Just A Few Numbers Away

Chapter 102

The Breach

​The Sunday sun had risen and set without Andrei leaving the confines of the Park Hyatt Seoul.

He had spent the entire day submerged in the digital undercurrents of the city, his eyes red-rimmed from the glow of his laptop.

He had tried the direct routes first-calling the old number he'd kept saved in a hidden folder, only to be met with a cold, mechanical recording: The number you have dialed is unavailable.

​He had messaged her social media accounts, pouring his desperation into text boxes that remained eternally "unseen."

He didn't know if the lack of a "read" receipt was because she had blocked him, or because she was so insulated by her new life that messages from "unverified" accounts never even reached her notifications.

​By Monday morning, the "burning fire" in his chest had turned into a cold, calculated mission.

Through the legal cracks of the System and hours of cross-referencing paparazzi timestamps with local business registries, he had found it.

​He knew where she was.

***

​The lobby of the corporate building was a cathedral of glass and polished stone, humming with the quiet energy of high-tier professionals.

Andrei stood near the entrance, feeling like a smudge on a clean mirror in his travel-worn clothes and cap.

He knew he couldn't just ask for her-a man like Yoongi wouldn't leave his wife's workplace unguarded.

​He watched the clock.

12:15 PM.

Break time.

​He approached the reception desk, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He didn't offer his name.

Instead, he carried a small, nondescript bag he'd picked up from a nearby café, his voice practiced and steady.

​"Delivery for Palma Aen," he said in Korean, keeping his gaze low.

"It's urgent. Perishable."

He had practiced those lines over and over in his hotel room last night with perfect ease, refining the accent and the casual tilt of his head so he wouldn't look suspicious.

He knew that in a building this secure, "urgent and perishable" were the magic words that bypassed questions.

​The receptionist, a woman with the polished, robotic politeness typical of Gangnam's elite districts, didn't even look up at first.

She checked her terminal, her fingers dancing over the keys.

​"Palma Aen? One moment." She picked up the internal line.

"Ms. Palma? There is a delivery for you at the main lobby. Yes, they say it's urgent."

​Andrei stepped back into the shadows of a large marble pillar, his breath hitching, as he pulled his cap lower.

The air in the lobby suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

Palma.

​She hadn’t changed her name.

​To him, it felt like a confession.

In his mind, her keeping the name meant she was still the girl from the province, still the woman who belonged to the history they had written together.