I Told Woochan I'd Be Late
I told him I'd be late. It's been a while since Grandfather summoned me. When I opened the door to his office, he looked up from his papers, sitting behind that massive desk. His eyes, glaring through his glasses, weren't exactly welcoming.
"You little shit, I told you not to cause trouble, and all you do is skip classes every damn day."
"Aw, come on. I'm twenty now—what's the big deal if I miss a few classes?"
"You insolent brat."
Whoosh. A ballpoint pen flew straight at my head. I tilted it aside, and it smacked into the wall behind me before clattering to the floor. Good thing my reflexes are sharp.
"And what mess did you get into with that politician's son, Jeong Mintae?"
"He hit me first."
"Hoo..." Grandfather let out a heavy sigh and took off his glasses. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, looking at me like I was a hopeless case.
"I'll handle that myself, so just tone it down, for fuck's sake."
I guess beating that punk's ass will have to wait. "Got it."
"Jesus, what am I gonna do with you."
Leaving Grandfather slumped back in his chair, clutching his head in resignation, I walked out of the office. On the way back to school, I sorted out my thoughts. For a while, I should lay low on skipping classes and heading straight to the lady. Now that I'm on his radar, if my attendance is a mess too, he might put someone on me. No big deal—I can just hang out after school instead. And lately, I've been pushing her too hard. If I squeeze too tight, the line snaps, so maybe loosen up a bit.
I pulled out my phone and texted Ayoung.
It showed as read, but no reply for a long time. Then it came.
An excuse not to come.
Block one excuse, another pops up. She's clearly trying to weasel out. I cut off her escape completely.
Just "read." No reply for a while. She's scrambling for a way to refuse. But if there was an excuse, she'd have used it already. With "funeral" handed to her on a platter, she knows there's no hole to slip through. Much later, the reply came.
I pocketed my phone with a grin.
That evening, I parked near the rental apartments and leaned against the car, waiting. Far off, Ayoung approached, glancing around nervously under a hat pulled low. Black outfit—dress code matched for the "funeral." Her steps quickened, almost a trot, like she was afraid of getting caught. She looked like some thief sneaking out. I swallowed a laugh and got in the car.
The passenger door opened, and she slid in. She slammed it shut and tugged her hat lower. Avoiding my eyes, she clasped her hands in her lap, head bowed.
"Thrilling, huh?"
Ayoung looked up and glared, eyes full of venom. But it didn't last. Her gaze wavered and dropped back to her lap. I started the engine and pulled out.
"Uh... where are we going?"
"Shopping."
Her face twisted in confusion at "shopping," but she didn't ask. I smirked and hit the accelerator.
Vroom. The exhaust roared, and she stiffened, back pressed to the seat, hand instinctively gripping the seatbelt.
I headed to the underground parking of a department store in the city center. Valet parked and led her upstairs. Her steps slowed. She scanned around, trailing cautiously behind me.
"Wh-what if someone sees us?"
"You think people you know come to places like this?"
As I spoke, I draped an arm around her shoulders. She flinched but couldn't shake it off. We headed straight to the VIP room.
I sank into the room's sofa and called over a staff member. Told them to recommend outfits for her build and have her try them on. Ayoung shot me a panicked look, but I just fiddled with my phone. Led by the staff, she vanished into the fitting room.
She emerged much later in a dress. Midi length, cinched at the waist by a thin belt. It transformed her. The curves hidden before now stood out sharply over the fabric—from neck to shoulders, then the swell of her hips below the belt. The gem buried under her usual frumpy clothes was fully revealed.
Ayoung fidgeted, not knowing where to put her hands. The staff praised how it suited her, but she just bowed her head, unsure how to take it.
I lounged on the sofa, scanning her. Something was missing. Clothes alone were only half.
"Bag, bracelet, necklace—full set."
The staff nodded and left. Meanwhile, Ayoung hesitantly flipped the tag inside the sleeve. Her eyes widened at the price.
"Th-this... the price..."
"Don't be tacky. You don't check prices in places like this."
"B-but..."
I stood and approached, gently pushing her back toward the mirror.
"Look. It suits you perfectly."
Her mouth snapped shut. She couldn't tear her eyes from her reflection. A different woman from her usual self stared back. I stepped back, admiring her rear view—the line from back to waist to ass. I wanted to shove her down and plunge in right there, but not yet. Patience.
The staff returned with necklace, bracelet, bag. I took Ayoung's wrist and clasped the bracelet. Circled behind her still form and fastened the necklace, my fingers brushing her nape. Her shoulders twitched. With the bag in hand, the mirror showed a completely new Ayoung. No trace of the shabby mart lady.
"Looks great on you."
Her earlobes flushed crimson. Head down, lips moved silently, no words.
I handed my card to the staff. Bag up her old clothes and take them to the car. Light hand on her back, I guided her to the restaurant.
A private hall overlooking the city lights. Soft glow on the table beyond the glass, city sprawled below. Ayoung sat awkwardly, fiddling with her hem, twisting the bracelet, picking up then setting down the fork. The lighting, the silverware, even the chair felt alien to her.
I savored her unease slowly.
"Wh-why are you doing this for me?"
"I told you. I like your body."
Her head dropped. Red crept to her earlobes. I set down my wine glass and leaned forward, tilting her chin to meet her dodging eyes.
"I said I want you. This is nothing."
Her eyes shook. Lips parted, then hardened. Gaze drifted past the candle to darkness settling over her face.
"You're still treating me like a whore."
Low, cracked voice. I chuckled.
"Don't get it twisted. If I wanted to buy a woman with cash, there are plenty younger than you."
Her eyes lifted. Not anger or shame—sizing me up.
"It's special because it's you."
Casual, like truth or tease. Her mouth opened, closed. Eyes traced my face, then fell to the wine glass. Silent. No turning away or glaring like before. Just sitting, quiet—like something crumbling inside.
She stayed that way through dinner. Down to the parking lot, into the car. As I turned the key:
"I'll drop you off."
She glanced over. "T-today...?"
"Today? We just had a date."
"A date..."
She murmured it like tasting the word.
"St... still."
"Woochan's waiting. I'd love for you to stay."
Her hands clenched in her lap. Torn expression. I drove to her place and parked. She opened the door and got out.
"Get home safe. I'll be waiting for your call."
She turned. One step, another. Slow. A few paces, hesitate, glance back, keep going. Hesitate again. Look fully, drop gaze, walk. I leaned in the driver's seat, watching her back. She was wavering, so I waited leisurely. She'd come back for sure.
It was bewildering. Walking from the car, I thought: I'm heading out to give my body to my son's friend again. That's what I'd steeled myself for when leaving home. But deep inside, my body was already anticipating it. From the text. Changing clothes. Getting in the car.
Knowing that made it more revolting.