The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride by Nadia Lee

Chapter Two

Yuna

I exit the office, my head held high. Ms. Hong stands up behind her desk. I shoot her a pitying look. It must suck to have to buy all those expensive and pretty things for my brother’s wife, but not be able to buy anything for herself.

Ms. Hong goes slightly pale, and she clasps her hands together. Are they shaking? Her eyes dart away.

Why is she reacting like I’m about to push her off a cliff?

Mr. Choi is holding the doors open for the elevator. We all step inside.

I gesture Ms. Kim closer. She steps forward until she’s standing half a step behind me, with her body angled so she can whisper into my ear discreetly.

“What’s wrong with Ms. Hong?”

“I think she suspects she’s in trouble.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve barged into Eugene’s office. He knows who to blame.” I.e., me. And then Dad for indulging and spoiling me—not that there’s anything wrong with that.

“But you gave her that look.”

I turn my head. “What ‘look’?”

“The I feel bad for you look. You always have it when somebody’s in trouble with the chairman.”

Ms. Kim’s being extra circumspect, but what she’s trying to tell me is that I use that look whenever I have Dad demote or fire somebody. I’ve only done it a handful of times—when I caught somebody stealing or being grossly negligent. Besides, I have never suggested to Dad how he should handle any particular matter. I leave that part entirely up to him, because he knows best how to manage the people who work at the company. It’s just that Dad quietly does what I think he should do.

“Ms. Hong has nothing to worry about. I was feeling bad for her for an entirely different reason.”

Ms. Kim’s phone buzzes. She checks a message, then puts it away. All my other assistants’ phones start going off as well.

The elevator arrives at the lobby, and I march out first. “Ms. Kim, can you make me a list of all job openings I can apply for with my skill set? Nothing from the Hae Min Group or its affiliates, though.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hae, but I don’t work for you anymore.” Ms. Kim’s voice is tight and uncomfortable. If a voice could squirm…

I stop, turning to face her. “What are you talking about?”

“I received a message from HR. I’m to report to the admin pool.”

Shit. My stomach sinks. That was quick. Petty jerk. “What about your assignment? To sp—I mean, report to my mom about what I’m doing?”

“I suppose that’s over as well.”

Her shoulders are high and tense. She looks confused and upset. Probably dreading what this is about. Since she knows I’m not angry with her, she might be thinking it’s my mom who’s unhappy with her performance. And annoying my mom is never a good thing if you want to have a long and fruitful career at the company.

But I know for a fact it isn’t Mom who did this. It’s Eugene. He’s trying to ensure I have nobody around to help me.

Asshole.

I smile at Ms. Kim. “Well then. I wish you luck. Hope you have a good assignment.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hae.” She bows and leaves.

I turn to Mr. Choi. “How about you? Do you have to leave too?”

He nods, then clears his throat. “After I drop you off at your home. I’m sorry.”

I wave my hand. “No need to be sorry. It isn’t your fault.”

It’s my brother’s. And Mom’s for using him to get me married. She knows how Machiavellian he is. To him, everything justifies the end. The only reason he isn’t trying physical violence is that it isn’t his MO. Also, wedding photos look like crap when the bride is black and blue.

The other people in my entourage back away, bowing and mumbling apologies, and Mr. Choi drives me home. The car stereo plays Chopin’s Waltz in E minor, the rapid, turbulent notes reflecting my mood.

Unlike most Korean people of my age and circumstances, I don’t live with my parents at the “primary residence.” The place is huge, with three different wings and additions, so I would have all the privacy I wanted. Eugene didn’t move out after getting married; he just occupied one of the wings with his family. But then, as the heir to the Hae Min empire, he’s expected to be at the primary residence. He always does what’s expected of him and doesn’t understand why I don’t. He forgets I don’t have to because I’m not part of the empire the way he is. I’m not even a replacement, because if anything happened to him, the entire conglomerate would go to the management of an outside executive.

So Dad lets me live in a large luxury condo complex in the tony section of Seoul called Gangnam, which became famous all over the world thanks to Psy’s song “Gangnam Style.” I wonder how much longer I can stay there without Eugene finding a way to kick me out. Unfortunately, the lease is under the company’s name for complex legal reasons I never quite understood.

And if he does, do I get to move back to the primary residence, or do I have to find an apartment on my own?

Probably on my own, because he specified not using family money. The primary residence has to fall under that category.

Tapping my fingers to another waltz, I mentally go through a list of friends in Seoul I might be able to stay with, then shake my head. None of them will take me in, not if Eugene makes a call. All of them have some kind of business dealings with Hae Min or its subsidiaries. Friendships are fine until your market cap is at stake.

When the car stops at the glitzy gold and black entrance to my condo complex, Mr. Choi opens the door for me.

“Thank you for everything,” I say. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hae. I hope you have a good day,” he says pleasantly, but I catch a hint of wistfulness. Mr. Choi is a physical guy who likes to be out and about. So being my chauffeur and bodyguard has been an ideal assignment for him.

He drives away. I watch the black Mercedes vanish around the curve and wonder how I’m going to get around. There might be a bus stop or subway station somewhere, but I have no clue where. We don’t get taxis driving by either, because every resident here has a car or two. Besides, I probably can’t afford to ride taxis all the time now. I only have one hundred thousand won in cash—like a hundred dollars in U.S. currency—which is pathetic.

A loud engine roar catches my attention. I look in the direction and frown at the sight of a lemon-yellow Lamborghini. A familiar guy in his mid-twenties sticks his head out of the driver’s-side window with an overly white grin. Excessive tooth bleaching. His pale, strawlike hair is spiked with gel. A pair of reflective sunglasses hides eyes I know to be small and unexceptional.

“Hey, babe. Finally caught you alone.” His teeth gleam like a row of tiny searchlights.

I roll my eyes heavenward. Normally, Ms. Kim or Mr. Choi would keep people like this away, but I’m on my own now. Should I beat him with my heel? But is he worth ruining a Chanel?

“You’re dressed nice,” he says, trying again.

Obviously. Violet Georges Hobeika is more than nice. And Chanel heels are to die for. I love fashion, and I have excellent taste.

“Wanna go for a ride? This car’s almost as nice as the way you look.”

“I don’t go for rides with convenience store cashiers who have to borrow their uncle’s Lamborghinis. Or try to pick up girls who are way out of their league. You shouldn’t be driving a car you can’t fill up with money you make yourself.”

His jaw drops. “What— How did you…?” His face turns blotchy. “What are you talking about?”

“I know everything about everyone.”

When I moved here, the security team created a set of extensive reports on everyone in the building, including the janitorial staff. I didn’t read or remember everything about everyone, but I looked this idiot up when he repeatedly tried to hit on me despite Mr. Choi’s pro-level cock-blocking.

“You still haven’t finished college, have you?” My voice drips with feigned pity. “Does your girlfriend know what you’re up to?”

He swallows. “Freaky bitch.”

“At least I’m not a loser and a cheater.”

I turn and walk away, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I’m not worried about him trying anything. There are guards all over the place, one of the many benefits to living in the building.

I walk past the concierge and reception desks and take the elevator to the top floor. As the car moves upward, I tap the strap of my purse with my thumb, feeling anxious and nervous. Mr. Choi drove me here as soon as I left headquarters, but Eugene could have some quicker and meaner minion to keep me out of my home. Although the stuff inside is mine—I can’t imagine Eugene wanting to take over my shoe collection—I can’t take it if I can’t get into the place. Given how ruthless he’s been so far, he wouldn’t mind one bit if I had to find an empty spot under a bridge to spend the night.

I pray the passcode is still good and enter the six-digit combination into the lock panel on the door to my unit. There is an interminable moment…

The panel beeps and turns green. Thank God. I step inside my condo.

The spectacular early summer view of the city greets me. My white Steinway baby grand in the sunken living room floor gleams under the sun. I sit down and play a few scales. It always helps anchor my thoughts.

Eugene wants to win. So he’s going to do everything in his power to ensure I can’t get a job. In fact, he’s probably already done it. By now, I’ll be lucky to find employment scrubbing public toilets for the city. But I’m not going to give in and marry someone he picks from the dossiers. Nor am I going to pick one out myself so he can feel good about giving me a “choice.”

Basically, I need to go to someplace beyond his reach and influence. That means out of the country. And I’d better do it before he can stop me. All he has to do is make a call to somebody in the Ministry of Justice and have my passport flagged for a travel ban. Too many politicians owe him favors, and I won’t even be able to sue because they’ll all laugh like we’re buddies and say, “No hard feelings, just a misunderstanding.”

I stop mid-scale and pull out my phone. Fortunately, the service is on a separate contract under my name. I text Ivy and Tony, hoping one of them is awake, since it’s almost eleven p.m. in Los Angeles. They might not be. Ivy’s hugely pregnant and often exhausted. And Tony likes to go to bed with her and rub her back and feet.

–Me: Hey. Can you get me a ticket to L.A.?

I tap my fingers on the Steinway, waiting. Then stand up abruptly because I shouldn’t be wasting time like this. I need to start packing.

My phone rings. It’s Ivy.

I answer instantly, putting her on the speaker so I can pack and talk at the same time. “Hey, girl.”

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pull out a huge suitcase and start throwing in my dresses and purses. “I just need to get out of here. Don’t need a round-trip ticket,” I add, since most ticketing agents will want to have a return date.

“Oh no…” Ivy sighs. “This doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t the best situation.” The understatement of the month. But I don’t want to go into detail. It’s too much for an international phone call, plus it’s late in L.A.

“When are you coming?”

“As soon as possible.” Before it occurs to Eugene to make that phone call to the Ministry of Justice. “Like, now. Immediately.”

The suitcase is full. I pull out another and start stuffing it with shoes and accessories. Must have shoes and accessories to go with the clothes and purses I already packed.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say, not wanting her to worry. Stress is bad for pregnant women. My honorary nephew and niece deserve only the best. “It’s just my brother being a jerk. A long story. I’ll tell you everything when I get there.”

“Okay. What do I need to get you a ticket? I have your name, but don’t I need your passport number and stuff, too?”

“Probably. Let me text you a picture of my passport. Give me a sec.” I rummage through dresser drawers until I find my passport. I take a photo of the page with all my details. “Sending it now.”

There’s a pause. “Okay, got it. I’ll send you the ticket info soon. How about something that leaves in the next three hours? I see one here.”

I think for a second. It shouldn’t take that long to pack, and it’s about fifty minutes to the airport. Since I have no clue how to catch an airport bus, I’ll just have a taxi come pick me up.

“That’s fine. Thanks, Ivy!”

“My pleasure. Can’t wait to see you,” she says, still sounding a little worried.

This is all Eugene’s fault.

I finish shoving everything I need into two suitcases, but I still want the rest of my stuff. I stop to think for a moment. Who is someone Eugene can’t screw with?

I call Mr. Park, my dad’s chief executive assistant.

“Ms. Hae,” he answers immediately, his tone professional. “The chairman’s in a meeting.”

“Hello, Mr. Park. I’m not calling to talk to my dad. I need to ask you for a small favor.”

“Anything.”

“I’m going to Los Angeles and can only take two suitcases. Can you pack up the rest of my things and overnight them to Ivy Blackwood’s home address? It should be on file.” My family maintains the addresses of everyone we associate with.

“Certainly. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thank you. You’re a gem.” I smile although he can’t see it. I don’t ask him to keep it from Dad because it wouldn’t be right to test his loyalty that way. But he isn’t the type to gossip, and he won’t tell Dad what I wanted unless asked.

“My pleasure. Have a lovely trip.”

“Oh, I will.”

I hang up, feeling smugly triumphant. So Eugene hasn’t been able to turn absolutely everybody against me. But then, he knows better than anyone how much Dad indulges me. We grew up together, after all.

I make a mental note to ask Dad to give Mr. Park a fat bonus. Or the fully comped use of one of our resorts. That should make him and his wife happy.

My phone pings.

–Ivy: Got the ticket. Emailed it to you just now. You need to leave soon to catch the flight, though.

I check my email to make sure. First class to LAX. I smile.

–Me: You’re the best!

I call the concierge in the lobby and ask them to arrange for a taxi pickup for the airport, then roll my suitcases out into the living room. I stop and put a hand over my fluttering belly. I’ve never done anything like this before. It feels like cutting ties, making my desires known, insisting on them, in fact…and hoping for the best. I’ve never not had the support of my family, and now here I am, not even telling them I’m leaving.

But I know that if I do, they’ll try to stop me.

My parents love me to pieces. Unfortunately, that means they can be a bit overprotective at times.

But I can’t let them run my life. They don’t have to sleep with my future husband and have his babies. I’m not having sex with a guy I feel nothing for.

I blow a kiss at the baby grand. “I’m going to miss you, sweetheart.”

Nothing calms my anxiety like playing the piano. If I could, I’d take it with me. But I can wait until I get to Ivy’s place. She has a Bösendorfer concert grand I can use.

Inhaling deeply, I grab my bags and head downstairs to go to the airport.