TBH I know my URL is related to that of another club's and I barely post anything anymore (this blog is a shadow of its old self) but I just wanna say....
Shoutout to the football fangirls here on Tumblr esp. the Arsenal ones who were stuck in the trenches during the post-Arsene, pre-pandemic era!!!
⤷ ゛THE WOLF SMILES ⭑.ᐟ ˎˊ˗ ❛ obsession wears many faces, sometimes a hand that shields, sometimes a voice that soothes, and sometimes a smile so tender it makes you forget that every act of devotion can also be a snare. ❜
⎯⟢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⎯⟢ synopsis: Meeting Choi Seungcheol, who is both your father’s most trusted right-hand man and your greatest temptation, sets into motion a tale of love, power, and ruin.
⎯⟢ wc: 23.1k
⎯⟢ tags: mature themes, explicit sexual themes, dark!seungcheol, dark romance, age-gap (10 yrs), forbidden romance, mystery thriller ⸝⸝ cws: 18+ mdni, graphic violence, family dysfunction, psychological manipulation, multiple deaths, verbal and physical abuse, murder, power imbalance, obsession & possession, mentions of drugs, poisoning, blood, manipulation, false testimonies, stalking, guns/weapons, smut, unprotected piv sex (please don’t.), rough sex, praise kink, possession kink, daddy kink, fingering, cowgirl, missionary, doggystyle, emotional manipulation during sex, petnames (baby, little dove, angel)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.⟢ ݁˖ sel speaks ⭑.ᐟ this is my very first one-shot on this new blog! i wasn’t supposed to post anything on here anytime soon but my schedule cleared and i finished my to do list for my main blog, so here i am!! i have been biased wrecked by Cheollie so much more than usual these days, so i decided why not debut my first piece for this blog with our beloved leader! i really hope you guys enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it! 🤍 (p.s. this took me about three weeks to finish…)
They say the wolf is easy to spot; sharp teeth, wild eyes, a presence that makes the air heavy. But the ones you should fear most don’t growl or bite.
They smile.
You learn quickly that love can be a kind of violence, dressed in warmth, whispered through promises that sound like salvation. That obsession doesn’t always come crashing like a storm, it seeps in like fog, soft and suffocating, until you no longer remember where it began or if you ever wanted to escape.
He smiles at you once, and you understand.
Some wolves don’t hunt. They wait.
And you… you were always going to walk straight into his jaws.
ii. WHEN EYES FIRST CAUGHT
You were born into a world already carved out for you, the youngest daughter of the CEO of one of the largest conglomerates in the country. From the moment you opened your eyes, you were the family’s spoiled and sheltered baby, wrapped in silk and money and expectations you didn’t yet understand.
Your father was a busy man… too busy, always too busy. He threw money at you like it was a cure, like it could bandage over the hollowness his absence left behind.
When you were little and tugged at his sleeve asking to spend the day with him, he would never meet your eyes for long. He’d offer you an excuse about business, the same tired phrases again and again, his tone clipped and distracted.
“Daddy has to work. There’s a meeting I can’t miss.”
“Later, sweetheart, I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t pout. Here… tell the driver what you want. He’ll take you anywhere. Buy anything.”
And he always did. He’d return with gifts before you even had the chance to sulk for long. The newest dollhouse, the latest limited-edition toys, dresses that glittered like glass under the light. Anything your little heart desired would appear in your room the next day, wrapped in glossy boxes with ribbons so elaborate they looked like they belonged in a store display.
Growing up, you were fine with it.
You told yourself you understood; your father was an important man, a man who carried the weight of entire companies on his shoulders. He couldn’t be expected to sit and play with you for hours. You accepted the trinkets and treasures as proof of his love, even if it was filtered through his wallet rather than his time.
But as you grew older, into your teenage years and then into a young adult, something inside you began to shift. You started buying the most expensive, most unnecessary things you could find, not because you needed them, but because you wanted him to notice. You wanted his attention, even if it came in the form of scolding.
You remembered the way his face would crease when he saw the ridiculous things you spent his money on. He would sigh heavily, press his fingers to his temples as if warding off a headache, and lecture you in that halfhearted tone that sounded more like habit than genuine reprimand.
“Do you even understand the value of this money? You think it grows on trees?”
“One day you’ll have to wake up and realize the world doesn’t work like this. You can’t just buy happiness, you can’t just throw money at everything.”
And you, leaning lazily against the expensive new car he had technically paid for, would roll your eyes and mumble something under your breath, “Hypocrite.”
You weren’t listening, not really. Because even in his irritation, at least he was looking at you. At least he was talking to you.
You had only one sibling, an older brother named Jaemin. And where your father gave you indifference wrapped in money, Jaemin gave you something sharper. His hatred for you was not the normal teasing cruelty of an older brother; it was a deep, festering resentment, the kind that dripped into everything he did.
He wished you had never been born, and he never tried to hide it.
When you were children, he despised the way you butted in when he had his friends over, your small frame appearing in the doorway with wide, curious eyes, asking questions and demanding attention. He loathed the way you always came out on top of your classes, every report card earning praise from your mother while he stood on the sidelines, overlooked and compared. He hated the spoiled way you lived, how you wore your father’s indulgence like a crown, how you rolled your eyes at lectures and shrugged off reprimands.
Your mother was the only one who truly loved you.
The only one who gave you attention without conditions, who brushed your hair back from your face and kissed your forehead when you cried. She was the one who attended every recital, every event, the one who defended you when your father grew frustrated, the one who clapped the loudest when you succeeded.
She loved you fiercely, openly, without measure.
And then, four years ago, she died.
Her health had been declining rapidly, the illness she had stealing her away from you piece by piece until finally, there was nothing left.
When she was lowered into the ground, it felt like part of you was buried with her.
Your father stood at the funeral like a statue. Stoic. Unflinching. His face was unreadable, his eyes dry. He didn’t cry. He didn’t mourn. It was as if the love he had once shared with her had long been eroded by boardrooms and contracts and time. And Jaemin, your brother had looked almost relieved, his mouth set in a flat line, his gaze wandering, as though the woman who had favored you had been nothing more than a nuisance to him.
So you mourned alone.
You mourned every day.
Because your mother had been the last person who made you feel loved, the last person who made you feel important, wanted. She had been your anchor in a world that otherwise only gave you neglect or resentment.
And when she was gone, it was as if the world had decided you didn’t deserve warmth anymore.
That was true.
Until Choi Seungcheol.
You knew the name long before you knew the man.
He was the Chief Operating Officer of your father’s empire, the second in command, the right hand your father trusted most.
Seungcheol was relatively young compared to the other men that filled the boardroom with their gray hair, thinning crowns, and paunchy middles, but youth had never disqualified him. He was sharp, so sharp it seemed he cut through every problem before it could even form. Smart, hardworking, ambitious, the kind of man who wore discipline like it was stitched into his very skin.
Your father admired him. More than that, he treated him like a son.
A bitter irony, because Jaemin was his real son, and Jaemin loathed Seungcheol for it.
Jaemin believed it was his birthright to inherit the company, to sit on that gilded throne as CEO simply because he was the eldest child.
But your father, for all his flaws, was not a fool.
He had built the company from nothing, brick by brick, deal by deal, and he could see how irresponsible Jaemin was, how his short temper and laziness would ruin years of labor in less than a year.
Your father had considered you, of course. You were everything Jaemin was not; focused, clever, unshaken. But in your father’s eyes, you were still a woman, a woman who gets distracted by shiny and pretty things, a woman who spends money as if it did a matter-of-fact grew on trees, and women, to him; no matter how capable… had no place in a world of men who devoured each other across long tables of glass and steel.
That left Seungcheol, the strongest candidate of all. And yet, every time your father so much as hinted at succession, Seungcheol would shake his head with a calm smile and say, “Sir, you’re still young. Retirement is far away. Jaemin has time to grow. He’ll learn.”
You remembered the first time you met him.
It wasn’t earlier in your life, despite his years at your father’s side. He had been working for your family for so long, but somehow, fate never pulled you into the same room. At company galas you were off somewhere else, still in university, or across the world shopping with your friends.
You never crossed paths, not until a year and a half after your mother’s death.
It had been an ordinary morning when your father called, his voice clipped over the phone. “Your brother forgot his phone and laptop at home. Bring them to the office.”
You had scoffed, irritation curling hot in your chest. Why couldn’t one of the dozens of secretaries do it? Why did you have to be the errand girl for your sorry excuse of a brother? You were about to refuse until your father added, in that cold way of his, “If you don’t, I’ll cut your card in half.”
So you went.
The building your father built from the ground up loomed like a monument, glass and steel kissing the sky, its sleek lines reflecting back the sun. You slipped out of the car with oversized sunglasses covering your eyes, strutting through the lobby like you owned the place… because technically, you did.
Employees turned discreet glances as you passed, your heels clicking a steady rhythm against marble floors. The elevator ride to the top floor was smooth, silent, the air tinged faintly with expensive cologne and disinfectant.
When the doors opened, you stepped into the private floor, greeted Mina, your father’s longtime secretary, with a polite nod, and let yourself into the office without knocking.
The scene inside froze for a second.
Your father sat at his massive desk, stoic as ever, papers stacked neatly in front of him. Jaemin stood across, mid-rant, his hands gesturing wildly as he bitched about something or whined about someone.
And there, sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite your father, was an unfamiliar man; unfamiliar, but arrestingly handsome.
Their eyes all darted to you at once.
“Sweetheart, I’m glad you’re finally here,” your father said, his voice flat, his expression unreadable as always.
“Took you long enough,” Jaemin muttered, snatching the phone and laptop out of your hands with zero gratitude.
“You should be thankful I even came, Jae,” you giggled softly, offering him a smile you knew he didn’t deserve, swallowing down the urge to cuss him out in front of a stranger.
Your father cleared his throat. “Darling, this is Choi Seungcheol,” he said, gesturing toward the man across from him. “My Chief Operating Officer. I don’t think you two have ever met before.”
You turned your gaze to him fully then. His black hair was styled neatly, framing a face both sharp and soft all at once. His eyes, dark and cutting, raked over you with a gaze that was far too deliberate, lingering long enough for you to feel the heat of it travel your skin. A dimple carved into his cheek when he smiled, slow and devastating, as he rose to his feet.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice rich and smooth as velvet. He extended his hand, and when you placed yours in his, his grip was firm yet warm.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” you politely smiled back.
He held on longer than necessary, his eyes locked onto yours in a silent exchange you couldn’t quite name, before he finally let go.
Your father continued, almost oblivious to the tension sparking in the air. “Seungcheol has been with me for years. He’s young, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the most reliable man I know. Hardworking, level-headed. If there’s anyone who understands this company inside and out, it’s him.”
Jaemin scoffed under his breath. “Yeah, we all know how perfect he is.”
Your father shot him a warning glance, but pressed on. “He handles operations with precision. Nothing slips past him. If I’m not here, he’s the one people go to.”
“Because that’s not supposed to be me, right?” Jaemin cut in again, his tone sharp with bitterness.
Your father ignored him.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Jaemin turned to you then, venom dripping in every word.
You tilted your head, smiled sweetly, and said with mock excitement, “Yes, I do! Something very important.”
Your father didn’t even look up from the papers in front of him as he asked, “What is it?”
The question was routine, nothing more.
“I’m going to get a massage, a facial, and my mani and pedis. Maybe even go shopping,” you replied brightly, your tone light, teasing even.
He only nodded halfheartedly, his pen scratching against the paper, his eyes still down.
Jaemin snorted. “Very important. The world would stop spinning if you didn’t.”
You simply nodded, smiling, used to it by now, letting his sarcasm roll off like water.
Unbeknownst to you, Seungcheol had been watching the entire exchange closely.
At first, his gaze had been fixed on you, his attention unshaken, drinking you in as if you had pulled the air straight out of the room the moment you stepped through the door. Then, as Jaemin’s words sharpened and grew cruel, Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward him, hardening, daggers barely concealed behind his polite expression.
Finally, he spoke, his tone even but laced with quiet conviction. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”
The words silenced the room for a second. You turned to look at him, surprised, and your smile this time was genuine. He smiled back, slow and sure, that dimple deepening again.
“Well,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “I’ll leave you all to it. Goodbye, Dad. Jae.” Your gaze lingered a heartbeat longer on Seungcheol before you added, “Mr. Choi.”
He inclined his head, polite, though his eyes still followed you as you walked out the door, the click of your heels fading down the hall.
iii. THE WOLF NOTICES
The moment you had walked in, Seungcheol thought the room shifted. You weren’t what he had expected, not that he had been expecting you at all.
For years, he had worked by your father’s side, known of the daughter who lived in luxury, seen your name splashed across tabloids, whispered in passing. But the real thing, the reality of you was sharper, brighter, and infinitely more dangerous than idle gossip could ever suggest.
The sunglasses you wore slid down just enough for him to catch the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes. You walked like you belonged there, and in a way, you did. Confidence cloaked you like silk, the kind of ease only someone born into power could wear so naturally.
He had thought himself immune to distraction; meetings, boardrooms, negotiations, nothing ever shook him. But the second your laugh cut through the tension, light and teasing at Jaemin’s expense, something inside him bent.
When your brother sneered at you, Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. He had always known Jaemin was reckless, entitled, bitter. But watching him spit that venom at you, watching the way you took it with practiced grace, unbothered, unbroken… he felt something stir in him.
A quiet, simmering urge to protect, to defend, to shield.
And so he had spoken, his words deliberate. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”
The way you smiled at him in response, it left an echo in his chest.
When you finally left, offering him that final glance, polite but laced with something more, he realized he was still standing, hand tingling faintly from where it had held yours.
The wolf, Seungcheol thought, had just found something worth watching.
From then on, he never really left your side.
Not in the obvious way, not as if he was tethered to you, but in the careful, deliberate manner of someone who knew how to move without being seen until he wanted to be.
It was a shocking development for you.
You had never expected to be close friends with a man who was nearly ten years older, who wore his authority like a perfectly tailored suit. But here you were sharing silences, lunches, and the strange rhythm of companionship with Choi Seungcheol.
After your initial meeting, you found yourself seeing him more often.
At first, it was nothing; polite smiles exchanged in the corridors of your father’s empire, a nod of recognition whenever you crossed paths in the office. It was impersonal, courteous, and you told yourself that was all it would ever be.
Until your father, in one of his rare bursts of paternal insistence, proposed that you intern for him instead of flying off to Paris or Milan again to “waste time and money.”
“You need to do something with your life,” your father had said in that clipped, dismissive way of his.
You had rolled your eyes and countered, “I just graduated. Don’t I get a few years to figure out what I want? Isn’t that normal?”
The truth was simple… you didn’t enjoy business.
You never had.
The reports, the numbers, the endless chatter of investors, it bored you, drained you, made you wonder if you had been born only to be spoiled, to live a life of indulgence without consequence.
And honestly? You didn’t see anything wrong with that.
But the house, the one your mother once filled with warmth, was suffocating now. Each room carried her absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The silence was oppressive, the marble cold. You needed something to distract yourself, and so, reluctantly, you agreed to intern.
That’s when Seungcheol began to move closer.
At first, he was just there during breaks. Your father was too busy to notice you, Jaemin couldn’t be bothered, and you didn’t care to make friends with anyone else in the company.
Seungcheol filled that space without asking. He would sit beside you in the break room, his presence calm, his attention steady. He didn’t demand conversation, he let you speak when you wanted to, and when you didn’t, he filled the silence with quiet remarks that somehow made the air less heavy.
Sometimes, he’d take you out to eat. “Come on,” he’d say, holding the elevator door for you. “You’ve been staring at that screen for two hours. Food is non-negotiable.”
Other times, when you were too busy or too stubborn to leave your desk, he would appear with takeout bags, sliding them onto your table without ceremony. “Eat,” he’d tell you simply. “You’ll get sick if you don’t.”
And you, strangely, would listen.
It became a rhythm.
Even on his days off, you’d find yourselves together. Sometimes at cafés, sometimes driving aimlessly just to waste time, and sometimes at your estate.
When your father invited him over for meetings, Seungcheol would linger long after, slipping out only to climb up your window like some ridiculous storybook character.
You’d laugh when you saw him, sprawled in your armchair as if he belonged there.
“Do you even realize how insane this is?” you’d whisper, tugging him away from the curtain in case the staff noticed.
He’d grin, unbothered. “Friends climb windows. It’s a rule.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” he’d reply without hesitation, and you’d roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.
Sometimes he stayed until you drifted off to sleep. He’d lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching you breathe until your lashes fluttered closed. Once, when you asked him why, he answered in that calm, low tone of his: “Because that’s what friends do. They stay until you’re safe.”
It was unsettling, the way he listened to you. Really listened. You weren’t used to that. When you spoke, he didn’t glance at his phone or nod absentmindedly. He leaned in, absorbed every word, and sometimes repeated them back to you later, as if to prove he hadn’t forgotten.
You remember one evening, sprawled on the couch with him beside you. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… existing. My dad is pressuring me to do something just like my brother, but it’s just like I was made to be spoiled and nothing else.”
“You think being spoiled means you’re useless?” he asked, his eyes sharp in the dim light.
You shrugged. “Doesn’t it? That’s what my brother always says.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It means people should have taken you seriously sooner. It means they underestimated you and that you have the all the power to do nothing while everyone does everything for you.”
You blinked at him, surprised. No one had ever said it like that before.
And so, without either of you saying it aloud, your friendship began.
But Seungcheol was always watching.
You noticed it in the little things first, from the way his gaze followed you when you moved around the office, the way his hand would shoot out instinctively to cover the sharp corner of a desk when you bent down to pick something up. The way his shoulders stiffened if someone brushed past you too closely in the hallway.
Once, a junior employee bumped into you, muttering a rushed apology. You brushed it off with a laugh, but Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed into a glare so sharp the poor man practically ran away.
“Cheollie, relax. He didn’t mean it,” you whispered.
“He should’ve been more careful,” he muttered, his jaw tight.
Another time, you struggled with a stack of files that threatened to topple from your arms. Before you could ask, he was there, effortlessly taking the weight from you. “You’re not supposed to carry things like this,” he chided.
“I’m not helpless,” you shot back playfully.
He gave you that look, half amusement, half warning. “No. But why struggle when I’m here?”
Even outside the office, he hovered. At a crowded restaurant one weekend, a waiter brushed too close to your chair. Seungcheol’s hand settled on the back of it, a silent claim, his eyes tracking the waiter until he was out of sight.
You didn’t think much of it, naïve enough to chalk it up to friendliness, to that fierce protectiveness you found comforting.
Seungcheol learned your habits quickly. What drinks you preferred. The way you always peeled the crusts off your sandwiches. The exact moment your mood shifted from amused to irritated. He adjusted himself around you with subtle precision, guiding you with a hand at your back, distracting you when the air grew too heavy, steering you away from things that would darken your expression.
You never noticed how deliberate it all was. You only knew that he was there, always there, quietly absorbing, quietly guarding. And when his eyes lingered too long, you told yourself it was nothing.
After all, friends watched out for each other.
iv. THE COMPANY YOU KEEP
Your father noticed first.
He always noticed more than you thought. His eyes had been on you for years, sharp as knives and cold as stone, the kind of gaze that could slice through silks and pretenses alike. You thought you were careful. You thought the friendship, the hours of laughter, the stolen moments, the lunches tucked away in quiet corners was yours to keep.
But he saw.
He always saw.
It happened late one night, in the quiet of his home office.
The room smelled faintly of whiskey and paper, the heavy oak desk drowning in documents you doubted he ever actually read. He was in his chair, back straight, hands folded, his face an unreadable mask. You stood before him, already feeling too small, too much like a child again despite being a woman grown.
“Sit,” he said, calm, commanding, as though he were addressing another executive and not his youngest and only daughter.
You sat, the leather of the chair cold beneath your palms, your stomach twisting as you realized this wasn’t just one of his endless talks about “responsibility.”
His eyes bored into yours, heavy, deliberate, suffocating.
“I’ve been observing something,” he began slowly, his voice low and even. “Your… relationship with Seungcheol.”
Your throat went dry. Your fingers curled against the chair’s arms. You forced your voice to stay steady.
“We’re just friends,” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively.
It was true.
At least, it should have been. But you felt the guilt the moment it slipped past your lips, the way your chest tightened, the way your gaze faltered. Because it wasn’t the full truth. There was a part of you that wished it wasn’t just that, a whisper in the back of your mind that admitted only to yourself that you were drawn to him, that he was almost too good to be true.
Your father’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing.
“That better stay that way,” he said firmly. His voice wasn’t raised, but it was enough to cut through you like glass.
Your heart sank, your lips parting, but he didn’t stop.
“You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.”
The words stung before you could stop them. You opened your mouth, but his hand lifted in warning.
“He is a serious man,” your father continued, each word deliberate, cruel in its control. “A man with a future. He will need a strong and serious woman by his side. And you,” his eyes locked onto you, unyielding, “are none of that. You will ruin him.”
Your breath hitched. The sting behind your eyes burned as though your tears were waiting for permission to fall.
“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, his tone sharp now, cutting away any chance of argument.
You swallowed hard, blinking furiously, the tears refusing to fall in front of him. You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, unable to say anything more.
“Good. You may go.”
Dismissed like an employee at the end of a meeting.
You stood on shaking legs, the unshed tears burning at the corners of your eyes. You turned, hand gripping the doorknob as though it was the only thing tethering you to yourself.
When you opened it, the world outside the office felt too wide, too heavy.
And there he was.
Seungcheol.
Leaning casually against the wall, his phone in hand, dressed sharp but relaxed in a way only he could manage. He was waiting for his meeting with your father, his head bent, scrolling through something. He hadn’t heard. Relief hit you for a fleeting second.
But then he looked up.
His eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in your expression; the damp shine at the corner of your eyes, the slight tremble in your lips. His phone dropped to his side instantly.
In two strides, he was in front of you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing instinctively against your skin.
“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice was low, urgent, laced with something close to anger and worry all at once.
You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile so brittle it hurt.
“I’m fine,” you lied softly. “I was just yawning, and it made my eyes water. That’s all.”
“Don’t do that,” he pressed, brows furrowing, his grip steady on your face. “Don’t pretend. Tell me.”
Your heart twisted, but you pushed the smile harder, shaking your head again.
“I’m going to bed,” you said firmly, gently pushing his hands down. “And my dad’s probably waiting for you. You should hurry in.”
He searched your face, as though he could tear the truth out of you with just his stare.
“Baby—”
“Goodnight, Seungcheol.”
You turned before he could say more, your steps quick and uneven as you retreated down the hall. Behind you, you heard him sigh, frustrated, but he didn’t follow.
In your room, you shut the door, your chest heaving. You changed quickly, hands fumbling with your clothes, grabbing the first satin nightgown you could find; blue, the fabric clinging soft against your skin. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, your movements too rushed, too desperate to outrun the words echoing in your head.
You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.
He needs a strong, serious woman.
You are none of that.
You will ruin him.
The sting burrowed deep.
It wasn’t just the insult, it was the way your father had said it, so certain, so final. As though you were doomed to be a disappointment not only to him, but to the one person who had made you feel seen in so long.
What hurt worse, what made your chest tighten until it was almost unbearable, was the thought of someone else, another woman, strong, serious, perfect; standing at Seungcheol’s side instead of you.
You didn’t understand why that image made your throat close, why it hollowed something in you.
You curled into your bed, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the tears until exhaustion pulled you under.
You didn’t hear the soft scrape of your window opening.
You didn’t hear the careful footsteps across your room.
A few minutes later, Seungcheol was kneeling beside your bed, his tall frame folded in the dark, his hand reaching out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face. His gaze caught the faint wet trail across your cheek, a tear that had escaped after all. His thumb followed its path slowly, and then, with a deliberate motion, he lifted it to his lips, tasting the salt of your sorrow.
His eyes darkened.
He watched you sleep, his gaze heavy, drinking in the sight of your body rising and falling with each breath. The satin of your gown had ridden up, baring the length of your thigh to the cool air, and still he stayed, his hand twitching with restraint.
Minutes passed before he bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there longer than he should. When he pulled away, his jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.
Seungcheol left as quietly as he came, but the storm inside him followed into the night.
Behind the wheel of his car, his knuckles whitened as his grip strangled the steering wheel. His jaw locked, muscles tense, eyes burning as the memory of your father’s voice replayed in his mind; every insult, every dismissal, every word that made you cry.
He had heard it all.
And it lit something dangerous in him.
Something that whispered he needed to do something.
Something soon.
It was as if fate had heard the vow that burned in Seungcheol’s chest that night.
A domino effect followed, one piece tumbling after the next, each obstacle pushing the two of you closer and closer until there was no more room to pretend.
A few days later, you sat in his office during your afternoon break, a cup of coffee in your hands as though its warmth could shield you from the memories of that night with your father.
You had perfected the art of pretending by now; eyes bright, lips curved into a smile, laughter slipping past your mouth like nothing had ever happened.
You were fine. You were well. A master at pretending.
But Seungcheol saw right through you.
He leaned back in his chair, silent, watching you with the patience of a predator. He didn’t call you out, didn’t press, but you could feel the weight of his gaze each time your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
He said nothing… for now.
And then, like the first domino, you gave him something else to fixate on.
You sighed, sinking deeper into your chair. “I told Anna and Chloe about you.”
That caught his attention instantly. His posture shifted, his eyes sharpening like knives, but he let you continue talking about your friends.
“I mean, I expected it to be normal, you know, catching up, gossiping like we always do. They asked me what’s new, and I told them about you. I thought they’d giggle, ask if you were cute, maybe tease me a little.” Your fingers toyed with the lid of your coffee cup. “But when they found out you’re ten years older than me…” You shook your head, your voice dipping. “They started talking shit about you.”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once, but he stayed silent, his eyes on you, waiting.
“I defended you,” you rushed on, your throat tightening at the memory. “But then they came after me too. Calling me stupid. Saying I shouldn’t hang out with you because it’s weird, because you work for my father and all that.” Your voice wavered, but you pushed through, repeating their words as though they had carved themselves into your skin. “They said I’m embarrassing. That I’m just playing some pathetic game. That you must be using me. That I’m…” You swallowed hard. “That I’m nothing but a spoiled brat desperate for attention, clinging onto someone way older due to my daddy issues.”
Your chest ached, the humiliation raw again as you relived it. “They texted me earlier, though. Apologizing. Saying they thought it through and realized they were wrong to judge. That they should be supportive of me instead.”
You blinked, forcing a laugh that crumbled at the edges. “But it still hurts. I mean, I’ve been friends with them for years. And instead of supporting me, they judged you. They judged me.” Your voice cracked, your eyes stinging. “It hurt more than I thought it would.”
Seungcheol’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His eyes darkened, the veins in his hands straining as he gripped the armrest of his chair until his knuckles whitened. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, every inhale sharp, every exhale sharper. Rage rippled through him, silent but palpable, like a storm pressed beneath the skin.
And then, in one smooth shift, his voice softened to honey.
“Come here,” he murmured, his tone gentle, coaxing, as though the anger you glimpsed was only a trick of the light. He patted his lap lightly, his other hand reaching out for yours.
You hesitated for a moment, but when his hand wrapped around yours; warm, steady, reassuring, you found yourself moving without thinking. You let him pull you onto his lap, his arms winding securely around you, holding you close. The moment your cheek pressed against his neck, you melted, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as you breathed him in.
“You defended me,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple as he spoke. “Thank you, angel. You’re just as protective of me as I am of you. Do you know how much that means to me?”
You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed as he caressed your thigh, slow and deliberate.
“Do you know how good you are for me?” His voice dipped lower, raspier, a dangerous whisper curling like smoke in your ear. “So, so good for me.”
A sound slipped from your throat, half sigh, half purr as warmth pooled in your chest at his words. You clung to him tighter, soaking in every syllable.
He chuckled softly, the vibration rumbling against you. “But they… they hurt you, didn’t they? They made you cry. They made you doubt. And they hurt me, too, with their words. Friends shouldn’t do that, should they? Friends should support you, like I do. They should protect you, like I do.” His thumb stroked over your thigh, his voice lowering to a coaxing lull. “But they didn’t, did they?”
You shook your head slowly, your lips parting, your body pliant in his arms.
“They aren’t your true friends, baby. I am. I always will be.” His lips grazed your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth before trailing down to your jaw, soft kisses searing into your skin. “You only need me.”
Your breath hitched, his words seeping deep, deeper, until they settled like truth.
“Tell me you understand, hmm?” he whispered, nipping lightly at your neck before soothing the bite with a lick. “Tell me you know you only need me.”
Your body shivered, your head nodding blindly. “I–I only need you.”
“That’s my girl.” He kissed your forehead, then your cheek again, slow and deliberate. “Those lowlives don’t deserve you. They never did. Honestly, I always thought they were using you. Hanging onto your name, your money, your shine. But me? I don’t need any of that. I just need you.”
You whimpered at the praise, leaning into the press of his mouth as it trailed down your shoulder, his hands squeezing your thighs with just enough pressure to make you sigh.
“They hurt you, baby,” he murmured again, coaxing, insistent, “so why keep them? Let them go. Tell them you can’t be friends anymore. You don’t need them. You only need me.”
You nodded again, the words tumbling from your lips like a vow. “I only need you.”
“Good girl.” Seungcheol reached over to the desk, his hand plucking your phone as though it belonged to him as much as to you.
He unlocked it without hesitation, the ease of it barely registering in your haze. He handed it back to you, settling behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms still caged tight around you.
“Now… tell them,” he whispered, his breath warm in your ear. “Type it out. Tell them you can’t be friends anymore.”
Your fingers moved, almost robotic, the glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes as you typed exactly what he told you. Each word, each message crafted by his voice in your ear, his lips pressing tender kisses against your cheek, your neck, your jaw whenever you obeyed.
When their replies came; apologizing, pleading, confused, angry… he read over your shoulder, his scoffs sharp.
“Pathetic,” he muttered darkly. “Desperate. They don’t deserve another second of your time.”
You stayed quiet, numb to their protests, lost instead in the steady rhythm of his lips against your skin and the silk of his voice telling you what to do.
By the time the conversation ended, by the time you had sent the final message ending it all, he kissed your temple again and whispered, “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s perfect. You don’t need them. You have me. I’m all you’ll ever need.”
Your voice was a whisper, broken but sure. “You’re all I need, Cheollie.”
And it was true, you believed it.
The last time you saw Anna and Chloe had been a few days ago, when their words cut into you like knives.
Tonight was the last time you would ever speak to them.
Because a few weeks later, in Paris, the two of them were found dead.
v. HEAVEN TAKES, HELL HOLDS
The sky was absurdly blue; so clean and wide it made the black of everyone’s clothes look obscene. There were no clouds, only a sun that threw itself across the grass as if to prove the world had not noticed the cruelty it sheltered beneath. A gentle wind moved through the trees and lifted the edges of the funeral programs in the hands of strangers, it smelled faintly of cut lawn and something floral that tugged at the back of your throat.
It was ironic in a way that felt obscene, a perfect day for two coffins to be lowered into the earth.
A week ago, the message had arrived like a dull stone dropped into still water.
Anna and Chloe were gone.
Paris, the city where they’d always gone to be loud and youthful and slightly reckless, this time it answered with silence.
At first you were told it was an overdose. They had party habits… harmless, you told yourself; molly, a little weed when the music thinned and the crowd swelled. Those things tasted familiar to adolescents and it’s survivable. You’d done that, too, you’d been with them at times like that. You’d always thought it couldn’t be enough to take them.
Then the second call arrived, colder and heavier saying that tests had been rerun at the parents’ insistence.
Something else had shown up… cyanide, a ghost of a chemical no one expected in the glitter of a nightclub.
Molly, laced with poison.
The image of the two of them, laughing in light and then collapsing just like that, lodged in your throat. The authorities sifted through footage, questioned everyone at the party, watched cameras frame faces that met Anna and Chloe and then walked away. CCTV revealed gestures and shared glances, but none of it looked like the handing off of a murder.
The leads went cold and stubborn.
The killer, remained a faceless presence in the edges of footage. It was a riddle with no answer. Until this day, until this field; those girls were dead at the hands of a cruelty that had no name.
You stood in all black, the fabric pressed and formal, your sunglasses a shield over eyes that had not yet learned how to be soft. Two caskets sat side by side on the green, their woods a dull brown against the manicured grass. Families leaned close, crying into one another’s shoulders, the sound was small and relentless.
The two families had elected to bury them together because the girls had been inseparable since childhood who were bound by years of jokes, slumber parties, and teenage drama.
The joint funeral felt fitting, so straightforward it hurt.
You were there because someone had to be, because the ritual drew the people who loved them closer, and because Anna and Chloe had been yours in some ways that mattered more than the distance that had grown between you. Your father had the excuse of an empire; business, boardrooms, a thousand obligations. Jaemin couldn’t have cared less. So you stood with Seungcheol.
He had not left you once. Not to speak with acquaintances, not to take a phone call, not to fiddle with papers as if the universe outside his office was a problem for someone else. He stayed. When the families wept, when the priest spoke the necessary words, when hands clutched the hems of suits and graves dug deeper, he was a solid figure at your side.
You said nothing through the ceremony, words felt like poor instruments for this depth of shock. When you finally spoke it was only because Anna and Chloe’s mothers came to you, small women made enormous by grief, hands kept busy folding themselves around you as if to anchor you to a present that still accepted condolences.
“We’re so glad you came,” Anna’s mother murmured, voice breaking. She folded you into a hug so fierce you tasted salt on her shoulder. “They were always talking about you. Thank you for being here, truly.”
Chloe’s mother took your hands, palms warm and trembling. “We know how close you were. They always said you were like a sister. I’m so sorry you had to—” Her words dissolved into a sob. She pulled you in and pressed you against her, and for a moment you were nothing but a channeled sadness, a vessel for other people’s grief.
You tried to explain, fumbling for reasons that fell small and insufficient. “We had an argument a few weeks ago… nothing serious, really. Usual things, silly things. We—” Your voice came out in stutters, admitting too much. “They said mean things. We drifted. I thought it was just time, you know? Growing different. I told them I might be working more with my father and they always wanted me to come to parties and raves and things I said I couldn’t make…” You swallowed, the syllables thick. “If I had known– if I had just… I would have been there.”
Seungcheol stayed close, shadow and shoulder as he listened.
Most of what you told the women was accurate; the argument, the drift, the timings. There was truth in your words, ordinary and blunt, but there was also the private ache you only admitted in small tremors. His eyes narrowed once when you mentioned the CCTV and the inconclusive reports, an itch of curiosity passing over his face.
He listened the way he always did, like a man marking pieces on a board.
Anna’s mother sniffed. “Life can be cruel, darling. It’s easy to misunderstand. But you did what you could now, and that’s enough.”
Chloe’s mother clung to your hand. “They wouldn’t want you to blame yourself,” she said, as if she could lift your guilt from your shoulders. “They were stubborn, they were wild, it’s what made them them. They would want you to live. We’ll find out who did this, you know. We won’t stop.”
You tried to smile through it. “I know. I just—” Your sentence broke as the sob found you and you let it. Your shoulders shook as you apologized to the two women: “I should’ve been there. I should’ve… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
They folded you into their arms until you couldn’t tell where you ended and they began. “Don’t say that,” Anna’s mother whispered. “They wouldn’t want you to carry this. They keep laughing with us, they would roll their eyes at you like they always did.” Chloe’s mother pressed her forehead to yours. “We’ll catch whoever did this. Promise.”
Seungcheol stepped forward and took you into his arms. His body was a constant, rigid and warm, and you folded into it as if habit and need had always led you here. He guided you gently away from the small cluster around the caskets, an island formation that whispered of public grief.
He spoke for you, softly, “ We’ll go now. Thank you, truly. For everything.” He turned to the mothers, offering condolences that were steady and practiced. “If there’s anything you need… anything at all, tell me.”
Their faces were tired but grateful, they nodded, murmured thanks, and departed.
Outside, he put you into his car with the same exactness he used always: door, seat, seatbelt clipped with a hand that hovered protectively to make sure the strap lay right. He watched you remove your sunglasses and wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand as if the motion disturbed him. His look was a mix of careful possession and something you hadn’t yet named… fierceness held dangerously close to tenderness.
When he slid behind the wheel and started the car, his voice came low. “Are you alright?” he asked, watching you in the side mirror. “I didn’t expect you to cry so hard…” His sentence trailed off as if he’d assumed you had been composed until this point.
You shrugged, the action meant to be small and deflecting. “It just… hit me now,” you said, and the words felt thin even as you said them.
This was the truth, also an excuse.
His face shifted. “They don’t deserve your tears after the things they did to you, angel,” he said bluntly, a hand finding the steering wheel with new intensity. “That was their karma.”
The words slid over your chest, strangely lancing.
You blinked up at him, the naive part of you wanting to find warmth in his certainty, the other part still raw from your father’s lecture, shrinking.
“I’m scared,” you said then, surprise at the truth of it.
A flicker of confusion passed over Seungcheol’s brow, brief and almost pained. “Why would you be scared?” he asked, voice puzzled, then without waiting for your reply, he lifted his free hand and cupped your face in one swift, possessive move that made you sigh involuntarily. The car hummed around you as he watched the small line of your mouth, the dampness at the corner of your eyes.
The outline of the city passed the windows and blurred in motion. “What if I’m next? What if whoever did this… comes after me?”
His words dropped like stones wrapped in satin. “That won’t happen,” he promised, his tone a blend of reassurance and threat. “Because I’m here. I will protect you. Anyone who even thinks about harming you will suffer.” He did not shout, he stated it as if it were a fact.
Seungcheol’s certainty was a net thrown wide.
You let yourself lean into the safety of that hand. He stroked your cheek, then the line of your neck, his touch purposeful, claiming, and the public stillness of him made your breathing catch. “You’re cold, baby,” he murmured, lifting one of your legs slightly, the hem of your dress slipping back enough for his palm to rest against the bare skin of your thigh. The contact was warm, not entirely unwelcome. “At least I’m here to keep you warm.”
His voice was silk, but there was an edge beneath the softness, the pattern of something that could close like a clamp. He cooed and reassured as he guided his hand further, murmuring, “It’s okay. Look at me. I’m here. No one will touch you without me knowing. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Naivety sat like a warm ember in your chest. You wanted his voice to be true. You wanted his hands to be the shelter he promised. There was a tiny, perverse comfort to the idea of being protected, of being declared precious enough to be guarded so fiercely. And so when he threaded his remarks with judgment of others; “they don’t deserve your tears,” “they were using you,” “they were never true friends” the poison slipped in as a lacquered truth.
It was easy to let his words rearrange your thinking, they fell with the cadence of expertise and care.
You listened and the car hummed on. You let the familiarity of his touch dull the raw edges of your grief.
The line between comfort and command blurred beneath his voice. Each small, warm insistence, his hand at your face, then at your thigh, the lifted hem, the private warmth of skin pressed to palm… it pulled you further from the shaky place where you had stood before.
You told yourself his words were sweetness, kindness, the balm you needed.
Seunhgcheol stroked your neck and said again, softly, “No one will ever hurt you when I’m here, remember that.” He sounded like a promise, and your heart answered like a gullible child.
You closed your eyes and let the motion of his car and the rhythm of his voice drown the edges of the day.
You let go of Anna and Chloe again for the hundredth and final time in your mind, and when you agreed to the small, dangerous bargains he proposed, it felt like survival.
Outside, the sun kept shining. Inside the car, the world narrowed to his voice and the press of his hand, and your lashes fluttered like the lids of a bird too tired to fly.
vi. FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Seungcheol brought you home, his hand steady at the small of your back as though the world outside was determined to take you apart piece by piece and he was the only one capable of holding you together.
The drive had been quiet, thick with the echoes of sobs you’d struggled to contain at the funeral, the taste of grief sharp on your tongue but he never let go of you, not once.
Thankfully, when you both stepped into the estate, the silence was broken only by the creak of the door and your footsteps across the marble. Your father and brother were still at the office, their absence both a relief and a weight. It meant you didn’t have to face their questions, their scrutiny, their watchful eyes. It also meant there was no barrier between you and the man at your side.
Seungcheol didn’t hesitate; he guided you up the stairs with quiet insistence, leading you into your room as though it belonged to him just as much as it belonged to you. When the door shut behind you, you felt the air shift, warmer and heavier, pressing against your skin like an unseen hand.
Without a word, you crossed to your vanity. The mirror reflected a pale, tired version of yourself, shadows clinging under your eyes, lips still trembling from the tears that had not long ago spilled. You reached up and plucked one hairpin after another from your hair. Each soft click of metal against the tabletop echoed louder than it should, and soon your hair tumbled free, cascading down your back in waves.
The relief was fleeting.
You were still lost in your own thoughts, trapped in the labyrinth of your father’s voice, your friends’ absence, your own gnawing doubts.
From behind you, Seungcheol sat on your bed, leaned back slightly, his sharp eyes following your every move. He looked as though he were unraveling you with his gaze alone, watching the way your fingers trembled just slightly as you set another pin down, watching how your shoulders slumped beneath the weight you carried.
“Baby,” he called softly, his voice cutting through the thick silence.
You froze, the pet name tugging you back to the present. Turning your head, you met his gaze in the mirror before slowly turning fully toward him. He was still there, lounged but alert, his eyes never leaving you.
Without speaking further, he lifted a hand and patted his thigh, the gesture commanding and patient all at once. He nodded once, a silent order for you to come to him.
Wordlessly, as though something in your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, you moved. Each step toward the bed felt deliberate, your pulse quickening with each one. You crawled onto the mattress, your hands sinking into the sheets as you made your way to him.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched you climb onto his lap, his gaze dark and heavy with something unreadable. The front of your dress dipped low, and he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes lingered on the soft swells of your chest, rising and falling with each nervous breath. When you finally settled on his lap, straddling him, he leaned back slightly, his hands resting on your hips, eyes never wavering from your face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked lowly, his voice gentle but edged with demand.
You shook your head quickly, eyes darting away from his.
“Use your words,” he pressed, the firmness in his tone slicing through your silence.
Still, nothing came out. Your lips parted, but no sound followed.
A quiet, disappointed click of his tongue. “Tsk.” His eyes narrowed, unamused by your avoidance.
The tension in the air thickened. He leaned in slightly, his gaze unyielding as he asked, “What did I tell you in the car earlier?”
Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, soft, almost trembling: “That no one would hurt me when you are here.”
A faint smirk curved his lips, but his eyes remained sharp. “And?”
You swallowed hard before continuing, your voice weaker this time. “That Anna and Chloe deserved it… and it’s their karma.”
His head tilted, studying you closely. “Then why do you still seem to be worried?”
“I don’t know…” you whispered, your voice breaking at the edges. “I can’t seem to forget.”
For a moment, silence lingered.
Then Seungcheol’s hand moved, large and steady, cupping your cheeks. His thumb brushed against your skin, slow and tender, before sliding down the column of your throat. His palm wrapped gently around your neck, not tight, but firm enough that you felt every inch of his presence. His lips dipped closer to your ear, his voice nothing but a whisper.
“Do you want me to help you forget it, baby?”
Your breath hitched. A pause of hesitation heavy in the air before you gave the smallest of nods.
“There’s my baby,” he cooed, his voice suddenly soft, almost sing-song, as though he were soothing a child. “That’s it. I’ll make you forget.”
The air between you crackled as your heart pounded through in chest.
Seungcheol leaned in, his forehead pressing yours, his breath suddenly ragged and hot, washing over your lips like a fevered breeze. You felt the phantom brush of his mouth, a near-contact that sent a jolt through your core. Your lips instinctively parted, aching for the connection, leaning forward just a fraction.
He pulled back.
Just an inch. Just enough for cool air to rush in where his heat had been. Your lips chased him instinctively, a small, frustrated sound escaping you; a breathy whine that echoed in the charged silence.
That sound. It ignited something primal in him. His eyes, dark as obsidian, flared with hunger. The hand cupping your cheek tightened possessively, fingers digging into your jawline just shy of pain. He didn't kiss you. Instead, his thumb brushed roughly over your bottom lip before his head dipped again. His tongue, hot and wet, licked a deliberate, slow stripe across your parted lips.
You gasped, the sensation shocking, intimate. Your mouth opened wider on a startled inhale.
Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. His tongue surged into your mouth, not seeking permission but claiming territory. It slid against your own tongue, rough and demanding. A deep, guttural groan vibrated from his chest directly into yours at the feel of your surrender, the taste of you. Then his mouth crashed onto yours, sealing the invasion.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was fire and possession. His lips moved fiercely against yours, slanting, demanding.
A low moan escaped you, muffled against his mouth, a sound born of shock and unwelcome, overwhelming pleasure. His other hand gripped your hip hard, pulling you flush against him so you could feel every hard ridge of his body beneath you, the insistent pressure of his arousal against your core even through layers of fabric. Your hands flew up, not to push away immediately, but to clutch at his shoulders, fingers tangling in the expensive wool of his suit jacket.
The kiss deepened, became messy, wet. The slick slide of tongues, the desperate drag of lips, the harsh breaths mingling, it was a chaotic symphony of need. He groaned your name against your mouth, the sound thick with lust. “Mine,” he rasped between bruising kisses, the word a branding iron on your soul.
And then, the fog of sensation parted for a single, sharp moment of panic… your father’s disapproving face flashed in your mind. You tore your mouth from his with a ragged gasp, pushing weakly against his chest.
“Cheol! Stop!” Your voice trembled with a perfect blend of shock and fear. “We can't... my father... he forbade this! He said—”
“I know what he said!” Seungcheol snapped, cutting you off, his voice rough with sudden fury. He didn't release you; his grip on your jaw and hip tightened painfully. His eyes burned into yours, fierce and unyielding. “I was there. I heard every condescending word that fucker had to say about you.” His lip curled in derision. “‘Seungcheol deserves someone smart. Someone serious.’”
You flinched at the mimicry of your father’s tone. “It... it is true,” you whispered, playing the wounded card, letting your gaze drop. “He said I'm not... not good enough for you.”
Seungcheol scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound that echoed in the room. “Good enough?” His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Your sorry excuse of a father doesn't know anything. He doesn’t know me. He doesn't know you.” His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip almost tenderly, a stark contrast to the venom in his voice. “He doesn't know what burns inside you. What I see.” He leaned closer, his breath hot on your face. “He doesn't know that I only want you. That I would do absolutely anything. That I would crush anyone,” his voice dropped to a chilling whisper, "kill anyone... who try to stand between us.”
The raw violence in his words hung heavy in the air. It was terrifying. It was possessive. It was undeniably his. You stared into his dark eyes, seeing the fanatic devotion, the dangerous edge of obsession that bordered on madness.
A beat of charged silence stretched between you; the frantic rhythm of your breathing the only sound besides the drumming rain that unknowingly started outside.
Then, something shifted.
The fear didn't vanish, but it was eclipsed by a wave of something darker, hotter. The carefully constructed dam holding back your own hidden desires cracked. Your gaze locked with his, filled with a sudden, fierce hunger that mirrored his own. You saw surprise flicker in his eyes for a split second before you pounced.
You crashed your lips back onto his with a force that stole his breath. This kiss wasn't hesitant or fearful; it was ravenous. Your arms flew around his neck, fingers plunging into his dark hair, pulling him impossibly closer. A low growl of pure satisfaction rumbled from deep in Seungcheol’s chest as he met your fervor with equal intensity.
Hands became desperate explorers. Yours traced the strong line of his jaw, scraped through his hair, pulled him deeper into the kiss. His hands slid down from your jaw and hip, roaming hungrily over your back, down to your waist, palming your ass through the black silk of your dress, grinding you hard against the thick ridge of his erection straining against his trousers. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue.
The kiss descended into pure erotic chaos. Lips slanted, tongues dueled, teeth scraped. Whimpers and breathy moans escaped you with each possessive squeeze of his hands, each demanding thrust of his tongue. He nipped at your lower lip, drawing another gasp that he swallowed greedily.
“Fuck,” he rasped against your swollen lips when you broke for air, foreheads resting together again, both breathing harshly. “Look at you. So desperate for me.” His hand slid boldly up your thigh beneath your dress, bunching the fabric. “My perfect little dove.” He kissed you again, hard and deep before pulling back slightly, his eyes blazing down at you. “Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his thumb finding your clit through the soaked silk of your ruined panties and rubbing a hard circle that made you arch and cry out. “Tell me you want me to ruin this pretty dress and fuck you senseless right here.”
You moaned, grinding down against his hand, the friction exquisite torture. “Cheollie...” It was half-protest, half-plea.
“Say it!” he commanded, increasing the pressure, his other hand tightening painfully on your ass.
The words tumbled out, laced with the moan he ripped from you, “I want you– want you to ruin me, please. I’m yours... please... only yours...”
A predatory smile spread across Seungcheol’s face as he surged forward to reclaim your mouth, the kiss turning filthy again, punctuated by your gasps and his low groans of approval. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. The sound of tearing silk was sharp and final in the quiet room as he ripped them aside. The cool air hit your exposed heat for only a second before his hand was back, fingers sliding through your slick folds with a groan of pure pleasure.
“So fucking wet for me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with triumph and lust. “All mine.”
He pressed two fingers deep inside you, curling them deliberately. “Ride them,” he commanded, his voice thick with need. “Show me how badly you want it.”
A whine escaped you as you rocked your hips, grinding down onto his hand, seeking friction, seeking him. Emboldened by his command and your own desperate need, your hands flew to your dress. With a frustrated tug, you yanked at the fabric, the delicate material giving way under your urgency, joining your ruined panties on the floor. Your bra followed in a swift movement.
Seungcheol’s groan was pure appreciation, his eyes raking over your bare skin. “Fucking perfect,” he breathed. In one smooth motion, he pulled you closer, his mouth latching onto one taut nipple, sucking hard while his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside you.
The dual assault drew a loud, keening moan from your throat as you rode his hand with increasing desperation. He switched breasts, lavishing the same attention while looking up at you through hooded eyes. “That's it, baby. Fuck my fingers like you mean it.”
“You feel so good,” you panted, arching into his mouth. “So deep, Cheollie...”
“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured against your skin, releasing your nipple with a wet pop.
“Cheol, please. More. I want it more.” Your voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible above the pounding in your ears.
He chuckled, a dark, rich sound that vibrated through your bones. “I’ll give you anything you want.” He flipped you onto your back with surprising ease, your body a pliant thing beneath his. The soft mattress cradled you as he rose, shedding his clothes with an almost violent urgency. The crisp sound of fabric hitting the floor, the glint of moonlight on his bare skin, all of it intensified the surreal, desperate moment.
His body, sculpted and powerful, stood over you, a shadow against the dim light. “Look at you,” Seungcheol began, his voice dropping to a low, seductive rumble. “Lying there, all spread out for me. My little whore. You think you’re so innocent, don’t you? So pure.” He stepped closer, his shadow engulfing you. “But I see the truth. I see the hunger in your eyes, little dove.” The way your body practically screams for me.” He knelt, his knees pressing into the mattress beside your hips.
“Your father, that old fool thinks you’re going to corrupt me… but it’s the other way around, baby. I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to make you forget every single one of his precious rules.” Seungcheol’s hand reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate line of your jaw, then down your throat, lingering at the hollow of your neck. “And those friends of yours… they talked so much shit, didn’t they? About you, about me. They deserved everything they got. Didn’t they?” His eyes, dark and intense, pierced through you, demanding an answer.
A shiver, not entirely of fear, ran through you. “Yes,” you breathed, the word a confession, a surrender. “They deserved it. All of it.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, a truly wicked expression. “That’s my girl.” He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “Now, open for me. I’m going to show you what real pleasure feels like. I’m going to make you forget everything but me.”
Seungcheol positioned himself between your legs, his cock, thick and throbbing, pressing against your slick entrance. The head, slick with pre-cum, nudged, teasing, a promise of what was to come. You gasped, your hips lifting, begging for him. He plunged in, a single, powerful thrust that stole your breath.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat, a sound of profound satisfaction as he buried himself deep inside you. You cried out, a mix of pain and otherworldly pleasure, your body stretching, accommodating his impressive length. He caged you between the bed and his strong arms, his muscles flexing, taut with effort.
“Ah, fuck,” Seungcheol groaned, his voice raw, hoarse with lust. He pulled back slightly, then slammed back into you, a relentless rhythm beginning. “So tight for me. So good for me.” He began to pound, each thrust a deliberate, powerful invasion.
The bedsprings creaked a frantic song beneath your combined weight, a testament to the force of his movements. Your moans, loud and uninhibited, filled the room, mingling with the wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin, the rhythmic schlick-schlick of his cock sliding in and out of your depths.
“Cheol, oh god, Cheollie,” you whimpered, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. Your head thrashed on the pillow, your eyes wide, unfocused.
He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, dark whisper. “Listen to yourself, baby. Listen to those sounds. Your friends, those bitches, they’re cold in the ground. Died pathetically like they deserve, poisoned. And here you are, getting dicked down, moaning my name. No care in the world, are you?” He pulled back, his eyes burning into yours, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “Tell me, angel. Do they deserve this? Do they deserve to be forgotten while you get fucked senseless?”
A wild, almost manic laugh bubbled up from your throat, a sound that shocked even you. “Yes!” you shrieked, your hips bucking harder against his. “They deserved it! Every single bit of it!”
Seungcheol threw his head back, a triumphant, guttural laugh erupting from him, a sound of pure, unadulterated madness. He pounded harder, faster, his hips slamming into yours with brutal force. The bed shook, the headboard thudding against the wall. “That’s my girl!” he roared, his voice thick with a perverse delight. “That’s my fucking girl!” His thrusts deepened, each one driving you closer to the edge, your body convulsing with the intensity of it all.
The pleasure was agonizing, a searing fire that consumed you, burning away any last vestiges of innocence.
You were a mess of moans, gasps, and desperate pleas, your body a willing slave to his rhythm. He grabbed your legs, lifting them high, resting them on his shoulders. The new angle stretched you, opened you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper. He kissed you then, a fierce, possessive kiss that tasted of sweat and lust and a hint of your own blood where his teeth had grazed your lip. He thrust harder, his cock grinding against your cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.
“Forget about you father,” he rasped, his breath ragged against your lips. “Forget everything he ever told you. About what’s right, about what’s wrong. About who you are. Because you’re mine now and forever. Understand? Only mine, baby. Only I matter. Say it.” His eyes, dark and demanding, bore into yours.
A wicked smirk, a reflection of his own, spread across your face. “Only you matter, daddy,” you whispered, the words a raw, unbidden confession.
A low, primal groan rumbled in Seungcheol’s chest, a sound of pure, masculine triumph. He pulled out, the wet, sucking sound echoing in the room, making you whine in protest. He flipped you onto your stomach, your ass rising in a tempting curve. A sharp, stinging slap landed on your ass cheek, making you yelp, a surprised moan escaping your lips. He grabbed your hips, pulling you back, your body arching against his.
“Good girl, just like that baby,” he purred, his voice a dark caress. “You like that, don’t you? My little whore. My good girl. Say it again, baby. Say ‘yes, daddy.’”
“Yes, daddy!” you cried out, your voice hoarse, desperate.
Seungcheol repositioned himself, his cock pressing against your eager hole, slick with your own juices from the previous assault. He pushed, slowly at first, then with a surge, burying himself deep inside you from behind. Another guttural groan tore from him, a sound of pure satisfaction. You gasped, a sharp intake of breath, your body tensing, then relaxing around his invading length. He began to pound, a relentless, primal rhythm that drove you further into the mattress. The sounds were louder now, more visceral; the wet squelch of his cock, the rhythmic thwack of his balls slapping against your ass, your own desperate moans, and his low, guttural grunts.
“Look at you,” he grunted, his voice thick with lust, his hips slamming into yours. “My little animal. All fours for daddy. This is where you belong. Under me. Taking every inch.” He grabbed your hair, tugging gently, tilting your head back. “You’re so beautiful when you’re ruined, baby. So perfect.”
You whimpered, a low, continuous sound, your body trembling, on the verge of shattering. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure, building, building, an unbearable crescendo. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, biting gently, marking you. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice a possessive rumble. “Always. Forever.”
Your climax hit you like a tidal wave, a violent, all-consuming release that left you screaming, your body convulsing, muscles clenching around his throbbing cock. You bucked against him, a desperate, primal dance, as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washed over you.
Seungcheol roared, a triumphant cry, his own climax hitting him hard and fast. He emptied himself deep inside you, a hot, pulsing gush that filled you, claiming you completely. He collapsed onto your back, his heavy weight pinning you to the bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Your bodies, slick with sweat and other fluids, slowly stilled, the only sounds the ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of two hearts that had just been irrevocably intertwined in a web of dark desire and twisted devotion.
vii. WHEN BLOOD TURNS COLD
Forever and Always
That was what Seungcheol whispered into your ear that night, words carved into your chest like an oath you could never let go of.
From then on, you forgot every single thing your father had ever told you. His warnings, his cold lectures, his disappointment, they meant nothing anymore.
You were more defiant than ever, your rebellion sharpened and fueled by Seungcheol, who praised you for every little act of disobedience, who told you it was power to spit in the face of expectation.
You and Seungcheol grew inseparable.
In public, his hand lingered on your waist longer than it should, his lips sometimes brushing against your temple even when people whispered, even when they stared. You never flinched. If anything, you leaned closer, held tighter, kissed him where eyes could see.
He thrived in it, and you did too.
The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care because in his eyes, you were all that mattered. And in yours, he was the only one who ever truly did.
Weeks passed since the night you finally gave yourself to him. Weeks of stolen touches, defiant laughter, whispers only for each other. Your father hadn’t made a single declaration that he knew anything or if he even knew at all. Not that you cared anymore. His approval was no longer your oxygen. You had Seungcheol.
But someone else did notice.
Your brother. Jaemin.
And he had a lot to say.
It was late one night in the office. The building was quiet, stripped of its usual buzz, as employees trickled out one by one. The halls carried only the hum of overhead lights. You were in your office, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling as you waited for Seungcheol to finish a meeting with an investor. He always took you home, always.
The clock ticked softly. Your legs were tucked neatly under your desk chair, your mind only half-present, when suddenly the door slammed open.
Jaemin burst in, his voice venomous and sharp.
“You disgusting whore.”
Your head snapped up from your phone, shock coursing through your veins. “Jae?” you whispered, standing and quickly closing your phone. Confusion knitted your brows as you stepped toward him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He sneered, his finger stabbing the air at you. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know everything.”
Your lips parted. You blinked. “Know what? What are you saying?”
“I know about you and that fucker Seungcheol,” he spat, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “I know you’re spreading your legs for him like the little slut you are.”
The words hit like glass shattering against your chest. You stumbled back a step. “That’s not– Jaemin, you don’t understand–”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, dear sister,” he cut you off, his voice louder now, dripping poison. “You’ll never inherit Dad’s company. You know that. So what do you do? You go crawling to the strongest candidate, fucking him to get your way, to get his money. Fucking pathetic.” He jabbed his finger toward your face. “You’re a fucking whore, that’s all you are. A gold-digging whore!”
Tears pricked at your eyes, your throat burning. “I don’t want money, Jaemin!” you cried, voice cracking. “I don’t care about the company. I care about him. We care about each other, and that’s all—”
Jaemin scoffed, shaking his head violently, his lips curling into something cruel. “You expect me to believe that? You expect anyone to believe that?” His voice rose as he stepped closer, towering over you. “I will inherit this company. It’s mine. Rightfully mine, because I am the firstborn son. And you— you’re nothing. A spoiled brat spreading her legs to climb to the top. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
Your back hit the edge of your desk, and you shook your head furiously, tears finally slipping down your cheeks. “Stop it, please—”
“Pathetic bitch,” he snarled.
Then his hand shot out, clamping around your throat.
You gasped, choking, your hands flying up to claw at his grip. The pressure burned, cut off your air, your nails scratching desperately at his skin. Your legs kicked against the carpet as you tried to pry his hand away.
“You think you can fool anyone with this little act?!” Jaemin roared, spittle flying from his lips as he leaned in close. “You’re nothing but a stain on this family, always were, always will be! You spoiled fucking brat!”
You struggled, your lungs screaming for air, vision blurring at the edges. Your nails dug into his wrist, but his grip only tightened, his curses slicing into your ears.
Meanwhile, Seungcheol had just finished his meeting, his steps purposeful as he made his way down the hall to your office. But the moment the door swung open, his world split in two.
He froze.
He saw you; his girl, his everything, being choked by your own brother.
Then Jaemin’s hand released you only to crack across your cheek, the slap echoing like a gunshot, sending you crumpling to the ground. You stayed down, your head bowed, gasping, fighting to catch your breath.
Seungcheol saw red.
His chest erupted with fury, his mind clouded with nothing but violence. Before Jaemin could even step back, Seungcheol lunged. His fist collided with Jaemin’s jaw, the impact cracking through the air. Jaemin stumbled, hitting the ground hard.
“You motherfucker!” Seungcheol roared, standing over him, his voice raw with rage. “You dare lay your filthy hands on her?!”
Jaemin spat blood to the side, then actually had the audacity to smirk. “What? You her knight in shining armor now?” he taunted, his voice hoarse but still cutting. “You’re nothing but a dog on a leash, Seungcheol. She’s got you wrapped around her finger, just like every other man.”
The words snapped something inside Seungcheol. He dropped down, pinning Jaemin beneath him as his fists rained down again and again, each punch harder than the last.
“You think you can talk about her like that?!” Seungcheol growled, his knuckles splitting open. “You think you can put your hands on her and live to breathe another fucking day?!”
Blood smeared across Jaemin’s face, his laugh bubbling through broken teeth. “Look at you,” he coughed out, “pathetic. Throwing punches for a spoiled brat. She’ll ruin you, just like she ruins everything.”
Seungcheol’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Another punch landed. “If you ever touch her again, I swear to God, Jaemin, I will kill you. You hear me? I will end you.”
You sat frozen on the floor, your cheek blazing red, a bruise already forming on your neck. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just watched as Seungcheol tore into your brother with nothing but fury in his eyes.
Finally, Seungcheol rose, his chest heaving, his fists dripping with blood. He pointed down at Jaemin, his voice low and lethal. “Get the fuck out of here. Before I do something worse.”
Jaemin wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, then smirked again, mocking even as he staggered to his feet. He raised both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Have it your way.” He spat on the floor, blood staining the carpet. “But this isn’t over.”
With that, he limped out, leaving silence in his wake.
Seungcheol turned to you. You were staring at him with tear-streaked eyes, your breathing uneven, your cheek flaming red, your throat marred with darkening bruises. His rage melted instantly, replaced by something softer, protective. He dropped to his knees beside you, cupping your face gently despite the tremble in his hands.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re alright. He won’t touch you again.”
Your lips quivered, your tears spilling fresh. You looked up at him, your voice small, broken. “He hurt me, Cheollie… he hurt me.” And then you broke into sobs.
Seungcheol’s chest cracked wide open. He gathered you against him instantly, cooing softly. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. He’s gone now, you’re safe. I won’t let him touch you again. I promise, I swear on my life.” His lips pressed against your temple, his arms tight but gentle.
You sobbed into his chest, your body trembling as hiccups shook you. He rocked you slowly, whispering over and over. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. You’re safe with me. Always.”
Then, without hesitation, he slid his arms under you and lifted you up bridal style. You instinctively clung to him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, your tears soaking into his shirt. He stood, striding to your desk with you in his arms, snatching your phone and purse with one free hand before heading for the door.
You sobbed into his neck. “I’m scared… I didn’t know my own brother could do that to me…”
His voice hardened, but his tone to you was soft, reassuring. “You don’t need to be scared, little dove. Not when I’m here. I’ll take care of everything. He won’t get away with this. I promise you.” He pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’ll protect you. Forever and always.”
He carried you out of the office, down the empty hall, and out into the night. His strides were long, purposeful, his arm never loosening. When he reached his car, he settled you gently in the passenger seat, buckling you in himself, his fingers brushing over your trembling hands.
“You’re not staying there tonight,” he said firmly as he closed your door and slid into the driver’s seat. His knuckles whitened around the wheel, his jaw tense as stone. “You’re staying with me. I won’t allow you to sleep under the same roof as that bastard.”
The car ride was quiet but heavy. You hiccupped and sniffled, exhaustion dragging at your eyelids as Seungcheol’s voice filled the space. His words were steady, repeated like a vow. “Everything will be fine. I’ll fix this. You don’t have to worry anymore. Sleep, baby. I’ve got you. Always.”
Slowly, your breathing evened out, your tears drying as sleep took you.
Seungcheol kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw was locked, his knuckles pale from gripping the wheel so tightly. Every muscle in his body burned with fury. Finally, he reached over, grabbing his phone and pressing it to his ear.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then a calm voice answered.
“Seungcheol, you called.”
His tone was cold, sharp, merciless. “Wonwoo. I need you to do something for me.”
viii. THE PERFECT MASKED EXECUTION
Jaemin’s mind was running a hundred miles per hour as he gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles had turned bone white. His breaths came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling like a man drowning in his own fury.
The sting from his split lip mixed with the hot burn of humiliation; Seungcheol’s punches still echoed through his skull. Blood dripped down his chin, streaking over the collar of his designer suit, staining it with a grotesque reminder of the shame he’d suffered tonight. It splattered on the leather interior of his expensive car, the sharp scent of iron mixing with the faint notes of cologne lingering in the air.
Every drop only fueled his anger.
When he finally pulled up to the estate, he didn’t bother to pull into the driveway. He slammed the brakes hard, jerking the car to the curb, and threw the door open with a snarl. His shoes hit the ground in heavy, uneven strides as he stormed toward the towering doors of the family home, the place that had always been his fortress.
Tonight it felt like a coffin.
The halls echoed with silence as he rushed through them, fists clenched, his jaw tight. His pulse thundered in his ears, every beat chanting Seungcheol’s name. By the time he reached his room, he was panting, chest heaving with rage.
The moment he pushed open the door, his eyes fell to the desk. Papers were scattered everywhere; his research, his lifeline, his one advantage.
Documents detailing Choi Seungcheol’s sins: shady deals buried deep, violent altercations hushed by bribes, money trails that could land him in jail. Jaemin lunged forward, hands shaking as he swept the papers into a pile and stuffed them into his leather bag with manic urgency.
Jaemin’s only thought was to get out, expose Seungcheol before he could make his next move.
But then…
Click.
Jaemin froze.
The cold press of metal at the back of his head sent ice down his spine. His blood turned to stone, his body locked in place. Then came the voice; deep, muffled through some kind of distortion. It was low, calm, and cruel.
“Tsk, tsk… look at you,” the voice tutted, mocking. “So desperate. So pitiful. I almost feel sorry for you.”
Jaemin’s throat closed, his breaths shallow. His voice came out hoarse, shaking despite his attempt at control.
“W-Who are you? What… what do you want?”
A chuckle hummed behind him, slow and deliberate. “Why don’t you turn around and find out.”
His body refused him at first, every nerve screaming to stay frozen, but his legs betrayed him.
Slowly, rigidly, Jaemin turned.
And there he was.
A tall man in all black stood before him. Broad shoulders, muscular frame, every inch of him cloaked in darkness. But it was the mask that rooted Jaemin’s feet to the ground, the full face of a red skull, grotesque and grinning, reflecting the dim light of the room.
The masked man tilted his head and laughed, the sound hollow behind the distortion. “So obedient. So pathetic. I thought you’d put up more of a fight, but… here you are, shaking like a child.”
Jaemin’s nostrils flared as he straightened, trying to disguise the fear clenching his gut. His voice sharpened, though it cracked at the edges.
“What do you need? Money? Is that it? I can give you money.”
The man shook his head slowly, deliberately. “Not here for money.” A pause. “I’m here… for a friend.”
The words hit like a riddle. Jaemin’s heart stumbled, his brows furrowed. “A… friend? Who the hell– what are you talking about?”
The masked man stepped closer, his boots heavy on the polished floor. “You wouldn’t understand. He told me you wouldn’t.” A long, low laugh. “Said you’d be too stupid to figure it out.”
Jaemin’s anger flared through the fear. His teeth ground as he snapped, “Answer me straight, damn it! What the fuck do you want?!”
The masked man leaned in, close enough for Jaemin to see his own trembling reflection in the glossy surface of the red skull. “What I want?” he echoed, almost playfully. Then his tone dropped, eerie and final. “I want you… to remember this moment.”
Before Jaemin could reply, footsteps echoed behind him. He spun, his stomach flipping.
Another figure had entered.
This one tall as well, clad in black from head to toe, but his mask was silver, the same grinning skull carved into its design.
Jaemin barely had time to register the glimmer of metal at the man’s side.
A bat.
Then—
BAM!
The blow crashed against his skull, pain exploding like fire through his head. His knees buckled, vision went black. He hit the floor, unconscious before he could even curse.
The man in the red mask crouched and hefted Jaemin’s limp body over his shoulder like he was nothing more than a sack of garbage. Without hesitation, the two men strode out of the room, their boots striking the floor with eerie confidence, as if they’d walked these halls a thousand times.
The man in the silver mask tilted his head toward the ceiling as they passed. Surveillance cameras lined the corners, their tiny lights dark, disabled. He let out a dry chuckle under his breath. “Perfect.”
Together, they moved down the corridor until they stood before the large wooden double doors of the patriarch’s office.
The red mask lifted his leg and kicked hard.
The doors flew open.
Inside, your father sat at his desk, papers neatly arranged, his glasses perched low on his nose. At the sudden intrusion, he jolted upright. His eyes widened in shock.
“What the hell is this?!” he barked. His voice thundered across the room as he shot to his feet. “Who are you? What do you want? Get out of my house this instant, or I’m calling the police!”
The red mask dropped Jaemin’s unconscious body onto the carpet with a thud.
Your father’s face twisted in horror. “What did you do to him?!”
No answer.
The red mask raised his hand, gun glinting in the dim light.
Bang!
Your father staggered back.
Bang!
His knees buckled.
Bang!
Blood sprayed across the mahogany desk.
Bang!
The fourth shot landed straight between his brows. His body slumped back into the chair, lifeless, eyes open but empty.
The silver mask calmly stepped forward. With deliberate precision, he lifted the bat he carried earlier and pressed it into your father’s lifeless hand, holding it there for a moment before letting it drop beside the corpse’s feet with a heavy thud.
The red mask seized Jaemin’s body once again, dragging him forward until he slumped into the chair opposite his father. With meticulous care, he forced the unconscious boy’s hand around the gun and left it there.
Minutes ticked by.
Eventually, Jaemin groaned, stirring.
The red mask’s hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out a phone.
He dialed.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
The man’s voice changed instantly; concerned, frantic, breathless.
“H-hello? Yes– yes, my friend and I, we were walking down Delaney Street… we… we heard gunshots! From inside the house! We– we didn’t know what to do, we were so scared, we just ran– please, you have to send someone, right now!”
“Sir, calm down. We’ve dispatched a unit. Stay safe.”
“O-okay, thank you! Thank you!”
He hung up.
A groan echoed through the office. Jaemin’s eyelids fluttered as he slowly came to. His head pounded, his vision swam. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He blinked, sat up—
And froze.
His father’s lifeless body sat across from him, blood dripping down his forehead.
“No…” Jaemin gasped, stumbling back. He stood so quickly the chair screeched against the floor. His hand suddenly felt heavy. He looked down—
The gun.
“No– no, no, no!” He dropped it instantly, the clatter deafening in the silent room.
His head whipped around, and there they were. The red mask. The silver mask. Watching.
Jaemin’s voice cracked as he screamed, spittle flying. “WHAT DID YOU DO?! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!” He repeated it, over and over, desperation breaking his voice.
Sirens wailed in the distance, flashing red and blue lights growing nearer until they painted the office walls.
Before Jaemin could speak again, the red mask’s fist slammed into his jaw. Pain exploded, sending him sprawling onto the carpet.
Upstairs, footsteps thundered. The silver mask tore into Jaemin’s room, sweeping every damning document he’d compiled on Seungcheol into a bag. At the same time, the red mask planted new papers; fraud accounts, stolen stocks, fabricated evidence of embezzlement… every page spelling Jaemin’s downfall.
By the time the police banged on the front door, the two men had slipped silently through a window, vanishing into the night.
They sprinted to a car parked in the shadows, slid inside. The red mask gripped the wheel, the silver mask flipped open a laptop on his lap, fingers flying across the keys as code filled the screen.
From a safe distance, they watched the estate come alive with sirens. Police shouting, battering down the doors, storming inside. Minutes later, two figures emerged; one body bag carried solemnly by officers, and Jaemin, wrists cuffed tightly, dragged into the flashing lights.
The red mask smirked beneath his disguise, then turned the key.
The car sped off into the night.
After several minutes, both men tore the masks away. One’s calm eyes glinted in the glow of the laptop, while the other leaned back, grinning like a wolf.
The one on the passenger seat dialed on his phone.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Then a voice answered.
“So?”
“It’s done, Seungcheol,” He said evenly.
Across the city, Seungcheol leaned back against the headboard of his bed, shirtless. You lay curled against his chest, your breaths soft and steady as you slept, his arm wrapped protectively around you. A smile tugged at his lips as he chuckled lowly.
“I owe you, Wonwoo.”
“What about me?” Another voice cut in.
“I don’t remember asking you for help, Mingyu,” Seungcheol replied flatly. “You’re just a bloodthirsty psycho.”
“Coming from you,” Mingyu shot back, sharp and smug.
Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was calm. “Everything went according to plan?”
“One is dead,” Mingyu said bluntly, his laugh dark and unrestrained. “And one’s about to be the talk of the country tomorrow.”
Wonwoo’s voice followed, cool and precise. “Everything went smooth. I disabled all surveillance cameras inside the estate, outside, and every neighboring house within a block. No one saw a thing.”
Seungcheol hummed low, satisfaction vibrating in his chest as his fingers traced absent circles along your arm. “Good. Thank you, both of you.”
He ended the call, slipping the phone onto the nightstand. His gaze dropped to you, sleeping soundly against him, trusting him completely.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Everything was falling into place.
Tomorrow, the world would burn and you would be his.
Just as he had planned.
ix. THE LAST CURTAIN CALL
The next morning, you wake in a world on fire, yet in his arms, it feels like quiet.
The sheets are warm, heavy, carrying the scent of Seungcheol’s home, his skin, his breath lingering from the night before. His chest is solid against your back, his arm banded around your waist in a grip that feels protective, possessive, immovable.
The sun bleeds weakly through the curtains, but it’s the television that floods the room with light and noise.
You don’t move. You don’t want to. The cadence of his breathing anchors you, and for a moment it’s almost enough to believe you’ve woken into safety. His embrace feels like an answer your body has been craving without realizing it, his presence wrapping you in something that feels more permanent than walls, heavier than bloodlines.
Home.
On the screen before you, the world gnaws itself apart.
“Breaking news this morning,” the anchor announces, voice smooth but cutting. The camera flashes to the sprawling family estate barricaded with yellow tape, authorities crowding in and out of the gates, flashes from news cameras breaking through the gray morning. “The patriarch of the multibillion conglomerate SVT was found dead late last night in his home office. Officials confirm he sustained four gunshot wounds.”
You don’t blink.
Seungcheol’s grip only tightens around you, silent.
“They have also revealed that a metal bat was recovered at the scene, bearing the victim’s fingerprints. Police officials suggest the deceased may have attempted to defend himself before succumbing to gunfire. His eldest son, Jaemin was taken into custody last night, escorted in handcuffs following a violent confrontation. He was found at the home in possession of the firearm bearing his fingerprints. Blood on the recovered bat has been matched to his DNA.”
The screen shows Jaemin bruised, swollen, stumbling as police drag him through flashing lights and yelling reporters. He looks monstrous. You don’t flinch. Not even when the footage cuts back to the anchor’s tight, professional expression.
“Further evidence suggests found in the estate, a history of financial misconduct. Documents discovered in his private study indicate possible tax fraud and diversion of company assets. Sources close to the investigation believe these allegations may have motivated his actions.”
Seungcheol exhales through his nose, sharp. His other hand is on the phone, voice low but thrumming with controlled anger as he speaks into it. His thumb rubs your arm absently, a contradiction in touch.
“No,” he snaps, his voice edged. “Listen to me, this company will not collapse because of that bastard’s stupidity. The board will convene tonight. You’ll get the statement drafted, I’ll handle the press. We are not letting outsiders control the narrative. Do you understand?”
You listen in silence, curled in his arms, staring at your actual home swarmed with police on the television screen.
“And now on developing news,” the anchor continues. “Following this story, we have obtained exclusive CCTV footage leaked from the company headquarters by an anonymous source. Warning, some viewers may find this content disturbing.”
The clip cuts in, grainy, the boardroom office. You. Jaemin. His hand at your throat, squeezing, shoving your back into the desk. The sharp crack of his palm across your face. The grainy black-and-white version of you struggling, choking, your own face barely recognizable in distress before Seungcheol appears, dragging him off you, the image freezing there.
The anchor’s voice overlays, calm and clinical, “This footage, verified by multiple sources, suggests the possibility that the oldest heir may have been physically abusive toward his younger sister. While the extent of this alleged abuse remains under investigation, speculation has arisen that his motive for murder may have been tied to his attempts to seize control of the SVT conglomerate at any cost.”
The words slice cleanly.
You stare, unmoving, but suddenly your body betrays you, warm tears begin to slide down your cheeks. Slowly at first, then spilling faster, the noise of the television blurring into the sound of your shallow breaths.
Seungcheol notices instantly. His head turns; his eyes are sharp, burning, but his mouth softens when he looks at you. He mutters one final line into the phone, his tone cutting, final, a growl that leaves no room for argument.
“Get it done or get out of my way.”
The phone hits the nightstand with a sharp thud, and then his hand is on your cheek, brushing away the tears that keep coming. His voice dips low, gentle, almost coaxing.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You can’t. Your chest shudders, the sob finally breaking free. “H-how could this happen?” Your words stumble, your throat burning. “How could I believe he would– he would do something like this? My da– my dad is gone—”
Seungcheol pulls you up, presses your face into his chest, his hand stroking through your hair, down your spine. “Shh. Don’t do this to yourself, baby. Don’t you dare blame yourself for the monsters they chose to be. Your father…” His voice cracks sharp, then steadies into something smoother, a lie wrapped in velvet. “Your father couldn’t protect you. Your brother never wanted to. But me? I’ll never let anything touch you. Do you hear me? Never.”
You sob harder, your fists clutching at his shirt. “If I was home last night… if I was there—” Your voice fractures into hysteria. “What would he have done to me, Cheollie? What if he killed me too? What if— what if—”
“Stop.” His tone hardens, but his hand is firm, steady on your back. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. I would never let that happen. He will pay for what he’s done, you hear me? He’ll rot in jail for it. And you…” He tilts your chin up, forcing your teary eyes to meet his. His voice lowers, possessive, absolute. “You are safe. With me. Only with me.”
Your voice comes out small, almost childlike through your sobbing. “You promise? You’ll protect me?”
His thumb wipes under your eye, slow. He smiles, faint but sharp, his eyes burning with something closer to hunger than tenderness. “I already am, angel. You’re mine now. And no one will ever hurt what’s mine.”
After a few minutes after you two fell in comfortable silence, Seungcheol squeezed your arm and broke the silence.
“You should come to the meeting tonight,” he says. His voice is soft, persuasive. “You need to be seen, baby. We’ll go to the office together. It’s better that people see you… see the truth. The footage, the bruises, they’ll understand. The press will help. It’ll make Jaemin’s lies crumble faster.”
You press your palm to your chest as if to steady the frantic beat beneath. The office had dozen memories you can’t face today; the idea of leaving Seungcheol’s house feels like stepping off a cliff. “I don’t want to go, Cheollie.” you whisper. The words tremble out, small and honest.
He tips your chin up with a thumb like it’s the most natural, simple thing. “You don’t have to be brave for anyone but yourself,” he says. There’s a pause, then the softer edging of a plan. “But for this… please. Let them see what he did. Let them see you. Let them know. We need the world to feel the truth. For you. For me. For justice.”
You find yourself thinking, absurdly, that he is the only one using the word justice who doesn’t sound clinical. You nod because the nod is easier than arguing. “Okay,” you say, small.
“But promise… you won’t leave me. Not for a second,” you add, eyes wide and childlike with fear.
His face softens. “I promise. I’ll be right there. Every step, my dove.” He leans down to press a quick kiss above your temple and then he moves, purposeful and precise, to get you ready.
When you arrive the cameras are a living wall.
Flashbulbs pop like small, impatient fireworks. Reporters cluster at the gate, their voices a constant tide of questions. Seungcheol moves like someone who has rehearsed this choreography a thousand times; close to you, intercepting microphones with a shoulder, guiding you with a hand at the small of your back. You keep your sunglasses on because you’re not ready to map your face for every headline.
A reporter shouts, “Miss, how are you holding up?” A camera lens swings to you. You feel the weight of a thousand eyes and then the solid presence of Seungcheol’s hand squeezing your wrist. He leans in to the nearest reporter, cold and fast. “No comments. Move back.” His tone is not rude so much as iron-clad; the press takes two steps back without arguing.
He will not let anyone come near you. When a stranger reaches out, an older woman who wants to touch your sleeve, Seungcheol’s hand shifts like a blind barrier, blocking it gently but deliberately. “We appreciate your concern,” he tells her, voice smooth, and then to you, low, “Breathe, my love. Keep your sunglasses on. Let them see the bruise. They need to see.”
You want to hide the line on your neck. You reach instinctively for the silk scarf in your bag, but his fingers close around your wrist and stop you, soft but firm. “No.” The one-syllable absolute is not cruel; he makes it strategy. “If people see, they’ll know what he did. It helps.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd when they notice the faint red crescent at your jaw and the darker purple beginning to bloom along your neck. Hollow sympathies and blunt outrage fold over one another: “Oh my god, look at her.” “How could he?” “She’s so brave.”
You feel oddly buoyed by the chorus; pity is proof, pity is recognition, pity is evidence the world acknowledges what you felt alone.
Inside the meeting room a few floors up, the board members assemble around the long table. You sit close to Seungcheol who was on your father’s chair, as he has asked, as the rest of the room settles into the business of damage control. He pulls your fingers through his and interlaces them in his lap, his hand large and steady over yours.
The conversation is airless, taut with numbers and reputation.
The CFO opens with the facts, “We need to control the narrative. The footage is circulating; the tabloids will run their own versions. We’ll issue a statement tonight, legal will contact family counsel, and security will audit all internal operations.”
A senior director adds his voice practiced, “We also need a clear succession plan. The market hates uncertainty. We propose an interim CEO, a clean face, someone who can stabilize investor confidence.”
A board member looks at Seungcheol. “You’ve been the operator, if anyone can steady the ship, it’s you.”
Another voice, lower, suggests another tack: “There’s merit to considering now that Jaemin is out the picture, the only daughter as the rightful heir, given recent events. Legally she is a primary family member, and it would show a continuity that may mollify certain stakeholders.”
You feel the table spin for a fraction of a second. The suggestion is courteous, almost shockingly fair on paper, but it feels like a test you had no intention of passing.
“No,” you say immediately, before you can measure the consequences.
The word comes out quick and final. Heads turn.
Seungcheol looks at you; the corner of his mouth lifts like a question. “Are you sure, baby?” he asks quietly.
You take a breath that trembles with memory of your father’s eyes when he treated you like an ornament, of your own clumsy attempts at the office, and of how badly this life pinched at the edges of you. “Yes,” you answer. “He trained you, Cheol. My father trusted you. You have been his COO for years. He would want you to lead. This business… it’s not for me.” The admission is small but fierce.
You feel faintly like a child handing someone else a crown.
Seungcheol’s reply is quiet and confident. “I understand.” His hand squeezes yours before placing a kiss on the back of it.
Later, in the privacy of your chest, he will call this modesty. In the present, it simply feels like relief.
The board continued and discusses logistics; legal filings, press strategy, the expected fallout.
A vote is taken. A few members voice the obvious; “Seungcheol has proven himself; he should be interim CEO.” A couple murmur about governance and optics.
The decision was made quick, Choi Seungcheol, interim leader; he accepts the position with a humility that looks practiced and true; he speaks of stewardship, stability, and protecting the company’s legacy.
When the meeting needed and when other executives leave, their shoes hollowing away down the corridor, the room closes in smaller and softer. Seungcheol pulls you into his lap, your body instinctively folding against him, he then tugs a stray hair behind your ear with the devotion of someone blessing a small victory.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs, voice thick with something that could be gratitude or feigned humility. “Did I do well?”
You blink at the question, and he laughs softly, self-deprecating but proud. “You were perfect,” you tell him, voice almost a whisper.
He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, fingers braced at the back of your head. “Will I do good?” he asks, seeking the approval like a man who needs it to be true.
“Yes,” you reply without thinking.
Your voice is small and certain. You mean it, the way he has maneuvered the world for you, the way he has kept you close, has created a private sky in which he is the only power. You want to believe him worthy.
He is worthy.
Seungcheol smiles, then closes the distance in a practiced move, lips meeting yours. The kiss is swift and exact at first, it softens into slow, insistent, his mouth mapping yours with patient ownership. His hands caressed; one at the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your skull, guiding, steadying. You respond because you are exhausted and because his mouth promises a hush. The kiss deepens; his tongue is deliberate, exploring rather than racing, coaxing you into compliance.
When he pulls back, the air around you feels smaller and warmer. He rests his forehead against yours again.
“Everything will be alright, angel,” he says, voice low and certain. “It’s all falling into place.”
You make a small sound; half sigh, half hum, and sink into him, the sound of it a confirmation.
In his arms, with his word, the world narrows to two people and a plan that will not let anything touch you unless he allows it.
And soon, the trial finally came.
The trial comes like a storm you can’t avoid.
Weeks of preparation collapse into a single morning; suits, papers, microphones, cameras flashing outside the courthouse doors. Inside, the air hums with tension, lawyers setting up files, the low murmur of the audience, the scrape of chairs, the judge’s gavel calling order.
You sit stiffly, your hands folded tight in your lap, Seungcheol’s presence at your side a steady, quiet anchor.
The prosecution begins, voices calm but sharp.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is not one of speculation. The evidence will show that Mr. Jaemin, motivated by greed and resentment, not only abused his younger sister but also murdered his own father in a desperate bid for power.”
The defense counters quickly, their tone crisp, controlled.
“The prosecution will try to paint my client as a monster. But we intend to show he is a victim of circumstance, wrongfully accused, framed by a chain of coincidences and circumstantial evidence. We will show the lack of direct proof linking him to this heinous act.”
The words weave through the courtroom like smoke. You sit silently, each sentence adding weight to your chest.
When the judge calls your name, your stomach knots. You stand and walk to the witness stand, every step deliberate. The oath feels heavy on your tongue, but you speak it. And then you’re seated in the booth, hands trembling in your lap, eyes seeking out Seungcheol across the courtroom. He looks at you like always; steady, reassuring, his gaze warm enough to melt the fear.
The prosecutor starts.
“Miss, can you describe your relationship with your brother, Jaemin?”
Your throat tightens. But you speak.
“He is my brother but… he’s always been… angry with me. I never understood why. Ever since we were children, it felt like I was someone he resented the most.”
“And in recent years? Did that anger escalate?”
“Yes.” You hiccup slightly. “Recently, he’s been hitting me. Sometimes slapping me, choking me. He’d wait until no one was around. I tried to ignore it, but it only got worse.”
You steal a glance at Seungcheol. His eyes shine with something fierce, something like pride. The sight steadies you.
The prosecutor presses on.
“Do you recall an incident when your father discussed the company’s succession plan with you and your brother?”
Your lips part, and the lie forms smoothly now.
“Yes. My dad once proposed I take over after him. Jaemin knew that I have no interests in the business, yet… he didn’t take it well. He dragged me by the hair, screamed at me, called me unfit. He–he verbally abused me, over and over.”
A lie.
A murmur ripples through the courtroom. The defense lawyer rises quickly.
“Objection. Speculative and inflammatory.”
The judge bangs the gavel. “Overruled. The witness will continue.”
Your voice wavers but doesn’t break.
“He’s always been ambitious. He wanted the company more than anything. And when Father suggested me, he never forgave me for it.”
The prosecutor nods solemnly. “No further questions.”
The defense steps forward, eyes sharp.
“Miss, you expect us to believe your brother— a man respected in business circles, physically assaulted you for years and no one noticed? No staff, no relatives, no one?”
You swallow.
“He… he knew when to stop. He knew how to hide it. And I never said anything. I was afraid.”
The lawyer leans closer. “Afraid, or lying?”
Your chest seizes. Before you can form an answer, a chair scrapes violently. Jaemin shoots to his feet, his voice shattering through the chamber.
“Liar! You’re lying! Why are you lying?!”
Your body folds in on itself, a sob breaking loose as you cower in the booth. Tears stream down your face as the judge slams the gavel.
“Order in the court! Mr. Jaemin, you will sit down immediately or be held in contempt!”
Guards press him back into his chair, his chest heaving with rage.
You choke out words between sobs. “I—I didn’t want to say it. But it’s the truth. He’s hurt me for years.”
The jury watches with wide eyes. The prosecutor’s face is set in stone, calm and satisfied.
Witnesses are called one after another.
Former staff. Associates. Neighbors. They speak of muffled arguments, strange bruises, doors slammed shut, Jaemin’s temper and his jealousy.
Their testimonies weave seamlessly into the picture already painted.
You sit frozen in your seat, confusion threading through your mind. You never expected this; so many voices, so much support for lies you thought were only yours. But each time your doubt flickers, your gaze drifts sideways to Seungcheol. He doesn’t look at you… he’s watching the witnesses, calm, almost smug.
Evidence is paraded before the jury: the murder weapon with Jaemin’s fingerprints, financial documents tracing fraud directly to him, CCTV footage of him storming the estate.
The defense fights, but their arguments crumble against the weight of the case built brick by brick.
Finally, the judge calls the jury back. The courtroom stills as the foreman stands.
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Jaemin… guilty of murder in the first degree. Guilty of aggravated assault. Guilty of fraud.”
The gavel cracks once, final and echoing.
“You are hereby sentenced to life in prison.”
Chaos erupts.
Jaemin thrashes as guards seize his arms, his voice breaking with fury.
“No! You liars! You fucking liars! You’ll burn for this! Both of you! Fuck you!”
He kicks, he screams, his words tangled in curses as he’s dragged in chains across the floor. The courtroom watches, stunned, horrified.
Beside you, Seungcheol shifts. He leans in, presses a kiss against your forehead, unshaken and protective. His hand rests firm at the back of your neck.
Relief floods you, sharp and dizzying. But beneath it, winding through the cracks of your soul, is something else; dark, foreign, and strangely sweet.
As Jaemin is hauled away, spitting venom and thrashing against his restraints, you feel it rise in you.
A satisfaction. Sinister, heavy, intoxicating.
You sit very still, tears cooling on your cheeks, and watch your brother vanish through the doors, screaming, cursing, chained; knowing deep inside you that part of you doesn’t grieve his downfall at all.
The last final thing to end this whole story… is the funeral.
The funeral comes on a gray morning, the sky heavy with clouds that seem to hang low enough to suffocate. Black cars line the driveway of the cemetery chapel, their polished surfaces reflecting the pale light.
Inside, the room is full of friends, family, colleagues, every one of them dressed in dark mourning clothes, their faces painted with grief. The air smells of incense and wilting flowers, a blend so thick it clings to the back of your throat.
You stand there in the middle of it all, Seungcheol’s hand wrapped firmly around yours. His grip never falters, not once. Every person who approaches dips their head, voice low, the same refrain repeated again and again.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“He was a great man.”
“My condolences.”
The words blur together, a drone of pity you can no longer bear to hear. You nod politely, sometimes bow slightly, but inside you are exhausted. Tired of the sympathy. Tired of the murmured apologies. Tired of all of them looking at you as though you’re fragile glass ready to crack.
Seungcheol shields you with his presence, tall and steady at your side. His thumb strokes across the back of your hand absentmindedly, grounding you when the faces and voices start to blur too much. Not once does he let you go; not when you move from the entrance to the front pew, not when you sit, not when people file past you with their tears and rehearsed words. He is there, his warmth constant against your palm.
The ceremony stretches on, hymns echoing against the walls, the low hum of prayers filling the air. People cry; loud, soft, broken sobs echoing all around you. You watch as shoulders shake, as tissues are pressed to red eyes, as your father is remembered with reverence, his power, his influence, his supposed greatness.
But you… you don’t cry.
You can’t.
All you can do is think.
You think about the irony of it all.
How you grew up with everything; money, power, fame. A family name that carried weight wherever you went. You had the mansion, the cars, the legacy. You had your father, your brother, your mother.
Yet somehow, you always felt alone.
Your mother tried to fix that, for a while. She gave you warmth, the only real warmth you ever knew in that house. And then she was gone. Your father dismissed you, shoved you aside like you were little more than an afterthought. And your brother… despised you, hated you with a passion you never understood.
You had everything.
But you were always alone.
As the ceremony nears its end, you lean your head gently against Seungcheol’s shoulder. His suit is crisp, his cologne faint but grounding. The solid weight of him beneath your cheek anchors you more than anything else in this room.
And it hits you, so sharp and so cruelly ironic that now, with your whole family gone, you don’t feel alone at all.
Because you have him.
Seungcheol.
He holds your hand like it’s a lifeline, like he’ll never let go. He turns his head slightly, presses his lips against your hairline for the briefest second, and even in the silence of the chapel you hear him breathe with you, steady and calm.
More than enough. That’s what he is. More than enough to fill the empty spaces your family left behind. More than enough to make you believe you were never meant to stand with them but with him.
And as you sit there, in the last rows of mourning, surrounded by grief yet cocooned in his presence, the truth whispers itself to you in the cruelest clarity:
Now, with your father in the ground, your brother behind bars for life, and every tie to your blood severed, he had you completely; your hand in his, your head on his shoulder, your whole world folded neatly into his control.
x. HOWLING IN SILENCE
You didn’t regret it.
Not for a second.
Not when you looked back on it all, not when the echoes of people’s condolences still lingered, not when the weight of your father’s funeral still hung in the air.
No… there was not a trace of remorse inside you.
You remembered it clearly, like the first flicker of a match catching fire.
The very first time you saw Seungcheol wasn’t in your father’s office as he later thought. It was years before, in New York, during spring break. You had slipped into that party like any other restless daughter of privilege, but the second your eyes found him across the crowded room, everything stilled. He didn’t see you, too busy laughing low at something his friends whispered in his ear but you saw him.
The way the soft amber light of the chandeliers slid across his jawline. The way his posture screamed control, shoulders squared, head slightly dipped in quiet dominance. The way women leaned closer when he spoke, like moths to flame, and the way men straightened their backs when he passed, instinctively aware of the gravity he carried.
You admired the quiet strength in his movements, the elegance wrapped around authority. In that instant, something in you locked into place.
You researched him afterwards. It wasn’t hard; nothing was hard when you had money and connections. And when you found out that he worked for your father, when you realized this man, this magnetic force, was tethered to your world, that’s when it began.
The obsession.
You played the long game. You didn’t act, not yet. You let years pass, because if this was going to work, it had to be perfect. It had to be inevitable.
When the moment finally came, it was under the guise of something so mundane it was laughable.
Your brother had asked you to bring his things to the office.
But you remembered your father at dinner the night before, casually mentioning that Seungcheol would be in for a meeting. So you hid Jaemin’s laptop. His phone. You made sure he’d have no choice but to send you.
You dressed with precision that morning; your very best, the kind of outfit that whispered innocence but clung enough to ensure attention. And when you walked into that office, carrying your brother’s things, you felt it.
His eyes.
The heavy drag of his gaze over your frame.
That was the moment you knew everything was falling into place.
From there, you crafted your role with care. A clumsy slip here, an accidental bump there. You made sure he would have no choice but to protect you. And he did. Every time. His hand steadying your elbow, his voice gently scolding, “Be careful. You’ll hurt yourself, sweetheart.”
The soft glare he’d send to whoever you bumped into, as though he was already imagining peeling their skin from bone for daring to be in your way. You basked in it. In his doting, in his attention, in the way his presence bent toward yours like a shield.
You left your window cracked open on purpose. You dressed in soft, satin nightgowns meant for his eyes alone. You savored the thought of him standing outside, gaze trailing over you in the dark, climbing in when the temptation became too much.
And when your father confronted you, his voice booming as he forbade you from seeing Seungcheol again, you weren’t bothered. His words slid off you like rain.
Still, you cried.
Cried deliberately, knowing Seungcheol was just outside waiting for his meeting, your sobs bleeding into the air so that he’d hear. You crafted your need for him carefully, your words always turned toward reassurance, planting in him the unshakable image of you as something fragile, in need of protection.
Then there was Anna and Chloe.
You had been foolish enough to tell them about Seungcheol, expecting friendship, perhaps envy disguised as teasing. Instead, their eyes glazed with lust, their giggles sharp with hunger.
“He’s hot,” Chloe had whispered, her lip caught between her teeth.
“God, imagine if he looked at us the way he looks at you,” Anna added, laughter bubbling between them.
Your blood boiled.
“You’re disgusting,” you spat, your voice cold.
“Relax,” Chloe snickered, “we’re just saying… maybe we’d have a chance too.”
“You? A chance?” you sneered. “With him? Don’t make me fucking laugh. You’d be lucky if he even glanced at you.”
“At least we don’t throw ourselves around like some desperate little girl,” Anna bit back, eyes narrowing.
The fight escalated.
Words flew sharp as glass, names hurled until silence cut them apart.
When you told Seungcheol later, you didn’t reveal the truth. You didn’t tell him how they’d lusted after him, how the thought alone made you see red. You only told him they had been angry; angry because he was older, because he worked for your father and it was inappropriate.
You kept the mask intact, the perfect picture of naïveté.
But you knew what to do.
You knew exactly what to do.
A few nights later, with Anna and Chloe preparing for their trip to Paris, you picked up your phone. The line clicked, and a familiar, smooth voice answered.
“Hey, princess, what can I help you with?”
You smiled at the sound. “Hannie… can you get rid of some pests for me, pretty please?”
A chuckle, low and amused. “Risky words, pretty girl.”
“Risky job,” you teased back.
He hummed, a note of curiosity in his tone. “Tell me.”
You laid it out for him; who, where, when. Calm, casual, almost playful.
“You know,” he said after a pause, his voice warm with mischief, “I shouldn’t. But I owe you. And honestly, hearing that sweet voice beg? How could I say no?”
“I’ll wire you a million dollars.”
He laughed, soft and wicked. “Is cyanide okay, pretty girl?”
“Just make sure you don’t get caught.”
“Do you remember who you’re talking to?”
“Not Batman, that’s for sure.”
“Hey—” But you hung up before he could finish, your lips curving as the dial tone hummed.
When the news broke a few days later, it was almost beautiful. Anna and Chloe. Dead. Cyanide poisoning. No witnesses. No evidence. No leads. No trail. Nothing.
Clean. Silent. Perfect.
You were impressed… so much so that you sent Jeonghan another million.
And still, you didn’t regret it.
Not at all.
You arranged the final acts with the same slow, careful fingers.
You knew your brother’s temper. You knew the small humiliations that would make him snap. You let the building gossip do the rest; the looks, the little conspiracies. You left your messages where he could see them. You let your smiles happen when he passed. You made sure he overheard. You set the stage and kept your back to the audience, watching the trap tighten.
And he snapped, just like you expected.
Jaemin came at you like a storm, face red, voice tearing the air. The words are carved in your memory; his spit, his fury, the raw hatred you’d lived with and weaponized.
“You think you can fool anyone with this little act?!” Jaemin roared, spittle flying from his lips as he leaned in close. “You’re nothing but a stain on this family, always were, always will be! You spoiled fucking brat!”
You felt his hands on your throat tighten, the fingers like clamps. You felt the heat in your ears and the sudden, electric clarity. This was the moment you had rehearsed in the quiet of your mind. This was the culmination of years of small maneuvers. The choke, the insult, the public display of his rage, you had orchestrated a live confession and left the rest to the cameras and the men you’d lined up.
You struggled, gasping in his hold. The edges of pain sharpened everything, and something inside you tilted into a grin that is sinister and bright. You let a soft, small chuckle out of you, the sound the world would later read as hysteria but which, in that breath, tasted like power.
“You’re right,” you said, quiet and close, so that only he could hear at first. “Once you and Father are out of the picture, Seungcheol will take over. And I…” you lifted your chin, let the contempt curl perfect and icy, “I’ll be the spoiled fucking brat for the rest of my life. I won’t get my pretty little manicured nails dirty, God no. Seungcheol will do everything for me. To him, I’m nothing more than a helpless little creature.” You let the words fall like stones, whispering them into his face, the intimacy of the whisper making the insult sting harder.
Jaemin’s face went white with disbelief and then darker with rage. He could not imagine a daughter of their house speaking like that in front of him, confessing coldly to the machinery of their ruin.
You continued, savoring the confusion in his eyes as if it were a flavor.
“You should know by now, Jae… I always get what I want.” You said it with certainty.
Then Jaemin’s hand released you only to crack across your cheek, the slap echoing like a gunshot, sending you crumpling to the ground. You stayed down, your head bowed, gasping, fighting to catch your breath.
It was perfect.
You knew exactly when to let the wordless theatrics end so the crescendo could begin. He had given you the violent proof you needed. The bruise would show. The audience would see the chaos. The trap closed nicely around the man who had underestimated you for so long.
Seungcheol arrived like he had always promised he would; his entrance was perfect. The office door banged open and then everything moved in a blur of sound and force.
“You motherfucker!” Seungcheol roared, standing over Jaemin, his voice raw with rage. “You dare lay your filthy hands on her?!”
You watched as Seungcheol pivoted into something sharply animal. He struck Jaemin with the brutal focus of someone whose restraint was deliberately chosen and now broken. The room filled with the sounds of fists and flesh.
You felt one small part of yourself tremble with a guilty glee because you had written this script and now your brother lived it. You had to look down once, to stop a laugh from slipping out loud. It was almost obscene how perfectly your plan had folded into the fury of the man you’d curated.
When you looked up again, you couldn’t help but admire Seungcheol. He was all angles and power: the set of his neck, the way his breath fogged across his clenched jaw, the angry puffs that made him look like a god. The sight of his back, his fists, his controlled violence; each movement confirmed what you had known the moment you first noticed him at that party.
He was a predator. He would do the part you had written for him and he did it with relish.
When it was over… for a mercenary definition of over; Seungcheol pulled away and strode to you, and you opened to the trap you had laid. You let the waterworks come. You let the tremor, the small broken voice. It worked exactly as he needed it to.
Your lips quivered, tears streaming raw and generous. You looked up at him and said the line you’d rehearsed in the dark, the one you knew would snap the thread around his heart.
“He hurt me, Cheollie… he hurt me.” And you sobbed, the sound soft and immediate.
You deserved an award, you thought then, a private laugh hidden under the sob.
The performance had been pitch-perfect. Each beat was a note you had composed and he had played to an eager audience. You watched his face change in a way that felt like a vindication of long work. He melted into fury and then into tenderness, the exact swing you’d always planned for him to make.
That night, in Seungcheol’s arms, you felt the moment bloom into its full meaning… he finally snapped. He had the motive now and the will. All the loose ends you had not wanted to touch yourself were suddenly being handled by hands that were precisely the kind you’d wanted—the hands of the wolf.
Because you had not only found his tenderness; you had found his history.
When you first looked into his life, it was not a tidy biography of good grades and steady promotion. You had dug; you paid for more than a few discreet searches, a few favors slipped across oceans, a few phone calls that ended with a laugh and an “I’ll fix it.”
You found corners of Seungcheol’s past that the company dossier did not show him sharing at holiday parties. You found men who whispered names, runs and networks that breathed illegal currency, veiled organizations that ran like veins beneath polite business.
You learned that Seungcheol’s empire had darker tributaries. You laughed quietly at the notion he was only the obedient COO; he had commanded shadows long before you had set your sights on him. He had money with stains. He had reach. He had friends in certain circles, the kind who could make trouble disappear or make it appear exactly where you wanted.
You did not have to get your hands dirty. You were never stupid enough for that. You arranged, you provoked, you telegraphed weakness and flung bait. Seungcheol, hungry and proud in the alpha way men like him were, took the chase. He took the role you handed him: defender, avenger, tyrant unto the enemy. You watched him step into violence with the quiet thrill of a conductor watching an orchestra play the single piece you had scored.
Seungcheol gave you everything, spoiled you, loved you, placed himself between you and every real danger and in return, he unwittingly removed your final obstacles. He executed with the merciless efficiency you had always admired.
Men are predators by design, you had learned.
They hunger for the hunt, the chase, the proof of conquest. You are the kind of woman who taught them to chase, you played the game you had learned to play since childhood; small, desirable, fragile. You flattered their control, fed their need to save and command, breathed surrender in the right moments.
Predators cannot help themselves when you lead them along a path that promises both prey and purpose.
They claim, they protect, they prey.
And when the prey is clever enough, when she knows how to make the hunter feel powerful in the moment he is being used, she becomes the quiet architect of his fall.
You taught Seungcheol to protect you, to take bloody action, to believe the story of your rescue was his doing. You gave him the script and the applause. You let him think the power was his.
Letting the wolf take the lead was the slowest, most satisfying part of all.
He would do the dirty work because he could not resist the role you presented… the man who finally took control, who finally defended what was his.
And while he pumped fists and dealt punishment and later arranged for details you never had to touch, you lay on his chest and allowed yourself a rare, controlled smile. It was secure and quiet. You had made him the weapon and the wielder without dirtying the tips of your nails.
The last truth settled like a soft snow: a predator can be taught to swallow the prey whole if the prey knows the right way to smile. You had played the lamb long enough to earn the wolf’s full hunger. You fed his need to protect while he fed yours to be protected. It was the oldest bargain and the most modern trick, entice the hunter with vulnerability, whisper of need, then point him at the things you want removed.
When the day closed and you pretended to sleep, you listened as his phone buzzed. A single call, clipped and precise, the final note of your arrangement. You breathed in the dark and felt very small and very large at once.
Seungcheol fulfilled the part he’d willingly accepted; you had orchestrated the rest.
You did not regret it. You never would.
You had always known how to make the predator love the idea of his prey and in that love, Choi Seungcheol became the instrument of your will.
You were the quiet wolf in lamb’s clothing, and in the end, the predator was poisoned by the very prey he thought he owned.
The wolf ate, and did not know he had eaten the hand that fed him.
xi. EPILOGUE
The wolf was never the danger.
It was always the prey; the pretty little creature with wide eyes and trembling hands, who smiled just enough, who cried just right, who whispered weakness like a promise.
Men live to hunt, to protect, to conquer. And what is a hunter without something soft to cradle, without a reason to bare his teeth?
So the predator chased, devoured, bled for her. He thought it was his story, his kill, his choice. He thought he had won.
But the lamb only ever wore white because blood shows better on silk.
And when the night was done, and the bodies lay where they should, she smoothed her dress, wiped her tears, and smiled because the wolf never realized he’d been led by the leash all along.
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