Seoul Spankings (2 page)

She batted my hands away and pulled the seams of my jacket toward the front. I wobbled in sleek heels, the highest I’d ever worn. Greg didn’t like me in heels, no matter what they did to sculpt my calves and my butt. Greg. I tried so hard not to let my mind go there, but he refused to stay submerged. Whenever I least expected it, he popped into my thoughts.

“Forget that boy,” Great-aunt Matilda had said, placing the envelope into my hand. “Go and make something of yourself.”

How could I forget the last five years of my life? The marriage proposal that never came, the apartment I let him lease with my money, and my blue silky robe that he gave to Tiffany after impregnating her with the child he’d refused to give me.

I forced my mind back to the present. Before me stood the most striking woman I had ever seen. Miss Cha, Miss Lee, and all of the other employees were well-dressed, well-coiffed, and impossibly dainty in their neat suits with a bow here or a ruffle there. This woman was another creature altogether.

Glossy black hair fell in a shimmering waterfall, curving underneath toward her chin. A natural, pale line, neither straight nor crooked, parted the hair on the left side. The light danced on the surface that shone like obsidian. The strands looked soft enough to touch, to stroke, and hold next to my cheek. Unlike my mousy blonde-brown hair that never could decide its color, this woman’s locks called to me with their Siren song. I tugged at the ends of my pixie cut. No amount of professional hairstyling could make me look like that.

I shook myself. So the rude woman had nice hair. So what? The same hairstylist had worked wonders with me, too, even if not to the same degree. I, at least, looked more like Jennifer Lawrence and less like Ellen DeGeneres.

She reached toward me, and the white décolletage of her dress shifted to reveal a creamy, impossibly luscious shoulder. I swallowed. Every inch of her skin glowed with a radiance Miss Lee had failed to abrade out of my farmer-girl tan. The neat, trim black suit accentuated every curve and left little to the imagination. The woman was fully clothed, and yet her delicious figure begged to be noticed, touched, and savored. My gaze traveled upward to her piercing, dark eyes.

She wasn’t older than I, according to Great-Aunt Matilda, but she carried herself like a princess. She rattled off a string of harsh, guttural sounds. I could almost see her scepter as her eyes clouded first in disbelief, then puzzlement, and finally anger when I remained silent.

“You speak no Korean.”

I did, technically. It wasn’t my fault she didn’t like the pronunciation. Could she stop beating up on my perceived flaws? My high school had offered two years of French, and I had been lucky to have that. After I graduated, the school board cut foreign languages and music to make room for more standardized testing. Priorities, right?

I couldn’t retort, “You speak no English,” because her American accent was flawless. Except for a slight lilt to her words and a soft coloring of her Rs, she spoke English better than I.

I lifted my chin. “If you wanted a Korean speaker, you should have gotten a Korean. I’m American.”

“An arrogant one.”

The cheek! Who was arrogant here? Who’d flown halfway around the world and squeezed herself into borrowed clothes? Who was stumbling over ridiculous foreign sounds to make a good impression? Who dismissed her efforts with insults?

She turned on her heel, beckoning to one of her assistants. “Hyojung-ssi, book Miss Indi Go on the next flight. Minhee-ssi, tell Madame Eve-nim to send another referral.”

“Yes, Ee Sajangnim, but Madame Eve-nim said she chose Miss Indi Go especially for you.”

Who was Madame Evening? The beautiful, hard woman in front of me fixed the speaker with a glare that withered away all sound except for a mumbled apology.

“I am sorry, Ee Sajangnim. I will contact Madame Eve-nim.” Minhee-ssi scurried away.

Hyojung-ssi scrolled frantically on her phone. “Ee Sajangnim, all of the flights for today are full. The soonest available is tomorrow afternoon at one.”

I stared from right to left in growing fury. “I quit my job, moved out of my apartment, and flew through God knows how many layovers, and you’re dismissing me without an interview? This is discrimination! It’s un-American. It’s…it’s….” I stammered. “I’ll sue you!”

The jet-black curtain of hair swirled in a filmy cloud that could have dissipated to reveal a genie rising from a bottle. Her chin set, she stared me down. My heart hammered, but I glared right back. This backward country was no France, and she was no sophisticated Frenchwoman with a right to sneer. She probably slept on the floor and ate dogs…or was it cats?

“I have no time for ignorance. Good-bye, Miss Indi. Go.”

She extended her hand, most likely out of sheer professionalism, and gripped mine. I forgot to support my elbow. I forgot to apply the correct amount of pressure. I forgot to defend myself or point out her flawed logic. Small hands, delicate but surprisingly strong. Soft hands. Tender hands, ones that had comforted and loved and clapped in glee.

The moment Hyunkyung Han touched me, it was over. I couldn’t leave.

I hated her guts, and I lusted after her in a way that disgusted me.

“Put Indi Go in the Mugunghwa Suite,” she said. She strode away, her entourage closing around her like goldfish swarming toward a handful of pellets dropped into their tank.

Miss Cha glided forward, averting her eyes as she propelled me toward the elevator. Out of sympathy, perhaps, she maintained distance. Or didn’t she want to be seen with the girl her boss had rejected at first sight?

“Please, wait for me.” I had a hard time speaking and keeping up with her. For a small woman, she moved fast.

She punched an elevator button. “The company will reimburse you for your expenses. I should have checked, but I assumed—”

“Assumed what? That I spoke Korean?”

She fiddled with her phone, a thin, miniature tablet. “That you were Korean.”

“Why would she get someone from America if she wanted a Korean employee?”

Miss Cha glanced at me, her lips forming a pink O. “An employee? You didn’t know? Ee Sajangnim wants—”

“I don’t care what your Onion hashoo wants. I’m going home, and good riddance.”

Miss Cha ushered me into a sumptuous pink-and-gold suite, and I ran to the bathroom and slammed the door. Childish, maybe, but it felt good. I’d had enough of strangers putting me on display to sneer.

I listened for the door to click shut behind her, staring into the oval, golden-edged mirror and brushing fingertips across the back of my right hand.

Hyunkyung had touched me here, the supercilious ice princess. I wanted to punch her lights out, but I wanted her to touch me. Just once more, with that commanding but gentle pressure, promising more than I could ever want.

I wanted Hyunkyung Han, and she had dismissed me like a misbehaving puppy.

Go to hell. America’s full of employers one hundred times better than you. No, one thousand. One million
.

“Madame Eve-nim won’t take phone calls, Ee Sajangnim—”

“Get her! Now!” How ridiculous I must have looked, courting my future bride who might as well have been an infant for all her use to my company. She shamed me in front of all my employees. I’d be the laughingstock for years. Again.

“She says she sent you an e-mail, Ee Sajangnim.”

No one said no to Han Hyunkyung, first daughter of Han Chanwoo and heir to his real estate, stationery, and retail empire valued at two quadrillion Korean
won
.

“Tell her to get on the phone, or I will ruin her!” I clenched a fist.

“Ee Sajangnim, I’m sorry but you asked me— You said to—”

“What is it?” Miss Cha would not have spoken to me this way, but she’d run off to babysit the American and stuck me with her subordinate.

Minhee quivered like a rabbit snatched by the jaws of its predator. “Ee Sajangnim, please don’t be angry with me, but you said I should—”

“Say it!” What was taking Miss Cha so long?

“Remember the nuts. Ee Sajangnim.” Minhee set her phone on my desk and skittered away. A good idea. If I wanted to hit her, I’d have to stand up.

The peanuts. I flushed with rage and shame. The peanuts from an employee when my father ordered my debut tour at age twenty-one. I was old enough to take over the family fortune, he’d said. I performed correctly for the photo opportunities and television cameras.

Then my blood sugar had dipped. The cursed
jeohyeoldangjung
, a problem I’d developed in adolescence. I had to eat regularly, or my system threw a misfire of dizziness followed by faintness. I hated being weak, hated being ruled by my body. I refused to let anyone know except for my doctor and my family, so no one understood the urgency when I requested a break in the interviews.

I’d learned to keep food nearby for when I felt the pangs of irritation followed by shakiness, but the reporters had continued their accusations about my “un-patriotic” decision to attend Columbia for undergraduate studies and Yale School of Management for my master’s in business administration degree instead of Seoul National University. They’d trashed my lack of a suitor and blamed economic woes on the nepotism of spoiled rich children ruining businesses owned by family dynasties. I’d needed food, but couldn’t communicate my desperation until the tremors hit. My assistant brought
kalbi
, but hadn’t reached me in time. I’d asked for food, and the reporter offered me peanuts. Peanuts. Raw, unshelled peanuts, as if I were a copy-coffee
agasshi
playing at learning business rather than preparing to inherit one.

I’d thrown the despised peanuts at the reporter’s head, and the news stations and papers splashed the moment in endless replay across the nation.

Han Princess Goes Nuts.

Han Hyunkyung has Han about Peanuts.

Peanut Child a Shame to Her Family
.

Peanut child! When I stood 172 centimeters tall in stocking feet! And
child
…I was no child. As my father reminded me. I’d had to apologize in front of a national press conference, dipping my entire body in acquiescence to the scorn of strangers who knew nothing of the real me. My father had apologized for his errors in childrearing. In private, he’d issued a warning. One more scandal, and he would allow the board to proceed with disinheritance.

Look up “Han Hyunkyung” in any online search, and you will find a photo of my submission to the masses. You’ll read about my supposedly spoiled upbringing, my nasty temper, and my lack of touch with reality. I am another sign of society gone wrong, a warning to other parents, and a sorrow to my great-grandfather who built Han Incorporated from a two-and-a-half
pyong
store on a subway station. “Han” means country or leader, and Great-Grandfather Han insisted we would rise from war-torn poverty into leading our nation. We are the noble
Cheongju
Hans, the line that produced six queens for the
Choseon
dynasty of ancient Korea.

I am Korea, and I bowed in acknowledgment of my wrongdoing. I will never restore my honor.

Angrily, I swiped Minhee’s phone unlocked to reveal Madame Eve’s e-mail.

There has been no mistake. I chose Indigo for you and will not replace her. Reject her, if you wish, but do not expect a new referral.

As to why I chose an American, you will find out for yourself. Unless you are too afraid, my dear.

—Madame Eve

My cheeks burned. “My dear,” as if I was her subordinate. The nerve! I’d put her out of business. I’d—

The door opened, and Miss Cha came back to my side. “Ee Sajangnim?”

Catching the urgency in her tone, I sent Minhee away. “Yes?” I may have barked my reply, but Miss Cha knew me too well for fear.

“I already made the arrangements for your date. Perhaps, since Miss Indi Go can’t leave until tomorrow, you might show her a little of Seoul before she leaves?” She hesitated. “As you know, she will have to eat dinner.”

I stared into space, moody and resentful. Either way, I would carry the shame. Could things get any worse? “Where?”

“Shilla Hotel, the Seoul Arts Center for the symphony, and Namsan Tower.”

I brooded. Sights chosen to please the perfect woman for my dynasty, but wasted on this uncouth foreigner. And yet, Madame Eve’s accusation stung. Afraid? I’d show her. “Why not? Make sure Indi Go doesn’t embarrass us.”

With that, Miss Cha disappeared while issuing rapid-fire orders into her phone. I sighed. The match had failed, but I might as well do my duty. At least, at a concert, no one would talk to Indi Go and find out her purpose in coming here. Perhaps I could pass her off as an overseas client, if Miss Cha dressed her well enough. She had the corporate credit line to purchase whatever she needed.

I wanted a bride, a wedding, and a public relations opportunity to establish legitimacy as the soon-to-be owner of Han Incorporated. Instead, Madame Eve sent me a gauche schoolgirl.

***

“But you don’t understand. She’s a monster. Her staff’s afraid to look at her. Like Medusa.”

Great-Aunt Matilda’s voice cut through the static. “Indi, I gave you that phone card for an emergency, not a tantrum. Grow up. You need a fresh start.”

“You should have warned me!” I twirled the phone cord around my fingers, kicking at the bedspread. “She hates Americans. She wouldn’t listen to anything, said my Korean is terrible—”

“Your Korean
is
terrible.”

“Thanks! What are great-aunts for?”

“Who bought you that plane ticket and covered for you every time you got in trouble with that boy?” She said “that boy” as if she meant “that backstabbing snake in the grass.” She probably did. “If you come back, you’ll have no job and no home. I spent my money on that ticket, so—”

“Fine!” That was a low blow. Low, but accurate. How could I explain that I didn’t want to go back, but Hyunkyung Han had rejected me? “She hates me. I told you.”