The Arrogant Bitch

The next morning, I finally got a message from Cha Su-ah first.

Even from that tiny scrap of text, her stiff pride dripped off every word. Finally calling this lowly artist, huh? You fucking bitch. Deep down, she's probably shitting herself wondering what if I reject her right now, but she's clinging to that position of superiority as a business partner to the bitter end. It's like she's thrashing around, desperate to act like she's not the one begging out of desperation—she's just gracing me with her presence to fulfill my request.

I smirked, pocketed my smartphone, and meticulously checked the angles of all the hidden cameras installed throughout the entire 100-pyeong first-floor studio.

At 2:50 PM, I fired up the VVIP app and switched on live streaming right away.

The moment I opened the room, VVIP bros hooked on dopamine from downfall documentaries flooded in like crazy.

At exactly 3 PM, the front door opened, and Cha Su-ah stepped in. At least she had a solid grasp of time.

She was perfectly decked out from head to toe. Her bob cut, which she'd buried into the steering wheel yesterday while sobbing her guts out and messing it up, was neatly styled—probably after a intense treatment at the salon. Thick makeup and pricey horn-rimmed glasses covered the tear-streaked face. A form-fitting beige luxury two-piece suit hugged her body, clicking high heels echoed, and she clutched an insanely expensive designer bag in one hand.

From the outside, she looked every bit the powerhouse Gangnam CEO designer ready to helm a multi-billion project—Cha Su-ah herself.

The second she entered the studio, she deliberately avoided looking my way, pretending to be a pro as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she scanned the ceiling height and wall finishes with a picky glare. But she couldn't fool my sharp eyes. The knuckles on the hand gripping her bag were white, trembling faintly, and the dark circles under her eyes—barely hidden by thick makeup—proved she hadn't slept a wink last night. Plus, mixed into her usual heavy perfume was the faint stench of cold sweat.

This is gonna be fun. Let's see that acting, Su-ah.

I slapped on the gentle, mild-mannered smile of the kind-hearted young artist Han Siwoo, honed from rolling on the floor in poverty.

"CEO Cha! Come on in. I've been waiting."

I jumped up from the sofa like a total pushover, bowing deeply to greet her.

Cha Su-ah flinched at my over-the-top welcome but quickly composed her signature haughty expression, elegantly crossing her legs on the sofa. Hilarious—tensing her legs hard to hide the knee shakes.

And so fucking stupid. We parted on such shitty terms last time, doesn't she find it weird that I'm grinning and treating her nice?

"Have a seat, Writer Han."

Treating me like the underling, acting like she owns the place. What a cocky bitch. Has she forgotten that shit, or is her fucked situation eating her brain? Either way, goddamn hilarious.

I quietly set down the pre-poured coffee in front of her.

Cha Su-ah lightly tapped the cup with her finger, putting on a grave face before speaking.

"I checked what you mentioned last time when I got back to the company. Yeah, there was a bit of an accounting error internally. Nothing major, but it caused some annoying noise in my design team."

Accounting error? No big deal? Embezzling 2.2 billion from the company and brushing it off as a simple slip-up. With the regular audit looming, she's probably dying inside, but in front of me, she's downplaying it as some minor staff fuck-up.

"So I thought it over. Your proposed 3-billion personal exclusive contract. Normally, my brand policy doesn't allow direct personal deals bypassing the corporation... but your incredible artistic passion moved me a bit. Just this once, as a special exception, I'll push back my other VIP clients' schedules."

Her words flowed like silk. She's here begging for her life because her embezzlement fucked her over and she needs cash now. Yet she's packaging it like she's graciously saving this rootless artist, making a special concession.

I widened my eyes, clasped my hands, and started acting awestruck.

"Whoa... really? CEO Cha! Even after I was so rude last time, you're recognizing my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠art? What an honor. With the top designer in the industry like you handling my studio personally, 3 billion feels like nothing!"

The hologram chat exploded at my pushover reaction.

The bros were totally high on the comedic dopamine from this insane cognitive dissonance. From our vantage as all-knowing spectators, nothing beats the thrill of watching a human dangling off a cliff pretend nothing's wrong.

Cha Su-ah visibly relaxed when I accepted so easily, so gratefully. Her trembling fingertips steadied, her stiff lips curved into an arrogant smirk. She fully believed she had control now.

"Glad you see it that way. I'll handle that secret basement room not on the blueprints under my name—perfectly. Better soundproofing than you want, so no worries about illegal mods."

I pulled out the prepped envelope and set it on the table. Inside: a simple interior preliminary contract and my bank balance proof.

The moment her eyes locked on the 3,797,000,000 KRW figure, her pupils dilated slightly.

"That's my available cash right now. Over 3 billion, so no worries—go ahead."

Her throat bobbed hard. With the audit crashing down like a death sentence, this was her only lifeline, proven in numbers. No wonder her eyes spun.

Cha Su-ah skimmed the prelim contract, pretending calm, then her raw arrogance spilled out unfiltered amid ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠massive relief.

"Clean terms. Since it's personal, skip the hassle—I'll bring the official contract tomorrow morning for stamping. Wire the 3 billion lump sum on signature. Oh, and Writer Han."

She propped her elbows on the table, gazing down coldly and haughtily.

"You're paying big, but space design is my domain. Once we start, no touching the interior. I get artists have egos, but creation is my expertise—keep boundaries clear. I hate that typical nouveau riche meddling. Got it?"

This fucking bitch? The embezzler on the verge of a noose, spotting salvation and back to treating me like a wallet, lecturing me outright. 'Nouveau riche meddling'? Facing cuffs in two days, yet smirking like she's in total control.

Fucking hate that face. But I want a bigger peak. Not yet. Let her believe total victory—the fall to hell will be sweeter.

I chuckled like a good-natured fool, nodding vigorously.

"Of course! No way I'd question CEO Cha's design. I'll follow your lead. Bring the contract tomorrow morning, stamp it, and wire 3 billion right away. Looking forward to it."

"Good. Nice dealing with someone reasonable. See you tomorrow."

Drunk on triumph over conning this crude nouveau riche punk, Cha Su-ah stood. The timid anxiety from entry? Gone. She strode confidently to the door like Gangnam's top elite again.

Click. Door shut, heels clacked away.

I leaned back on the sofa, flicking her untouched cold coffee away. The mild pushover artist mask peeled off, revealing an unstoppable sneer.

"Haa... Bros, see CEO Cha's performance? Thought I'd puke playing along with that piss-your-pants-desperate bitch."

Chats exploded instantly.

Watching the massive donations and bros' mockery explode on screen, I pulled a cigarette from my pocket and lit up.

Fuu-. Gray smoke billowed long from my mouth, drifting toward the high studio ceiling.

My phone album held a folder of all Cha Su-ah's dirty secrets, scraped via yesterday's hack app: junior's mockery, sponsor's harassment, Chairman Choi's brutal facts, perfect proof of 2.2 billion embezzlement. Death warrants to end that arrogant Gangnam designer's life in one blow.

Sleep sound tonight, Cha Su-ah. Relieved you'll perfectly cover the 2.2 billion. Convinced you're still Gangnam's top CEO designer.

Tomorrow morning, when you come to stamp the official contract yourself. At ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the peak of that ripping joy and relief, I'll expose every nauseating secret you hid, slamming you into the vilest hell.

See you tomorrow. My new top whore candidate.