Seoul Spankings by Anastasia Vitsky Page B

Matilda hadn’t mentioned Ee Sajangnim or Hyungkyung Han’s wealth, personal assistants, or status in this strange new country. She’d handed me a plane ticket and said to make something of myself.
    “Ee Sah…Esau…Easy…. Oh, forget it!” I tripped and muttered a bad word, catching myself against the wall with a sleek, polished arm unrecognizable as mine.
    On the tenth floor of the Han Incorporated headquarters, I had been entrusted to Miss Lee for a shower and personalized wash. She had scraped a netted green cloth across my skin, more painful than any loofah. In exchange for donating half my skin cells, my body shone.
    “Indi. Go,” came the greeting from Hyunkyung Han, crisp and clear.
    I backed up, wondering whether I should remove myself from her presence. I kept my eyes cast down, as Miss Cha had instructed. “On,” I mumbled, struggling to remember Miss Cha’s repetitions. “Onion hashoo.”
    “ Annyong haseyo ,” corrected the voice, silky and stern. Pointed tips of black Manolo Blahniks came into view, professional and alluring at the same time.
    “Onya,” I mumbled, as if I gargled with marbles. How had Miss Cha done it? That wasn’t right, either. The black-suited assistants tittered, holding up manicured hands to cover lipsticked mouths.
    “Unacceptable,” the voice pronounced, and I flushed. “If you haven’t learned properly, this is a waste of time.”
    What did she expect, anyway? Who speaks Korean in Spillville, Iowa? I had wanted to go to France, but Great-Aunt Matilda had bought the ticket. I hadn’t wanted to come here, but no one had the right to deem me unworthy at first sight. Wasn’t this discrimination?
    “I flew halfway around the world, and if you think you can shove me—”
    The polite titters changed to gasps. Fearful, as if retribution could strike at any moment. Miss Cha unleashed a torrent of apologetic Korean, but she stayed well behind me. Did she use me for her human shield? I closed my mouth, staring at the floor but breathing hard. Who did this Hyunkyung snob think she was, anyway? I didn’t need a job this badly.
    “Look at me,” the snob demanded instead of asking, and I debated pretending not to hear. She could speak to me with respect or not at all.
    Unwillingly, I raised my chin. I took my eyes away from the floor, and it was my turn to gasp. “I thought Koreans were short.”
    Not the best line to make a good first impression. But she was tall, taller than I had expected. At five-foot-six I was average height at home, but I had expected to be taller than most Koreans I would meet. Her long, lean frame rose at least a full inch above me. I shrank as her eyes pierced the cosmetics, borrowed dress, and jewelry Miss Cha had arranged over my body as if I were a store mannequin. I lifted my chest and adjusted the sheer bolero jacket. Its tiny cap sleeves made me look feminine, but the elastic ruffles got caught in my dress whenever I raised my arm. I felt like a schoolgirl presenting herself to the headmistress for inspection.
    She batted my hands away and pulled the seams of my jacket toward the front. I wobbled in sleek heels, the highest I’d ever worn. Greg didn’t like me in heels, no matter what they did to sculpt my calves and my butt. Greg. I tried so hard not to let my mind go there, but he refused to stay submerged. Whenever I least expected it, he popped into my thoughts.
    “Forget that boy,” Great-aunt Matilda had said, placing the envelope into my hand. “Go and make something of yourself.”
    How could I forget the last five years of my life? The marriage proposal that never came, the apartment I let him lease with my money, and my blue silky robe that he gave to Tiffany after impregnating her with the child he’d refused to give me.
    I forced my mind back to the present. Before me stood the most striking woman I had ever seen. Miss Cha, Miss Lee, and all of the other employees were well-dressed, well-coiffed, and impossibly dainty in