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Chapter 8
Hanbom snatched up a four-kilogram fire extinguisher from the corridor and charged fiercely at the woman.
Balancing her demanding secretary work with her writing required stamina as a baseline. Morning and evening, she did five sets of ten squats, five sets of ten push-ups, and countless other bodyweight exercises. Now, all that training revealed its worth.
“What… what the hell?!”
The knife-wielding woman’s eyes went wide at the unexpected attacker.
Hanbom swung without hesitation, slamming the extinguisher down onto the woman’s wrist.
The blade clattered from her hand. She staggered, collapsing helplessly to the floor.
Hanbom wedged the fire extinguisher under her arm and grabbed the man’s wrist with her free hand.
“Run!”
Before he could even decide, she was already pulling him at full speed.
“You crazy bitch! You’re leaving my brother behind?! Thief! Thieving whore!”
The woman had recovered, screaming after them. Hanbom glanced back—she had already scooped up the dropped knife again.
“She’s not giving up!”
At that moment, the man seized Hanbom’s wrist, overtaking her to lead the way.
They bolted through the maze of hotel corridors and ducked into a storage room stacked with supplies.
Both collapsed into ragged, uneven breathing.
Clack clack clack—
The woman had followed, rattling the doorknob like a lunatic.
“Where the hell did they go?”
Perhaps assuming the room was locked to begin with, her footsteps eventually receded down the hall.
“Phew.”
“Ha…”
Hidden behind boxes, both let out sighs of relief at the same time.
“My throat tastes like blood,” Hanbom muttered, leaning her head back against the wall. She closed her eyes, forcing her breath down from her throat to her chest, then finally opened them.
Her gaze collided with his.
In the cramped storage room, the only light came from the faint green glow of the emergency exit sign above the door.
“Um… I think you can let go of my hand now.”
The man, who had been staring at her as if bewitched, jolted and released her wrist.
“Sorry. I was just so startled.”
“I understand. I was startled too.”
“You looked it.”
Beneath the brim of his cap, his pale eyes flickered. At his slight nod, Hanbom noticed the extinguisher still tucked awkwardly under her arm.
“Anyone who saw this would think I stole it.”
She gave a small laugh despite herself. To think she could laugh, even while someone had just been chasing them with a knife.
“Thank you. If not for you, I might’ve been hurt. Or even killed.”
“Anyone would have helped. And your girlfriend—don’t let it slide. Report her to the police. If you need testimony, I’ll give it. I saw everything. Plus, there are CCTVs in the corridor. That should be enough to prove it.”
“…Girlfriend? No. Not at all.”
“What? Then what on earth…”
“She’s a fan. No… by now, she’s a stalker.”
“A fan? A stalker?”
Hanbom echoed in disbelief. The man removed his cap and mask.
The emergency light washed over his face, revealing breathtaking features.
The hottest star alive, often described as a face sculpted by the gods.
The very man she had searched for so desperately.
“Gu… In-gyu?”
Hanbom clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide in shock.
Seol Taegun’s Mansion
On the grand staircase, Secretary General Choi Mugil followed Seol Taegun upward, listing the next day’s schedule.
“In the morning, you’ll be visiting the vegan materials research lab and attending the anti-animal-testing campaign briefing. In the afternoon, final approval of cosmetic samples from each brand line is scheduled. And in the evening, a full meeting with our Hong Kong branch is—urk.”
He winced, clutching the railing as pain shot through his back.
“What is it?”
Seol Taegun’s cold gaze swept him.
“My back… an old golf injury. The pain suddenly flared up.”
“Are you boasting that you played so much golf it interferes with your duties?”
“N-no, of course not.”
“If you’re in pain, go to the hospital. Or better yet—stop playing golf so you don’t get injured again.”
“…Understood.”
Choi Mugil replied in a crawling voice.
Taegun entered his dressing room, set his watch in its case, and removed his jacket. After receiving a few final details about tomorrow’s schedule, he waved his secretary off for the night.
But Choi lingered, shifting uneasily.
“Vice President…”
“What is it?”
“It’s about Secretary Hanbom. I couldn’t help but wonder… why haven’t you been taking her with you lately?”
In just a few days of filling her role, Choi’s cheeks had grown hollow. He was neither lazy nor lacking in passion, but serving as Seol Taegun’s personal aide was brutal.
Dawn-to-dusk, east to west, relentless. His old back injury, once minor, had worsened from postponing treatment. The constant scolding frayed his spirit to the point he felt like dying.
“With a secretary as capable as Hanbom… why not?”
Taegun’s glacial stare pierced him.
“So. You’re dissatisfied?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Then leave.”
Choi shrank and shuffled out, shoulders drooping.
Taegun showered and changed into lighter clothes. He reclined in his study chair, propping his legs on the footrest, and opened a book he had left unfinished.
Time passed.
He couldn’t even get through a single page. He kept rereading the same sentences over and over.
“Can’t focus at all.”
He snapped the book shut, brushed his teeth, and kept checking the time on his phone. Midnight hadn’t yet struck.
Finally, with only one minute left, he swirled water in his mouth hastily and dove under the covers.
“Tonight’s the update, isn’t it?”
He rubbed his hands together reverently, waiting for the clock to turn.
Ding.
The phone struck midnight. He hurried to the web novel platform, opening The President’s Secret Appetite.
“…Huh?”
He checked again. Midnight had passed, yet the update was missing. Again and again he refreshed the page—still nothing.
“Why isn’t it up?”
He had never known the author to miss a scheduled update. At last, he noticed a notice post.
His face sank.
“…Hiatus?”
The author was taking a break due to poor condition.
Worse still—
“They’re reducing from two updates a week to one?”
He clutched his head in despair.
“I waited so long for the next chapter!”
And it wasn’t just any chapter. It was the moment he’d been anticipating the most.
“What happened in the break room?!”
The story had left off with the two leads slipping into the tiny pantry during lunch break, the office empty, tension thick. His heart had pounded at the setup—only for the scene to cut off there.
And now… hiatus.
“How could she stop there?!”
Taegun sat bolt upright. Then, an idea lit up.
“…Why not just ask her myself?”
Relief surged through him. Yes, he could confront the source directly. He picked up his phone.
But a groan escaped his lips almost instantly.
“She doesn’t know I know.”
Hanbom had no idea that he was aware she was the author of The President’s Secret Appetite.
He perched on the edge of the bed, jittering one leg nervously.
This was withdrawal. Pure withdrawal.
“So this is how terrifying cravings can be… how do smokers or drinkers stand it?!”
He could hardly bear it.
“But why? Why the hiatus?”
The shock gnawed at him. When he’d seen her earlier, she hadn’t looked unwell. Hanbom was always more energetic than anyone—always interfering in his every move.
Thinking back, he realized the truth.
“…The tuxedo!”
It struck him like lightning. That must be it.
He had been fussing over what tuxedo would best suit the French perfume brand Rugal’s collaboration party. Pride demanded nothing less than an Ahiél Marang tuxedo. But of course, such a thing was nearly impossible to obtain.
“Pathetic, Seol Taegun. Truly pathetic.”
Self-loathing flooded him. Why had he needled her so pettily?
“Seol Taegun. How long will you let the past chain you? I cannot entrust Ato Beauty to someone so defensive, so brittle. A son who can’t even overcome what happened long ago—such a weakling has no place.”
His father’s cutting words stabbed his heart again.
A father endlessly kind to others, yet merciless to him. Hanbom, his father’s favored secretary, felt like the perfect heir he himself could never be.
“A son too broken to face the world.”
“A coward who still can’t overcome the past.”
Lying in bed, Taegun stared up at the ceiling as the accusations echoed in his ears.
The smell of that basement—damp, suffocating—rose unbidden, pulling him back into darkness.
He looked down at his phone, at the notice of hiatus.
“…When I read Hanbom’s writing, the night always flew by.”
Tonight would be a long, long night.
