Page 56 of Ruthless Arrangement

* * *

Morning light filtersthrough my blinds, painting stripes across my rumpled sheets. I blink groggily, disoriented until last night’s conversation comes flooding back. The phone lies beside my pillow, battery drained from the hours-long call.I must have fallen asleep with Nico still on the line.

The lack of disturbance unnerves me.

I drag myself to the shower, letting hot water sluice away the remnants of my nightmares. But no amount of scrubbing can wash away the heavy weight that has taken up residence in my stomach. My mother’s terrified face keeps flashing behind my eyelids, along with Nico’s cryptic comments about her capabilities.

Forty minutes later, I’m dressed in jeans and a simple blouse, my damp hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. The clock reads just past nine, still early enough to catch my mother at her university office hours if I hurry.

* * *

The campus is buzzingwith midweek energy when I arrive. Students hurry between buildings clutching oversized coffees, professors huddle in small clusters engaged in animated discussions, and tour groups wind their way across the manicured lawns. The Political Science building rises at the far end of the quad, its limestone facade weathered with age and academic prestige.

I take the stairs two at a time, anticipation building with each step. My mother’s office is on the third floor, tucked away in the corner of the east wing. I’ve visited countless times over the years, finding comfort in its familiar smell of old books and the jasmine tea she always keeps stocked.

But today, something feels off the moment I round the corner. Her door stands half-open, which is unusual. She’s meticulous about privacy, always closing it fully during meetings and when she’s away. Through the gap, I can see the lights are on, but there’s no sound of movement or conversation from within.

“Mom?” I call out, pushing the door wider.

The office is empty. Not just of my mother, but of the usual tidiness that defines her workspace. Papers are scattered across the desk, a mug of tea sits half-drunk and long cold, and a drawer hangs open with documents threatening to spill out. It looks as if she left in a hurry, with no time to straighten up.

A chill runs through me, reminiscent of my nightmare. Eunji Song is many things, but disorganized has never been one of them.

“Oh! You’re Professor Song’s daughter, right?”

I startle at the voice, turning to find a harried-looking young man juggling an armful of papers and a tablet. I recognize him as my mother’s teaching assistant, though I can’t recall his name.

“Yes, I’m Lea. Is my mother around?”

“No, she left yesterday for a research trip.” He shifts the papers, nearly dropping them before regaining his balance. “Rather suddenly, actually. Asked me to cover her undergraduate lectures for the week.”

My insides twist. “Did she say where she was going?”

“She didn’t specify.” He shrugs, looking puzzled. “Just said it was an important opportunity that couldn’t wait. No details on location or duration.”

That doesn’t sound like my mother at all. She plans everything meticulously, especially academic travel. And she always, always tells me first.

“That’s odd,” I manage, trying to keep my voice casual. “She usually gives more notice.”

“Yeah, threw the entire department for a loop. Dean was pretty upset about it.” He gestures toward the office. “I was just coming to grab her lecture notes for tomorrow’s class.”

I step aside to let him enter, my mind racing.A sudden, unplanned trip. No communication. An uncharacteristically messy office. None of it makes sense.

While the TA rummages through a stack of folders on the desk, I edge closer to the open drawer. Through the gap, I can see the corner of a red folder marked with symbols, geometric shapes arranged in a pattern that looks almost like an insignia or logo.

Adrenaline surge as I lean against the desk, allowing my hand to drift toward the drawer.If I could just get a better look.

“Here we go!” The TA’s triumphant voice makes me jump. He waves a folder labeled “International Security Frameworks: Undergrad.” “Found what I needed.”

I straighten quickly, my chance lost. “Great. Listen, if you hear from her, could you ask her to call me? It’s important.”

“Sure thing.” He tucks the folder under his arm, then seems to remember his manners. “Oh, I should lock up when we leave. Professor’s orders.”

“Of course.” I grab a textbook from the desk, making a show of leafing through it. “Just give me a minute to check something for my research.”

He nods, stepping back into the hallway to reorganize his armful of papers. The moment he’s out of sight, I lunge for the drawer, sliding it open further. The red folder sits beneath a stack of academic journals. The paper feels thick and glossy under my fingertips. I lift it, flipping it open to reveal a single sheet of paper covered in what looks like a shipping manifest, columns of numbers and cryptic abbreviations that mean nothing to me.

But what catches my eye is the header: a stylized logo with Korean characters I can’t quite make out, alongside the English letters “NK Pharma Consolidated.”

---