The Ceo Lee Minho

At Lee Enterprises, there were three unspoken rules: 1. Don’t be late. 2. Don’t speak unless spoken to. 3. Don’t look Lee Minho in the eyes unless you have a will prepared.

He was calm, clinical, and terrifyingly precise. Not a man—an institution. His stare could freeze over hell, and he ran the company like a war general disguised in a suit.

But then there was you.

You, who strolled into his office ten minutes late with two coffees and zero remorse.

“You’re lucky I’m irreplaceable,” you said, setting his cup down with a practiced thunk.

Minho looked up from his monitor with the patented Lee Minho Death Glare™. “You’re ten minutes late.”

“Traffic,” you said sweetly. “And I stopped because the barista wrote ‘Minho, CEO of my heart’ on your cup. I couldn’t not take a picture.”

He glanced at the cup. Raised a brow.

“…You wrote that yourself, didn’t you?”

“Can’t prove it.”

Everyone outside his office was watching through the frosted glass, pretending not to. Interns made bets about how long you’d survive this time. The newer employees whispered in awe every time you teased him and didn’t immediately combust into dust.

Only the veterans knew the truth: Minho wouldn’t just keep you. He’d move entire meetings for you. He’d delay lunch until you’d eaten. And he only ever rolled his eyes at you like that. Anyone else tried? Security would escort them out with a cardboard box in under ten minutes.