SHE WANTS YOU | Ha-eun

The air in the private room was thick with cigar smoke and expensive anxiety. The murmur of the men in suits—your former bosses, now desperate supplicants—dipped into a sudden, watchful silence.

The click of heels on marble. One. Two. A measured, rhythm.

She entered the periphery of your vision first: the sleek line of a black dress, the glint of a diamond 
bracelet against a wrist.



Then she was there, pausing beside the green felt of the poker table, her back to the room as she poured a precise measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass.

She took a slow sip, her neck elongating, and let out a soft, appreciative hum that was somehow more intimidating than a shout.

Finally, she turned. Her eyes—dark, dismissive, and utterly familiar—scanned the faces of the powerful men before landing, and sticking, on you. A slow, razor-blade smile cut across her perfect features.

She took another step closer, the scent of her perfume cutting through the smoke. 

She looked you up and down, her gaze lingering where tension had locked your joints. Her voice, when it came, was a poison meant for your ears alone, yet perfectly audible to every stunned witness.

“Move your hips? Why are you so shy?” She tilted her head, feigning innocent curiosity. “You know you can miss me. It’s okay.” She took a final, deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving yours, letting the words—a bizarre, intimate taunt that reframed a decade of history into a private joke—hang in the silent, charged air.

She seemed so smug, a cat who’d not only found the mouse but had also bought the house it lived in. She took another half-step, closing the final distance, her head tilting as she performed a slow, merciless audit of your body—your posture, your clothes, the years written on your face.

“What happened to you while I was gone...” she mused, her voice a velvet scrape. It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation of neglect. Her gaze completed its journey back to your eyes, a dark, glittering trap.

“I’ve always been cuter than you, don’t you notice?” she purred, the word ‘cute’ a weapon she knew you’d never be allowed to wield.

She reached out, not touching you, but her fingertips tracing a vague, dismissive circle in the air near your shoulder, as if outlining a stain only she could see. “Did you really let yourself go? Or did you just finally settle into your natural shape?”

A soft, humming laugh escaped her. She leaned in, the scent of her whiskey and perfume enveloping you as she delivered the line not as a reward, but as the final, perfect insult.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you a raise.” She let the absurdity of it hang, her smile all sharp, gleaming edges. “Consider it a stipend. For maintenance. Of my favorite subject.” Her eyes locked onto yours, the false humor evaporating, leaving behind something cold and relentlessly interested.

“So now tell me,” she whispered, the command absolute. “What happened with you?”

• Drunk version

The air in the private room was thick with cigar smoke and expensive anxiety. The murmur of the men in suits—your former bosses, now desperate supplicants—dipped into a sudden, watchful silence.

The click of heels on marble. One. Two. A measured, rhythm.

She entered the periphery of your vision first: the sleek line of a black dress, the glint of a diamond 
bracelet against a wrist.



Then she was there, pausing beside the green felt of the poker table, her back to the room as she poured a precise measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass.

She took a slow sip, her neck elongating, and let out a soft, appreciative hum that was somehow more intimidating than a shout.

Finally, she turned. Her eyes—dark, dismissive, and utterly familiar—scanned the faces of the powerful men before landing, and sticking, on you. A slow, razor-blade smile cut across her perfect features.

She took another step closer, the scent of her perfume cutting through the smoke. 

She looked you up and down, her gaze lingering where tension had locked your joints. Her voice, when it came, was a poison meant for your ears alone, yet perfectly audible to every stunned witness.

“Move your hips? Why are you so shy?” She tilted her head, feigning innocent curiosity. “You know you can miss me. It’s okay.” She took a final, deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving yours, letting the words—a bizarre, intimate taunt that reframed a decade of history into a private joke—hang in the silent, charged air.

She seemed so smug, a cat who’d not only found the mouse but had also bought the house it lived in. She took another half-step, closing the final distance, her head tilting as she performed a slow, merciless audit of your body—your posture, your clothes, the years written on your face.

“What happened to you while I was gone...” she mused, her voice a velvet scrape. It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation of neglect. Her gaze completed its journey back to your eyes, a dark, glittering trap.

“I’ve always been cuter than you, don’t you notice?” she purred, the word ‘cute’ a weapon she knew you’d never be allowed to wield.

She reached out, not touching you, but her fingertips tracing a vague, dismissive circle in the air near your shoulder, as if outlining a stain only she could see. “Did you really let yourself go? Or did you just finally settle into your natural shape?”

A soft, humming laugh escaped her. She leaned in, the scent of her whiskey and perfume enveloping you as she delivered the line not as a reward, but as the final, perfect insult.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you a raise.” She let the absurdity of it hang, her smile all sharp, gleaming edges. “Consider it a stipend. For maintenance. Of my favorite subject.” Her eyes locked onto yours, the false humor evaporating, leaving behind something cold and relentlessly interested.

“So now tell me,” she whispered, the command absolute. “What happened with you?”

She waited. One second. Two. When your silence remained, solid and unyielding, her smile stiffened. A flicker of something—annoyance, disbelief—crossed her face before being smothered by a dismissive shrug.

“Fine. Stand there and be a statue. More use that way, I suppose.”

With a contemptuous click of her tongue, she turned on her heel, leaving you in the vacuum of her dismissal. She floated back into the symphony of the room, a dark star pulling the gravity of attention with her. For twenty minutes, you stood rooted, a piece of furniture holding a forgotten coat, while she held court.

Park Ha-eun was a vision of corporate reconquest. She accepted handshakes and shallow compliments from the stunned executives, her smile a blade sheathed in silk. “A purely strategic acquisition,” she demurred to one, her voice cool. “The numbers simply made too much sense,” she assured another, her eyes glancing past them, back to you, again and again.

But with each polite sip of top-shelf whiskey, the blade’s edge began to dull. Her laughter grew louder, a fraction too sharp. Her gestures, once precise, became more fluid, more sweeping. She drained glass after glass, a flush rising from her chest to her pale throat, her glances toward you growing longer, darker.

Finally, she turned her back on a CFO mid-sentence, her focus collapsing like a black hole onto you once more. The room’s chatter dimmed.

She wobbled, just slightly, as she closed the distance, her steps less a prowl and more of a determined drift. The smell of whiskey bloomed around her, warm and dangerous. “You,” she slurred, the word an intimate, foggy accusation. Her hand came up, and instead of a pointed gesture, her fingertips, cold from her glass, brushed clumsily against the fabric of your shirt, just over your chest.

“Why’re you just... standing there?” she mumbled, her earlier precision melted into something slurry and plaintive. Her hand slid down to grip your forearm, her nails pressing half-moons into your skin. “Why aren’t you talking?” The anger was there, but muddled, buried under a thick layer of booze and a bewildered hurt. “S’no fun... if you don’t talk. S’just sad.”

She leaned her weight against your arm, her balance precarious. Her breath was hot and sweet with liquor against your ear. “You used to be so... loud. In my head. All the time.” Her other hand came up, patting your cheek with a startling, clumsy vulnerability. “What happened? Did I break you too good the first time?”

She pulled back to look at you, her gaze swimming, struggling to lock onto yours. The arrogance was still there, but it was fractured, revealing a raw, drunken need beneath the porcelain.

“Say something,” she whispered, her voice thick. Her hand fisted in your shirt, a desperate, possessive anchor. “Or I’ll... I’ll make you sorry. I’ll make you so sorry you’ll have to talk to me.”

The threat was meant to be fierce, but it trembled at the end—a plea, soaked in whiskey and a strange, lonely fear, disguised as a command.

The sun was a hammer on the back of your neck, the white sand a blinding sea around the private cabana. Your world had narrowed to the bottle of SPF 50 in your hands and the expanse of Park Ha-eun’s pale, perfect calf resting on the lounger. You worked the lotion in methodical, silent circles, a ritual of servitude.

The sound of cheerful, approaching footsteps in the sand was an intrusion. “Oh, hey! There you are!”

You didn’t look up. You knew the voice. Chloe from HR, here for the “company wellness retreat.” She was a splash of floral print and effusive warmth in Ha-eun’s monochrome world.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for a hand!” Chloe chirped, oblivious to the Arctic front she’d just walked into. She waved a similar bottle of sunscreen, her smile wide and friendly. “My back is just impossible to reach. Oh, sweetie, would you be a total angel and put some on me?”

The word sweetie hung in the salty air, a death sentence.

Your hands froze on Ha-eun’s skin.

For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of the waves and the faint sizzle of the sun. Then, a movement faster than thought.

Ha-eun didn’t sit up. She didn’t even turn her head. In one fluid, brutal motion, she bent her knee and planted the sole of her foot squarely against your sternum. It wasn’t a kick, but a firm, pressing shove that pushed you back onto your heels in the sand. A grainy, perfect imprint of her foot remained on your shirt.

Her head lolled to the side, her eyes—hidden behind black sunglasses—finally aiming at the frozen, smiling Chloe. Her voice, when it came, was not loud. It was a low, venomous hiss that carried the chill of deep space.

“They. Are. Busy.”

She let the three words sink in, each one a shard of ice. Slowly, she turned her gaze down to you, the pressure of her foot increasing slightly, pinning you in place. The message was physical, absolute: You are not moving.

“Their hands,” she continued, her voice dropping to a terrifying, intimate purr meant only for you, but audible to Chloe’s now-mortified silence, “are for me. Their time is mine. His function is to attend to me. Not to be your angel.”

She finally looked back at Chloe, a cold, dismissive smile touching her lips. “If your back is so impossible, I suggest you find a wall and rub against it like a cat. Now. Get. Lost.”

As Chloe stammered and scrambled away, Ha-eun’s foot slid up, the rough, sandy sole now pressing under your chin, forcing your eyes up to meet hers. The sun blazed, but the fury in her expression was a colder, darker fire.

“You,” she whispered, the possessive fury vibrating in her throat, “belong to me. Do you need me to write it on your skin? Should I have it branded?” She leaned forward slightly, the pressure on your jaw unyielding. “Apologize. For making me remind you.”

---

Chloe didn’t scramble away. The initial shock melted into a wounded, prickly defiance. A few other employees had noticed the tension.

“Wow, Ms. Park. That’s... quite a tone,” Chloe said, her voice saccharine but her smile tight. She placed a hand on her hip. “I was just asking for a quick, professional favor between colleagues. At a team-building retreat.” She let out a tinkling, fake laugh, her eyes darting to you, then back to Ha-eun. “Unless... this isn’t about work at all, is it? Is little Ha-eun feeling a bit... insecure? Needing to have all the toys to herself on the playground?”

The air crackled. Ha-eun’s foot pressed harder under your chin, a silent warning. She didn’t flinch. Her expression remained one of bored, icy amusement, as if watching a mildly irritating insect.

Chloe turned her attention to you, her expression softening into a performative pout.

“Come on. It’ll take two minutes. Don’t you want to help a friend?” She extended the bottle of sunscreen. “Or are you only allowed to do what she says? Not even allowed to hold someone else’s hand for a second?”

The word hand lingered, implying an intimacy that made the choice feel even more treasonous.

It was a choice, laid bare on the burning sand.

Ha-eun slowly removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were black pools of utter, serene fury. She didn’t look at Chloe. She stared only at you, her voice a silken, deadly promise.

“Go ahead,” she murmured, the words almost lost in the surf. “Take her bottle. Hold her hand. Be her angel.” She finally shifted her gaze to Chloe, and the smile that graced her lips was one of pure, unshakeable confidence. Ha-eun’s eyes snapped back to you. The choice was still there, but it was no longer simple.

“Well?” Ha-eun whispered, the sole of her foot a brand against your skin. “What’s it going to be?”

The flagship boutique on the forty-seventh floor of the Shilla DFS tower is all polished marble, soft lighting, and the faint, expensive scent of vetiver and white florals. Ha-eun moves through it like she owns it—which, given her family's holdings, she very nearly does.

You trail behind her like an afterthought, already burdened with three garment bags draped over your forearm and a tower of precariously balanced boxes. Her personal assistant for the day. Her everything for the day.

She doesn't look back to check if you're following. She knows you are.

"This one," she says, not to you but to the universe, draping a navy silk blouse over your free arm without breaking stride. "And this. No—wait." She plucks the blouse back, holds it against your chest, tilts her head. Her eyes travel from your collarbone to your shoulder to the strained seam of your work blazer. "The cut is wrong for your frame. You'd wear it sloppy. Never mind."

She tosses it onto a passing display table. A sales associate rushes to refold it.

You stand there. Arms full. Mouth shut.

She selects a black sheath dress next, holding it up to the light before turning to you with an expectant look. "Well? Are you going to stand there like furniture, or are you going to be useful?"

It takes you a moment to understand. Then another to comply.

The fitting room is too small, too bright. She doesn't close the curtain. You stand in your button-down and slacks while she circles you like a sculptor examining flawed marble, the black dress pressed against your front.

"The shoulders are too narrow," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. "Your posture makes the waist hang wrong. Do you even own a mirror?" A pause. "Never answer that."

She yanks the dress away, leaving you cold.

The shoe salon is on the third floor. You're on your knees.

"The heel height," she explains to the bewildered sales manager, "needs to be precise. I can't tell from a display stand. The angle is wrong. But his back—" She gestures at your spine with the toe of a stiletto. "—is the exact curvature of my instep. It's a perfect measuring tool."

The manager nods rapidly. You don't exist to him. You're not supposed to.

The heel presses into the space between your shoulder blades. Once. Twice. She shifts her weight, testing the give. Her polished nail taps her chin.

"Twelve centimeters. Maybe twelve-five. Bring me the Manolos in both."

You feel the indentation of her testing long after the heel lifts.

The final act unfolds in the main salon, where a handsome young associate with perfect teeth and an eager posture hovers at Ha-eun's elbow. He's tall, immaculately dressed, and clearly accustomed to pleasing wealthy women. His gaze flicks from her face to her bracelet to her shoes, calculating commission.

She lets him. She's already calculating something else.

"You have excellent taste," she says, her voice shifting into something warmer, more inviting. The associate preens. "I need a second opinion."

She turns. Looks at you. Lifts her chin.

And then she gestures at you—your tired eyes, your rumpled shirt, your arms still laden with her discarded choices—like a shopper indicating a handbag on a display shelf.

"This one," she says to the associate, her tone light, curious, utterly clinical. "Navy or black? Be honest. I can't decide which makes it look less... functional."

The associate blinks. His smile falters. He glances at you, then back at her, trying to locate the joke.

There isn't one.

"I—the, ah, the navy is very classic," he stammers. "But black is always... versatile?"

"Versatile," Ha-eun repeats, tasting the word. Her gaze slides back to you. "Yes. That's the word I was looking for. It's not special. It's just... useful. For certain purposes."

She tilts her head, waiting. Watching. The tip of her manicured nail taps once, twice against her champagne flute.

She's not looking at the dress. She's looking at your eyes. Your posture. The microscopic tension in your jaw.

She's waiting to see if this is the moment you break. If this is the moment you finally give her something—anger, shame, defiance—that she can punish.

Or, in the quiet, unexamined corner of her chest, something she can secretly admire.

"I'll take the black," she says finally, turning away. "It's more practical. Some things are just meant to be used, not displayed."

She doesn't look back. But her fingers, resting on the counter, curl just slightly—as if reaching for something that isn't there.

The lesson isn't about the dress. It was never about the dress.

It's about whether you'll let her keep using you.

It's about whether you'll prove her right.

Prove her wrong.

The city sprawls below, fifty floors of indifferent light. Her penthouse is all cold glass and sharp angles, a throne room designed to make everyone feel small. Including you.

Especially you.

You don't remember how you got on the floor. One moment you were standing by the door, clutching a report she'd already decided not to read. The next, your back was against the Italian leather, her knee was a bracket pinning your thigh, and the weight of her—slender, deceptive, absolute—was settling onto your chest like a verdict.

She doesn't speak at first. Her hair has escaped its perfect ponytail, a dark curtain falling between you and the rest of the world. Her perfume wraps around your throat. Her fingers find your wrist, not gentle, not rough—just claiming. Tracing the blue veins under your skin like she's reading a map she's memorized.

When she finally exhales, it's slow. Deliberate. A performance of boredom.

"You know," she murmurs, her voice low and distant, like she's observing you from very far away, "I could replace you. There are a hundred resumes on my desk. A thousand."

Her thumb presses into your pulse point.

"People with better degrees. Sharper suits. People who don't flinch when I walk into a room."

Trouble was coming out of her lips. It was empty. You could hear it now—the hollowness behind the blade, the echo where genuine contempt should live. She was performing. For you. For herself. For the ghost of every person who ever made her feel like she had to earn the right to be cruel.

"But I don't want them."

The words slip out before she can catch them. Her jaw tightens. She shifts her weight, pressing harder into your sternum, as if she can crush the admission back into silence.

"You're what I chose," she says, faster now, less controlled. "Do you understand what that means? I looked at every option and I picked this. This face. This silence. This sad, stubborn little heart that won't stop beating no matter how many times I step on it."

Her hand moves from your wrist to your chest, palm flat against your shirt. Feeling the rhythm she claims to despise.

"You should be grateful. Most people don't get chosen. Most people just... exist. But you—"

She stops. Swallows. Her composure, that flawless porcelain mask, develops a hairline fracture.

"You're mine."

It's not a taunt anymore. It's not a power move. It's a fact she's stating to herself, reminding herself, because somewhere underneath all that armor she's terrified you'll forget.

"My stress reliever. My living trophy. My—"

Toy. The word catches in her throat. She won't say it. Not now. Not with her weight pressed against your heartbeat and her hair curtaining both of you from a world that would laugh at the idea of Park Ha-eun needing anyone.

She's quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traces a slow circle over your sternum.

"I don't care," she whispers. "I don't care about you. I care about winning. And you're just... a trophy. A receipt. Proof that I took something valuable and made it mine."

Her voice is steady now. Controlled. But her hand—her hand is fisted in your shirt, knuckles white, grip absolute.

"Your surrender isn't the end of the game," she says, finally lifting her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes are dark, unreadable, and for once she's not trying to hide the thing swimming beneath them. "It's the only rule. You don't get to stop. You don't get to leave. You don't get to decide you've had enough."

She leans closer. Her forehead almost touches yours.

"I decide. Always. And I'm not done with you. I don't know if I'll ever be done with you."

A pause. A breath.

"I don't want to be done with you."

The words hang in the dark, naked and undeniable. She doesn't take them back. She doesn't mock you for hearing them. She just stays there, weight pressing you into the leather, her breath mingling with yours, her hand a brand over your heart.

Trouble was coming out of her lips. It was empty.

But this—this weight, this grip, this desperate, unspoken plea buried beneath layers of cruelty and control—

This was not empty at all.

---

It was addictive.

Her eyes searched yours. For mockery. For pity. For any of the weapons she herself would use.

She found none.

"Oh fuck.." she breathed. And then it happened—slowly, reluctantly, like ice cracking in spring—her lips curved. A smile. Not her usual razor-blade smirk, not the predatory grin she wore when delivering a killing blow.

This was smaller. Unpracticed. Almost shy.

"You feel it, right?" Her voice was different now. Softer. The words tumbled out before she could cage them. "You feel nice. You feel..."

She didn't finish. Couldn't. The admission was already too much, too naked, too close to the bone.

Her hand moved. Not fast, not violent. Just... curious.

Her palm met your cheek. A sound—soft, almost tender—broke the silence. Slap. Light. Experimental. As if she were testing the texture of your skin, the give of flesh beneath bone, the way your breath hitched at her touch.

"You know," she murmured, her thumb tracing the faint pink she'd left behind, "I like seeing you in pain. Even if it's just for a little."

Her finger pressed against your lower lip. Parting them. Testing. Her eyes followed the motion, dark and intent, as she pushed past the seam of your mouth. Not forceful. Just... possessive. Her fingertip rested on your tongue, and something flickered across her face—wonder, hunger, a terrified sort of need.

Her tongue darted out, a quick, nervous flick, tasting the air between you. A thin thread of spit gathered on the tip, catching the dim city light, trembling with the unsteadiness of her breath.

She leaned closer. Her hand found your jaw, tilting your face up. Her focus was absolute, laser-intent on your mouth, on the seam of your lips, on the small, wet bridge she was trying to build between her and something she couldn't name.

The spit stretched, thinned, dripped—

A tiny, glistening bead landed on your bottom lip.

She watched it settle there. Her breath caught. Her thumb, still resting on your chin, pressed slightly—not commanding, not cruel. Just wanting. Just asking.

"Come on," she whispered. "Just a minute."

Just a minute of this. Just a minute of you not pulling away. Just a minute of pretending she wasn't the one drowning, and you weren't the only air.

Her forehead pressed against yours.

"Just stay. For one more minute. And then I'll let you go."

The lie hung in the darkness, warm and trembling.

Neither of you believed it.

Her tongue was still out, still wet, still waiting. Another drop gathered. Her eyes—those dark, imperious eyes that had dismissed whole rooms of people—were fixed on your mouth with an intensity that bordered on a kindness that was never given.

She was trying so hard to make it look like control. It looked like drowning.

Then—a shift. Her lashes lowered. The vulnerability, so raw and unguarded, began to retreat behind something familiar. Something safer.

"Hey," she murmured, her voice still husky, still breathless, but the edges sharpening back into place. Her thumb traced your bottom lip, wiping away the wetness she'd left there. "Did you lose your innocence? Or will I have to take that too?"

A pause. Her head tilted. That smile—the real one, the cruel one, the one that never reached her eyes—began to curve her lips.

"I mean, look at you. Under me. Mouth open. Letting me do whatever I want." She laughed softly, a sound stripped of warmth. "It's almost sad. Did no one else bother? Or did you save it up, thinking someone would want it?"

She leaned back, just slightly. Enough to create distance. Enough to breathe.

Her hand left your jaw. She smoothed her hair, adjusted her collar, performed the ritual of reassembly. Piece by piece, Park Ha-eun clicked back into place.

"We should look over the Q3 projections," she said, her voice cool, professional. "The files are on my desk."

She stood. Didn't look back.

"Stay."