fashion. Hoseok tossed you a shoe box with a rubber band around it and bolted out of the suite. You pulled it open immediately. Inside were a pair of black Louboutin heels that were probably worth at least a thousand dollars.
You yank your shoes and now sweaty socks off and toss them under your desk. The left one went on easily, but the right one was kind of stuck— there! In another few seconds you had straightened both of your feet and returned to an upright sitting position just as Jeongguk walked in.
Frozen. You were absolutely frozen in mid motion. Your mind was working fast enough to realize how ridiculous you must look, but not quite fast enough to move. He noticed you immediately, probably because he was expecting Irene to still be sitting at her old desk, and walked over.
He learned on the counter that ran over your ford, leaned over it and even closer to you, until he was able to see your entire body as you sat, immobilized in the chair. His dark, doe-like, eyes moved you up and down, side to side, all over your raggedy white button-down, your black miniskirt, and now your black Christian Louboutins. You blinked. You had never been this close to Jeongguk. It was mesmerizing, being able to see him in this much detail.
You felt him examine every inch of you, skin, hair, clothes, his dark eyes moving so quickly around you while his face remained frozen. He leaned closer, until his face was only a foot from yours and you could smell his expensive cologne: bergamot and spicy pepper top notes. He smelled so fucking rich— so fucking good.
You could see the faint mark of a scar on his cheekbone, the hidden mole under his bottom lip, the way his lips glossed against the light. You couldn't look too long at his face, because he was intently examining yours. There wasn't a slightest indication that he recognized that a) you too had in fact, met before; b) you were his new assistant; c) you weren't Irene.
"Hello Jeongguk," you squeaked impulsively, even though somewhere in the back of your head you knew you should've just kept quiet. But the tension was unbearable, you couldn't help but speak. "I'm so excited for this opportunity, to be working for you. Thank you so…" Shut the fuck up! Shut your stupid mouth! Talk about no dignity.
He walked away. Finished looking you up and down, pushed backward off the counter, and walked away as you stuttered mid-sentence. You could feel the heat coming off your face, a flush of confusion and shame all wrapped into one, and you couldn't help but feel Irene glaring daggers at you. You pulled your hot face upwards and confirmed that indeed, Irene was glaring at you.
"Did you update the Bulletin?" Jeongguk asked to no one in particular as he walked into his office, and directly to the light table where you'd arranged his papers.
"Yes, Jeongguk. Here it is," Irene raced after him, handing him the iPad. We kept all of Jeongguk's messages typed whenever they came in.
You sat quietly, watching Jeongguk move deliberately around his office in the picture frames that hung on his walls. If you looked closely enough at the glass of the photos, you could see him shuffling in the office. Irene immediately busied herself at her desk, and silence prevailed. Do we just not talk if he's here? You wondered. You unlocked your phone and shot Irene a text asking her as much, which she quickly read. She responded immediately: if we talk, we whisper. Also, don't you EVER talk to him unless he speaks to you. Got it?
You felt as if you had been slapped, nonetheless, you looked up and nodded. And then you noticed the suit jacket. It was right there. In all of it's black, expensive glory, bunched up at the end of your desk, one arm dangling off the edge.
You look to Irene, who rolls her eyes and mouths, "Hang it up!"
You stand up, picking the material up. Jeongguk's cologne splashes you in the face, intoxicating you. You hang the jacket up on one of the silk hangers and gently, quietly, close the doors.
You hadn't even sat back down when Jeongguk appeared next to you, and this time his eyes were free to roam over your entire body. You could feel each body part ignite as he eyed it, but you were frozen, unable to dive back into the safety of your chair. Just as you were about to collapse, those relentless black eyes finally stopped on yours.
"I'd like my jacket," he said quietly, looking directly at you, and you wondered who he was. If he noticed or cared that there was a stranger posing as his new assistant. There wasn't a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, even though your interview with him took place a few weeks ago.
"Yes," You managed and moved toward the closet, which was very awkward because he was standing between it and you. You turned your body uncomfortable to keep from bumping into his built body and reached to pull the door that you just shut, open. He didn't move a single inch to let you pass, and you could feel his eyes had continued their observation. Finally, your hands closed around the soft material and pulled it carefully to freedom.
You wanted to throw it at him and strangle him with it. Instead you held it open and watched him struggle into it. The material of the jacket tightening as Jeongguk's muscles slid into it.
"I'd like The Book tonight," Jeongguk eyed you for a moment, eyes falling onto your lips, and then, he walked out of the office. He probably didn't even notice you grab the end of your desk in an attempt to keep you from falling right onto the ground.
"Yes, Jeongguk, I'll have __ bring it up."
That was that. He left. The visit that had inspired office-wide panic, wardrobe adjustments, had lasted a whopping total of five minutes and had happened— for as far as you could see— for no reason at all.
Irene waited exactly thirty seconds after Jeongguk left before speaking. "Well, that could've gone worse." She turned to you, eyes softening for perhaps the first time since you'd met her. "Listen carefully because this is important. The Book is sacred to him. Every single night, without fail, either I or now you will deliver it to his townhouse. You cannot— I repeat, cannot fuck this up."
You nodded, still trying to process what just happened. "What exactly is The Book?"
"It's everything. Every single page layout, every photo selection, every article for the upcoming issue. Jeongguk reviews it every night and makes his changes." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "The entire magazine lives and dies by his notes in The Book. One wrong delivery, one coffee stain, one fingerprint on a page, and that's it. You're done."
Your throat felt dry. "When do I need to deliver it?"
"The art department usually finishes their mock-ups around nine. You'll wait for The Book, take it to his house, and leave it with his housekeeper." Irene's eyes narrowed. "And __, remember what I said about not fucking up?"
"Yes?"
"I meant it. The last assistant who bent a page in The Book lasted exactly 12 hours after that." She turned back to her computer. "Oh, and one more thing— don't ever, ever look inside The Book. He'll know if you do."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of phone calls and coffee runs. At 9:15 PM, a messenger from the art department placed a large black leather portfolio on your desk. The Book. You could feel its weight, not just physical but metaphorical, as you slid it into the messenger bag Irene had given you.
"His townhouse is on 73rd and Madison. Ring the bell, hand The Book to Mrs. Kim, and leave. Do not speak to anyone else. Do not linger. Do not look around." Irene's voice followed you to the elevator. "And __?"
You turned. "Yes?"
"Don't disappoint him again."
As the elevator doors closed, you clutched The Book closer to your chest and wondered, not for the first time, what exactly you'd gotten yourself into.
The moment you stepped outside Jeon Publication's building, the January air hit your face like a thousand tiny needles. Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Not only were you dragging your ass to the Upper East Side at nearly ten at night, carrying what might as well be the Holy Grail of fashion magazines, but you were doing it in stilettos that cost more than your rent. In the middle of winter. Wearing a skirt that barely covered your ass.
You contemplated hailing a cab— lord knows Jeongguk's credit card could handle it. But the thought of explaining to accounting why you needed to expense a five minute cab ride made your stomach turn. Besides, you needed the walk to clear your head. To process the absolute shit show that was your life.
It took exactly seventeen minutes to walk from 49th to 73rd. You counted every single one of them, muttering profanities under your breath as your feet screamed in protest. When you finally turned onto Madison, you nearly collided with a woman walking her equally botoxed dog. She shot you a look that could freeze hell. You shot one right back.
And then you saw it.
The townhouse stood six stories high, its limestone facade glowing under carefully positioned landscape lighting. Because of-fucking-course Jeongguk would have his shrubbery professionally lit. The windows were easily twenty feet high, fitted with what you assumed were custom window treatments worth thousands. A wrought iron fence lined the sidewalk, its spikes looking particularly threatening in the darkness.
You took a deep breath and walked up the steps to the front door. There was no doorbell. Instead, there was an honest-to-god brass knocker shaped like a lion's head. You reached for it, then hesitated. Would Jeongguk be able to tell if you knocked too hard? Too soft? Was there a specific knock pattern that only Runway employees were supposed to know?
Get it together, you thought. It's a fucking door. Just knock.
The sound echoed through what you imagined was an absurdly large foyer. You waited, clutching The Book like it might try to escape. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. You raised your hand to knock again when the door opened.
A small Korean woman stood before you, her face set in what appeared to be a permanent expression of mild disappointment. Mrs. Kim, you presumed. She looked you up and down, taking in your borrowed Louboutins and the messenger bag that definitely didn't match them.
"The Book?" Her voice was surprisingly deep.
You nodded, reaching into the bag with trembling fingers. Don't drop it. Don't fucking drop it. You'd sooner throw yourself into traffic than explain to Jeongguk how you managed to scuff his precious Book.
Just as you were about to hand it over, you heard voices from inside the house. One of them unmistakably Jeongguk's. Your heart stopped.
"—don't care what Miranda thinks, I want those prints by tomorrow." His voice was getting closer. Oh god. Oh fuck. This wasn't supposed to happen. Irene said he'd never be home during deliveries. That's why assistants did the drop-offs so late— to avoid any possibility of running into him.
You thrust The Book toward Mrs. Kim just as Jeongguk appeared in the hallway behind her. He was wearing black silk pajama pants and nothing else. Nothing. Else. Your eyes betrayed you, lingering on the span of his chest, the definition of his abs, the way his tattoos seemed to move with each breath—
"__, what an unexpected surprise."
Your head snapped up to his face. He wasn't smiling, exactly. It was more like a predator watching its prey fumble around before going in for the kill. You opened your mouth to respond, then remembered Irene's warning. Don't speak unless spoken to. But he had spoken to you, hadn't he? Or was that rhetorical? Why didn't Runway have a fucking handbook for these situations?
"I was just dropping off The Book," you managed, your voice embarrassingly breathless. From the walk, you told yourself. Definitely from the walk.
"Mm." His eyes moved from your face to The Book, still suspended between you and Mrs. Kim. "You can bring it to my study."
What? No. No no no. This wasn't part of the plan. You were supposed to hand it off and leave. Get in, get out, no interaction, no—
"Third floor, second door on the right." He was already walking away, leaving you standing there with Mrs. Kim, who looked about as thrilled with this development as you felt.
She stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter. The foyer was exactly as ridiculous as you'd imagined. A crystal chandelier hung from a ceiling so high you had to crane your neck to see it. The floors were marble, because of course they were, and a curved staircase wound its way up the right side of the room.
You followed Jeongguk's bare footsteps up the stairs, trying very hard not to think about how his back muscles moved with each step. Or how the silk pants hung low on his hips. Or how this was probably exactly how he planned to torture you by making you climb three flights of stairs in heels while he paraded around half-naked.
The study door was open when you reached it. Jeongguk sat behind a massive mahogany desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he scrolled through something on his iPad. He didn't look up when you entered.
You stood there, shifting your weight from one aching foot to the other, unsure what to do. Should you just set The Book down and leave? Wait for him to acknowledge you? Compose a formal sonnet requesting permission to place The Book upon his desk?
"You can put it here." He tapped a spot on the desk without looking up.
You stepped forward, careful not to trip over what appeared to be a genuine Persian rug, and placed The Book exactly where he indicated. Your fingers brushed against the polished wood of his desk and you yanked them back like you'd been burned.
"That's all." His eyes still hadn't left the iPad.
You turned to leave, relief flooding through you. You'd made it. You hadn't dropped The Book, hadn't wrinkled any pages, hadn’t fucked it up.
"Oh, and __?"
You froze, one hand on the doorframe. "Yes?"
"Next time," he finally looked up, eyes locking with yours in the reflection of a framed photo on the wall, "wear something that actually fits you. That skirt looks like it's about to give up."
Your face burned as you fled down the stairs, past a smirking Mrs. Kim, and out into the night air. It wasn't until you were halfway back to the subway that you realized you were still wearing Hoseok's Louboutins.
Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Runway, painting everything in that particular shade of Manhattan sunrise that somehow made even the most expensive items look cheap. You'd been at your desk since 6:45 AM, partially because you couldn't sleep after last night's townhouse disaster, but mostly because you'd rather die than not have Jeongguk's coffee waiting when he arrived.
Your own reflection in the glass doors haunted you, the dark circles under your eyes barely concealed by the YSL concealer Hoseok had tossed at you last week ("Honey, we can't have you looking like death warmed over"). At least you'd managed to return his Louboutins first thing, even if it meant wearing flats for the ten-minute walk to his office.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't our little messenger girl." Hoseok's voice carried through the still-empty office as he sauntered in, wearing what appeared to be a women's Chanel blazer with men's Tom Ford trousers. Only Hoseok could make that work. His jet black hair slicked to the side with what appeared to be a Chanel hair pin. "I heard you had quite the encounter with our beloved leader last night."
You groaned, slumping forward onto your desk. "How do you already know about that?"
"Please." He perched himself on the edge of your desk, careful not to wrinkle his pants. "Mrs. Kim called her cousin who works in alterations, who told Yoongi's assistant, who obviously told me over our 6 AM pilates class." He paused, examining his cuticles. "So. How was the view?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh come on. Half-naked Jeongguk in his natural habitat? That's like seeing a unicorn fuck a rainbow. You have to give me something."
You were saved from responding by your phone's sudden buzz. Your stomach dropped as you read the message from Irene: He's coming in early. Says he needs to review the March layout before the Children's Hospital Benefit tonight. Everything better be ready.
"Fuck!" You jumped up, nearly knocking Hoseok off your desk. "He's coming in early. Why is he coming in early, again? He never comes in early. Early isn't even a word that should exist in Jeon Jeongguk's vocabulary."
Hoseok's eyes widened. "The Children's Hospital Benefit. Of course he's early, he's presenting the check tonight." He stood, straightening his blazer. "Which means he'll want to review every single detail of the March issue because god forbid anyone think Runway isn't perfect while he's handing over a million dollars to sick children."
"The what? What benefit? Why doesn't anyone tell me these things?" You were already speed-walking to the kitchen, Hoseok trailing behind you.
"Only the biggest charity event of the season, darling. Every important person in New York will be there, which means Jeongguk has to be perfect. Which means we all have to be perfect." He watched as you prepared Jeongguk's coffee with the precision of a brain surgeon. "The real question is, what will you be wearing?"
You froze, coffee pot hovering over the cup. "What do you mean, what am I wearing? I'm not going."
Hoseok's laugh echoed through the kitchen. "Oh honey. You're his assistant. Of course you're going. You'll need to be there to manage his schedule, coordinate with photographers, make sure no one he hates tries to talk to him..." He trailed off, taking in your expression. "You really didn't know?"
"No, I really didn't know!" Your voice had reached a pitch that probably only dogs could hear. "I don't have anything to wear to something like that. I can't afford—"
"Relax." Hoseok pulled out his phone, fingers flying over the screen. "Come to the Closet at lunch. We'll find you something that won't completely offend his delicate sensibilities." He looked up, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Maybe something that shows off those legs he was apparently so concerned about last night."
You were about to tell Hoseok exactly where he could shove his implications when you heard it, the distinctive sound of Italian leather shoes clicking against marble. You grabbed the coffee and ran.
You made it back to your desk just as the elevator doors opened. Jeongguk emerged wearing a black suit, his hair styled in that perfectly messy way that definitely took an hour to achieve. He was talking rapidly into his AirPods, speaking a mixture of Korean and English that made your head spin.
"—tell him if he can't deliver the prints by noon, he can forget about the September issue. I don't care if his entire family is in the hospital, I need those— __."
You jumped, nearly spilling the coffee. You hadn't realized he'd stopped in front of your desk.
"My coffee." He held out his hand expectantly, still talking into his AirPods. "No, not you. Just my incompetent assistant. As I was saying—" He continued down the hall, leaving you standing there with an empty cup and what felt like a minor cardiac episode.
"Breathe," Hoseok whispered as he passed your desk. "And don't forget, Closet at lunch. Unless you want to show up tonight in last season's clearance rack."
You collapsed into your chair, pulling up your email. Seventy-three new messages since you'd last checked ten minutes ago. The first one was from Irene:
Subject: URGENT - Benefit Details Time: 6:23 AM __, Since you're obviously clueless (as usual), here's what you need to know about tonight: - Event starts at 7 PM at The Plaza - Jeongguk presents the check at 8:15 PM exactly - He'll need the following throughout the night: * Pellegrino (room temperature) * Advil * His specific brand of throat lozenges (THE BLUE ONES, NOT THE GREEN) * A valid excuse to leave by 9:30 PM - Suzy will be there. Yes, that Suzy. Your job is to keep them from crossing paths. - Do not let him near Miranda Priestly. I don't care if you have to fake a medical emergency. - The seating chart is attached. Memorize it. If you seat him next to one more person he hates, I will end you. Don't fuck this up. -I P.S. Yoongi mentioned your outfit needs work. See Hoseok.
You were halfway through composing a reply asking why the hell no one had mentioned this benefit before when Jeongguk's voice cut through the office like a knife:
"The Book. Now."
You grabbed the portfolio from your desk and hurried into his office, where he sat behind his desk looking like some sort of fashion demon king on his throne. He didn't look up as you placed The Book in front of him.
"The March layouts are inadequate." He flipped through the pages with obvious distaste. "Everything about this screams desperate housewife tries Paris Fashion Week. Call Yoongi. Tell him if he can't make this magazine look like it wasn't edited by a colorblind monkey, he can go back to designing restaurant menus in Seoul."
You stood there, pen poised over your notepad, waiting for more instructions. After a moment of silence, he finally looked up at you, one perfect eyebrow raised.
"That's all."
The Closet wasn't just a closet— it was what you imagined Heaven looked like if God had a serious shopping addiction and an unlimited Black Card. Two entire floors of the Runway building dedicated to every designer piece that had ever graced its pages. You'd avoided it until now, partly because you felt like an imposter just breathing near Chanel, but mostly because you were convinced Jeongguk had some sort of sixth sense that would alert him if you touched anything worth more than your life savings.
"You're late," Hoseok called from somewhere behind a rack of what appeared to be entirely black clothing. Because god forbid Runway stock anything in a color that might actually bring joy to someone's life. "I've been waiting for twenty whole minutes. Do you know what I could've accomplished in twenty minutes? I could've ordered Jeongguk's lunch, prevented three fashion disasters, and still had time to judge everyone's shoe choices."
You navigated through the maze of clothing racks, nearly tripping over a stack of signature orange Hermès boxes. "Sorry, I was busy trying to memorize the seating chart for tonight's benefit. Did you know the Kardashians have specific requirements about who they can sit next to? Or that Anna Wintour needs to be exactly forty-seven degrees away from any light source?"
"Please," Hoseok emerged from behind the rack, his arms full of garment bags. "That's nothing. Wait until you have to arrange the Met Gala seating. Last year Jeongguk made me calculate sight lines to ensure he wouldn't have to make accidental eye contact with his ex-boyfriend across the room."
You froze halfway through examining what might have been a Valentino gown. "His what?"
"Oh honey." Hoseok's grin was positively feline. "You don't know about Taehyung? Our beloved executive editor?" He draped the garment bags over a nearby chair. "Let's just say there's a reason those two can't be in the same room during budget meetings. The sexual tension is enough to make even Yoongi blush, and that man once walked in on—"
"I don't want to know." You really, really didn't want to know. Except you absolutely did. "Just... help me find something to wear that won't make Jeongguk wish he'd hired one of the other million girls dying for this job."
"First of all," Hoseok started unzipping garment bags with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times, "he wouldn't have hired you if he didn't see something. Jeongguk may be a demon in Dior, but he's never wrong about people. And second," he pulled out a black dress that looked like a hooker’s wet dream, "we're going to make you look so good he'll forget all about that Kelly bag disaster."
You watched as Hoseok assembled what he called a "lewk"— apparently spelling it normally would be too basic. He moved through The Closet like a tornado in Tom Ford, pulling pieces seemingly at random but you knew each choice was calculated. You'd seen him do the same thing in editorial meetings, appearing casual while orchestrating exactly what he wanted.
"The thing about Jeongguk," he continued, holding up two seemingly identical black dresses to the light, "is that everything is a test. That disaster at his townhouse last night? Test. Making you come to this benefit with zero notice? Test. Hell, even his coffee order is a test." He tossed one dress aside with a look of disgust. "The sooner you understand that, the longer you'll survive."
You thought about this morning, how Jeongguk had barely looked at you while simultaneously making you feel like you were being dissected. "Why does he do it?"
"Because he can." Hoseok shrugged, now comparing what appeared to be identical pairs of Louboutins. "Because this industry feeds on fear and insecurity, and no one serves that particular dish better than Jeon Jeongguk." He finally selected a pair of shoes. "But mostly because that's what was done to him."
Before you could ask what he meant, a commotion from the hallway caught your attention. Yoongi burst through the doors, his face flushed and his usual composed demeanor nowhere to be seen.
"He rejected the entire March layout. The entire thing. Six weeks of work, gone, because apparently it looks like," he made air quotes with his fingers, "'a colorblind monkey's interpretation of fashion week.' What does that even mean? How does he come up with these insults? Does he have a book of them? A spreadsheet?"
"Breathe, honey." Hoseok didn't look up from where he was now arranging accessories on a velvet tray. "You know how he gets before these events. Remember the Christmas gala when he said my styling looked like 'a department store mannequin had a midlife crisis'?"
"At least that was creative," Yoongi collapsed into a nearby chair, careful not to wrinkle his Thom Browne skirt. "Now I have to redo everything before the printer deadline. And you know what's worse? He's right. The layout was shit. It's like he has some sort of sixth sense for mediocrity."
"He does," came a voice from the doorway. You all turned to see Taehyung leaning against the frame, looking unfairly gorgeous in what had to be custom Gucci. "It's why he's him and we're well, us."
The air in The Closet suddenly felt charged, like the moment before a storm. You remembered what Hoseok said about sexual tension and found yourself studying Taehyung more closely. What exactly had happened between him and Jeongguk?
"Shouldn't you be preparing for tonight?" Yoongi asked, but there was no bite to his words. Everyone knew Taehyung was untouchable, the only person besides Miranda Priestly herself who could tell Jeongguk no without fear of execution.
"I am preparing. I'm preparing to watch our dear leader try to make small talk with New York's elite without committing any social murders." Taehyung's eyes landed on you, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Speaking of preparation, I hear you had quite the adventure at the townhouse last night."
"Does everyone know about that?"
"Honey," all four of them said in unison.
"Great." You slumped against a rack of what felt like silk. "So everyone knows I made a complete fool of myself in front of—"
"Don't finish that sentence," Hoseok interrupted, appearing in front of you with what looked like an entire boutique's worth of clothing. "Less talking, more trying. We have exactly forty-three minutes before you need to be back at your desk with his lunch, and if there's one thing Jeongguk hates more than incompetence, it's tardiness."
As if summoned by his name, your phone buzzed. A message from Irene:
He's asking for The Book again. Says the font on page 47 looks like "Comic Sans had a baby with bad life choices." Better get back here before he decides to redesign the entire magazine. Again.
"Fuck." You looked at the mountain of clothing Hoseok had assembled. "I have to—"
"Go," Hoseok waved you away, already reorganizing the racks. "Come back at 5. We'll make you presentable enough that he might actually remember your name this time."
You were halfway to the door when Taehyung called after you: "Oh, and __? A word of advice about tonight?"
You turned. "Yes?"
"When he starts his third glass of champagne, that's when he gets honest. Pay attention." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You might learn something interesting about our boss."
As you rushed back to your desk, The Book clutched to your chest like a shield, you wondered what exactly you were going to learn tonight. And more importantly, whether you actually wanted to know.
The afternoon at Runway crawled by like a snail wearing last season's Prada— painfully and with questionable taste. You'd delivered The Book to Jeongguk's office approximately seven thousand times, each visit more terrifying than the last. His demands grew increasingly specific and, frankly, unhinged.
"The spacing between these letters is causing me physical pain," he'd muttered during delivery number three, not bothering to look up from his iPad. "Tell Yoongi if he wants to experiment with kerning, he can do it on his own time. Preferably while unemployed."
By delivery number twelve, he'd evolved to full sentences. "__, do you know why this particular shade of red makes me want to gauge my eyes out with a Mont Blanc pen?" He finally looked up at you, those dark eyes pinning you in place. "Because it's the exact color of failure. Fix it."
You'd nodded, turned, and promptly walked into the doorframe. You could have sworn you heard him chuckle, but that was impossible because Jeon Jeongguk's laugh was probably locked in the same vault as his soul and his ability to say 'please' and 'thank you.'
Now, at 4:45 PM, you sat at your desk watching the fashion department descend into what could only be described as a haute couture panic attack. Assistants sprinted past your desk carrying everything from fabric swatches to what appeared to be a stuffed peacock. You didn't want to know. You really, really didn't want to know.
Your phone buzzed for the millionth time that day:
Hoseok: Where are you??? Hoseok: Don't make me come find you Hoseok: You know I will Hoseok: I'll bring Yoongi Hoseok: And his emotional support measuring tape
You glanced at Jeongguk's office. He'd been on a call with Milan for the past hour, speaking rapid-fire Italian that made you question everything you thought you knew about him. Just when you thought you had him figured out— bam! Another language, another skill, another reminder that he was essentially a god among mortals and you were just a peasant in borrowed Louboutins.
The coast looked clear. Maybe if you moved quickly enough—
"__."
Fuck.
You turned to find Jeongguk standing in his doorway, one hand in his pocket, looking like he'd just stepped out of a magazine spread titled "How to Make Your Assistant Question Their Life Choices."
"Yes, Jeongguk?"
"The benefit tonight." He paused, and you swore you could hear Hoseok screaming from The Closet two floors away. "You'll need to arrive an hour before me to ensure everything is precisely as I've specified. The seating chart—"
"Has been memorized," you interrupted, then immediately wished for death. You never interrupted Jeongguk. Ever. It was like Rule Number One of not getting murdered by your boss. But he just raised an eyebrow and continued.
"The photographers—"
"Will be coordinated with strict instructions about approved angles and lighting."
Both eyebrows now. "And Miranda—"
"Will be kept at minimum a fifty-foot radius from you at all times, even if I have to start a small fire as a distraction."
Was that— was that almost a smile? No, impossible. Must be a trick of the light. Or maybe you were hallucinating from stress and sleep deprivation.
"Good." He turned to go back into his office, then paused. "Oh, and __?"
"Yes?"
"Try not to wear something that makes me regret hiring you." With that, he was gone, leaving you to wonder for the hundredth time how someone could make an insult sound so much like a compliment.
You grabbed your phone and practically ran to the elevator, firing off a quick text to Hoseok:
Coming. Don't let Yoongi near any scissors. Or me. Actually, just keep all sharp objects away from everyone.
The Closet was even more chaotic than when you'd left it. Clothing racks had multiplied like designer rabbits, and the air smelled like a mixture of luxury and desperation. Hoseok stood in the center of it all, directing traffic like a fashionable air traffic controller.
"No, no, NO! Those samples go to the March shoot, not the April one. Do you want Jeongguk to have an aneurysm? Because this is how you give Jeongguk an aneurysm!" He turned as you approached, his face lighting up with unholy glee. "Finally! Our Cinderella arrives. Though in your case, it's less 'bibbidi-bobbidi-boo' and more 'please-don't-let-Jeongguk-fire-me-before-midnight.'"
Yoongi emerged from behind a wall of garment bags, his hands full of what looked like paint swatches but were probably samples of slightly different shades of black. "Thank god you're here. Maybe now Hoseok will stop threatening to burn down The Closet if he can't find the perfect dress."
"That was one time," Hoseok sniffed, already pulling pieces from various racks. "And it wasn't a threat, it was a contingency plan. Now, strip."
You blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Strip. Remove clothing. Become one with your natural state. Whatever you want to call it, just do it faster because we have exactly—" he checked his watch, "seventy-three minutes to turn you from 'clearance rack chic' to 'might actually survive a Jeon Jeongguk event.'"
You stared at Hoseok, who was now circling you like a very well-dressed shark. "You want me to strip? Here? In the middle of The Closet?"
"Oh honey," he rolled his eyes, gesturing to a makeshift changing area created by three full-length mirrors and what appeared to be genuine silk curtains. "We're all professionals here. Well, except for you, obviously. But that's why we're going to fix you."
Yoongi appeared with a glass of something amber-colored that definitely wasn't allowed in The Closet. "Here," he pressed it into your hand. "You'll need this. Hoseok's makeovers are like surgery – better with anesthesia."
"I heard that!" Hoseok called from behind a rack of what looked like identical black dresses. "And I'll have you know my makeovers are works of art. Remember what I did for Jimin before the Met Gala?"
"You mean when you made him cry because his pants were too tight?"
"He wasn't crying because they were too tight," Hoseok emerged with an armful of designer wear. "He was crying because he looked so good. There's a difference." He shoved you toward the changing area. "Now go. Strip. We have approximately sixty-eight minutes before you need to be on your way to The Plaza, and I refuse to let you show up looking like you got dressed in the dark at a TJ Maxx."
Behind the curtain, you carefully removed your clothes, hyper-aware that they probably cost less than a single button on anything in The Closet. You could hear Hoseok and Yoongi arguing about color theory – apparently there were indeed different shades of black, and choosing the wrong one would be, in Hoseok's words, "like telling Jeongguk his eyebrows are uneven."
"First one!" Hoseok tossed a garment bag over the curtain rod. You caught it reflexively, years of volleyball finally proving useful for something.
Inside was a black Alexander McQueen. You slipped it on carefully, terrified of breathing too hard and somehow damaging the fabric. It fit like a second skin, hugging curves you didn't even know you had.
"Let me see!" Hoseok clapped his hands together as you emerged. He circled you once, twice, his face growing increasingly disappointed. "No, no, absolutely not. You look like you're going to a very expensive funeral. Next!"
The next hour passed in a blur of silk, tulle, and increasingly specific criticisms from Hoseok:
"That Valentino makes you look like a sad lampshade."
"The Gucci is giving me 'rich divorcée tries EDM festival' vibes."
"If Jeongguk sees you in that Prada, he'll have me deported back to Korea."
You were about to give up hope when Hoseok gasped – an actual, theatrical gasp that echoed through The Closet. "Wait. Wait wait wait. How did I forget about this one?" He disappeared behind a locked cabinet that you'd assumed housed the Crown Jewels or maybe Jeongguk's soul.
"Close your eyes!" he commanded, and you did, if only because you were too tired to argue. You heard the rustle of fabric, felt something impossibly soft being pressed into your arms. "Okay, put this on. But don't look until you're fully dressed. I want to see your face when you realize I'm a genius."
The dress felt like water in your hands, liquid silk that somehow managed to be both substantial and weightless. You stepped into it blindly, letting the fabric slide over your body like a caress. It zipped up perfectly – suspiciously perfectly, as if it had been made for you.
"Okay," Hoseok's voice was trembling with excitement. "Open your eyes."
You did, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
The dress was Saint Laurent, a deep midnight blue that looked black until the light hit it just right. It fell off your shoulders in a way that suggested scandal without actually promising any, the neckline doing something architectural that made your collarbones look like art. The fabric hugged your waist before falling in a perfectly draped column to the floor, with a slit that hit exactly the right point between elegant and dangerous.
"Holy shit," Yoongi whispered, actually looking up from his phone. "You actually did it, Hobi. You made her look like she belongs here."
"Of course I did," Hoseok sniffed, but you could see the pride in his eyes. "I'm not just a pretty face with incredible taste and perfect hair, you know." He circled you again, this time making small adjustments – smoothing a seam here, adjusting the fall of fabric there. "Now we just need shoes, jewelry, hair, makeup..."
Your stomach dropped. "Hoseok, I can't afford—"
"Please," he waved away your concerns like they were last season's trends. "Everything in The Closet is available for Runway staff to borrow for events. How do you think we all look so good on our salaries?" He disappeared again, returning with a pair of shoes that made your feet hurt just looking at them. "Besides, this isn't about you. This is about making sure Jeongguk doesn't spend the entire evening looking like he wants to fire you in front of New York's elite."
The shoes were Jimmy Choo, four inches of perfectly engineered torture that somehow made your legs look like they belonged on a runway. Hoseok added a pair of diamond drop earrings that you were afraid to ask the value of, and a delicate bracelet that Queen Elizabeth might’ve worn.
"Hair and makeup next!" Hoseok clapped his hands and two people materialized out of nowhere, armed with products that looked more like weapons of mass destruction than beauty tools. "We're going for 'effortlessly gorgeous' which, as we all know, requires at least forty-seven products and possibly a sacrifice to the gods of contouring."
You sat still as they worked, trying not to think about how much time was passing or how many emails were probably piling up on your desk. The makeup artist muttered something about "blessed bone structure" while applying what felt like the entire MAC counter to your face, while the hairstylist did something complicated that involved a lot of pins and prayers.
"Final touches!" Hoseok appeared with a clutch that was barely big enough to hold your phone but probably cost as much as a car. "Your event survival kit: mints, Band-Aids for inevitable shoe blisters, a compact for touch-ups, and most importantly," he pulled out a small bottle, "Jeongguk's favorite throat lozenges. The blue ones, not the green ones, because apparently that's a distinction that matters to someone who probably has never been sick a day in his perfect life."
You stood to look in the mirror one final time and barely recognized yourself. The person staring back at you looked like they belonged in Runway's pages, not just fetching coffee for the people who created them. Your makeup was flawless but subtle, making your eyes look bigger and your cheekbones sharper without looking like you were trying too hard. Your hair was pulled back in what appeared to be a simple knot but was probably some sort of architectural masterpiece that would require an engineering degree to recreate.
"Well?" Hoseok was practically vibrating with anticipation. "What do you think?"
"I think..." you turned, watching the dress catch the light. "I think Jeongguk might actually remember my name tonight."
"Oh honey," Hoseok's grin was positively wicked. "In that dress? He won't be able to forget it."
Your phone buzzed, making you jump. A message from Irene:
Car is waiting downstairs. You need to be at The Plaza in 20 minutes to check the seating arrangements. And please tell Hoseok if he's turned you into another one of his fashion victims, I will personally ensure he never sees the spring collection samples.
"Time to go!" Hoseok shooed you toward the door, pressing a card into your hand. "This has my number and Yoongi's. Text us if you need anything, if Jeongguk starts acting more demonic than usual, or if Miranda tries to steal him for her magazine again."
"Again?"
"Story for another time, darling. Now go! Make us proud! Don't trip in those shoes, they're this season and we can't get replacements!"
As you carefully navigated your way to the elevator, clutch pressed to your chest like a shield, you heard Yoongi call out: "Remember, if he has more than three glasses of champagne, start recording! We need new blackmail material!"
The elevator doors closed on Hoseok smacking him with what looked like a Hermès scarf, and you took a deep breath. You could do this. You were wearing more money than you'd ever seen in your life, you'd been trained by the best (or at least the most fashionable), and you had exactly three hours to prove to Jeongguk that hiring you wasn't the biggest mistake of his career.
How hard could it be?
The universe, apparently, took that thought as a personal challenge.
The moment you stepped out of the Runway town car (which was really more of a town mansion on wheels), you were accosted by no less than three event coordinators, all of whom seemed to think their crisis was the most important thing happening in the known universe.
"The florist used peonies instead of garden roses!"
"The lighting is all wrong, Jeongguk specifically said no yellow undertones!"
"Anna's place card is three millimeters off center!"
You took a deep breath, channeling your inner Jeongguk. What would he do in this situation? Besides fire everyone and possibly have the building demolished out of spite?
"You," you pointed to the first coordinator, trying to make your voice sound as authoritative as possible while wearing borrowed couture. "Switch the centerpieces from tables four and seven, they used the right flowers there. You," to the second, "adjust the gels on the uplighting to cool the tone by exactly two degrees. And you," to the third, who looked ready to faint, "move every place card three millimeters to the left. That way they're all equally 'wrong' and no one will notice."
They stared at you for a moment before scurrying off to follow your instructions. You allowed yourself a small smile. Maybe you were learning something from all those hours of watching Jeongguk terrorize the magazine staff.
The Plaza's ballroom was a scene of controlled chaos. Staff members darted around like very well-dressed ants, adjusting everything from the angle of the water glasses to the precise fold of each napkin. You checked your phone – one hour until guests would start arriving, two hours until Jeongguk's entrance (because of course he had specified the exact minute he would arrive, probably calculated to maximize dramatic effect).
You were halfway through rechecking the seating chart for the eighteenth time when a familiar voice cut through the chaos:
"Well, well. If it isn't Jeongguk's new toy."
You turned to find yourself face-to-face with Suzy, who looked exactly like every photo you'd ever seen of her but somehow more terrifying in person. She wore a red Versace gown that probably cost more than your entire life, her dark hair styled in waves that definitely took hours to look that effortless.
"Suzy," you managed, grateful that your voice didn't shake. "I wasn't expecting you so early."
She laughed, but it wasn't a kind sound. "Of course you weren't. That's why I'm here. Always keep them guessing, darling. Didn't Jeongguk teach you that yet?" She ran a perfectly manicured finger along the nearest table's centerpiece. "Though I suppose he hasn't taught you much of anything, has he? Still fumbling around in borrowed clothes, trying to play in a world you don't understand."
You forced yourself to hold her gaze, remembering Taehyung's words from your interview: Look him straight in the fucking eye and sell yourself. You imagined the same applied to dealing with fashion industry apex predators in general.
"Is there something I can help you with, Suzy? The event doesn't start for another hour, and I have quite a lot to manage before then."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and you saw something flash across her face, respect? Amusement? Murder plans? "Careful, little assistant. That almost sounded like something he would say." She turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and that Saint Laurent? I wore it better."
You waited until she was out of sight before letting out the breath you'd been holding. Your phone buzzed:
Hoseok: How's it going? Has anyone cried yet? Please tell me someone has cried. Hoseok: Also Yoongi wants to know if you've seen Miranda yet. We have a betting pool.
You were about to reply when another message came through, this one making your blood run cold:
Jeongguk: Change of plans. I'm arriving in 10 minutes. Jeongguk: Everything better be perfect.
You nearly dropped your phone. Well, that’s terrifying.
Ten minutes. You had ten minutes to ensure absolute perfection before fashion's favorite demon king made his entrance. You'd seen Jeongguk's version of "perfect" up close for weeks now, it was a standard that made Olympic judges look lenient.
You speed-walked through the ballroom (running would be unseemly, as Irene had drilled into your head), barking orders with a confidence you definitely didn't feel:
"Those champagne flutes need to be exactly one inch apart!"
"The backdrop for the check presentation is two shades too bright, fix it!"
"Who approved these napkin folds? This isn't an Olive Garden!"
Your borrowed Jimmy Choos clicked against the marble floors as you made your final rounds, channeling every ounce of Jeongguk-inspired terror you could muster. The dress moved like water around you, making you feel simultaneously powerful and terrified of spilling something on fabric.
Your phone buzzed again:
Irene: He just pulled up. Don't fuck this up. Hoseok: Show time, baby! Remember, shoulders back, chin up, and if all else fails, faint. No one can fire you if you're unconscious. Yoongi: Don't listen to Hoseok. Last time someone fainted, Jeongguk just stepped over them and asked why they were taking an unauthorized break.
You hurried to the entrance, arriving just as the doors opened to reveal Jeongguk in all his glory. He wore a Tom Ford tuxedo that looked like it had been painted onto his body by artists who specialized in sin. His hair was styled in that perfectly imperfect way that probably took three hours and the sacrifice of several virgin styling products to achieve. But it was his expression that stopped you dead in your tracks, he was smiling.
Not his usual smirk that promised career death, or the tight-lipped thing he did when advertisers were being particularly stupid. No, this was a full, genuine smile that transformed his entire face from "fashion demon king" to "actual divine being who somehow ended up in the magazine industry."
Then you saw why he was smiling, and your stomach dropped through the floor and probably straight to hell, where it belonged.
Taehyung was with him.
The executive editor looked equally devastating in what had to be custom Gucci, his presence making every other person in the room fade into background characters. They walked in together, moving with the synchronized grace of people who knew exactly what effect they had on a room.
"__," Jeongguk's voice snapped you out of your daze. "The seating arrangements?"
"All set according to your specifications," you managed, proud that your voice didn't shake. "Anna is positioned exactly forty-seven degrees from any direct lighting, the Kardashians are separated by precisely the right number of social influencers, and Miranda..." you paused for dramatic effect, "is seated in Siberia. Metaphorically speaking."
Was that almost a laugh? No, impossible. Jeon Jeongguk didn't laugh. He probably had it surgically removed and replaced with extra space for storing cutting remarks about people's fashion choices.
"Good." He surveyed the room, and you held your breath. This was it – the moment he'd find some microscopic flaw and have you executed by firing squad (probably wearing last season's Prada, just to add insult to injury).
But instead, he just nodded. Once. The smallest possible acknowledgment that everything met his impossible standards.
You felt like you'd just won an Olympic gold medal in the "Don't Get Fired" category.
"The check presentation is in an hour," he continued, adjusting his cufflinks in a way that somehow made the simple gesture look like art. "I expect everything to run precisely on schedule. And __?"
"Yes?"
"Try not to let anyone important see you hiding bodies when Miranda inevitably tries to poach me for Vogue again."
He walked away before you could process that he'd made an actual joke, leaving you standing there with your mouth slightly open. Taehyung lingered behind, his eyes dancing with amusement.
"Close your mouth, darling. We're not catching flies." He leaned in conspiratorially. "And if you think that was shocking, wait until his fourth glass of champagne. That's when he usually starts critiquing people's life choices in haiku form."
Your phone buzzed again:
Hoseok: TELL ME EVERYTHING Hoseok: Did he notice the dress? Hoseok: Of course he noticed the dress, he notices everything Hoseok: Did he fire anyone yet? Hoseok: Why aren't you answering me??? Yoongi: Hoseok, breathe. She's probably busy hiding Miranda's body.
You were about to reply when you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Suzy was making her way toward Jeongguk, who was now talking to what appeared to be half the board of directors. At the same time, from the opposite direction, Miranda Priestly herself was advancing like a shark who'd spotted particularly fashionable blood in the water.
Well, shit.
You had approximately thirty seconds to prevent World War III: Fashion Edition. Your mind raced through options:
Pull the fire alarm (too obvious)
Fake a medical emergency (too dramatic)
Release live animals into the ballroom (tempting, but probably career suicide)
Then you remembered what Jeongguk had said about hiding bodies, and an idea struck you.
You intercepted Miranda first, armed with your most apologetic smile. "Ms. Priestly! I'm so sorry, but there's an urgent call for you in the manager's office. Something about Vogue's September issue being leaked early?"
Her eyes narrowed, but the possibility of a crisis at her own magazine was too important to ignore. She turned sharply, heading for the exit with the determination of a heat-seeking missile.
One down, one to go.
You spun around to find Suzy almost within striking distance of Jeongguk. Time for Plan B.
You "accidentally" stumbled into a waiter, sending a tray of champagne glasses flying directly into Suzy's path. She leapt back with a shriek, saving her Versace from certain destruction but completely losing her trajectory toward Jeongguk.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" You rushed forward with a napkin, making sure to position yourself between her and her target. "Please, let me help you to the powder room to make sure nothing was damaged..."
As you steered a fuming Suzy toward the ladies' room (conveniently located on the opposite side of the ballroom from Jeongguk), you caught Taehyung's eye. He raised his champagne glass in a silent toast, eyes sparkling with what looked suspiciously like pride.
Your phone buzzed one final time:
Jeongguk: Clumsy. Jeongguk: But effective. Jeongguk: I didn't know you had it in you.
You smiled to yourself as you continued your tactical retreat with Suzy. Maybe you were learning something after all.
Just then, the lights flickered – once, twice. You looked up to see Yoongi frantically waving from across the room. The check presentation was in ten minutes, and you still had to:
Get Jeongguk to the stage
Ensure the lighting was perfect
Prevent Miranda (who had undoubtedly discovered there was no phone call) from staging a coup
Keep Suzy from committing murder in Versace
Somehow maintain your composure in shoes that were definitely designed by someone who hated feet
All while wearing a dress worth more than your life insurance policy.
You took a deep breath. You could do this. After all, what would Jeongguk do?
Actually, no. Don't answer that. He'd probably just have everyone fired and the building demolished.
Time for Plan C.
The lights flickered a third time, Yoongi's not-so-subtle signal that you were running out of time. You left Suzy in the powder room, where she was busy reapplying lipstick and shooting daggers at you through the mirror. Being Jeongguk's girlfriend clearly hadn't made her any fonder of his staff.
"I know what you're doing," she called as you turned to leave. "Keeping me away from him during the presentation. He put you up to this, didn't he?"
You paused at the door. "Mr. Jeon's instructions were very clear about the check presentation. He prefers to maintain a... professional image for these events."
"Professional." She laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Is that what he's calling it now? Tell me, does he still practice his speeches in the mirror when he thinks no one's watching?"
You rushed back to the ballroom, nearly colliding with Taehyung who was leaning against a pillar, looking amused.
"Running from the girlfriend?" He sipped his champagne. "Been there, done that. Though in my case, it was usually the other way around."
"I don't have time for cryptic ex-boyfriend commentary right now," you hissed, scanning the room for Jeongguk. "I need to—"
"Get him to the stage, handle the lighting cues, and prevent Miranda from staging what would be her third attempted coup this year?" Taehyung grinned. "Check the east bar. He always needs a moment alone before these things. Just... don't mention that I told you that."
You found Jeongguk exactly where Taehyung said he would be, standing slightly apart from the crowd, eyes fixed on something in the distance. The Book was open in his hands.
"Three minutes until the presentation," you said softly, not wanting to startle him.
"The font is wrong."
"I'm sorry?"
He turned, fixing you with those impossible eyes. "In The Book. The font for the charity spotlight piece. It's wrong. It looks..." he waved his hand vaguely, "charitable."
"God forbid we look charitable at a charity event."
The words slipped out before you could stop them. For a moment, you were certain this was it – this was how you died, sassed to death by Jeon Jeongguk at a children's hospital benefit.
But instead, his lips twitched. Just slightly. If you hadn't spent weeks studying his every microexpression, you would have missed it entirely.
"Indeed." He closed The Book with a snap. "Remind me tomorrow to have Yoongi redo the entire layout. Again."
"Of course. Right after your 9 AM call with Paris and before your lunch with the board."
He looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time. "You've memorized my schedule."
"It's my job."
"No," he handed you The Book, his fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second. "Your job is to anticipate what I need before I know I need it. The schedule is just..." he paused, searching for the right word.
"The framework for organized chaos?"
Another almost-smile. "Something like that." He straightened his bow tie, a gesture you'd learned meant he was preparing to face the public. "The lights?"
"Set to your exact specifications. No yellow undertones, and Anna Wintour is safely shadowed at forty-seven degrees."
"Miranda?"
"Successfully misdirected with a fake crisis at Vogue. Though she'll probably try to kill me later."
"Suzy?"
You hesitated. "Temporarily... detained. As requested. Though she's not happy about it."
He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "She never is." He checked his watch – a gesture so normal it seemed out of place on him. "Shall we?"
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of perfect lighting, practiced speeches, and photo ops that would undoubtedly appear in every fashion publication by morning. Jeongguk presented the check with the kind of effortless grace that made you wonder if he practiced these things in his sleep. His speech was flawless, of course – just the right balance of humble and commanding, with exactly three perfectly-timed jokes that made the audience laugh appreciatively.
You watched from the shadows, coordinating with the photographers to ensure they caught his good side (though you were beginning to suspect he didn't have a bad one). Taehyung stood nearby, nursing what had to be his fifth glass of champagne.
"He's good at this, isn't he?" He didn't wait for your response. "The whole performance. The perfect boss, the perfect editor, the perfect everything. Makes you wonder what he's like when no one's watching."
"Does anyone ever see him when no one's watching?"
Taehyung's laugh was soft, tinged with something that might have been regret. "Once upon a time." He finished his champagne. "But that's ancient history, and you've got bigger problems right now."
"What do you mean?"
He nodded toward the entrance, where Miranda had returned, looking murderous. At the same time, Suzy had emerged from the powder room, clearly done with being kept away from her boyfriend. They were approaching from opposite sides, like fashion industry heat-seeking missiles, both locked onto their target.
And in the center of it all, Jeongguk was still on stage, trapped in conversation with what appeared to be every board member of every hospital in New York.
"Well," Taehyung patted your shoulder. "Good luck with that. Try not to get blood on the marble – it's a nightmare to clean."
You watched him disappear into the crowd, leaving you alone to prevent what was about to become the most elegantly dressed disaster in benefit history.
Time for Plan D.
You just had to figure out what Plan D was first.
You had exactly fifteen seconds to prevent fashion's equivalent of a nuclear collision. On one side, Miranda Priestly advanced with the determination of someone who'd been denied her prey once already tonight. On the other, Suzy moved with the focused rage of a girlfriend who'd been deliberately kept from the spotlight.
And there was Jeongguk, still trapped on stage by board members who apparently hadn't noticed they were about to become collateral damage in World War Runway.
Plan D crystallized in your mind, born of desperation and possibly too much second-hand champagne anxiety. You grabbed the nearest waiter and whispered quick instructions, pressing Jeongguk's corporate card into his hand. Then you moved swiftly toward the stage, putting yourself between the approaching threats and their target.
"Ladies and gentlemen," you spoke into the microphone that had been abandoned after the check presentation, your voice somehow steady despite your internal screaming. "If I could have your attention please. Mr. Jeon has prepared a special announcement regarding Runway's upcoming collaboration with the hospital's pediatric wing."
Jeongguk's head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly. You gave him your best 'trust me or we all die' look.
The crowd turned, momentarily distracting both Miranda and Suzy. In that split second, you saw the waiter you'd conscripted slip up to Miranda and whisper something in her ear. Her eyes widened, and she immediately changed course, heading for the exit. You'd have to remember to apologize to Vogue's IT department later for the fake crisis you'd just created.
One down.
Jeongguk reached the microphone, smoothly taking control of the situation you'd created. "Yes, thank you, __." He didn't miss a beat, launching into an impromptu speech about a fashion-focused art therapy program that you were absolutely certain didn't exist until this very moment.
But he was Jeon Jeongguk, and he made it sound like he'd been planning this announcement for months. The crowd was enthralled, camera phones appeared, and suddenly Suzy couldn't make a scene without it being documented by half of New York's social elite.
Check and mate.
You felt rather than saw Taehyung appear beside you. "Not bad," he murmured. "Using his need to maintain a perfect public image against both threats at once. You're learning."
"I just got him to announce a program that doesn't exist."
"Oh, it'll exist by morning. That's the thing about Jeongguk – he'd rather make the impossible happen than admit to being caught off guard." Taehyung sipped his champagne, which you were pretty sure was surgically attached to his hand at this point. "Watch his left eyebrow. That tiny twitch? It means he's simultaneously impressed and plotting your murder."
You studied Jeongguk as he finished his speech, noting the nearly invisible tells that Taehyung pointed out. The slight tension in his jaw that meant he was improvising. The way his fingers adjusted his cufflinks when he needed a moment to think. The barely-there crease between his brows that appeared whenever he caught sight of Suzy, still hovering at the edge of the crowd.
"He doesn't look happy," you whispered.
"He never does. But he's not furious either, which is practically a standing ovation in Jeongguk terms." Taehyung's voice took on a distant quality. "You know, I once saw him smile, really smile, at a fashion show in Paris. The designer had sent out a completely black collection, no accessories, no embellishments, just pure form and shadow. For a moment, he looked..."
"Human?"
"Young." Taehyung finished his champagne. "He looked young."
Before you could ask what he meant, Jeongguk concluded his speech to enthusiastic applause. He made his way off stage with characteristic grace, but you caught the slight stiffness in his shoulders that meant he was bracing for confrontation.
"Mr. Jeon," you stepped forward, already pulling out your phone. "Your car is waiting. The mayor's office called – apparently there's an urgent matter regarding the zoning for Fashion Week that requires your immediate attention."
Another lie, another carefully crafted escape route. You were getting dangerously good at this.
Jeongguk's eyes met yours, and for a moment you saw something flash across his face – understanding, perhaps, or maybe just resignation to the game you were all constantly playing.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "Please express my regrets to anyone looking for me. The city's fashion industry cannot be kept waiting, even for such an excellent cause as tonight's."
You nodded, already typing out messages to coordinate his exit strategy. But as he passed you, he paused.
"__, that program you volunteered me for?"
Your stomach dropped. "Yes?"
"Have a proposal on my desk by nine AM. Since it was such an... inspired idea, you can take point on developing it."
He walked away before you could respond, leaving you to wonder if you'd just been punished or rewarded. With Jeongguk, it was probably both.
You looked around the ballroom, now buzzing with excitement over Runway's nonexistent collaboration. Suzy had disappeared, presumably to plot your eventual demise. Somewhere across town, Miranda was probably discovering that Vogue's servers were perfectly fine, which meant you'd need to avoid the entire Condé Nast building for at least a month.
And you had approximately eight hours to create a fashion-focused art therapy program for sick children, all while managing Jeongguk's regular morning schedule and trying not to collapse from emotional exhaustion.
You caught your reflection in one of the ballroom's massive mirrors. The Saint Laurent still looked perfect, your makeup hadn't smudged, and your hair had somehow maintained its architectural integrity. On the outside, you looked exactly like someone who belonged in Jeongguk's world.
Inside, you were screaming.
Just another day at Runway.
3:47 AM
Your phone's screen illuminated the darkness of your studio apartment, its harsh light reflecting off the Saint Laurent still draped over your only chair. You hadn't even bothered trying to sleep, instead diving straight into research about art therapy programs the moment you got home.
The dress watched you accusingly as you sat cross-legged on your bed, surrounded by empty coffee cups and hastily scrawled notes. Your best friend Rachel's latest text glowed on your phone:
Rachel: Are you seriously still working? It's almost 4 AM! Rachel: Remember when we used to go out on weekdays? Those were the days!! Rachel: Before you sold your soul to Satan in designer suits
You ignored the messages, focusing instead on your laptop screen where you had seventeen tabs open about pediatric art therapy. Your YouTube history now included everything from "Fashion Design for Beginners" to "Art Therapy Techniques for Children with Chronic Illness." Somewhere around 2 AM, you'd fallen into a rabbit hole of TED Talks about healing through creative expression.
Your phone buzzed again:
Hoseok: Still alive? Hoseok: If you need help with the fashion angle, I'm up Hoseok: Insomnia is my creative process You: Why are you awake? Hoseok: Darling, I work for Runway Hoseok: Sleep is for people who shop at Target
4:15 AM
Your coffee maker sputtered pathetically, producing what had to be its eighth pot of the night. The Saint Laurent still needed to be returned to The Closet, but you couldn't bear to move it yet. It was the only thing in your apartment that didn't look as exhausted as you felt.
Your phone lit up with a FaceTime request from your mom. Decline. You couldn't handle another conversation about how you "used to want to be a writer" and "what happened to grad school plans?" Besides, you had exactly 4 hours and 45 minutes to create an entire charitable program from scratch.
4:32 AM
Rachel: Just saw pics from the benefit on Instagram Rachel: THAT'S what you were wearing??? Rachel: Who are you and what have you done with my best friend? Rachel: The one who used to wear Converse to job interviews?
You glanced down at your current outfit: oversized NYU sweatshirt, yoga pants with a hole in the knee, and fuzzy socks that definitely violated every fashion rule in Jeongguk's universe. At least no one from Runway could see you now.
Your phone buzzed again:
Yoongi: Can't sleep Yoongi: Working on mockups for the program Yoongi: Jeongguk would hate them all Yoongi: But at least they're not comic sans
5:00 AM
The sun hadn't even considered rising when you stepped out of your building, trading your fuzzy socks for last season's Zara boots that made Hoseok wince every time he saw them. The Saint Laurent was carefully packed in its garment bag, ready to return to its natural habitat in The Closet.
Your neighbor Mrs. Chen was already out walking her dog. She did a double-take when she saw you.
"Again?" she called. "You used to leave for work at normal people's hours!"
You waved without stopping. Normal hours were a distant memory, like lunch breaks and weekends and having a personality that didn't revolve around anticipating Jeongguk's needs.
5:30 AM
The Runway building was eerily quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of someone else's fashion-induced insomnia. You made your way to The Closet first, carefully hanging the Saint Laurent back in its place. You swore it looked smug, like it knew it had briefly elevated you from fashion peasant to someone who could stand in the same room as Jeon Jeongguk without causing him physical pain.
"Early breakup?"
You jumped, nearly dropping the garment bag. Taehyung emerged from behind a rack of what appeared to be identical black blazers, looking unfairly put together for this hour.
"What are you doing here?"
"Could ask you the same thing." He leaned against a display case, watching you smoothe nonexistent wrinkles from the dress. "But I assume it has something to do with creating an entire charitable program before our beloved leader arrives."
"I still can't believe I did that."
"Announced a fake program to save Jeongguk from his girlfriend and Anna Wintour's arch-nemesis?" Taehyung's grin was infectious. "It was either brilliantly strategic or completely insane. Knowing Jeongguk, he probably hasn't decided which yet."
"Hence the 9 AM deadline for a full proposal."
"Ah yes, the classic Jeongguk test. Give someone an impossible task and see how creatively they fail." He pushed off from the display case and moved toward the door. "Come on. If you're going to pull this off, you'll need help. And coffee. Lots of coffee."
6:00 AM
Irene was already at her desk when you arrived, looking like she'd stepped out of a magazine despite the ungodly hour. She didn't look up from her computer as you approached.
"You're late."
"It's six AM!"
"And Jeongguk will be here at eight-thirty, which gives us exactly two and a half hours to create a program that won't make him fire us all and burn the building down." She finally looked up. "Nice sweatshirt."
You glanced down at your NYU alumni hoodie in horror. You'd forgotten to change after dropping off the dress.
"Relax," Taehyung called from Jeongguk's office, where he was already setting up what looked like a war room. "We'll make you presentable before he arrives. Right now, we need your sleep-deprived creativity more than your fashion sense."
For the next hour, you worked like people possessed. Taehyung's editorial experience helped shape the program's narrative, while Irene's encyclopedic knowledge of Jeongguk's preferences helped avoid any obvious landmines. Your own research from the night blended with their expertise, slowly forming something that might actually work.
Your phone buzzed periodically:
Rachel: Just saw MORE pics from the benefit Rachel: Since when do you know how to walk in heels like that? Rachel: WHO ARE YOU Mom: Honey, I saw you in the society pages online Mom: You looked so elegant! Mom: But maybe it's not too late to apply to grad school? Hoseok: On my way with reinforcements Hoseok: And by reinforcements I mean clothes that won't give Jeongguk an aneurysm Hoseok: That sweatshirt is a cry for help
7:15 AM
"No, no, NO!" Yoongi burst into the office, waving printouts. "The font is all wrong. He'll know. He always knows."
"The font?" You looked up from your laptop, where you were putting the finishing touches on the program outline. "We haven't even designed anything yet."
"This is Jeongguk we're talking about," Yoongi collapsed into a chair.
"He can sense improper kerning from three blocks away. Last week he made me redo an entire spread because the leading was half a point off."
7:45 AM
Hoseok arrived like a fashion hurricane, armed with garment bags and determination. He took one look at your sweatshirt and made a sound like a wounded animal.
"This is worse than I imagined. How are you even alive wearing that? Quick, into the bathroom. We have exactly forty-three minutes to make you look less like a college freshman and more like someone who regularly prevents fashion industry civil wars."
The next fifteen minutes were a blur of designer labels and Hoseok's running commentary:
"No, the Chanel makes you look like you're trying too hard."
"The Prada would work if you were announcing a merger, not a children's program."
"The Gucci... actually, let's pretend we never saw the Gucci."
Finally, he settled on a sleek black Ralph Lauren pantsuit that somehow made you look both professional and fashion-forward. A silk Equipment blouse in a soft blue added what Hoseok called "approachable authority," and a pair of Manolo Blahniks that only pinched a little completed the transformation.
"There," he stepped back, admiring his work. "Now you look like someone who might actually survive presenting to Jeongguk before coffee."
8:15 AM
The office was fully awake now, buzzing with its usual morning energy. But there was an extra edge to the atmosphere, a tension that crackled through the air like static before a storm. Everyone knew about last night's impromptu announcement, and everyone was waiting to see how Jeongguk would react.
Your phone hadn't stopped buzzing since 4 AM:
Irene: He's five minutes out Irene: Everything better be perfect Irene: And if anyone asks, this program was definitely planned months ago Taehyung: Ready for the performance of your life? Taehyung: Remember, he respects confidence Taehyung: Even if it's completely fake
8:29 AM
You stood in Jeongguk's office, surrounded by presentation boards that Yoongi had somehow produced in the last hour. The program proposal sat on Jeongguk's desk, printed on the exact paper stock he preferred, in a font that had been approved by three different art directors.
Your reflection in the window showed someone who looked like they belonged in Runway's halls, polished, professional, put together. Only you knew that beneath the Ralph Lauren armor, your heart was threatening to break free from your chest.
The elevator dinged.
Footsteps approached, accompanied by the familiar sound of Italian leather on marble.
This was it. Time to find out if you'd brilliantly saved your career or spectacularly ended it.
The footsteps stopped.
"__."
You turned to face Jeongguk, who stood in the doorway looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine cover despite the early hour. His expression was unreadable, but you caught that slight eyebrow twitch that Taehyung had mentioned, the one that meant he was either impressed or plotting murder.
"Good morning, Mr. Jeon. Shall we discuss the pediatric fashion therapy program?"
Behind him, you saw Taehyung give you a subtle thumbs up. Irene held her breath. Hoseok crossed his fingers.
Jeongguk's eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw something flash across his face, amusement? Approval? Homicidal intent?
"Proceed."
The next hour would either make your career or end it.
"The Fashion Forward Futures program," you began, gesturing to the first board Yoongi had created, "combines art therapy principles with fashion design fundamentals to create a unique healing environment for pediatric patients."
Jeongguk sat behind his desk, one elegant finger tapping silently against the proposal's cover. His face remained impassive, but you'd learned to read the micro-expressions that betrayed his thoughts. The slight tilt of his head meant he was listening. Really listening.
"Each child will be paired with a mentor from Runway's creative team," you continued, moving to the next board. "They'll learn basic design principles while expressing their experiences through fashion-focused art projects."
"And these mentors," Jeongguk interrupted, his voice carrying that dangerous silk-over-steel quality, "they've all agreed to this?"
You met his gaze steadily. "They will."
His eyebrow arched slightly, challenge accepted.
"We've already identified key department heads who would be perfect for the program." You pulled out a carefully prepared list. "Yoongi's visual expertise makes him ideal for teaching color theory and composition. Hoseok's styling background could help children express themselves through fashion. And Taehyung..."
"Will teach them how to write scathing critiques of hospital gown designs?" The corner of Jeongguk's mouth twitched.
"Will help them tell their stories," you corrected. "Every piece of art they create will have meaning, a narrative. Something Runway can feature in a monthly column, showing how fashion and creativity can impact healing."
You moved through the rest of the presentation with growing confidence. The program timeline, the budget projections, the potential PR angles – everything you and the team had frantically assembled over the past few hours. When you finished, silence fell over the office.
Jeongguk stood, moving to examine the presentation boards more closely. You held your breath, feeling the collective anxiety of everyone watching through the glass walls. His fingers traced over one of Yoongi's mockups, a rendering of children's artwork transformed into fabric patterns.
"The font is wrong."
Of course it was.
"We have alternatives prepared," you replied smoothly, pulling out the folder of options Yoongi had insisted on creating. "Something more... aspirational, perhaps?"
Jeongguk's eyes met yours in the reflection of the glass, and for a moment, you swore you saw something like approval flicker across his face.
"Fix the font. Revise the budget, these numbers are optimistic at best. And __?" He turned, fixing you with that impossible gaze. "Next time you volunteer my magazine for a charitable program, try to give me more than eight hours notice."
He walked out of the office, leaving you to decode whether you'd just been praised or condemned. Probably both.
Your phone vibrated immediately:
Hoseok: HE BASICALLY SAID YES Hoseok: This is not a drill Hoseok: Also I told you that Ralph Lauren would work Yoongi: I KNEW the font was wrong Yoongi: No one ever listens to me about fonts Yoongi: But at least we're not fired
Irene appeared in the doorway, looking slightly less murderous than usual. "He wants the revisions by noon. And he added a lunch meeting with the hospital board to his schedule. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Your stomach dropped. "But we haven't even—"
"Better start making those calls to department heads," she smirked. "By the way, nice suit choice."
You collapsed into the nearest chair the moment she left, adrenaline crash hitting hard.
Before you could respond, Taehyung appeared with two cups of coffee. He handed you one and perched on the edge of Jeongguk's desk – something only he seemed able to do without risking immediate termination.
"Not bad for eight hours work," he mused. "Though you might want to warn the department heads before they read about their new volunteer commitments in WWD."
"How did this even happen?" You gestured vaguely at the presentation boards. "Twenty-four hours ago I was just trying to keep his girlfriend from causing a scene."
"Welcome to Runway," Taehyung grinned. "Where every crisis is an opportunity and every opportunity is a test." He sipped his coffee. "Speaking of tests, you might want to prepare for your next one."
"What do you mean?"
He nodded toward the elevator bank, where Suzy had just emerged looking like vengeance in Valentino. Her eyes locked onto you through the glass walls.
"Good luck," Taehyung called as he made his strategic exit. "Try not to bleed on the carpets, they're new."
Suzy stalked into the office, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown to execution. She carried a copy of WWD, which she tossed onto Jeongguk's desk.
"Quite the achievement," she purred, though her eyes were arctic. "Creating an entire charitable program overnight. You must be so proud."
You stood, channeling every ounce of confidence the Ralph Lauren suit could provide. "Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Bae?"
"Funny, I was just wondering the same thing." She moved closer, her Chanel No. 5 creating an expensive fog. "What exactly are you trying to help yourself to, __? First the benefit, now this program... one might think you were trying to make yourself indispensable."
"I'm just doing my job."
"Are you?" She picked up the proposal, flipping through it with deliberate carelessness. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're doing a lot more than that. Tell me, does Jeongguk know about your little early morning strategy session with his ex?"
Your heart skipped. How did she know about Taehyung helping?
"Or about all those late-night texts with Hoseok?" She smiled, all teeth and warning. "You're not the first assistant to think you can climb the Runway ladder, darling. Ask Jeongguk what happened to the last one who tried."
Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the tension:
"Suzy." Jeongguk stood in the doorway, his expression dark. "My office. Now."
She turned, her smile transforming into something soft and practiced. "Darling, I was just congratulating your assistant on the new program. Such initiative."
"__," Jeongguk's eyes never left Suzy, "the hospital board wants to move the meeting to today. Three PM. Make it happen."
"Yes, Mr. Jeon."
You escaped to your desk, trying to ignore the muffled conversation coming from his office. Your phone lit up with new messages:
Taehyung: Suzy's on the warpath Taehyung: Been there, survived that Taehyung: Drinks later? You look like you need the story about what really happened to the last assistant Hoseok: SOS Hoseok: Just got the email about mentoring Hoseok: What have you volunteered me for??? Hoseok: And why didn't you warn me to wear my best "working with children" outfit today? Mom: Just saw you quoted in Women's Wear Daily! Mom: But are you eating enough? Mom: You looked so thin in those benefit photos
The glass walls did little to muffle the rising voices from Jeongguk's office. You caught fragments:
"...undermining me in front of the board..."
"...like you did with the last one..."
"...not having this conversation again..."
Irene appeared with a stack of papers. "Hospital board contact list. They all need to be called personally about the schedule change." She paused, glancing at Jeongguk's office where Suzy was now gesturing emphatically. "And __, when you're done? Maybe take lunch somewhere else today. Far away. Like maybe New Jersey."
You nodded, already reaching for your phone. You had four hours to:
Reschedule a meeting with twelve of the city's busiest hospital administrators
Revise an entire program proposal
Convince Runway's creative team to volunteer with children
Somehow avoid being murdered by your boss's girlfriend
Figure out why everyone kept mentioning "the last assistant"
Find time to eat something that wasn't coffee
Your phone buzzed one final time:
Jeongguk: The font is still wrong. Jeongguk: Fix it.
The third revision of the proposal wasn't much better than the first two. Yoongi had gone through seven different font options, each apparently more offensive to Jeongguk's sensibilities than the last. The current version sat on his desk like a ticking bomb, its pristine pages practically radiating disappointment.
"The kerning physically pains me," Jeongguk announced to no one in particular, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd been prowling his office like a caged panther since Suzy's departure, leaving devastation in his wake. Three editors had already fled in tears, and the art department was considering a collective sick day.
"Perhaps if we adjusted the spacing—" Yoongi began.
"Perhaps if we hadn't announced an entire program without any planning, we wouldn't be having this conversation." Jeongguk's voice could have frozen hellfire. "But since my assistant seems determined to revolutionize pediatric care through questionable typography, here we are."
You stood your ground, channeling every ounce of confidence the Ralph Lauren suit could provide. "The hospital board meeting is in forty minutes. They've rearranged the schedules of twelve department heads to be there. The press is already calling for details. We need to move forward."
Jeongguk's head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours with dangerous intensity. The office collectively held its breath. Somewhere in the distance, Hoseok whispered a prayer to the fashion gods.
"Fine." He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with lethal precision. "But when this fails spectacularly, I expect a full redesign of the March issue as compensation for my emotional distress."
"Of course," you replied smoothly. "Though it won't fail."
His eyebrow arched. "Rather confident for someone who just learned the difference between Pantone and paint samples."
"I learned from the best." The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then, so quickly you almost missed it, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"The board will expect details about mentor assignments," he said, turning to face the window. "I assume you've handled that?"
"Taehyung is reviewing portfolios of potential mentors from each department. Hoseok's already planning a styling workshop for the children, and Yoongi..." you glanced at the art director, who was still mourning his font choices, "is working on translating their artwork into textile designs."
"And who exactly volunteered you for program coordination?"
"You did. Last night. When you demanded a proposal by nine AM."
He turned back, and for a split second, you caught something that might have been an amusement flicker across his face. "Bold of you to assume I meant it as a promotion rather than a punishment."
"With you, I've learned it's usually both."
This time, the almost-smile lasted long enough to send ripples of shock through the watching office. Hoseok nearly fainted. Irene dropped her phone. Somewhere in the fashion closet, a rack of Prada spontaneously reorganized itself.
"The car will be ready in ten minutes," you continued, pressing your advantage. "The presentation boards have been updated with the new font, and I've had the hospital's PR team send over their latest pediatric success stories for potential feature angles."
"And my three o'clock with Milan?"
"Rescheduled for tomorrow morning. I told them you were personally overseeing a charitable initiative, which made you seem both important and benevolent."
"Manipulative," he observed. "I suppose you're learning something here after all." He checked his watch – a gesture so normal it seemed out of place on him. "Nine minutes until the car arrives. Perhaps we should address the elephant in the office?"
Your stomach dropped. "Sir?"
"The suit, __. Ralph Lauren, Fall collection if I'm not mistaken. A vast improvement over your usual sartorial choices, though the cut suggests recent alterations." His eyes performed their usual clinical assessment. "Hoseok's work, I presume?"
"He said the previous option made him physically ill."
"Yes, that NYU sweatshirt was rather tragic. Though not quite as tragic as the font choices currently assaulting my desk." He picked up his coat – a gesture you'd learned meant the conversation was nearly over. "We'll discuss your newfound appreciation for proper tailoring later. For now, try to ensure this hospital meeting doesn't end with me having to buy an entire medical wing to salvage Runway's reputation."
As he swept out of the office, you caught Taehyung trying to hide his grin behind a copy of The Book.
"Well," he mused once Jeongguk was safely in the elevator, "that's the closest thing to a compliment I've seen him give since Paris Fashion Week 2019."
"What happened in Paris?"
"The same thing that always happens in Paris – someone made the mistake of thinking they could predict Jeon Jeongguk." He set down The Book, his expression turning serious. "Speaking of mistakes, we should probably talk about Suzy."
"I'd rather talk about the hospital board meeting that's about to determine my entire career trajectory."
"They're more connected than you think." He glanced at his watch. "But you're right, one crisis at a time. Car's waiting. Try not to revolutionize any other medical departments before dinner?"
You grabbed your tablet and the updated proposal, already mentally preparing for the next performance in this endless fashion circus.
The hospital board meeting had gone better than anyone dared hope. Not only had they approved the program, but three board members had personally volunteered their departments for the pilot phase. Even Jeongguk had seemed pleased, or at least, as pleased as someone could look while simultaneously critiquing the conference room's lighting and the hospital CEO's choice of tie.
That had been six hours ago. Now, you sat at your desk watching night settle over Manhattan, the city lights reflecting off Runway's glass walls. The office had slowly emptied, leaving behind only the usual evening ghosts, ambitious editors, desperate designers, and of course, you.
"Still here?"
You looked up to find Taehyung leaning against your desk, his Gucci tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion without actually looking disheveled.
"Someone has to handle the press requests. Apparently, revolutionizing pediatric care through fashion makes for good headlines."
"Ah yes, I saw WWD's write-up. 'Runway Leads Fashion-Forward Healing Initiative.' Not bad for something you invented to prevent a society event scandal." He settled into the chair opposite your desk. "Though I suspect that's not really why you're still here at—" he checked his watch, "nine PM."
“I’m waiting for Jeongguk’s text,” you sigh, staring at your device, which hasn’t rung in the past 3 hours.
Almost on cue, your phone buzzed:
Jeongguk: The Book. Jeongguk: Now.
"And there it is," you showed Taehyung the screen. "Duty calls."
"Ah, the nightly ritual." He stood, straightening his tie with practiced ease. "Try not to let Mrs. Kim intimidate you this time. I hear she's actually quite nice once you get past the...everything about her."
The familiar weight of The Book felt heavier tonight as you made your way through the quiet streets of the Upper East Side. Maybe it was exhaustion from the day's events, or maybe it was the memory of your last visit to the townhouse. Either way, your feet seemed to drag with each step closer to 73rd Street.
The lion's head knocker gleamed in the streetlight, somehow managing to look judgmental. You took a deep breath and knocked, the sound echoing through what you now knew was an absurdly large foyer.
Mrs. Kim opened the door with her usual expression of mild disappointment. "The Book?" Her voice carried the same deep tone that still somehow managed to make you feel two inches tall.
"Yes, Mrs. Kim. And some magazines Mr. Jeon requested."
She stepped aside to let you in, but instead of taking The Book, she gestured toward the stairs. "Third floor. He's waiting."
Your stomach dropped. Not again.
The marble stairs seemed to multiply as you climbed, each step echoing off the limestone walls. Light spilled from Jeongguk's study, warm and deceptively inviting. You could hear him speaking softly in Korean, probably on another call with the Seoul office.
You paused in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. Jeongguk sat behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he scrolled through something on his iPad. He wore a black cashmere sweater that probably cost more than your rent, his hair slightly disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it – a habit you'd noticed emerged only during particularly stressful days.
He looked up, ending his call without so much as a goodbye. "I trust the press has been adequately managed?"
"Vogue wants an exclusive on the program launch. I told them we'd consider it if they agreed to feature some of the children's designs." You stepped into the office, placing The Book carefully on his desk. "Women's Wear Daily is running a follow-up piece tomorrow, focusing on the fashion industry's philanthropic initiatives. And The Times' style section wants to interview you about revolutionizing pediatric care through creative expression."
"All in less than twenty-four hours," he mused, reaching for The Book. "Perhaps I should have you announce fake programs more often."
"Please don't."
The corner of his mouth twitched – that almost-smile that was becoming dangerously familiar. "Sit."
You sank into one of the leather chairs facing his desk, trying not to fidget under his gaze. He opened The Book, fingers trailing over the pages with familiar precision.
"The March layout," he began, then paused. "You've changed the font."
"Yoongi found one that bridges the gap between charitable and couture. His words, not mine."
"Hmm." He flipped another page. "And this feature on sustainable fashion?"
"Repurposed from next month's issue. It felt more relevant given our new focus on social responsibility."
He looked up then, studying you with an intensity that made you want to check if you had coffee stains on your suit. "You're learning."
"I had a good teacher."
"Several, apparently." He closed The Book. "Taehyung's influence is all over this program proposal. As is Hoseok's. And Yoongi's, font choices notwithstanding."
You held his gaze. "I utilize the resources available to me."
"Indeed." He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Tell me, __, do you know why I hired you?"
Your heart skipped at the unexpected question. You thought back to your disastrous interview, how you'd walked in wearing a thrifted blazer and absolute ignorance about the fashion industry.
"I assumed it was temporary insanity on your part," you replied honestly. "Or perhaps there was a shortage of qualified candidates who knew the difference between Prada and Target."
"There were three hundred and forty-seven applicants for your position." He stood, moving to the window that overlooked Madison Avenue. "Fashion editors, style bloggers, graduates from top design schools. People who could identify a Birkin at fifty paces and recite Karl Lagerfeld's entire collection history."
"And yet you chose the one person who didn't know your name."
"Precisely." He turned, the city lights casting shadows across his face. "Do you know what all those other candidates had in common, besides their encyclopedic knowledge of hemlines?"
You shook your head.
"Fear." He moved back to his desk, but didn't sit. "They were so terrified of making a mistake, of saying the wrong thing, of being anything less than perfect, that they became utterly useless. Fashion had consumed them so completely they'd forgotten how to think beyond it."
"And I was too ignorant to be afraid?"
"You were too honest to pretend." His eyes met yours, intense and unreadable. "When I dismissed you from that interview, you didn't slink away in defeat. You stood your ground. Told me exactly why I should hire you, even though you clearly thought I was an arrogant ass."
"To be fair, you are an arrogant ass."
The words slipped out before you could stop them. For a moment, silence filled the study. Then, something extraordinary happened.
Jeongguk laughed.
Not a smirk, not an almost-smile, but an actual laugh that transformed his entire face. It lasted only seconds, but it was enough to make you understand why Taehyung had mentioned that moment in Paris, why he'd described Jeongguk looking young.
"Case in point," he said, composing himself. "That honesty, that willingness to speak truth regardless of consequence – it's rare in this industry. Rarer still in this office."
"Most people don't survive speaking truth to Jeon Jeongguk."
"Most people don't create entire charitable programs overnight to save me from social disaster." He picked up a page from his desk, the hospital board's formal approval of the Fashion Forward Futures initiative. "Though I'm still deciding if that was brilliance or insanity."
"Why not both?"
His eyes found yours again, and this time you caught something new in them – respect, maybe. Or at least amusement.
"Why not indeed." He set the paper down. "The program launches in two weeks. The entire fashion industry will be watching, waiting for us to fail spectacularly. Miranda's probably already planning her 'Runway's Failed Philanthropy' exposé."
"Then we better not fail."
"We?" His eyebrow arched.
"You did make me program coordinator. Unless that was just an elaborate form of punishment?"
"As I said earlier, with me it's usually both." He moved toward a cabinet near the window, pulling out two glasses and what looked like obscenely expensive scotch. "The question is, are you prepared for what that means?"
"Being your program coordinator or being punished?"
He handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours briefly. "Suzy won't stop at this morning's performance. She knows what this program could mean for Runway, for you. She's seen it happen before."
"With the last assistant?" You took a sip of scotch, letting the warmth steady your nerves. "The one everyone keeps mentioning but no one will talk about?"
Jeongguk's expression darkened slightly. "That's a story for another time. For now, you should know that success at Runway often comes with... complications."
"Like homicidal girlfriends and font-related trauma?"
That almost-smile returned. "Among other things." He moved back to the window, swirling the scotch in his glass. "The fashion industry runs on fear, insecurity, and impossible standards. Those who survive learn to navigate it. Those who excel learn to use it."
"And those who don't?"
"End up working at Vogue." He finished his scotch. "Or worse, mass market retail."
You stood, sensing the conversation was nearing its end. "Well, I promise not to let the program fail or end up at Vogue. Though I can't promise to stop speaking truth to arrogant asses."
"I would expect nothing less." He turned back to you, his expression unreadable once more. "The font is still wrong, by the way. Have Yoongi fix it before the morning meeting."
You were almost to the door when his voice stopped you:
"__, one more thing."
"Yes?"
"That Ralph Lauren? Keep it. It suits you better than fear ever could."
You left the townhouse feeling slightly dazed, the weight of The Book replaced by something else entirely. Your phone buzzed as you reached the sidewalk:
Taehyung: Well? Did you survive? Taehyung: If you're dead, blink twice
You smiled, typing back:
You: Not dead. But I think I just had a real conversation with Jeon Jeongguk. You: He might have even laughed.
The response was immediate:
Taehyung: Keep this up and we'll have to update the Runway employee handbook Taehyung: "In case of genuine Jeongguk emotions, please contact your nearest fashion crisis counselor"
You looked back at the townhouse, its windows glowing warmly against the night sky. Somewhere up there, the most feared man in fashion was probably already finding fault with tomorrow's layouts. But for now, for this moment, you'd seen behind the carefully constructed facade.
Your phone buzzed one final time:
Jeongguk: The Book. 9 AM tomorrow. Jeongguk: Don't be late. Jeongguk: And __, the suit really does suit you.
You smiled, tucking your phone away as you started the walk back downtown. The city hummed around you, a perfect backdrop to your thoughts. Six weeks ago, you'd walked into Jeon Publications knowing nothing about fashion and even less about Jeon Jeongguk. Now here you were, wearing Ralph Lauren, drinking scotch with the devil himself, and somehow launching a charitable program that might actually make a difference.
The crisp January air nipped at your face, but you barely felt it. Maybe it was the lingering warmth of the scotch, or perhaps it was the memory of Jeongguk's laugh, real and unguarded for that brief moment. Either way, something had shifted tonight, subtle but significant, like the difference between Pantone swatches that only Jeongguk could see.
You caught your reflection in a store window, the Ralph Lauren still impeccable, your posture straighter than it had been six weeks ago. You looked like someone who belonged in Jeongguk's world now, but more importantly, you looked like someone who might actually survive it.
A million girls would kill for this job, Jennie had said. But maybe, just maybe, you were the one girl who could actually do it.
