Suits and Sigils | 6
four of petancles
⤷sypnosis: Kim Taehyung's worldview relies on three absolute truths: the law is malleable, his Tom Ford suits are impeccable, and every woman in the city wants him. Then he gets hijacked by a stranger who forces him to pay a luxury-car-sized vet bill for a stray puppy and looks at him like he's an annoying fly. He thinks your "mysterious intuition" is just a high-effort tactical play to get into his bed. You're just trying to survive your day job while your tarot deck screams that this idiot's logic is about to violently implode. It's fine. Everything is fine.
⤷pairing: kim taehyung x f!reader
⤷genre: lawyer!taehyung, witch!reader, rom-com, urban fantasy, workplace/legal!au, fast-paced flirtation, one-sided slowburn.
⤷warnings: corporate arrogance, heavy wealth flexing, swearing, mild supernatural peril later on, taehyung getting completely humbled. also features some highly unprofessional legal counseling that eventually violates several workspace boundaries (yes, there is smut, he's a womanizer, what did you expect?).
⤷word count: 7.2k
a/n: here we are again with the funniest duo ever i swear to god i love them. i also missed writing his pov so we indulge in that this chapter.
i also hope everyone saw him being fashion police coming because that’s so canon™
mind you, new character unlocked. i hope everyone is excited for some stupidity because the dynamics are so funny. i’m genuinely laughing by myself i can’t wait to uncover them LMAO
—
What were you going to wear?
Stupid thought, perhaps. But a real question. Because he demanded a specific wardrobe from people working under him.
Under him.
His thoughts strayed for a split second—you’d look so good under him. Hands wrapped around—
He glanced at his watch. 9:02. You were late.
So he was cursed... and you were late. Do you not care about his wellbeing in his office?
Still, what were you going to wear?
A sharp throat-clearing jerked him back to the present. Taehyung sat at the head of the dark mahogany conference table, ankles casually crossed, a flawless mask of indifference slathered across his face. Surrounding him were eight senior executives sweating through their suits, hanging onto the fate of a deal.
"As you can see on slide twelve, Mr. Kim, the projected quarterly margins for the Johnson acquisition are showing a temporary three-percent dip during the integration phase," the VP of Finance said, his laser pointer trembling against the glass display board.
Taehyung didn't blink. He slowly brought two fingers up to tap his jawline, his eyes resting on the nervous executive. He was arrogant, yes, but he had earned every single drop of it. He was a shark in a tailored three-piece suit, and this boardroom was his ocean.
"You missed the tax liability clause in the European holding subsidiary," Taehyung spoke smoothly, his voice slicing through the tense silence like a razor blade. He hadn't even opened the leather-bound brief sitting in front of him.
He had memorized the entire four-hundred-page file over his six a.m. cappuccino.
The VP froze. "I—sir?"
"That 'three-percent dip' is actually an eleven-percent hemorrhage once the cross-border compliance penalties hit in Q3," Taehyung continued, leaning back in his chair with a slow grace. "You’re valuing the Johnson group's supply chain based on last year’s fuel indices, which renders your entire risk assessment utterly useless."
The room went dead silent.
"Draft a counter-offer stripping their board of voting rights, cut their golden parachutes by half, and have it on my desk by four," he added, setting his pen down with a sharp, final *clack*. "If they panic, remind them that without my firm's capital injection, their trading license gets revoked by midnight on Friday. Meeting adjourned."
He stood up, buttoning his jacket in one fluid motion, and walked out before the first briefcase even clicked shut.
Minji was already falling into step beside him in the marble corridor, tablet in hand. "The Johnson legal team is already protesting the board clause, sir."
"They'll sign," Taehyung replied coldly, not even slowing his stride. "They like breathing."
"And bring me another cappuccino, Minji," Taehyung added smoothly, adjusting his cuff as they reached his suite. "I almost broke a sweat back there."
Almost.
Because he was Kim Taehyung, and breaking a sweat anywhere outside a five-star gym was deeply, fundamentally wrong. His shirt was hand-spun cashmere, crisp and immaculate against his skin, and his cologne—a rich, unmistakable Armani signature—hung around him like an invisible suit of armor. He didn't do messy, and he certainly didn't do flustered.
He pushed open the heavy double doors to his private office, fully expecting the cool, sterile silence he paid millions a year to maintain.
Instead, he found you.
A warmth flickered in his chest at the sight of you occupying his domain. He really liked having you in his office.
He loved that you were in his space, scenting his air, turning his pristine solitude upside down. For a fraction of a second, the edge of his mouth twitched, threatening to curl into a genuine smile.
Then his eyes traveled down, taking in your outfit, and his expression completely stalled.
Flowy. Linen, probably.
Which would have been fantastic—sensational, even—if you were currently lounging on a private beach in Bali.
But you were not in Bali. You were sitting in the glass-walled headquarters of the top law firm in the country, spun around in his executive leather chair, casually draped in soft, earth-toned, unbothered linen.
Taehyung closed the double doors behind him with a quiet click. He stood there for a beat, letting his gaze drag slowly over every inch of your absurdly comfortable clothes, his jaw clenching in a mix of disbelief and mounting amusement.
"I see," he murmured, his voice carrying across the quiet room as he slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket. "You decided to interpret 'pretty-faced assistant' as 'bohemian tourist who took a wrong turn at the airport.'"
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you leaned back further into the plush leather, unfazed. "What’s wrong with it? I don’t own suits, Taehyung."
"Let me guess," he said, taking a slow step toward the desk, resting one hand in his pocket while his other loosened his silk tie just a fraction. "Synthetic fabrics mess with your juju?"
"You’ve literally been cursed, I’m trying—"
"Hexy, baby," he interrupted, his voice dripping with a smooth, patronizing warmth as he tapped the face of his watch. "It’s currently 9:07 AM. The curse would’ve had seven whole minutes to kill me, and you weren't even here."
You crossed your arms over your chest, shooting him a glare. "I don’t like corporate timing."
"You’re in a corporation," he countered, stopping right in front of the desk and leaning over it, hiseyes locking onto yours. "And you’re wearing... linen."
"So?"
"So?" Taehyung stared at you, his jaw tightening as he gestured vaguely to your clothes with two fingers. "Linen?! In a firm that manages insanely sums of dollars acquisitions? You look like you’re about to offer my board members herbal tea and a tarot reading!"
"Thin line, Taehyung," you warned, narrowing your eyes at him as you shifted in his chair.
Taehyung didn't even flinch. A wicked smirk spread across his lips, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I love thin lines, Hex. You know that. It's where all the fun happens."
"You’re pushing it," you snapped, sitting up straight and pointing an apple core at him like a weapon. "I am here to stop a generational entity from feeding on your arrogant soul, not to be judged on breathability fabrics."
Instead of backing off, Taehyung reached out, pulled the guest chair directly next to yours, and sat down.
He leaned back, crossing one tailored leg over his knee, his proximity cutting the distance between you to practically nothing.
He glanced down at the massive, high-backed leather chair you were sitting in, then back at your face.
"The chair?" he asked smoothly, raising an eyebrow. "You're sitting in my executive chair. The one that costs more than your entire wardrobe—linen included."
"I took it first," you said flatly. "Consider it my spiritual assistant signing bonus."
"Right. Your bonus for being seven minutes late to a life-or-death exorcism," he murmured, his voice dipping into a low, velvet register that vibrated right through you. He gestured toward the open client ledger on the desk. "And what, exactly, does my confidential tax history have to do with this entity?"
"I was looking for energy anchors, you idiot. Patterns. Dates. Money moves fast, but curses move faster."
"And did you find any?"
"No," you admitted, tossing the apple core into his pristine silver trash bin with a light thud. "Just that you spend an obscene amount of money on custom tailoring for someone who gets bothered by pants."
Taehyung let out an amused scoff, leaning in just close enough that the intoxicating scent of his cologne washed over you. "I'm comfortable."
"Anyways, I'll have to investigate the whole building, I think."
Taehyung's eyebrows shot up. "The whole building?"
You nodded, unbothered, unconsciously pouting your lips as you pondered the logistics. It was a completely harmless, absentminded gesture on your end—but to Taehyung, sitting mere inches away, it was a lethal distraction.
It gave his absurdly vivid imagination entirely too much material to work with, picturing those soft, pouty lips doing far less innocent things in this very office.
His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he cut his own thoughts off before they went too far.
"You cannot do that," he said, his voice dropping into a firm cadence.
You blinked at him, completely thrown off by the sudden shift in his tone. "I'm sorry?"
"We need to make some adjustments," Taehyung said, standing up from his chair and smoothing down the front of his jacket. He looked down at you, towering over the desk with all the authority of a man used to getting whatever he wanted. "Get up."
You leaned back into the leather seat, crossing your arms snugly across your linen-clad chest. "I am not getting up."
"Get up."
"No."
"Get up," he repeated, his voice dangerously low, a sharp flicker of command cutting through his usual playful banter.
"I said no."
"Ge—"
"No."
"Hex. Please, get up."
"Beg," you said, resting your chin on your palm and looking at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.
Taehyung closed his eyes for a brief, suffering second, running a hand over his face. "Are you deranged? This suit alone—" He gestured down to his outfit, swallowing back his rising impatience.
"Why do I even need to get up?" you asked, refusing to budge an inch.
"Oh my god, fine. Don't."
He wanted to beg for other things. Truly, deeply wanted to. You getting out of his chair was nowhere near the top of that list.
That being said, Taehyung stepped around the side of the desk, invading your personal bubble in a heartbeat. Before you could react, his warm hands shot out, resting firmly on the sides of your waist over the loose, infuriating linen.
Slap.
You struck his hands away with a sharp sting, shooting upward in the chair as if electrocuted. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Taehyung didn't even flinch at the slap, but he did feel a jolt in his south region.
He ignored it.
He just held his hands in mid-air, flexing his fingers with a look of unapologetic innocence. "Measuring you?"
"For what? Throw-in-bed-ability?" You glared at him, your cheeks flushing a furious pink. "You are completely insane."
A slow smirk curled across his lips. He took a step closer, towering over you as his gaze dropped to your mouth before sliding back up to your eyes. "Woman, your mind genuinely fascinates me. If you wanted that, Hex, you could have just said so. I don't need a measurement to know you'd fit perfectly under me."
"Ugh!" You threw your hands up in disgust, taking a half-step back against the desk. "You are insufferable!"
"I was trying to see how many inches your waist is," he said smoothly, resting one hand on the edge of the desk behind you, trapping you in his space.
"For what possible reason?!"
"Because," Taehyung purred, his eyes flashing with victory as he pulled out his phone, "we are going to my tailor."
"We're what?" you echoed, blinking at him as if he had just spoken a completely foreign language.
"Going to my tailor," Taehyung repeated, his tone entirely too calm for the absurd statement he had just made.
"I got that part, smartass," you snapped, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, trying to maintain whatever leverage you had left while pinned against his desk. "Why?"
"Because you are wearing linen," he said, emphasizing the word like it was a contagious disease, "and we are literally in my firm."
"And?"
"And," Taehyung leaned in, his voice dropping into a commanding murmur that vibrated straight through the small space between you, "As my newly appointed 'spiritual assistant,' your presence reflects directly on me. Which means you will not be walking through these corridors looking like you just wandered off a holistic yoga retreat."
"This is organic linen, you pretentious corporate parasite!"
"It belongs on a beach," he corrected smoothly, unfazed by the insult. "Not in a building that manages million-dollar mergers. If you're going to parade around my office, tracking down ancient ancestral curses and tossing box after box of contraceptives at my head, you're going to do it in bespoke wool and structured silk."
"I am not letting you buy me a lawyer suit, Taehyung."
"It's not a choice, Hexy," he purred, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he tapped his phone screen to summon his driver. "Marcus is pulling the car around. We leave in five."
And in five, you left.
You were now marching into the pristine, marble-floored interior of Tailor's Tale, your feet tapping furiously against the stone while Taehyung trailed lazily behind you like a satisfied cat.
Maybe the linen had its benefits after all. In the harsh, morning sunlight streaming through the windows, the fabric proved to be just a tiny bit transparent. In any ordinary setting, it was subtle. In his billion-dollar firm, it would have been completely unacceptable.
It was, however, entirely acceptable to his heart. And his dick. Both were accepting the view remarkably well, considering the smooth lace outlined against your skin every time you took a step.
Is that a thong—
"Good day! How can I help you?"
The boutique associate materialized before he could finish that particular train of thought, her smile polished, professional, and focused on the impeccably tailored man walking half a step behind you.
Taehyung didn't miss a beat. He smoothly stepped up beside you, resting a heavy, warm hand on the small of your back—partly to guide you, and mostly just to mark his territory in front of the staff.
"My assistant needs a complete overhaul," Taehyung said smoothly, his deep voice carrying that effortless authority that instantly made the shopkeeper stand up a little straighter. "Bespoke suiting. Tailored trousers, silk blouses, structured blazers. Nothing off the rack, and absolutely no linen."
You elbowed him sharply in the ribs, but he didn't even flinch, his hand tightening just a fraction against your waist.
"Of course, Mr. Kim," the associate said, her eyes darting between his possessive grip and your defiant expression, instantly recognizing the dynamic. "Right this way to the private fitting suite."
The private fitting suite was absurdly luxurious—plush velvet seating, triple-angle mirrors, and a champagne bucket that Taehyung had ignored the moment he sat down, crossing his long legs and watching you like a hawk.
Ten minutes later, you stepped out from behind the velvet curtain in outfit number one: high-waisted black tailored pants and a crisp white button-down.
Taehyung leaned his chin on his hand, his eyes sweeping up from your shoes to your collar.
"Pants," he noted flatly. "Acceptable length. The shirt, however, looks like you’re preparing to serve appetizers at a catered gala."
"It's a classic white button-down, you snob," you snapped, smoothing out the front. "It’s practically the corporate uniform."
"On my floor, it’s the uniform of an intern who hasn't learned how to buy silk yet," he replied smoothly, waving a hand toward the curtain. "Next."
You scoffed, pulling the curtain shut with a sharp whoosh.
Two minutes passed before you dragged the curtain back open. This time, you were wearing a deep emerald green silk blouse tucked into charcoal straight-leg trousers.
Taehyung’s gaze instantly glued itself to the green silk. The color looked ridiculous on you—ridiculously good. His jaw tightened, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee.
"Well?" you asked, crossing your arms. "Too 'gala server' for you?"
"The blouse is acceptable," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes lingered on the way the silk draped over your chest. "The trousers are a tragedy. They’re hiding your legs. I hired a spiritual assistant, Hex, not a Victorian schoolmaster."
"I am not wearing tight pants just so you can stare at my ass all day."
"I'm going to stare at it regardless of the fabric," Taehyung said with complete sincerity, raising an eyebrow at you in the mirror. "We might as well make sure the cut does it justice. Try the blazer."
You threw him a murderous glare, snatched a structured navy blazer off the rack, and shoved your arms through the sleeves. You didn't bother buttoning it, stepping back out into the open space.
Taehyung tilted his head, inspecting the shoulder pads, the sharp lapels, and the way the cut pulled just slightly across your back. A slow smile spread across his face.
"No," he said softly.
"What do you mean, no? It fits perfectly!"
"It makes you look powerful," he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked up at you. "Dangerous, even. Like you could actually run my firm."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"It’s terrible for my ego," Taehyung purred, his eyes dark and gleaming with amusement. "Plus, if you look that authoritative, people might actually believe you when you tell them my cufflinks are possessed. Change into the burgundy set."
"I hate you," you grumbled, spinning on your heel to head back into the changing room.
"You love my expense account," he called out lazily after you. "Take your time with the pants. I'm enjoying the show."
The sales associate leaned down, her voice dropping into a discreet whisper against Taehyung's ear. "Mr. Kim, we actually received a delivery from Armani’s autumn corporate line this morning. A selection of classic, high-waisted pencil skirts. Would you be interested in taking a look?"
Taehyung’s eyes didn't just light up—they glistened. No, they practically sparkled.
You? In an Armani pencil skirt? The literal definition of form-fitting, accentuating fabric hugging every single curve on your lower half?
Asking him that was like asking a starved tiger if he wanted to help himself to a fresh plate of deer meat. The answer was an immediate, overwhelming, absolute yes.
"Hex," he called out smoothly, his voice dropping an octave into a velvety purr. "Come here."
You dragged open the curtain and stepped out into the suite, presenting your latest creation. You had somehow managed to pair the ugliest, most chaotic patterned silk shirt in the entire store with a pair of oversized slate-grey trousers that pooled around your ankles and sagged awkwardly at the waist.
Taehyung almost winced. It took every ounce of his legendary composure not to physically recoil from the aesthetic tragedy standing before him.
"This beautiful lady," Taehyung said slowly, his eyes tearing themselves away from the abysmal outfit to look up at your face, "just informed me that they have exactly what you need."
"A paid vacation?" you shot back instantly, resting your hands on your swimming waistband.
"You just started today," he reminded you, raising an eyebrow as his lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "And you were late."
"Not late enough," you muttered, glaring at the sales associate who was trying—and failing—to hide her grin. "Because clearly, I arrived in time for you to stage an intervention on my wardrobe."
"It's not an intervention, Hex. It's a mercy killing of whatever style you think those trousers are," Taehyung said, standing up and closing the distance between you in two long strides. He reached out, casually hooking two fingers into the loose waistband of your pants to demonstrate just how ill-fitting they were. "These look like you stole them from a retired magistrate. We are trying skirts."
"Skirts?" You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to ignore the sudden wave of heat radiating off his body so close to yours. "What kind of skirts?"
"Armani," he murmured, leaning down slightly so his voice vibrated right against your ear, senting the air between you with that cologne. "High-waisted. Fitted. The kind that ensures you won't be taking long strides through my office—or running away from me."
"Over my dead body," you said, backing up a step.
"Which, considering the curse, is an actual statistical possibility if you keep wasting time arguing with me," Taehyung countered smoothly. He gave the sales associate an approving nod, and she darted off to fetch the newly arrived collection.
Three minutes later, you stepped out from behind the velvet curtain in the first option: a slate-grey, high-waisted pencil skirt paired with a cream silk blouse. The skirt hugged your hips in a clean line, stopping just above your knees with a subtle slit up the back.
Taehyung, who had been lazily tapping his phone screen, stopped mid-scroll.
His hand froze. His eyes slowly dragged up from the hem of the skirt, following the curve of your thighs, tracing your waist, and finally landing on your face. A heat flared in his eyes.
He didn't say a word for five whole seconds.
"Well?" you asked, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. "Is it corporate enough for your delicate sensibilities?"
"It’s..." Taehyung cleared his throat, his voice dipping into a low register. He sat up straighter, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "It's acceptable. Take it."
"You haven't even seen the back properly—"
"I saw the back when you walked out," he interrupted, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I’m buying it. Try the next one."
You huffed, rolling your eyes, and vanished back into the changing room.
When you stepped back out, you were wearing a jet-black iteration. It was tailored out of a heavier wool-blend, sitting even snugger against your waist and framing every single contour of your lower half with brutal precision.
Taehyung actually let out a soft exhale. His jaw tightened so hard you could see the muscle flex under his skin. His fingers dug into the armrest of the plush velvet chair.
"Taehyung?" you prompted, crossing your arms over your chest. "You're staring."
"I am evaluating," he corrected smoothly, though his eyes remained firmly fixed on the tight fabric wrapping around your hips. "The cut is... highly effective. It restricts your stride."
"Which means I can't walk properly."
"Which means you won't be wandering off into traffic while trying to read my tea leaves," he replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze burning into yours. "It stays. Next."
"Are you just going to buy every single skirt she brings out?" you demanded, gesturing wildly to the rack.
"Yes," Taehyung said without an ounce of hesitation. "I am."
"I haven't even tried the midnight blue one yet."
"Put it on," he purred. "Put all of them on, Hex. I have all morning, and my credit card has no limit."
After you tried on every single skirt in the collection, Taehyung made the completely effortless decision to buy all of them.
Who was he if not generous? Generous with his money for his employees, truly a model of corporate benevolence. He really was perfect.
"Do you have heels?" he asked, casually handing over his black Amex card to the associate without even looking at the final balance.
"You’re not buying heels," you said immediately, backing away half a step.
"Well, I won’t if you have any," he replied smoothly, slipping his hands into his tailored trouser pockets.
"Yes, I have."
"Good."
He nodded once to the associate, a non-verbal command that sent her into swift action, gathering the dozens of luxury shopping bags to be loaded directly into his waiting car outside.
"Wait, hold on!" You gestured down at your body in protest, your eyes wide as you looked at the empty fitting racks. "I didn't even change back into my clothes!"
Taehyung slowly turned toward you, his heavy gaze dragging up and down your figure with agonizing slowness. You were currently standing in the deep navy pencil skirt and a crisp, baby blue silk blouse that clung perfectly to your waist.
"That’s because you’re not," he purred, his voice dropping into a low hum that vibrated in the air between you. "The pretty lady is bringing you some heels, too."
"Taehyung!" you hissed, shooting a glance toward the store staff. "I literally just told you I have heels at home!"
"And where is 'home,' Hexy? A twenty-minute drive through morning traffic?" He took a slow step toward you, towering over your frame as his cologne wrapped around you like a cage. "I'm not sitting in the back of my Mercedes while you run upstairs to grab a pair of beat-up leather boots. You are wearing navy pencil-skirt and silk. You need six-inch arches, and you need them now."
"I am not wearing six-inch heels to do spiritual recon in your office building."
"You'll wear whatever keeps your hemline off the floor," he countered, a smirk spreading across his lips as the associate reappeared holding a sleek shoe box. "Put the pumps on, Hex. We have a firm to run, and you’re already behind on your exorcism schedule."
You were now back in the plush leather interior of his car, the quiet hum of the engine doing nothing to dull the suffocating tension in the backseat.
Taehyung was sitting beside you, looking out the tinted window, smiling to himself like a complete lunatic.
He had lied. He said you just needed a pair of heels, but he had quietly authorized five separate boxes. All of them meticulously color-coordinated to match the endless array of silk blouses and Armani skirts currently occupying his trunk.
He really was a visionary.
Curse this, curse that—the ancestral entity hovering over his head was suddenly taking a back seat because you were currently dripped out in pure corporate sexiness. The navy skirt hugged your thighs so tightly that every slight shift of your weight was a deliberate exercise in control, and the sleek pumps made your legs look agonizingly long.
Taehyung glanced sideways at you, his eyes tracing the line of your knee under the fine fabric. Ordinarily, he would never allow an assistant to look this good around him. It was a massive conflict of interest, a distraction in a world where he couldn't afford to lose his edge.
Well... actually, he had allowed it once or twice before.
And he had slept with them.
He turned his head slightly, his hand resting on the leather armrest between you, his knuckles brushing against your thigh as the car took a smooth turn.
Skirts really did have him weak—especially when you were the one wearing them.
"You look absurdly pleased with yourself," you muttered, catching his reflection in the dark glass.
"I am a man of vision, Hex," Taehyung replied smoothly, his deep voice carrying a dark, lazy purr. "I took a bohemian disaster and turned you into the most dangerous woman on my payroll."
"I haven't even agreed to keep these shoes on," you retorted.
"You will," he murmured, leaning in just close enough that his scent filled your senses entirely, his eyes dropping to your lips. "Because as much as you hate to admit it... you look far too good under my standard."
You rolled your eyes, scoffing softly as you leaned your head back against the leather headrest. "Pace yourself, Taehyung."
He didn't answer right away. He was far too deep in his own thoughts—specifically thoughts about your legs, the material of your skirt, and the intoxicating silhouette the heels gave your calves.
Then your phone dinged.
Now, Taehyung valued privacy. He did. He really, really, really did. He was a corporate titan who dealt in non-disclosure agreements and ironclad security protocols.
But you were currently wearing clothes his credit card had paid for. You were smelling quite delicious—a rich, dangerous mix of your usual crushed earth and the faint trace of his own cologne rub-off. Your skin looked so smooth.
And you had those heels on.
So he glanced.
It wasn't a casual peek; his eyes flicked sideways with sharp precision right over your shoulder.
You had gotten a text.
A very blatant, highly offensive "i miss you" text flashing across your screen.
If Taehyung had any pearls, he would have clutched them. His jaw literally locked in place. Because instead of dismissing it, instead of muting the notification like a polite assistant working off a fortune in luxury apparel, you immediately picked up your phone.
And you smiled.
You sat there, leaning into the light of your screen, and typed something back—a light, effortless response—as if Kim Taehyung hadn't just spent someone's entire yearly rent on silk, cashmere, and high-waisted Armani for you.
(And, let’s be honest, for him too.)
Taehyung’s eyes narrowed into slits, the playful, amused air in the backseat instantly evaporating into something cold, sharp, and dangerously quiet.
"Who," he purred, his voice slicing through the silent cabin like a frostbitten blade, "is texting you at 10:15 on my time?"
"A friend," you said casually, your thumb flying across the keyboard to send the reply.
"A friend who says 'I miss you'? At ten in the morning?"
"He's from—"
"It’s a he?!"
Taehyung looked as if someone had just stepped directly onto his custom-polished Italian leather shoes. No, worse—as if someone had spilled white wine all over his hand-spun cashmere jacket.
White wine, because red wine would have put Taehyung into an early, violent grave. He had his limits, and stained cashmere was well past them.
A random, unnamed John Doe male was sending "I miss you" texts like Taehyung wasn't currently in the middle of dragging you over to the dark side—a side dripping in head-to-toe Armani. Like there wasn't an ancient, life-threatening curse looming over his head. Whatever that even meant at this point.
"Yes, it’s a he," you replied, locking your phone screen and slipping it casually into your handbag. "He’s a very good friend from back home."
Screech.
Marcus hit the brakes as the Mercedes pulled up to a sharp red light.
A red light. That was good. A red light was fantastic, actually, because Taehyung felt like he might need to physically seize the entire grid of city traffic given the sheer level of absurdity you were speaking right now.
"Back home?" Taehyung repeated, his voice dangerously quiet as he turned his whole body toward you, eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits. "You said a boyfriend did not help you pack."
"Jeongguk is a friend."
"Jeong-what now?" Taehyung scoffed, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Who, exactly, might this 'J-something' man be? A friend, you say?"
He crossed his arms, leaning back against the leather seat, though his gaze never left your face for a single second. Taehyung knew corporate strategy, he knew multi-billion-dollar leverage, and above all else, he knew women lied when it came to "just friends."
"I don't care if he's a friend, a monk, or your childhood neighbor, Hex," he purred, his jaw tightening as he reached out and flicked the leather strap of your bag with two fingers. "Nobody gets to send soft morning texts to a woman currently wearing my navy pencil skirt."
"You are being ridiculous," you snorted, shaking your head as Marcus tapped the steering wheel, probably checking out of this whole conversation. "It’s not even yours. I'm wearing it."
"I bought it," Taehyung said instantly.
"For me."
"Exactly. For you. Me.," he shot back, leaning in closer. "Not Jeongfudge."
"Jeongguk," you corrected, rolling your eyes at his deliberate mispronunciation.
"Whatever," Taehyung dismissed with a sharp flick of his wrist. "The point remains, Hex. I did not drop thousands of dollars at a private boutique so some rustic farm boy from your hometown could get free, morning-digest previews of my investment."
"Farm boy?" you snapped, turning your body toward him and crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "Do you think I’m some hillbilly who had a truck-driving boyfriend?"
Taehyung raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, completely unbothered. "I don’t know. Does this Jeong-thing drive a truck?"
"You’re insane," you spat, glaring at him with enough heat to melt his silk tie. "His name is Jeongguk. And no, he doesn’t."
"Oh," Taehyung murmured, tilting his head with a slow, patronizing expression. "No electricity?"
Marcus smoothy pressed on the gas pedal, the car gliding into the morning traffic once again. The silence inside the luxury cabin was heavy, thick with your quiet rage. You were clearly mad—which, in Taehyung's mind, served you right.
Still, beneath his unyielding arrogance, a relentless stream of irritated thoughts kept firing through his head. Why is this man texting you? Why are you replying? You left home. You were in his city now. In his car. In clothes his credit card paid for.
"You’re an ass, you know," you muttered, looking dead straight out the window and giving him the absolute coldest shoulder possible.
Taehyung stared at the side of your face, jaw tightening slightly. Looking at your rigid shoulders and the stubborn set of your mouth, he felt a tad bit guilty. Just a very tiny, microscopic bit.
He let out a controlled breath, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket before leaning back against the leather headrest.
"Fine," he grumbled, his deep voice dipping into a lower, slightly less combative cadence. "Who's Jeongshit?"
"Jeongguk," you corrected coldly, not even bothering to look at him.
"Whatever," Taehyung muttered, waving a dismissive hand, though his eyes stayed pinned on you, waiting for an actual answer.
You managed to swallow down the urge to scream, taking a slow breath before speaking. "He is a very close friend from back home. And no, he is not an ex."
Taehyung didn't believe that for a single second. "Ex" or not, any male taking up space in your phone—and in your thoughts—was an unwanted variable. But at the end of the day, whoever this Jeongguk character was might be a sweet small-town boy, but he was Kim Taehyung. There was no real competition, and he knew it.
He lifted his left arm, casually checking the face of his silver watch. Five minutes until they were back at the firm.
"Okay," Taehyung murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So he’s your friend who you miss so dearly."
"Yes," you said firmly, keeping your eyes glued to the city skyline rolling past the window.
"Fascinating," he purred, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watched the profile of your face.
You shifted in the tight skirt, crossing your legs with a quiet rustle of fabric. "He might come visit me."
Taehyung froze.
The smug, superior air in the backseat instantly evaporated, replaced by a sudden stillness. His head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing into slits once again.
"Excuse me?!"
"Yes," you said, turning to face him with a cool blink. "He might visit."
"Hex, we're working so hard on this curse and you’re bringing some guy—"
"I am working on this curse!" you argued, gesturing to the stack of notes tucked inside your bag.
"Nuh-uh," Taehyung cut in smoothly, holding up a single finger to silence you. "You’re texting a man. I’m going to die because of this curse, and it’s going to be entirely your fault because you were busy with Jeongbook."
"Jeongguk!"
"I don't care if his name is Jeong-book, Jeong-hook, or Jeong-whatever!" Taehyung declared, throwing his hands up in theatrical outrage before resting them back on his lap, leaning toward you with a deadly serious expression. "A brilliant, irreplaceable corporate mind, taken far too soon. Tragic, really. The news will read: Kim Taehyung, titan of industry, cut down in his prime because the woman who should've saved him was busy with a certain chromosome Y."
"You are an absolute drama queen," you said, staring at him in sheer disbelief. "He’s a childhood friend, Taehyung! It’s called basic human interaction. You should try it sometime without attaching a non-disclosure agreement."
"I have basic human interaction," he snapped, his eyes flashing as he gestured wildly between the two of you. "I’m interacting with you. I’m buying you high-luxury clothes. I’m practically subsidizing your existence right now! That earns me your undivided, un-Jeongbooked attention during business hours."
"Business hours?" You let out a sarcastic laugh, leaning closer into his personal space, completely unfazed by his looming presence. "It’s ten in the morning and we haven't even made it back to your office yet! My phone isn't part of the corporate package you bought."
"If it holds texts from another man while you're wearing my tailored navy skirt, then yes, Hexy, it is part of the package," he purred, his voice suddenly dropping back as his eyes dragged down to your lips before locking back onto yours. "Tell him the city is full. Tell him there are no hotel rooms. Tell him my curse is far too demanding for visitors."
No reply from you. Good.
You were finally back at the firm, stepping out of the private elevator onto his floor, and he was still rambling.
Visiting. Pfft.
The city wasn't big enough for Kim Taehyung, let alone another individual who apparently knew you from childhood.
Insanity. Absolute blasphemy.
In his car, wearing clothes bought by his card, on his time, you were texting. And now 'visiting'? The only place Taehyung was going to visit soon was a mental asylum, because he clearly needed it if he was letting this push his blood pressure to dangerous heights.
He had already given you far more time than he should have. Honestly, there probably wasn't even a curse. He had practically figured out your game—you were just roleplaying. Getting him wrapped up in this elaborate, chaotic scenario to eventually land him in a bed. With rope.
He’d bet his entire fortune you were into rope.
But now you were bringing another dick owner into the equation? What the actual hell was that? Was this a power play? A strategy to make him jealous? Because if so, it was working far too well, and he refused to grant you the satisfaction.
"Minji," Taehyung announced the second his hand pushed open the doors to his executive floor, his voice carrying a razor-edged authority that made three junior associates instantly drop their gazes. "Another cappuccino to my office in three minutes. Extra shot."
He didn't wait for a response. He didn't even look back to see if you were following, though the sharp, rhythmic click of your new six-inch heels against the polished marble told him you were right on his heels.
He strode into his corner office, the navy pencil skirt on you still burning a hole in his peripheral vision, and spun around the moment the heavy double doors clicked shut behind you.
"Three minutes, Hex," he said, flicking his wrist to unbutton his suit jacket with furious precision.
"Three minutes to what?" you asked, leaning back against the closed double doors and crossing your arms, thoroughly unimpressed by his dramatic outburst.
"To figure out a game plan," Taehyung snapped, tossing his suit jacket onto the mahogany lounge chair. "You’re still on the clock."
"I am currently wearing six inches of torture devices that you forced onto my feet, Taehyung—"
"Why?" he interrupted, taking two steps toward you, his eyes ablaze. "Wanna talk more about Jeong-look?"
You opened your mouth to open fire, but he immediately held up a hand, pointing a finger right at your face.
"Don’t dare to correct me again," he warned, his voice dipping into a low growl as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need caffeine. I need a triple espresso injected directly into my bloodstream before I lose what's left of my sanity over a man named after a library utensil."
"It's Jeongguk," you muttered under your breath anyway, taking great satisfaction in the twitch of his jaw.
"What did I just say?" Taehyung hissed, closing the remaining distance between you until he was towering over you, his chest nearly brushing yours. The heat off his body was ridiculous, his heavy scent filling your lungs before you could even catch your breath. "I am paying you a small fortune, Hexy. I am dressing you in Italian silk that makes it impossible for me to concentrate on acquisition files. The absolute least you can do is keep your rustic little pen-pals out of my executive suite."
Right on cue, a soft, tentative knock sounded at the double doors.
Taehyung didn't even flinch, keeping his gaze locked on yours for one agonizing second longer before smoothly stepping back, adjusting his cuffs as if he hadn't just been towering over you like a villain in a romance novel.
"Come in, Minji," he called out smoothly, his voice instantly shifting back into its corporate tone.
The door swung open, and his assistant carefully walked in carrying a silver tray with a steaming porcelain cup, her eyes darting nervously between your flushed face, your immaculate new outfit, and her boss's expression.
"Your cappuccino, Mr. Kim," she whispered, setting it down on his desk.
"Thank you, Minji," Taehyung murmured without looking at her. "Clear my schedule for the next hour. My spiritual assistant and I are having a urgent... strategic realignment."
The heavy double doors clicked shut behind Minji, leaving a thick, suffocating silence in the wake of her hasty exit.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh, pinching the bridge of your own nose as you looked up at him. "You are an idiot. An absolute, dramatic idiot."
Taehyung didn't even contest the insult, merely raising his porcelain cup to his lips with practiced elegance and taking a slow sip of the hot liquid. "I am a logical man protecting my assets," he corrected smoothly over the rim.
"Right," you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
"It is true."
"Well, while you’re busy defending your fragile ego, I actually have a job to do. I need to go check out the rest of the building. Spiritual recon doesn't happen by sitting in your plush corner office."
Surprisingly, Taehyung didn't fight you on it. He nodded once, setting his coffee cup down on the desk with a quiet clink.
"Fine," he murmured, his eyes tracking you as you straightened the lapels of your blouse. "Take the private elevator if you want to avoid the lower-level crowds. But you keep your phone on you, and you answer when I call."
"Whatever," you muttered, turning toward the door. You took two steps on your new heels before pausing, turning back to him over your shoulder with an innocent tilt of your head.
"Oh, by the way... what floor does Theodore work on?"
Taehyung froze.
The sip currently sitting in his stomach felt like it had instantly turned into liquid lead.
He might kill himself. Right here. Right on his hand-woven Persian rug.
"Theodore," Taehyung repeated, his voice dropping into a register so dangerously low and flat it could have sheared steel.
"Yeah. Theodore," you said, adjusting your handbag over your shoulder, completely oblivious—or perhaps entirely enjoying—the sudden drop in room temperature. "I need to check his sector for energy blockages."
Taehyung’s hand slowly gripped the edge of his mahogany desk, his knuckles turning stark white as his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently under his skin.
"Theodore," he purred, a dark, murderous glint flashing in his eyes as he looked at you—at your legs, wrapped in the new fabric, about to walk onto Theodore's floor. "Floor twelve. And if he so much as breathes in your direction, Hex... I am firing him, the curse be damned."
He might've realized this was not going to be easy.
Maybe jumping off the window and splattering was a good option.
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