A Murderer's Guide to Fake Dating

0.6 i've seen it in movies before

It's Monday morning and already, I'm dreading work. I practically drag myself across the floor, a mental fight brewing in my head: brain vs body. Brain insists I march towards the elevator, sit at my desk, and get to work. Body, on the other hand, wants to collapse onto the ground, close its eyes, and never wake up again. 

I've been having nightmares lately, which is why I currently look like a soulless monster wandering around, attracting lots of wary looks. I finally reach the elevator and there he is, the source of my nightmares. 

"You look terrible," Jack tells me, as we walk into the elevator. 

"Gee, thanks." I wish I could say the same about him, but he looks as fresh as a daisy. "Your suit looks terrible." 

Jack examines himself in the elevator mirror. "No, it doesn't," he says, and he's right. 

In the crack of the golden morning sun, Jack looks like a goddamn model for the catalog "Business Casual." He's wearing a dark navy suit over a white dress shirt, the suit creasing in all the right places. His slacks fit the dark color scheme, pressed and ironed, and his black Oxford shoes practically glisten. 

"It's my personal opinion." 

"You're blind, then," Jack responds smoothly. He leans against the elevator rail, arms folded, as the elevator numbers begin rolling up. His gaze is critical and I'm starting to feel self-conscious. "You look really bad, Isla. Maybe you should've stayed home." 

Jack's eyebrows crease together, concerned. I hate it. Jack feeling concerned for me feels weird, like I've just walked into another dimension. I snap, "It's your fault." 

"My fault," he muses. "Which part? You looking bad or you coming to work?" 

"Both." 

"Do explain." 

I drum my fingers against the elevator rail, contemplating where to start. I sneak a peek at the elevator number and sure enough, we're almost on our floor. "Well?" Jack prompts, and I blow  out a sigh. Guess I'll shorten the list, even though it deserves an hour-long rant. 

"You sent me a text to come to work," I start. 

Jack shrugs. "If you weren't feeling well, you could've defied me as usual. Just ignore what I said." 

My eyes narrowed. He's not here to listen. He's here to go against every single point I bring up. Well, bring it on, Jack Lim. 

"If I defied you, you would've threatened to call the police." 

"True, but if you had explained you were sick, I would've understood." 

"You're a cold-hearted bastard," I counter. "You wouldn't understand anything." 

"Contrary to popular beliefs, I'm not cold-hearted." Jack pauses for effect. "I'm more... efficient." 

"In other words, a complete asshole." 

Jack shrugs. "That's your opinion." 

My opinion, and probably everyone else working here. They are just too scared to confront him because he'll send them packing up and rushing back home in tears. 

"You show up in my nightmares," I say furiously. "That's how asshole-y you are." 

"I show up in your dreams?" Jack asks, right as the elevator glides open. 

Irene stands there, stunned. Her face is a comedic mixture of surprise: eyes wide, jaw dropped, disbelief etched into her features. However, it's very un-comedic that she's heard Jack's dream comment.