Defective Banana - Chapter 40

The next morning, Kang Seohyuk stayed holed up at home. Now was exactly the time to be extra careful about what he did. If he wanted to avoid becoming the paparazzi’s next meal, he couldn’t risk showing his face anywhere.

The last thing he needed was another headline like,

[Actor Kang Seohyuk greets fans even after being slapped. Stalker fan who slapped him still at large.]

So he stayed put, quietly doing penance in his apartment.

But Baek Ara still wasn’t answering her phone.

Sure, she could be indifferent at times, but since they’d started dating, she’d never ignored his calls this completely. Worry began to gnaw at him.

Should he ask Kim Yeosa to go check on her? …No, better not. If Ara found out he’d done that behind her back, she might get pissed. He decided to hold off.

And so, for two straight days, Seohyuk spent his time pacing around, worrying about Ara.

He barely ate, barely slept. And when he did fall asleep, it was more like dozing in fragments than actually resting.

By the third day, his internal clock was wrecked. He had gone to bed late that afternoon, only to be dragged out of sleep by the sharp chime of the doorbell. His body felt heavy as stone.

Could it be her? …No, if it were Ara, she wouldn’t be ringing the bell—she’d just use her own way in and come right to his room. And she would’ve called first.

Shuffling to the intercom, he checked the screen.

It wasn’t Ara. It was Shim Miok—his personal stylist. She was smiling brightly into the camera, lips curled up in that sweet, practiced way.

“It’s me, Shim Miok.”

Miok was practically buzzing with excitement today. With that “stalker fan” woman supposedly out of the picture for now, she was ready to swoop in and claim him for herself.

Her plan was simple, under the pretense of fitting him for new outfits, she’d get him to undress, close the distance, and seduce him. For today’s mission, she’d even put on sheer, lacy lingerie under her outfit—sexy enough to make a statement the second she showed it.

No more wasting time. If that woman ends up pregnant, she’ll push for marriage. I need to get him in my bed before that happens.

As soon as the lobby door clicked open, Miok rolled her garment rack into the elevator, humming to herself.

When Seohyuk opened the door, she wheeled the clothes inside. He raked a hand through his messy hair and asked in a voice still thick from sleep.

“What’s all this?”

“Outfits for Paris. I brought a few extra shirts and pants in the style you requested. Try them on.”

He had been invited to a fashion week show in Paris, leaving in a week. They still needed to finalize his airport look, his event outfits, and tailor the fit—tight schedule or not.

“I just woke up. Give me a second to wash my face.”

“Of course. Take your time.”

Miok pushed the garment rack into the dressing room, parking it near the huge floor mirror.

She took off her coat and draped it over a chair. Then she unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, leaning forward just enough to show the deep line of her cleavage in the mirror. Adjusting her sheer black bra, she tugged the collar wider to frame her chest even more.

She practiced the move—lean, glance, smile—several times, then slicked on some lip balm and spritzed herself with a perfume she swore made men lose their minds.

Usually, Seohyuk would sit in the big single sofa in the center of the dressing room, look over each outfit, and give his input. Today, she planned to “accidentally” stumble and end up in his lap, pretending to twist her ankle, giving him a perfect view down her shirt. She was certain that once her soft br3asts pressed against him, he’d take the bait.

Once she had him turned on, she’d confess, kiss him, grind against him—until he was too far gone to stop.

Not long after, the sliding doors to the dressing room opened.

“You ready?” she asked brightly.

“How many outfits?”

“Two for the airport, one for an event, one for the show itself, and one for the after-party. Five total.”

“Let’s start with the show outfit.”

He wasn’t in the mood. With Ara unreachable and his sleep wrecked, he was running on irritation and exhaustion. At this point, Paris Fashion Week felt meaningless.

Hell, maybe I should just tell the company I’m not going.

“What do you think? This one’s unreleased—sleek, unique, high-end. I think it’d look incredible on you.”

“Sure.”

The flat, instant agreement caught her off guard. She blinked, then tried again with another piece.

“For the shirt—both options are black, but we could mix in another color. Your watch strap is black leather, so maybe a dark gray shirt would work better. Thoughts?”

“Do that.”

“Ah… okay…”

One by one, she chose the show outfit, the after-party look, and the airport ensembles. She was just waiting for him to start trying them on.

Seohyuk, knowing the drill, stripped off his pajama pants and top without hesitation, down to his underwear. For him, changing in front of others was nothing new—just like backstage at a runway. He just wanted to get this over with.

Miok’s gaze lingered on his body as she stepped close to help him into a shirt, her chest brushing against his arm “by accident” as she fastened each button.

He didn’t react. If anything, his brow tightened, his expression faintly irritated.

Undeterred, she picked up the trousers, holding them open for him. As he stepped in, her br3asts bumped his thigh. Again—nothing.

When she tucked in the shirt, she let her hand slide deep into his waistband, “accidentally” brushing his crotch.

Something large and soft filled her palm.

“Oh! Oh my—sorry! Did I just… touch you there? I thought I felt something big…”

She feigned embarrassment, cheeks coloring, all while making sure he knew exactly what she’d done.

“I think I grabbed a bit too hard. You okay?”

“Careful. You’ve done this plenty of times before—what’s with you today?”

Running a hand through his hair, Seohyuk looked even more worn out, the annoyance clear in his tone.

Truth was, his mood was already bad, and her touch felt so deliberate it made his skin crawl.

“Really, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just—”

“It’s fine. Next outfit. I’m tired.”

“Ah… right. Next outfit…”

His voice was colder than usual. Miok decided to make one last attempt.

While picking a matching bag, she walked toward him with it in hand, then staged a fall—landing right into his arms.

“Oh!”

Grabbing his shoulders for balance, she leaned in, claiming her ankle had twisted. As she “struggled” to stand, her chest pressed firmly against him, the angle giving him a perfect view down her blouse. She mashed her br3asts against him, sure it would get a reaction.

But Seohyuk just stared past her, expression unreadable.

“Seohyuk… just a second…”

This was her final card. She let her hip brush hard against him as she bent to “check” her ankle, then braced herself against his inner thigh—hand dangerously close to his crotch.

Most men would have responded instantly. But there was nothing—no telltale hardness, no shift.

Wait… so that big, soft thing from earlier…? He wasn’t hard at all?

Baffled, she subtly rocked her hips again, searching for any sign of life. Still nothing. And that was when her confidence began to crumble.