A humid silence pressed down over the boardroom on the thirty-fourth floor of EON Entertainment. The table—polished walnut, inlaid with silver—was ringed by directors in tailored suits, legal counsel, and a clutch of aides scribbling on tablets, eyes flicking nervously toward the head of the table where CEO Choi Sung-woo sat.

The tension was more than corporate. It was survival.

Choi's jaw clenched as he scanned the contract in his hand. His fingers, heavy with jeweled rings, tightened until the pages bent, then he slammed them onto the table, making several staff flinch.

"Who signed off on this?" he demanded, his voice like a blade. "No NDA. Not a word about confidentiality. And this penalty—five billion won! We made it impossible for a reason, and yet—" He paused, glaring around the table. "Who is so eager to break the bank for a girl who can't even sell out her own fan meetings?"

The legal director cleared his throat. "Sir, the request was submitted by Park Jae-hyun—"

"Park," Choi spat, "again? Didn't he learn his lesson after White Prism?" A cold, bitter laugh. "That lawyer's made a career out of burning bridges in this industry."

A junior manager, trying too hard to be useful, piped up. "They agreed to all the terms, sir. No negotiation, even when we raised the penalty. The funds are being transferred by tomorrow, if we accept."

Choi stared at him, then shifted his gaze to the director of finance. "Do we know who's funding this? Where the money's coming from?"

A nervous shake of the head. "Not yet, sir. It's coming through an intermediary, but—"

"Find out," Choi snapped. "I want names. Family, friends, lovers—I want every detail. Who is backing Kwon Mirae?" His eyes bored into his staff, icy with fury. "And if you come back empty-handed, you'll be looking for new jobs. Understood?"

A chorus of quiet agreement, no eye contact.

Choi leaned back, steepling his fingers. "This is not just about Mirae. If Park thinks he can make an example out of us, he's wrong. Nobody dictates terms to EON."

He gestured to his secretary, a slim woman in a navy skirt suit who had spent the meeting taking notes and trying to be invisible. "You. Start digging—discreetly. I want every email, every call, every trace. If you have to dig through trash, do it. I want to know who is helping Mirae, and why."

She nodded, pale but composed.

Choi turned to his director of talent. "And you—find out what project Mirae is moving to next. Contact her sponsors. Let them know we expect their continued cooperation. And if any of them think to jump ship, remind them of their contractual obligations. In fact, why not encourage a little creative rumor-mongering?" His smile was sharp, predatory. "If Mirae wants to leave, let's see how well she fares with a reputation in tatters."

No one dared challenge the order. In the world of K-pop and Korean entertainment, blacklists and whispers were currency. EON's reach was long, and Choi's ruthlessness legendary.

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and the distant city noise, muffled by double-glazed windows. The staff glanced at each other, reading the unspoken messages—move quickly, don't cross Choi, don't become the next target.

His secretary, voice trembling only a little, reported, "Lawyer Park has requested we process the settlement and contract cancellation as soon as possible. He's prepared to make full payment, but is insisting on all terms, especially the absence of any NDA."

Choi's eyes narrowed. "Tell him he has forty-eight hours to make payment. If not, we pull the deal, and Mirae can rot in court for the next five years." He smiled thinly, savoring the moment of regained control. "And make sure they understand—no negotiation, no delays."

He waved a hand in dismissal, the directors rising as one, chairs scraping softly against the polished floor. As they filed out, Choi paused, watching the room clear with the satisfaction of a man who still believed himself master of his universe.

At the door, he called quietly to his secretary, "Send in the idol. The one with no schedule this afternoon."

She nodded, closed the door behind her, and silence returned. Choi poured himself two fingers of whiskey, the glass clinking against his rings. He set the bottle down, then lit a cigar, letting the acrid smoke curl around his head as he leaned back in his leather chair.

The office was all glass and shadow now, the city below a grid of twinkling lights. Behind him, awards and photos lined the shelves—a gallery of stars whose careers began and ended at his word.

There was a soft knock, and the door opened.

She stepped in like she owned the room, not a trace of fear, her eyes locked on Choi's. The silver dress was already a challenge—slit high enough to show the lace tops of her stockings, neckline plunging down to the edge of scandal. She clicked the lock behind her, lips curling up. "You called for me, sir?"

Choi let his gaze crawl all over her, pausing where the dress did its most shameless work. "I did. You want to move up, you know how things work." He flicked a finger at his belt, lazy and arrogant. "Don't pretend you're shy."

She laughed—low, throaty, full of hunger. "Shy girls don't get past the lobby." The dress hit the floor, and she wore nothing but black straps and mesh, her tits barely contained, nipples hard and aching for attention. She walked to him, letting her hips roll, making him wait. "Is this what you want, sir?" She pressed his hand against her breast, forcing him to feel how fast her heart was hammering.

He squeezed, rough, pinching her nipple through the lace until she gasped. "You want that showcase spot? You'll earn it. On your knees."

She dropped, greedy, eyes locked to his. Her fingers yanked his zipper down, pulling his cock out, thick and already swelling in her hand. She spat on it—deliberately messy, watching the saliva dribble down before she licked it up. "Big for an old man," she taunted, swirling her tongue around his crown.

Choi grabbed a fistful of her hair and shoved her face down, forcing his cock past her lips, groaning as her throat opened for him. "Show me what that mouth can do. You want the spotlight, you'd better fucking prove it."

She didn't flinch—she dove in, taking him deep, choking herself, snot running, spit dripping down her chin. She gagged on purpose, loving the way it made his grip tighten, the way his cock throbbed on her tongue. She pulled off, gasping for air, her voice gone husky. "Is that good enough? Or do you want more, sir?"

He slapped her cheek with his cock, marking her with a smear of precum. "Don't fucking stop until I say so."

She grinned, eyes wild, and took him again, her lips tight, cheeks hollowed, her hand stroking the base in time with every bob of her head. She looked up at him, drool and tears streaking her face, pure filth. "You'll remember this mouth," she mumbled around his cock, words slurred, refusing to let up.

He started fucking her face in earnest, hips snapping, using her like a fucktoy, the obscene noises echoing off his office walls. "That's it. Take it all. Prove you're better than the others."

She moaned, vibrating around him, digging her nails into his thighs, desperate for his approval—desperate for everything. She let him use her until his cock pulsed, threatening to finish. He yanked her up by the hair, shoving her over the desk.

"Panties off. Now." His voice was all gravel and command.

She bent over, hiking her ass high, panties already soaked, practically ripping them off as she spread herself open. "Look at how ready I am for you, sir. Do you want to see how desperate I can get?"

He smirked, lining up behind her, teasing the head of his cock at her slit, then ramming in, all at once, burying himself deep. She cried out, the pain and stretch making her shudder, but she pushed back, greedy, wanting all of it. "Fuck me like I'm the only one who ever mattered. Make me earn it."

He slammed into her, each thrust brutal, flesh smacking, her tits bouncing against the desk. He gripped her hips, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, using her, not gentle, not sweet—just raw, urgent fucking. "Is this what you want? To be my little slut, just for a shot at the top?"

She looked back at him, mascara streaking down her cheeks, lips bitten raw. "I want it so fucking bad, sir. I want everyone to know I'll do anything for you. Use me—make me your favorite."

He spit on her back, watching it run down her spine, then slapped her ass so hard she yelped, red handprint blooming instantly. He reached around, rubbing her clit, not to be kind, but to get her off fast, to make her come on his cock like the hungry whore she was acting.

"Come for me," he growled. "Let everyone outside know who you belong to."

She screamed, clenching around him, legs shaking as she came hard, gush soaking his cock and the floor. He kept pounding, fucking her through it, chasing his own finish. She begged, breathless, "Please, sir, give it to me. Mark me. Fill me up so I know I did it right."

That was all it took. He snarled, hips slamming flush, cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep inside her, holding her tight so she couldn't squirm away. She whimpered, loving every second, her ambition and filth in perfect, ruthless harmony.

He finally let her go, stepping back, cock dripping, breath ragged. She stood, shaky but defiant, hair a mess, makeup ruined, thighs sticky with both their cum. She didn't try to cover up—just turned to face him, chest heaving, a filthy, satisfied smile on her lips.

He caught her wrist, tugging her close, his mouth at her ear. "Keep this up, and you'll be untouchable. One wrong move, and you're nothing."

She laughed—a wicked, reckless sound. "Don't worry, sir. I'm just getting started."

She walked out, head high, ruined but victorious, every eye in the hallway pretending not to notice, every one of them knowing exactly who she was now.

And she wouldn't have traded a second of it.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.