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?”