My mysterious billionaire

Chapter two: What Did I Do?

Emily’s POV

I didn’t have a wink of sleep, but that didn’t matter. The interview, although short, was going to be flawless. Kevin checked my questions and told me I had done a wonderful job. Now, the only thing I was missing was an outfit.

Back at my apartment, my closet looked like a crime scene. A crime against fashion. Every piece of clothing I owned was strewn across my bed, each one judged and found desperately wanting. Too casual, too corporate, too try-hard, too frumpy.

I grabbed my phone, my thumb hovering over my contacts. I needed backup. I needed Chloe.

She answered on the second ring, the sound of a bustling coffee shop in the background. "Hey, Em! What's up? You sound stressed. Did Kevin finally fire you for chronic lateness?"

"Worse," I groaned, holding up a sensible black sheath dress against myself in the mirror. I looked like I was attending a funeral. For my own career. "He gave me the interview. The interview. With Baek Jin. Today at 10 PM."

The line went silent for a beat, then erupted with a shriek that probably shattered the espresso cups near her. "SHUT. UP. The Baek Jin? The mysterious, reclusive, hotter-than-hell-in-a-soulless-corporate-way Baek Jin?"

"That's the one," I said, tossing the funeral dress onto the growing 'reject' pile. "And Kevin's final instruction was to 'look like I came out of a freaking magazine'. Help me, Chloe. I'm sartorially bankrupt."

"Okay, okay, breathe," she said, and I could hear her shifting, probably finding a quiet corner. "First of all, stop panicking. You have that killer body. You could wear a potato sack and make it look like high fashion."

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn't see me. "Chloe, be serious. My 'killer body' is just a byproduct of anxiety and a weird metabolism. I need to look dashing. Authoritative but approachable. Sophisticated but not stiff. It's an impossible Venn diagram!"

"Fine, fine," she laughed. "Okay, think powerful. Think sleek. Do you still have that deep red wrap dress? The one that makes your green eyes pop and your hair look amazing?"

"I spilled coffee on it during the Henderson incident," I mumbled, shamefaced.

"Right. Of course you did." I could practically hear her thinking. "What about the gray tailored trousers and that silk cream blouse? The one with the slight ruffles? It says 'I'm a serious journalist' but also 'I have a personality'."

"It says 'I'm trying to be my grandmother'," I countered, holding the blouse up. The ruffles seemed to mock me.

Why did I buy this?

"Ugh, you're impossible." She sighed. Then her voice dipped into a playful, gossipy tone. "You know, there is a rumor about him. Have you heard about that?”

“About him being an eunuch?” Chloe hummed when she heard my question. “Yeah, I heard about it, and I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Kev. Stop making assumptions. I’m sure he just likes to keep his private life private.”

“Come on! Don’t you think it is strange? He is hot, young, rich, and has no single scandal with a woman. Not one. Maybe the reason he hasn't had a girlfriend isn't that he's a eunuch... maybe he just hasn't found the right boyfriend."

Lord. Give me patience with these people.

I snorted, a real, undignified sound. "Oh my god, Chloe. You're as bad as Kevin. The man's personal life is not our business." I picked up a simple, elegant black jumpsuit I'd bought for a wedding and never worn. It had wide legs and a deep V-neck. It was daring. It was... magazine.

"But imagine if he is!" she pressed, giggling. "You show up looking all devastatingly chic and professional, and he doesn't even notice because he's too busy admiring your shoes. Or Kevin's golf buddy's shoes. The potential for awkwardness is spectacular."

I held the jumpsuit against me again. This could work. It was powerful. It was different.

"You know what, Chloe? If Baek Jin is gay, a eunuch, or a secret alien who reproduces by mitosis, it doesn't matter," I said, my voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "My job isn't to seduce him. It's to intrigue him. To get him to talk. And this jumpsuit... this jumpsuit says I'm not here to mess around."

“A jumpsuit?” She asked with disgust. “Okay, no, you can’t wear that. Give me an hour and I’ll be there to help you out. What time did you say you had to be there?”

"Ten PM. At his office," I said, my voice tight with a fresh wave of panic. "Chloe, it's already six. I have to leave here by nine at the absolute latest to account for any—"

"Traffic, disasters, acts of God, I know, I know," she finished for me, her tone now all business. The coffee shop sounds were gone; I heard a car door slam. "I'm already in the car. I'm twenty minutes away. Do not put on that jumpsuit. Do not put on anything grandmotherly. Just... make some coffee. Strong coffee. I'm bringing reinforcements."

"Reinforcements? Chloe, what does that mean? Are you bringing a stylist? I can't afford a—" The line went dead. She'd hung up.

I stared at my phone, then at the apocalyptic state of my bedroom. Reinforcements. This could either be the best thing that ever happened to me or a catastrophic invasion of my already frayed sanity. I opted for her command and trudged to the kitchen to make the coffee, my mind racing faster than the drip of the brewer.

True to her word, twenty minutes later, my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Chloe, but she wasn't alone. She was holding a garment bag draped over her arm like a sacred offering. And standing next to her was a man I recognized from her i********:—Mateo, her flamboyant and brilliantly talented hairdresser friend, holding a large professional case.

"Darling, you look like you've been wrestling a bear and lost," Mateo declared, sweeping past me into the apartment. "Chloe, the canvas is... distressed. But we can work with this."

Chloe thrust the garment bag into my arms. "Go. Try this on. Now. Don't argue. Mateo, assess the damage." She pointed at my head.

I was too shell-shocked to protest. I retreated to my bedroom and unzipped the bag. Inside wasn't a jumpsuit or a dress. It was a pair of exquisitely tailored, high-waisted black trousers made of a fluid, luxurious fabric, and a separate top. The top was the showstopper: a deep emerald green silk shell with a delicate, almost architectural drape at the neckline. It was sophisticated, powerful, and utterly unique. It was, without a doubt, magazine.

I slipped it on. The trousers fit like they were made for me, elongating my legs. The silk top felt cool and expensive against my skin, the color making my eyes look brighter, my skin warmer. It was authoritative but soft. Approachable but impeccable. It was the perfect Venn diagram.

I walked out of the bedroom just as Mateo was clicking his tongue at my hopelessly frizzy, post-running-through-the-streets hair.

It is not my fault that my mom didn’t show me how to style my damn hair. I thought. Nobody in my family had curly hair except me, and when I tried to follow any tutorials, I always ended up burning myself or making a bigger mess of my poor hair.

"Well, well," Chloe said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "See? I told you. Killer body. Now we just have to fix the... everything else."

For the next hour, my apartment was transformed into a mini salon and spa. Mateo worked magic with his curling iron, taming my hair into soft, sleek waves that fell over my shoulders, making me look polished instead of panicked. Chloe forced a kale smoothie into me ("For the glow, Em, not for taste") and did my makeup with a light, expert hand, emphasizing my eyes and giving me a look of composed confidence I absolutely did not feel internally.

By 8:30 PM, I barely recognized myself. The woman in the mirror looked capable, elegant, and ready to take on a reclusive billionaire.

"Okay," Chloe said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "You look incredible. Now, shoes." She produced a box from her large bag. Inside were a pair of elegant but surprisingly low-heeled black pumps. "A compromise. You'll look tall and professional, but you can actually walk in these. Maybe even run, if necessary."

Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to ruin Mateo's expertly applied mascara. "You guys... I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll get the story," Mateo said, packing his tools. “And then say you'll take us out for very expensive cocktails to celebrate. Oh, and get me a picture of that man. He looks tasty, but the paparazzi never get a good picture."

"Deal," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.

Chloe hugged me carefully, avoiding my hair and makeup. "You've got this, Em. Now go. Be brilliant. And for once in your life," she said, pulling back and holding my shoulders, her expression deadly serious, "be early."

I looked at the clock. 8:45 PM. I had time. For the first time in my adult life, I had time.

I grabbed my portfolio and recorder and slipped my feet into the mercifully sensible heels. I took one last look in the mirror. The woman staring back wasn't just Emily, the chronically late journalist. She was Emily, the professional. The one who was about to walk into Baek Jin's office and own the room.

"Okay," I said to my reflection, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Let's go get a phantom."

At least, that’s what should have happened, but somehow, along the way, I ended up messing up my interview, and instead, I woke up the next morning, my mind fuzzy, and a man by my side.

That man was none other than Jin Baek.

Emily. What have you done?!