In Juhan had been about to demand, What are you doing? but his inhalation caught in his throat. He recognized the scent again.
He generally disliked sweet notes, so he tended to find berry pheromones unpleasant—light and trivial, with a headache-inducing aftertaste. But this aroma was unmistakably fruitlike, yet carried a strangely invigorating citrus edge—like a perfume made for a clear summer day.
“What is this…?”
Naturally, his gaze drifted to the source. Up close, Cha Gyeoul looked entirely unremarkable—an everyman whose face would vanish in a crowd. No striking beauty or handsomeness, average height and build. By Juhan’s celestial standards, utterly ordinary.
Yet his pheromones were exceptional. A common scent, yet never dull—light without being cheap. The dull ache at Juhan’s temples cleared with every breath of it.
Could pheromones really have such an effect? Juhan didn’t know.
While he stood there dazed, Gyeoul finished tying a new tie. Only then did Juhan emerge from the pheromone haze.
What if Cha Gyeoul truly intended to do something to him?
What could he do? He’d have to cleave that fool’s head in two and toss it aside. As he’d said, he tolerated no distractions at work. If Gyeoul so much as tried to unbutton a shirt, Juhan was ready to pounce. But instead Gyeoul reached into his pocket and pulled out… the old tie. It was deep green with thin gold floral embroidery—completely different from Juhan’s previous navy-blue silk solid tie.
“What are you doing?”
Juhan asked as Gyeoul slipped the new tie around his neck. Why change a perfectly fine tie? At the question, Gyeoul’s shoulders jerked noticeably.
“I heard there are quite a few honored guests at tonight’s dinner. The tie you wore looked too businesslike, so I picked this one from the dressing room. You don’t like it? I brought alternatives just in case…”
Only now did Juhan realize there was a dinner tonight. In that context, Gyeoul’s choice was better than the office tie—and the backup was serviceable too. For someone who looked simple, he had decent taste.
“Fine. Keep it.”
Gyeoul brightened instantly. Juhan could not fathom what had moved him so.
“And take this with you.”
Gyeoul handed over a shopping bag. Plain white paper, no logo or branding. Inside was a sizeable gift box.
“What’s this?”
“A birthday gift?”
Gyeoul blinked, as if Juhan had ordered him to prepare it. Then Juhan recalled, days ago, Gyeoul had asked what to get for the birthday gift—and Juhan had waved him off. Something felt necessary, but he never gave specifics. He’d never bothered with such formalities before; there should be nothing more to do.
“The chairwoman said she likes flowers,” Gyeoul went on. “So I got a vase—by Artist Ahn Seong-hwan, our country’s most famous glass artisan. Born in Daejeon, he made a glass phoenix at age three, and at seven…”
Gyeoul poured out the artist’s biography until Juhan cut him off.
“Stop. It’s a vase, got it?”
“B-but it’s not just any vase—”
Juhan frowned slightly, and Gyeoul snapped his lips shut, ceasing his chatter.
“And Director….”
“Enough. Now go.”
“…Yes.”
Juhan slid the shopping bag aside.
A gift, indeed. Juhan doubted his mother would be won over by a vase. Money or stock would have been more appropriate.
Juhan had always been different—and he knew it. Perhaps everyone did. The boy who never cried with others, never laughed when others did. He neither angered nor allowed himself joy. His empathy was severely lacking.
At least he could read others’ emotions easily. Anger, confusion, joy, sorrow—all betrayed themselves in expressions and eyes. No actor could mask the emotion in their pupils. From the moment he realized he was different, he honed that skill.
He’d always been proud of it. Until now.
Sob… sob… what is happening…
Now he felt confusion.
Sob… I never thought… sob… this day would come…
Because his mother, Hong Seol, stood before him, weeping as if she’d lost her country. Makeup smeared, thick tears falling. Every eye in the banquet hall flicked between Hong Seol and Juhan. Unspoken thoughts echoed in everyone’s minds:
“Finally that psychopath has made his own mother cry.”
No excuse existed. Whatever had transpired, he’d made his mother weep. The gift bag had changed everything.
Juhan considered how to deal with Cha Gyeoul. Why had he bothered with a gift? The complication annoyed him. He wished simply to say “sorry” and leave.
Then Hong Seol spoke—and the hall fell silent.
“My eldest son prepared this… sob… I have no regret, truly.”
“You even sent flowers for my birthday…!”
Hong Seol clutched the bouquet on the table as though it were precious. Flowers? From him? Juhan had no knowledge of a bouquet. He didn’t understand why anyone spent money on what would soon wilt.
“Look—they’re hydrangeas, my favorite. Even my husband never bought these… but our son… sob… I thought I’d buy my own flowers for life, but he—”
She thrust the bouquet at her husband, Chairman In Tae-young. She’d never received flowers before. As a child, her own had never brought her even a carnation. She’d kept a constant stock at home, decaying before anyone cared.
Her joy was palpable. When In Tae-young had given her a diamond ring earlier, she’d only said “Thank you.” But Juhan’s flowers had unleashed a flood of emotion. The vase’s artistry delighted her as well.
Understanding the true weight of tears, Juhan revised his opinion of Cha Gyeoul.
Perhaps he was a competent secretary after all. At least he wasn’t a complete idiot.
So Juhan installed Cha Gyeoul as head of the secretariat—technically as acting head, but in practice, the true secretary general. Juhan rewarded as decisively as he punished.