WARNING: Kidnapping, explicit language, patriarchal norms, violence, internalized misogyny, arranged marriage, secret marriage (at least for a little while), character death, explicit scenes (later), forced marriage, mature audience only, heavy on angst, everyone is unhappy, like literally, but will they fall in love? Who knows? unwanted/forced pregnancy (more warnings to be added regarding this in the later chapters). The characters' ages are ambiguous; just know they are all above 30! Multiple characters and cameos. If only there were a darker shade of grey. The author is really bad at tagging (More tags to be added as we proceed)
Tag List: @seonghwaexile, @asyre, @xyzzzs-things (Click the link on Tag List to be added.)
CHAPTER ONE
Song: TBA
Your heels dragged across the uneven brick cobblestone, each step amplifying the pain in your wrist as the vice grip tightened. The numbing sensation crept through your hand, a clear indication that a bruise would soon follow. It was the same man you had saved on your operating table just two months ago, hovering on the edge of death.
You attempted to yank your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding. The only sounds were your labored, frustrated breaths and your anxious voice.
"Listen, I don't know what your problem is with me, but I'm sure we can talk this out," you pleaded, desperation seeping into your tone. Your words seemed to bounce off him, unheard and unheeded. He turned to face you, his eyes a mixture of somber contemplation and unwavering resolve.
"Please, let go of me," you begged, feeling a tightness in your throat as adrenaline surged through your system, threatening to overwhelm your rational mind.
What was his name? Yes, "Mingyu," you called out, hoping to reach him. At the sound of his name, he snapped his head in your direction. "Mr. Mingyu, what do you want from me? Please—"
Without missing a beat, he reached into his coat with his free hand. You both halted in front of a sleek black S-Class with tinted windows. His voice was a low, menacing growl. "Shut up and get inside the car before I blow your eyes out of your sockets, doctor."
The door swung open on cue, revealing another man in the driver's seat. Recognition flashed in your mind; he was there the day Mingyu was brought in. You glanced between them, the realization of your predicament sinking in deeper as the weight of the situation pressed down on you.
"Why are you doing this? I don't understand," you cried out, your voice laced with confusion and fear.
Mingyu's gaze shifted around, as if your voice was fraying the last threads of his patience. He pressed the barrel of the gun against your forehead, his voice a menacing whisper. "You will know everything soon enough. I'm sure you'll understand once you meet your daddy dearest, doctor."
Your heart plummeted. "My father? I think you're mistaken. My father is dead. He died when I was eight."
Mingyu rolled his eyes, a scornful smirk curling his lips. "Drop the act, doc."
You felt his grip loosen just slightly. Summoning all your strength, you wrenched your wrist free and bolted. "HELP! HELP ME!!" you screamed, the clatter of your heels echoing on the cobblestones. Panic surged through you as you heard his heavy footsteps close behind. "SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP!"
You kicked off your heels, your bare feet slapping against the rough asphalt. The cold November air stung your lungs and tears blurred your vision. You barely had a moment to process the rush of adrenaline before Mingyu's strong hand clamped around your arm, yanking you back against his chest. A white cloth was pressed over your mouth and nose. You thrashed and scratched at his hand, but the world began to blur, your limbs growing heavy and unresponsive.
Mingyu sighed as he felt your struggle weaken. "She sure knows how to put up a fight," he muttered, lifting your limp form and carrying you to the car. He remembered what his comrades had told him about the hospital incident and your fiery resistance when he first approached you in the parking lot.
As he settled into the passenger seat with your unconscious body behind him in the back seat, Chan glanced over, concern etched on his face. "Didn't the boss say to bring her on her feet?" His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel, waiting for Mingyu's explanation.
Mingyu closed his eyes, letting out a weary sigh. "Boss will understand once she wakes up. Now drive."
"Yes, sir," Chan nodded, and the car sped off into the night, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as they drove away.
The car sped through the outskirts of the city, leaving behind the hustle and bustle as the scenery transformed into a dense forest. Towering trees lined both sides of the winding road, their branches intertwining overhead to form a natural canopy. The moonlight, filtering through the foliage, cast an ethereal glow on the path ahead. The forest was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the chirping of crickets filled the cool night air.
After a 45-minute drive, the forest gave way to a grand estate. The first sight was a pair of imposing black and gold gates, intricately designed and flanked by tall, menacing pillars. Beyond the gates, the driveway was lined with luxury cars, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft light of the waxing crescent moon.
The car approached the gates, which opened silently as if anticipating their arrival. The driveway curved around a magnificent lion statue, its fierce eyes seeming to watch their every move. At the statue's base, a fountain bubbled gently, the water catching the moonlight and shimmering like liquid silver.
The vehicle circled the fountain and came to a smooth stop in front of the mansion's grand entrance. The mansion itself was a sprawling edifice, its stately architecture illuminated by strategically placed lights that highlighted its opulence and grandeur.
Chan glanced at Mingyu, then at your still unconscious form sprawled in the back seat. Both men exited the vehicle, their movements synchronized and purposeful. The crisp night air hit them as they stepped out, and they exchanged a brief, knowing glance.
Mingyu walked to the back door and peered inside at you, still motionless. He nodded to Chan, who locked the car with a quick click. Together, they stood for a moment, the massive mansion looming before them, as the distant sounds of the forest surrounded them, mingling with the gentle splash of the fountain.
You woke to the acrid smell of smoke, your nostrils burning and your throat scratchy. Your head was resting on something sturdy yet warm, covered in a smooth material that emitted the scent of timber and cigarettes. Blinking twice to adjust to your surroundings, you noticed the car was still parked outside the mansion entrance. Two men stood on either side of the vehicle, their silhouettes looming in the moonlight.
A deep baritone voice broke through the haze of your headache, causing you to flinch. "Warned those idiots not to be reckless, tch." The voice was rich and resonant, carrying a weight of authority and irritation. Startled, you shot up from the man's lap, your heart pounding in your chest.
You pushed yourself towards the other side of the car seat, trying to distance yourself from him. "Mr. Choi," you stammered, your eyes darting around frantically. "What is the meaning of all this?"
He looked at you with an easy smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Relax, love. No one's gonna hurt you, at least not now." His tone was calm, almost soothing, but it did little to ease your anxiety. You pressed yourself further against the door, your mind racing to make sense of the situation as his gaze remained fixed on you, unwavering and inscrutable.
The fatigue of your work and the current situation was finally taking a toll on you. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you bit your lips to keep them at bay. Drawing in a deep breath, you asked, "What do you want from me?" Your tone was as balanced as you could manage, despite the lump in your throat. A thousand scenarios ran through your mind, each more terrifying than the last.
Mr. Choi chuckled, taking a drag from his cigarette. "I can hear the wheels in your head turning," he said, his eyes drifting down to your bare, dirty feet, which you had drawn up to your chest. "Tch, these boys ought to be taught a lesson."
Holding the lit cigarette between his teeth, he reached for the handrest cabinet, making you flinch. Your eyes shut tightly, bracing for the pain that never came. Instead, you felt a delicate touch on your ankle, and your eyes snapped open. He was wiping your dirty feet with a wet wipe, his movements surprisingly gentle.
You yanked your foot back, landing a slight kick to his stomach. "For a doctor, you sure have some moves on you, love," he remarked, amusement flickering in his deep-set eyes.
Trying to maintain your composure, you took another steadying breath. "Why are you doing this? I don't understand."
He leaned back, his gaze steady and unreadable. "All in good time, doctor. All in good time." His calm demeanor only added to your anxiety, the uncertainty of your situation weighing heavily on your mind. The two men outside the car remained vigilant, their presence a constant reminder of your captivity.
Taking the chewed-up end of his cigarette out of his mouth, Seungcheol turned and rolled down the window. On cue, the man on standby outside the car turned, waiting for his command. Seungcheol tossed the cigarette stick out and ordered, "Bring her some slippers."
"Yes, boss," the man responded, hurrying inside the mansion. Seungcheol then took your other foot in his hand, this time his grip not so gentle.
"Listen here and listen well," he said, using his grip on your foot to tug you towards him. "I am not fond of what's going on any more than you are, but what can be said? Sins of the parents must be atoned for by their children, and what your father did—"
"Why don’t you all understand?" you interrupted, your voice rising with frustration. "My parents are dead. If this is about what happened at the hospital when your men brought—"
"Oh doll, if you only knew," he cut you off, his tone dripping with a mix of pity and menace.
The man returned with a pair of house slippers, handing them to Seungcheol. He was one of the most prominent and intimidating figures in high society, with dealings and involvement in the shadows—known but never spoken of openly. Seungcheol slid the slippers onto your feet one by one, then let go of your foot. His eyes, intense and unyielding, bore into your soul as he leaned closer, like a predator stalking its prey.
"If only you knew that my love for revenge against your father and you is stronger than the love I have for my brother and nephew," he said, his voice low and menacing. You realized you had been holding your breath, the weight of his words sinking in and making your blood run cold.
Seungcheol got out of the car and turned to you. "Will you get out on your own, or shall I carry you in my arms?"
With hesitant steps, you exited the vehicle, making your way toward the mansion. The entrance was grand, with ornate gold and white decorations that spoke of opulence and history. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their crystals catching the light and casting a dazzling display across the marble floor. On either end of the hall, sweeping staircases curved gracefully upwards, their railings adorned with intricate designs.
The walls were lined with family portraits and various antiques, each piece telling a story of generations past. The air was thick with a sense of legacy and power, almost suffocating in its intensity. You followed Seungcheol through this grand hall, your footsteps echoing in the vast space until you reached a large wooden door. He pushed it open, revealing a richly furnished study.
Inside the study, four men awaited. A man with white hair and thick-rimmed black glasses sat behind a large desk in a high-backed chair. He must have been in his sixties, his presence commanding respect and authority. To his left stood a man who bore a striking resemblance to him, possibly his brother. On the right stood a figure that made your heart skip a beat—a man who looked like someone you and your mother had thought lost to the world. He had the same eyes, the same nose, and the same mole under his right eye.
"No, no, no," you whispered, your mind reeling. "This can't be. He wouldn't do this to us. He wouldn't abandon us."
The man dressed in a fine suit turned to face you fully, and behind him was another figure who looked eerily familiar—
You felt a wave of disbelief and betrayal wash over you. The room seemed to spin as the reality of the situation crashed down upon you. The men in the room remained silent, watching your reaction with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.
“Appa?”
.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆
2 Months Ago
The hospital was alive with its usual chaos. The steady hum of fluorescent lights mixed with the beeping of monitors and the hurried footsteps of medical staff. The reception area buzzed with activity as nurses and doctors rushed to and from, their faces a mixture of concentration and urgency. The sound of an approaching ambulance siren grew louder, mingling with the cacophony of voices announcing various medical codes over the intercom.
"Code Red in Room 231," echoed through the halls, a call to arms that sent staff sprinting towards the designated room.
In your office, the soft hum of a nearby fan was the only sound, a stark contrast to the frenetic activity outside. You had drifted off on the couch, your lab coat draped over you like a blanket. The peaceful moment was abruptly shattered when your immediate junior, Dr. Kim, burst through the door, his face flushed with urgency.
"Doctor! Code Blue in Room 331! Potential aneurysm with a cardiac history!" he exclaimed, breathless from his dash.
You sat up instantly, the haze of sleep dissipating as adrenaline kicked in. "Room 331? Who's the patient?" you asked, already moving towards the door.
"Mr. Park, 58 years old. He came in three days ago with severe headaches and chest pains. History of hypertension and had a bypass surgery five years ago," Dr. Kim rattled off as you both hurried down the corridor.
"Any recent scans? What did they show?" you pressed, your mind racing to form a plan of action.
"His last CT scan showed signs of a possible aneurysm near the Circle of Willis. We've been monitoring him closely, but he deteriorated rapidly," Dr. Kim replied, matching your quick pace.
As you approached Room 331, the scene was a blur of activity. Nurses and medical staff surrounded the bed, working in practiced synchronization. The patient's heart monitor displayed erratic lines, a visual representation of the chaos within his body.
"What's his BP?" you called out as you entered the room, immediately taking in the situation.
"BP is 90 over 60 and dropping," a nurse replied, her voice steady despite the tension in the room.
"Get me 1 mg of epinephrine, stat," you ordered, moving to the head of the bed to assess Mr. Park's condition. "And prepare for an immediate CT angiogram. We need to locate the aneurysm and assess the damage."
Dr. Kim handed you the epinephrine, and you administered it quickly, eyes flicking to the monitor for any signs of improvement. "We need to stabilize him before we can move," you said, your voice calm but firm. "Everyone, stay focused. We’re not losing him today."
The room was a flurry of precise movements and hushed commands, a ballet of life-saving efforts. As the minutes ticked by, you felt a familiar determination settle over you. This was why you had chosen this path—to stand at the edge of life and death, doing everything in your power to tip the scales towards life.
Three hours had passed since you rushed into Room 331. It had been a grueling and intense period, but through skill and teamwork, you managed to stabilize Mr. Park. The aneurysm had been localized and contained, and his blood pressure had begun to normalize. The immediate crisis was over, but the road to recovery was just beginning.
As you walked down the corridor with your team, discussing the next steps for Mr. Park, you spotted Dr. Jeonghan, your best friend since you were sixteen. His familiar face brought a wave of comfort amidst the day's stress. He noticed you first as he wrapped his conversation with one of his team’s nurses and walked over, a cup of coffee in each hand.
"Hey, Y/N! Where were you rushing off to a few hours ago?" he asked, handing you one of the cups.
You accepted it gratefully, taking a deep sip and feeling the caffeine work its magic. "Code Blue in 331. Potential aneurysm with cardiac complications," you said, your shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thanks for this. I was dying for some caffeine."
Jeonghan grinned.
"It seems that the days are slower for the orthogeriatric department."
He rolled his eyes playfully. "Hey! Don't jinx it," replied, widening his eyes in mock horror.
The two of you shared a laugh, a brief moment of levity in an otherwise hectic day. Jeonghan cleared his throat, looking a bit more serious. "So, Y/N, I was wondering—" His pager buzzed loudly, cutting him off. "Well, duty calls. See you at lunch?"
Shaking your head, you responded, "I have a bypass today. Can't confirm."
He nodded in understanding, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "So, a raincheck?" He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast.
"Raincheck," you agreed, raising your own cup as he walked away.
As he disappeared down the hall, the nurses behind you started whispering amongst themselves, their voices barely audible over the hospital's ambient noise. Your junior handed you the file reports with the updated vitals for today's surgery, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Dr. Y/N, is it true that Dr.Jeonghan is head over heels for you?" she asked, barely able to contain her excitement.
You dismissed the idea with a wave of your hand. "We're just friends," you said firmly, though a small smile played at your lips.
The elevator doors opened, and your team stepped inside, still buzzing with the excitement of the morning's events. The chatter continued, with a few more comments about Jeonghan's handsomeness and your long-standing friendship.
"He's really good-looking, though," one of the nurses remarked, giggling.
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, feeling a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Focus, people. We've got a bypass to prep for."
As the elevator ascended, you took another sip of your coffee, 14 years of friendship you thought to yourself, and let out a sigh, shifting focus on your next challenge of the day.
.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆
The garden buzzed with life in the early morning light. A child, barely 3, zoomed around with his toy airplane, mimicking the whirring sounds as he ran across the soft grass. His laughter echoed, blending with the gentle chatter of adults seated at a table laid out with breakfast. The air smelled of fresh pastries, coffee, and blooming flowers.
It wasn't every day that the family could gather for a brunch, Mincheol and his father,. Choi Siwon, sat at one end, deep in conversation. Mr. Choi set his coffee mug down, the liquid swirling softly as he pondered.
“So, I was wondering—what should we do about the new dealership? The northern district looks promising,” Mincheol began, adjusting his glasses.
His father nodded, lost in thought. “I think we should hold onto that for now.”
They fell into a brief silence. Mr. Choi's gaze wandered toward the garden, where his grandson darted around with boundless energy. He watched the boy for a moment before breaking the quiet.
“Mincheol ,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “yesterday, I heard something…”
Before he could continue, Mrs. Choi, who had been quietly reading the newspaper beside him, noticed the shift in his expression. She gently placed her hand on his knee, her brow furrowing.
“Is something bothering you?” she asked softly.
Mr. Choi shook his head with a faint smile, brushing it off. “No, no. It’s nothing.”
Just then, the door to the patio opened. Mincheol ’s wife, Veronica, stepped out, her presence warm and calm, followed by a maid carrying a tray. She called out to her son, “Ji-woo! Breakfast,” as she sat beside her husband, giving him a reassuring smile.
“Where’s Seungcheol?” Mrs. Choi asked the maid.
The maid bowed slightly. “He hasn’t returned since Friday.”
At this, Mr. Choi let out a deep, resigned sigh. “Anyway… tensions are high with the new commissioner. The Min family’s boys are causing trouble again, and where is Seungcheol?”
“Give him some time,” Mrs. Choi murmured, her voice soft with maternal patience.
If the timing had a choice, it wouldn’t choose to be on his side. Seungcheol appeared in the garden, his sharp suit a contrast to the playful chaos of his nephew. A weird joy spreads in his chest whenever he looks at his nephew. All the fatigue and exhaustion evaporate when he sees the boy running across with his plane, before anyone notices. The boy squealed with joy, “Uncle!!” Seungcheol scooped him up, lifting him high into the air. His squeals catch the attention of the people at the table. Hiking the boy on his shoulder, Seungchoel made his way to the table
“Ah, the prodigal son returns,” Mr. Choi muttered darkly, glaring at his youngest. Which makes Min-Wook and his mother share a glance.
“Good to see you too, Father,” Seungcheol replied, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “Family” with a nod.
Mrs. Choi's eyes flickered between the two men, sensing the brewing tension.
Seungcheol set the boy down and took a seat at the table. The mood grew heavier as Mr. Choi leaned forward.
“Where have you been?” he asked, his voice measured.
“Just taking care of things that have been… neglected,” Seungcheol replied nonchalantly.
Mr. Choi’s face reddened. “Neglected? You think I’ve been neglecting my work?”
Before the tension could escalate further, Mincheol spoke up, his voice firm. “Seungcheol, we just took control of the hospital. You can’t run around like a wild horse. It’ll reflect badly on my political career.”
Seungcheol leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You mean your father-in-law’s political career.”
Mincheol ’s wife, busy feeding their now-restless child, glanced sideways at Seungcheol but said nothing.
Ignoring the jab, Seungcheol signalled the maid. “Can I get a coffee, please?”
Mr. Choi’s gaze sharpened. “Were you at the docks?”
Seungcheol nodded casually. “I hope everything went smoothly,” his father asked.
“Not at first,” Seungcheol admitted, taking a sip of his newly arrived coffee. “But I took care of it.”
Mr. Choi’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you took care of it?”
Seungcheol leaned back, crossing his arms. “The Min’s boys were barking, so I sent them back with some training and a message for their master.”
The tension snapped like a live wire. “Seungcheol, you—”
“Honey, calm down,” Mrs. Choi interrupted, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. But it was too late. Mr. Choi’s temper flared.
“You bastard! Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to build all of this? Just for you to ruin it with your recklessness! How can you be so single-minded?”
Seungcheol’s mother sighed, her voice quiet but firm. “How many times do I have to tell you? You need to keep your anger in check, or you’ll end up in a situation you can’t undo, no matter how hard you try.”
Just then, Mr. Choi’s right-hand man came running into the garden, his face pale. He leaned down and whispered into Mr. Choi’s ear.
“You shot Min’s son?” Mr. Choi’s voice exploded, shaking the peaceful morning air.
Seungcheol froze. “He was his son? Damn…”
The shock of the revelation rippled through the table. Mincheol ’s fork slipped from his hand, clattering onto his plate. He exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“Cheol, man...” Mincheol ’s voice was tight as he spoke, trying to steady the rising tension. “You know, times have changed. So have the rules. We can’t risk a war—not with so much at stake.”
He cast a glance at his father, who sat frozen, a storm brewing in his eyes. The older man’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the table, his expression teetering on the edge of fury as if he was one heartbeat away from lunging at his youngest son.
Seungcheol, however, remained unnervingly calm, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. The weight of his actions hung heavily in the air, like a gathering storm cloud over the garden.
Before the tension could escalate further, Seungcheol’s phone buzzed on the table, cutting through the charged silence. He picked it up, his face darkening as he listened to the voice on the other end. His jaw clenched tightly.
After a few curt words, he hung up and turned to his father. His voice was low, carrying the weight of the news. “There’s been an ambush. Mingyu... was shot.”
A/N: For the last two months every moment I deliberately chose not to write and read, I felt like I was betraying the part of me that mattered the most, and that is my desire to be eternal—for I am nothing but a speck of dust that shall meet its due, but one day someone will look at the words I have woven through the ache of my heart and know that there was a person—and she wrote this. Thank you for your patience and love!
CHAPTER 17
"Baby I just wanna dance with you"
-Happiness is a Butterfly by Lana Del Rey
Breathe in. Breathe out.
For the fourth time that evening, Jeonghan tried to steady his hands. The tie wouldn’t sit right; the knot looked off, the cuffs refused to align, and his palms—God, why were they sweaty? It was ridiculous. He wasn’t going on stage or facing a firing squad. It was just you. Just Y/N.
His honey girl. His Hannie girl.
The nickname had its own small, bittersweet history. In the nearly two decades he had known you, no one ever called you anything but “Doll”your mother’s soft endearment or simply Y/N. The first time it was Cordon who called you “Honey girl” was after your mother’s funeral. You hadn’t eaten in two days, hollow-eyed and running on grief. When the rites were over, Cordon had taken you to the grocery store. Out of everything there, you reached for a packet of honey bread and tore into it like it was not food but survival itself.
That’s when it stuck. “Honey girl.”
Jeonghan let out a frustrated groan when the tie slipped again, the crooked knot mocking him in the mirror.
“Fuck my life,” he muttered, yanking it off with more force than necessary.
The sound of his own exasperation echoed in the room until another sound — a soft, familiar one — cut through it.
When he looked up, standing at the threshold of his door, leaning lightly against the frame, a bowl of yoghurt and fruit balanced in his hands.
“You look tense, bro.”
“Fuck off, Khan.”
“Ouch.” Khan straightened from his lazy lean and walked inside, setting the bowl of yoghurt and fruit on the table by the door. “That’s no way to talk to your most trusted…” — he came closer, lowering his voice as he leaned near Jeonghan’s ear — “…and beloved friend.”
“The fuck, bro.” Jeonghan jerked away, half-wheezing, half-laughing.
Khan broke into a laugh that echoed off the walls. “Here,” he said, reaching for the discarded tie. With practised ease, he looped it around Jeonghan’s neck and tugged it into place. “There you go. Now say it — thank you, Daddy.”
“Go fuck yourself, Daddy.”
Khan grinned, unbothered. “By, Daddy, I remembered — Cordon was really pissed at Y/N the other day.”
Jeonghan’s brows drew together as he reached for his tux jacket. “Whyever for?”
“Don’t know. She wanted to opt out from the Choi case, but he bluntly refused.” Khan tilted his head slightly, watching Jeonghan. “Honestly, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him deny her anything.”
Amer shook his head and grabbed his duffle bag from the bed, walking toward the door. “Good luck asking for Y/N from him—he’s going to chew you out.”
“Well, before him, I have to ask her.” Jeonghan paused in front of the mirror, adjusting his collar and checking the fall of the jacket.
“Really? Shouldn’t you wait another decade or two?”
Jeonghan turned his head slowly, giving Khan the most unimpressed look known to man. “Funny.”
“Not more funny than a guy who’s been pining over a girl for a decade and still doesn’t have the guts to tell her.”
“Don’t you have your fist to fuck?”
“Nah,” Khan smirked. “Your mum’s coming over—”
A pillow came flying across the room before he could finish the sentence, narrowly missing his face.
The door slammed shut.
From the other side came Khan’s muffled voice, rich with laughter. “Make Daddy proud today, son!”
Jeonghan sighed and turned back to the mirror.
The reflection staring back at him was sharp and unfamiliar — a man dressed in a fitted black tuxedo that cut along his shoulders like it had been tailored just for him. The crisp white shirt, the neat tie Khan had fixed, the clean jawline and the faint sheen of nerves hiding behind his practised calm — all of it made him look the part of someone who belonged right next to you.
He drew in a breath. His pulse drummed steadily in his ears.
This would be the fifth time you found yourself unconsciously squeezing Jeonghan’s arm, which could be easily misunderstood as a silent plea for him to notice your restlessness—but he was too busy talking to one of the journalists from a medical magazine. His voice was calm and even, his hand occasionally gesturing as he spoke about surgical robotics, while your eyes kept wandering across the hall, scanning faces, doors, anything that might distract your nerves.
The gala was magnificent — opulent even. The grand hall glittered with warm amber light cascading from the chandeliers, the marble floor gleaming like still water beneath patent shoes and satin gowns. The entrance displayed a towering sculpture of Dr Romanoff Stanley, the pioneering mind behind the Da Vinci surgical systems. His innovation – automated hands designed for real-time data and surgical precision – had transformed the entire landscape of neurosurgery.
Every year since, the central government has hosted this gala in his honor — celebrating innovation, ambition, and the next leap in science and technology. Tonight, one lucky team would receive a national grant for their research. And somehow, against all odds and deadlines, your team had been nominated.
You laughed nervously at something Jeonghan said — though you weren’t really listening — just as a waiter passed by with a silver tray of drinks. Jeonghan reached out effortlessly, grabbing two flutes, and handed one to you.
“Here,” he said with a knowing smile, “something for your nerves.”
“Thanks,” you murmured automatically, fingers curling around the glass. You were about to take a sip when instinct made you pause midway. Your eyes flicked sideways — just enough to see if Jeonghan had noticed. Thankfully, he was still laughing at something the doctor beside him had said.
You lowered the glass slowly, pretending to admire the bubbles. The sickness had been getting worse, and the only thing keeping you steady these days was the ginger candy Chan had bought for you. It was a small miracle that you weren’t showing yet — except for the slight curve that could easily be mistaken for a little weight gain.
All around, the hall buzzed with familiar faces — professors who had once taught you, well-renowned scientists, decorated surgeons, and a cluster of people who had probably shaped the medical landscape you grew up studying. Even Jeonghan — who’d insisted on picking you up from your apartment tonight — looked every bit the part of the accomplished doctor he was. You, on the other hand, deserved a medal for your impeccable time management, reaching the staircase of your building just in time to meet him.
The hall brimmed with two kinds of people — the hopefuls and the powerful. The hopefuls were the bright-eyed young doctors, desperate to shake hands with the legends they’d spent years reading about. The powerfuls were the established names — the doctors, the scientists, the tycoons — who came not to admire, but to be admired.
That’s the thing about these kinds of nights — the hopefuls dream of being noticed, while the powerful only pay attention to each other.
Still, your eyes kept drifting toward the door. You weren’t sure why — no, definitely not. He won’t be here today. It’s definitely not his scene, but he did ask to join as his plus one – but why should I bother? It's my night, right? Right. Anyway, why should you bother with this inconsistent man? Sometimes he will be so much in your business that it's almost suffocating; in the next moment, you don’t see him till the weeks on end.
Jeonghan noticed eventually. He always did.
“You’re looking for someone,” he said quietly, almost teasing, his words slicing gently through the hum of chatter and the clink of glasses.
You turned to him, pretending not to understand. “What makes you think that?”
“The way your eyes dart to the door every three minutes.” He grinned, tipping his glass toward the entrance. “It’s either that or you’re planning an escape route.”
You wanted to laugh — and you did, a soft nervous chuckle that barely made it past your throat. “Maybe both.”
His smile softened, and for a moment, his gaze lingered longer than it should have. There was something careful in the way he looked at you — like he was trying to read the thoughts behind your silence, trying to bridge the distance that had grown between you in quiet, unspoken ways.
Before either of you could say anything else, the lights dimmed slightly, drawing the crowd’s attention toward the main stage. A spotlight flickered on the podium where the host began to announce the ceremony’s highlights.
“Ladies and gentlemen—or should I just say, doctors.”
A polite wave of laughter rippled through the hall. The speaker smiled, the kind of practised, confident smile that came from years of commanding rooms like this one.
“With the changing phases of life over the years, we as a civilisation have reached milestones that would have been unfathomable to our ancestors. And that,” he paused for emphasis, “is the power of innovation.
Before we begin the award ceremony, as your host tonight, I want to take a moment to acknowledge every single person here—and those who couldn’t make it—who has given this word innovation a new meaning.”
The lights glimmered softly against the crystal chandeliers, reflecting across the polished tables. The room quieted, drawn into his cadence.
“I’ve been on the board of this grant for the last ten years,” he continued, voice steady, warm. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that success isn’t just about finding the next bright idea. It isn’t about having the perfect strategy or the most efficient systems. It’s about finding the right people. People who are passionate about what they do. Because those are the ones who truly drive change.”
You found yourself sinking a little deeper into your chair, finally settled. To your right sat Dr. Cordon, already holding his wine glass by the stem, face angled toward the stage. On your left, Jeonghan sat comfortably, his attention fixed on the speaker, one hand resting near the table’s edge.
Across from you, Pavel looked restless—his foot tapping an anxious rhythm against the marble floor, hard enough that you could almost feel it through the soles of your shoes. You nearly smiled.
The keynote speaker’s words continued to roll through the room, his voice steady and persuasive.
“Because passionate people don’t see obstacles,” he said, his tone lifting slightly. “They see possibilities. They don’t see impossibilities—they see opportunities. And when they’re nurtured in the right conditions, that’s when tremendous change begins to take root.”
The applause that followed was soft but sincere, echoing faintly beneath the low hum of conversation that soon returned.
Slowly, you felt your eyelids grow heavy, the world around you softening into a dull blur. The speaker’s voice became distant—just a low hum blending with the clinking of glasses and the faint shuffle of chairs. You hadn’t even realized when your consciousness began to drift, the exhaustion catching up with you after weeks of endless work.
A sudden round of applause jolted you awake. You straightened instantly, heart jumping to your throat, realising you had almost leaned against Cordon’s shoulder. God, thank heavens for the dim lighting.
You joined in, clapping along with everyone else, hoping no one had noticed. But when you glanced to your right, Cordon was already looking at you—first with a flicker of concern, then with that unmistakable “I’m disappointed in you, young lady” expression he had perfected over the years.
Jeonghan, seated to your left, wasn’t much help either. He was clearly trying to stifle a laugh, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned closer, his voice barely audible beneath the applause.
“Long week?”
You almost laughed at that. Months, actually, you thought, but instead you just nodded, too tired to explain.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, still amused. “He’ll come around. Let’s eat after the awards.”
“Sure,” you replied softly, a grateful smile tugging at your lips.
Before you could bask in that grateful feeling, a chill went down your spine—yet you shook your head and focused on the stage. Maybe Jeonghan could sense that feeling too, but unlike you, he turned to his left, and his eyes flick—just for a fraction of a second—to the round table on his left. Sitting there, with the same stiff posture he’s held for decades, is Uncle Leonard Amretrs Jr. Their gazes collide. Leonard gives him a small, almost imperceptible nod—one of those acknowledgements that carries far more weight than it should. Because for the last decade and a half his uncle has been trying to look for ways to leech back into his life because the last act of kindness his grandfather could do for his mother was to leave the factories in her name – which she wanted nothing to do with – Jeonghan pretends he hasn’t seen it. His jaw flexes once before he looks straight ahead again, expression wiped clean.
“You know him?” the man seated beside Leonard asks, following Jeonghan’s line of sight with mild curiosity.
“Sort of,” Leonard scoffs, as if the idea amuses him more than it should. He shifts in his chair and angles himself toward the man addressing him. “Tell me, Rhys… how’s the path to office looking?”
“Not so far,” Rhys replies, lifting his glass slightly before taking a slow sip. His tone is casual, but his eyes hold the sharp, restless gleam of insatiable ambition which would burn anyone in his way.
“The new batch is very impressive,” Rhys adds, leaning closer as though sharing something conspiratorial. “But how do you manage to do it?”
Leonard’s lips curl into a practiced smirk—the kind that looks charming until you know him well enough to see the teeth behind it.
“Well, Mr. Rhys… that is a secret.”
He lets the sentence land like a joke, but there’s no real humor in it. Just Leonard Jr. being Leonard Jr.—always floating between jest and warning.
“Not even to an old family friend?” a voice says from behind them.
They don’t need to turn. Rhys stills, shoulders going rigid, the grip on his glass tightening until the crystal almost creaks. Leonard, ever the shapeshifter, smooths his expression into something warm and welcoming—an actor slipping into character mid-scene.
He rises from his chair with a lazy elegance, smile stretching just a touch too wide.
Of course they know who it is.
Some people don’t need to be seen to be recognised.
“Seungcheol, my boy,” he exclaimed, arms opening wide as he stepped forward and pulled him into a brief embrace. “How have you been? Look at you—so grown up now.”
Seungcheol returned the gesture with polite restraint, his expression unreadable.
“I would’ve asked you to join our table,” Leonard continued, gesturing vaguely to the crowded arrangement, “but I’m afraid there isn’t enough space.”
“That’s not an issue, Uncle Leo,” Seungcheol replied smoothly. “I know how to make my own space.”
He didn’t need to say anything more.
All it took was a single look—his gaze flicking to the man seated to Rhys’s right. The reaction was immediate. The man startled, scrambling to his feet as if he’d been jolted awake. The person beside him followed suit just as quickly, chairs scraping softly against the floor in their haste.
Seungcheol turned back, openly now, his eyes lingering on Leonard and Rhys with deliberate calm.
Leonard Jr. bit the inside of his cheek, irritation flaring beneath his carefully maintained composure. Forcing a smile that felt stretched thin, he gestured toward the newly cleared seats. “Join us, Seungcheol.”
“Of course, Uncle Leo.” Seungcheol settled in with effortless confidence. “You all know Selena Salerno, right?”
“Yes, yes—of course,” Leonard said quickly. “Ex-Commissioner Salerno’s daughter. How have you been, sweetheart? And how’s your father?”
“Daddy’s good,” Selena replied easily. “He’s finally catching up on his golf skills—something he never had time for when he was still working.”
She turned her gaze toward Rhys. “Senator Rhys.”
“Selena,” he acknowledged, his voice measured.
And just like that, everyone settled back into their seats.
The lights dimmed further, casting the table in a softer glow, but the tone had already been set. Seungcheol knew this moment mattered—and he intended to make the most of it.
Yet his focus faltered the instant his eyes began to roam the room.
First, instinctively, he noted the nearest exit.
Then he saw you.
Your back was turned to him, your attention elsewhere. And given your notorious lack of observational skills, there was no chance you were aware of his presence—because if you were, he would already feel it. The familiar weight of your gaze, sharp and accusing, would’ve been pressing into his chest like drawn daggers.
But you didn’t look back.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than if you had.
You laughed softly at something Jeonghan murmured under his breath, the sound light and unguarded. It barely left you before Cordon shot you a warning look from across the table—sharp, parental, unmistakable. You clamped your lips together instantly, schooling your expression into composure.
The moment his attention drifted elsewhere, you and Jeonghan exchanged a glance—and promptly broke into muffled grins, shoulders brushing as you tried to contain it.
Across the room, Seungcheol felt it.
A small, sharp irritation pricked at the back of his neck, subtle but persistent, like a warning he couldn’t shake. He didn’t miss the way you leaned slightly toward Jeonghan, how easy it all looked.
What bothered him more—what truly gnawed at him—was how good you looked tonight.
Your hair was slicked back cleanly, elegant and severe in a way that framed your face beautifully. The dress clung to you just right, tailored to your body as if it had been made with you in mind. His gaze lingered longer than he intended, tracing your seated figure—
—and then he noticed it.
The faint, unmistakable tautness at your stomach.
His lips curved into a slow smirk, something dark and unreadable flashing through his eyes. The unfamiliar surge of possessiveness bloomed in his chest before he could stop it, warm and unsettling, catching him off guard with its intensity.
He was pulled out of his reverie when a hand slid over his arm.
Selena smiled at him, her touch deliberate and confident. Without hesitation, he caught her hand, gently but firmly brushing it away from himself before turning his attention to Leonard, who had already launched into conversation. For now, Leonard had his focus—his point of aim.
Rhys, notably, still hadn’t addressed him.
“It’s refreshing to see you here, Seungcheol,” Rhys said, swirling the drink in his glass. “Most of the time, it’s your father who makes an appearance.”
Seungcheol reached out and took a glass from a passing tray, the movement unhurried, practiced. “My father’s health hasn’t been keeping well,” he replied evenly. “So he’s resting.”
Leonard leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with a feigned concern that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, Choi’s a tough bastard. But what exactly happened to him?”
Seungcheol lifted the glass to his lips but didn’t drink. “Stress,” he said simply. “And grief. They have a way of catching up to you.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched Rhys closely, gauging every flicker of expression, every tightening muscle.
Rhys, on the other hand, felt his agitation rise. The room suddenly felt warmer. “I hope the stroke wasn’t too grave,” he said, too quickly.
Seungcheol turned fully toward him then, one brow arching slightly. “No. Thanks to the exceptional doctors at NDS, he’s out of danger.”
“NDS?” Leonard blurted out before he could stop himself. “But I thought your company acquired Liberty—”
The words hung there, exposed.
Leonard Jr. swallowed, instantly aware of his mistake. His father had always scolded him for speaking ahead of himself, and right now, he could practically feel that reprimand burning into his skin.
The amusement in Seungcheol’s eyes was unmistakable—sharp, predatory. He didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he rolled the stem of the glass slowly between his fingers, letting the silence stretch.
“Well,” he said at last, voice smooth, “one of many.”
He smiled.
Leonard let out a forced laugh, too loud, too quick. “Of course, son. Senator Rhys and I were just talking about how remarkable your brother was. Truly—like a son he never had.” He turned to Rhys. “Isn’t that right, Senator?”
Rhys offered only a noncommittal hum, already scanning the room for an escape. Relief came swiftly when one of the coordinators approached and whispered something in his ear.
“Well, gentlemen,” Rhys said, straightening, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to announce the winner. I’ll catch up with you later, Leo, Seungcheol.” He paused, then added, “Give my regards to your father. I’ll visit him soon.”
“Of course,” Seungcheol replied smoothly. “I’ll tell my father to look forward to it.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes locking onto Rhys’s.
“After all, we are family.” A beat. “Or is that no longer the case?”
His brows lifted just enough for the taunt to land—precise, deliberate—aimed at a man whose blood had Rhys cleared his throat, the sound a little too deliberate. “We’ll always be family, Choel,” he said, forcing a smile that never quite settled. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice until it was meant for Seungcheol alone. “But family protects each other.”
Seungcheol almost laughed.
The irony of it pressed at his mouth, and instead of answering right away, he slowly lifted his gaze and met Rhys’s eyes. Then he stood.
The movement was unhurried, effortless—but it was enough.
Rhys straightened instinctively, his spine snapping upright as if pulled by a string. Seungcheol took a single step forward, close enough for the air between them to feel tight.
Automatically, Rhys stepped back.
Just one.
That was all it took.
already turned cold.
Seungcheol extended his hand toward Rhys, palm open, the gesture polite enough to pass as civility. Rhys hesitated—just a fraction too long—before placing his hand in Seungcheol’s.
The handshake was firm.
Then Seungcheol pulled him in.
Not violently. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just close enough that the space between them collapsed, that Rhys could feel his breath near his ear.
“Families don’t use each other’s graves to climb either,” Seungcheol whispered, his voice low and steady, carrying no heat—only certainty.
He released Rhys immediately.
As if nothing had happened.
Seungcheol turned away without another glance, leaving Rhys standing there, shoulders stiff, expression caught somewhere between shock and restraint. He returned to his chair and sat, unbuttoning his jacket with an almost lazy ease, smoothing the lapels as though reclaiming territory that had never truly been contested.
Only then did he look up.
Just briefly.
Leonard Jr. met his gaze—and failed to hide it in time. The tightening of his jaw, the dark flash in his eyes, the scowl he tried to rearrange into something neutral.
Seungcheol smiled.
Small. Controlled. Unmistakable.
Just enough to let Leonard know he had seen everything.
“Ladies and gentleman”
This was your fifth Stanley Gala.
And somehow, every single year, it found a new way to outdo itself in sheer, soul-numbing boredom.
You stifled a yawn, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth as if that might physically force your attention to stay put. The speeches blurred together after a while—
You nodded at the right moments, smiled when expected, and clapped when everyone else did.
Yet your eyes kept wandering.
Unwillingly. Irritatingly.
You hated that you were doing it—scanning the room, flicking toward the doors, the aisles, the tables you shouldn’t care about. Searching for a man you had no intention of speaking to, no desire to see… and yet couldn’t seem to stop checking for.
Just to confirm he was—or wasn’t—here.
The moment stretched a little too long, your thoughts drifting somewhere dangerous, when the host’s voice finally cut through the haze, crisp and amplified.
“As we draw closer to the highlight of the evening,” he announced, smiling broadly, “without any further ado, I would like to call upon our chief guest to the stage to honour this year’s Stanley Grant recipient—Senator Rhys.”
Applause rippled through the hall,
You joined in automatically, your palms meeting in soft, measured claps as he adjusted the microphone.
Rhys cleared his throat, surveying the audience with the ease of a man long accustomed to rooms like this.
“Thank you,” he began, a hint of humour warming his tone. “I promise I’ll keep this short—because if there’s one thing a room full of brilliant minds hates, it’s a long speech pretending to be profound.”
Laughter scattered across the hall.
“This year,” he continued, “the board received an extraordinary number of proposals. Innovations that were not only groundbreaking in their science, but deeply attentive to the human condition they aim to serve.” He paused, letting the weight of it settle. “In all honesty, choosing between them felt less like a decision and more like a negotiation with our own conscience.”
Rhys reached for the envelope resting on the podium. “That said—tradition must be honored.” A small smile tugged at his lips. He opened the envelope.
Time seemed to slow—just slightly.
“This year’s Stanley Innovation in Medical and Humanities Research Grant goes to—”
Rhys paused.
Just a beat too long.
You felt it before you saw it—the shift. the faint tension, scrunching of his brows. Rhys cleared his throat smoothly, as if nothing at all had happened.
“—Liberty University Hospital.”
For half a second, the words didn’t register.
Then the room erupted.
Applause thundered around your table, chairs scraping back, hands clapping hard enough to sting. Someone touched your arm—then another—congratulations tumbling toward you from all directions as your team stood, stunned smiles breaking across their faces.
The noise washed over you, overwhelming and unreal.
Liberty.
Your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and relief as the clapping continued, echoing through the hall like a verdict finally delivered.
Music swelled through the hall as the screen behind the stage flickered to life, the polished montage unfolding in measured, reverent beats.
“In the year 1905,” the announcer’s voice carried, smooth and resonant, “Liberty University Hospital was established by the Duke of Iverson, guided by a vision rooted in service, resilience, and humanitarian care.”
Archival photographs washed over the screen—black-and-white wards, nurses with rolled sleeves during wartime, surgeons bent over operating tables lit by bare bulbs.
“During the Second World War, Liberty stood at the forefront of medical relief., You swallowed, the words settling heavier than you expected.
“Today, Liberty University Hospital proudly ranks fourth in the world for its cardiological department—”
“—a distinction earned through decades of innovation, discipline, and relentless dedication.”
The screen shifted, now displaying names in clean, gold lettering.
“The award-winning team is led by Dr. James Cordon…”
Cordon rose first, posture straight, expression composed but eyes glinting with unmistakable pride as he ascended the steps.
“Dr. Y/N Mira-Cordon…”
For a brief moment, everything else seemed to dim. You felt Jeonghan’s hand squeeze your arm once before you stood, the room blurring at the edges as you walked toward the stage, the sound of applause rising and falling like waves.
“Dr. Pavel Sengupta…”
“Dr. Rei-Anne Gomez.”
One by one, your colleagues joined you, the line forming under the bright stage lights. Hands were shaken, congratulations murmured close to the ear,
From the stage, the audience became a sea of faces—indistinct, softened by distance and light. Your gaze searched instinctively. Jeonghan was still clapping, unabashedly so, his smile wide and unguarded, pride written plainly across his face.
“The Liberty University Hospital team”, the host continued, “submitted an innovation aimed at one of the most persistent challenges in post-cardiac intervention care. A bioresponsive arterial regulation chip capable of monitoring, adapting, and correcting blood flow autonomously. This technology has the potential to reduce secondary strokes, extend graft longevity, and fundamentally alter long-term recovery outcomes for cardiac patients.”
When the host finished with the introduction, you noticed that Cordon and Rhys were talking; in all probability, the senator was congratulating him, then he subtly gestured towards the podium and said, ‘All yours, doctor,’ and stepped aside.
Cordon turning to you, eyes bright with something rare and unguarded.
“Come on,” he said quietly, hand hovering at your back.
He stepped forward first, voice steady, confident. Then, without warning you, he turned slightly and gestured toward you.
“And I would like Dr Y/N Mira-Cordon to speak about the innovation itself.”
A ripple of applause followed you as you stepped forward. The microphone felt heavier than it should have.
You inhaled.
“This chip was born out of frustration,” you began, your voice clear despite the pounding in your chest. “Watching patients survive surgery only to return months later with preventable complications. We wanted something that didn’t just respond to crises but anticipated them.”
A schematic filled the screen. Clean lines. A rotating model of the microchip, no larger than a fingernail, designed to regulate arterial blood flow in real time. Data streams pulsed beside it, simulations showing pressure stabilization, reduced clot risk, adaptive response to irregular rhythms.
“It listens to the body. It learns. It corrects in real time. Not as a replacement for surgeons, but as an extension of our hands long after the operating room lights go dark.”
You spoke about accessibility. About ethical deployment. About why innovation had to serve people, not prestige.
And then it happened.
Your words slowed, then stopped entirely.
Because your eyes lifted.
Because the dark at the back of the hall was no longer empty.
He was there.
Choi Seungcheol sat half in shadow, the low light catching the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar stillness of him unmistakable even at a distance. His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable, unwavering.
Your heart stuttered.
Then slowed.
A strange, hollow quiet filled your chest, as if the room had tilted. And beneath it, unbidden and traitorous, a sharp, aching awareness bloomed low in your stomach, curling warm and heavy, grounding itself somewhere far more dangerous than thought.
You swallowed.
The microphone hummed softly in the silence you’d created.
Somewhere beside you, Cordon shifted, concern flickering across his face. The audience waited, unaware of the fracture running clean through the moment.
And Seungcheol did not look away.
You lifted your chin, adjusted your grip on the microphone, and continued as if you didn’t just feel a beat getting skipped at the wake of his presence. What is this feeling, and why now? But there will be more moments better than now to dwell on this. Your voice smoothing out, professional, composed. “Because medicine does not end when the incision closes. It follows the patient home. It follows them into sleep, into recovery, into the ordinary moments we too often take for granted.”
You shifted your weight subtly, willing yourself not to falter, not to let anyone see the tension threading through you.
You did not look at him again.
You couldn’t afford to.
“This chip”, you continued, gesturing to the screen behind you, “is about dignity. About giving patients autonomy over their own healing. About reducing fear—for them, and for their families.”
Applause rippled softly as you reached the end of your point, the room still with you, unaware of the internal battle you were fighting to remain present, untouched, unchanged.
You finished your speech with a practiced nod and stepped back beside Cordon, hands clasped tightly in front of you.
Only then did you allow yourself a single breath of relief.
Which, no doubt, will be short-lived now that your two worlds are about to collide.
You were just stepping down from the stage when Senator Rhys held out his hand. It was instinct, really—you smiled before thinking, placed your hand in his, and let yourself be guided out of the lights and back into the hum of the hall as people began to move again. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose. The orchestra shifted into something warm and familiar.
“Dr Y/N,” Rhys said, walking easily beside you, “James speaks very highly of your work. He mentioned how closely your team’s been involved in this project. I’m curious—how much of an impact has it made so far?”
You smiled, a little embarrassed, a little proud. “He gives us far too much credit,” you said. “We mostly supported him along the way. This has been his vision for nearly ten years.”
As you spoke, you didn’t notice the way Seungcheol had gone still across the room, the way his attention narrowed on you with almost frightening focus—like a line drawn straight through the noise and movement of the gala.
“But over the last two years,” you continued, “we’ve seen a seventy-eight percent improvement in survival rates for post–cardiac arrest patients. That’s… that’s what keeps us going. The hope is that we can take this further and make it something more hospitals can actually afford.”
Rhys listened, truly listened, his steps slowing as the edge of the dance floor came into view.
“That’s extraordinary,” he said. Then, with a soft chuckle, “Since we’re already here—would you humour an old man and dance?”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. “Senator, I should warn you—I have two left feet.”
He smiled, kind and unoffended. “That’s alright. I used to tell my daughters the same thing. Just relax. Let the music do the work. Let yourself be led.”
There was something unexpectedly gentle about the way he said it.
You hesitated only a moment before stepping into place, letting your hand settle where protocol dictated as the orchestra eased into the first full swell of sound. The floor felt warm beneath your shoes, the lights softer now, less demanding.
As you moved, careful but present, you felt it again—that low, distracting awareness, that sense of being seen too clearly. Your body responded before your thoughts could catch up, pulse fluttering somewhere deep and traitorous. The orchestra shifted into something warm and familiar.
The conversation flowed easily after that, settling into a rhythm that felt almost… comfortable.
“Y/N,” Rhys began, then paused, glancing at you with a polite hesitation. “Is it alright if I call you Y/N?”
You nodded. “Of course.”
He smiled and continued, “I can’t quite explain it, but I have this feeling I’ve seen you before. Your face—there’s something familiar about it.”
You let out a soft, confused laugh. “I’m not sure how that could be,” you said gently. “This is actually the first time we’re meeting.”
The shift in your expression was subtle—barely there—but it was enough.
Across the room, Seungcheol noticed.
He finished his drink in one unhurried swallow and reached for Selena, who had been mid-conversation with someone near the bar.
“Selena,” he said flatly, already pulling her toward the dance floor, “I want to dance.”
She blinked at him, startled. “Wow—chivalry really is dead,” she muttered, then glanced toward the orchestra. “This set’s almost over. We can join the next—”
He didn’t wait. They moved into the thinning crowd anyway, disappearing among the couples.
Back with you, Rhys tilted his head slightly. “Honestly,” he said, “you don’t resemble your father at all.”
You laughed this time, lighter. “Oh—Cordon is my adoptive father.”
Rhys nodded slowly, as if something unspoken clicked into place. “I see.”
He cleared his throat, his tone shifting, becoming more deliberate. “You seem like a very capable young woman, Y/N. With a promising future ahead of you.” He paused, eyes thoughtful. “I’m planning to open a hospital—in memory of my late daughter. I’ll need a strong team to lead it.”
Your brows knitted faintly.
“I’d value your opinion,” he continued. “Perhaps you could recommend some names. Especially for the director’s position.”
You looked at him, momentarily surprised, then smiled politely. “That’s a wonderful initiative, Senator. I’d be happy to pass the word along to my colleagues.”
You didn’t say more. Experience had taught you that sometimes, feigning ignorance—meeting implication with courtesy—was the sharpest form of control.
“Senator Rhys—” you began, intending to redirect the conversation.
But before you could finish, a familiar voice cut in beside you.
“Senator,” Cordon said warmly, already stepping into your space, “may I steal my daughter for a moment?”
He appeared with Rei-Anne at his side, smooth and practised, and just like that, the partners shifted. The dance resumed, the music swelling again, while Rhys stepped back—watchful, unreadable.
“Are you alright?” Cordon asked quietly, his hand steady at your back as you moved with the music. “You shouldn’t be on your feet for too long.”
You shook your head, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Really?”
He sighed, the sound fond and familiar. “Just… don’t engage with Rhys too much. He’s bad news.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corners as you fought a laugh.
“What?” Cordon asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“Nothing,” you said quickly. Then, softer, almost teasing, “So… you’re not mad at me anymore?”
Cordon glanced down at you, his expression shifting. “Oh, that?” he said. “I still am, young lady.” Then his voice gentled. “But tonight, I’m proud of you. We wouldn’t be standing here without you.”
“Oh, hush,” you brushed it off, embarrassed despite yourself.
The music slowed, settling into an easy rhythm that carried a strange sense of familiarity. It reminded you of being eighteen—of Cordon and Martha patiently teaching you how to slow dance for a school event, counting steps, laughing when you kept getting it wrong.
Without thinking, you leaned your head against his shoulder.
“Papa,” you murmured.
He hummed in response.
“Rhys was… sort of poaching me,” you added quietly. “For his new hospital.”
Cordon let out a warm, booming laugh. “Of course he was.”
You lifted your head to look at him—and that was when you noticed Jeonghan across the floor. He was watching the two of you, an unreadable softness in his expression. When your eyes met, he mouthed a small hi.
You returned it with a subtle smile.
And just like that, the heaviness crept back in.
That familiar weight settled in your chest, unwelcome and unresolved. You didn’t understand why it happened—why every time you looked at Jeonghan, guilt followed close behind, quiet but persistent.
As if you were already apologising for something you hadn’t yet named.
But before you could dwell on that feeling any longer, you felt a chill run down your spine without seeing it.
“May I have the next dance, Dr Y/N?”
With a woman in his arms and the pathetic smug expression – oh, you wish you could punch him in the face, for he is drawing unnecessary attention, which is not something he is worthy of; that is a given. One puzzle you’re unable to resolve is since when did he start looking so fit? The perfume is the same, with the tinge of amber, leather and tobacco.
Cordon’s grip was tightened on your hands and the shift in his demeanour was very evident – but Cordon knew better in all probability that if Seungcheol approached the two of you on the floor in any other setting, he would get a berating for the century. He just turned his face away.
Seungcheol's eyes were bored on you but right now you were having none of it.
“I am afraid, Director Choi, the set is near to its end; maybe the next one.”
Oh, the joy that for a microsecond, Choi Seungcheol’s smug expression faltered. His gaze sharpened, scanning you from your eyes to your toes.
“Sure, doctor, remember you owe me a dance.”
If looks could kill, there would be a person having a seizure on the dance floor at this very moment.
Selena couldn’t help but look at them confused as they moved away.
The real giddiness was evident in Cordon’s face – he pressed his lips on a thin line, muffling his laugh.
“What’s so funny?’
He shook his head. “Nothing, my girl.”
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“It was a little funny. Did you see his face?”
“Papa!”
“Haha, I am sorry – I just can’t help it.”
“How’s his father doing?” Cordon asked
“Well, he is adapting to the chip quiet well and the fear of the recurring stroke has fairly subsided – as the blood count is good, let’s hope that the second surgery goes well too.” You couldn’t help but sigh at the end of the sentence.
The set finally came to an end, and the relief hit you all at once. Your feet ached, your back felt tight, and there was a dull pressure building behind your temples. You found yourself scanning the room for the nearest empty chair.
Cordon noticed before you said a word. The slight scrunch between your brows was enough. He guided you back to your table with a steady hand and signalled a passing waiter for a glass of water. You drank it slowly, greedily, the coolness soothing your throat and grounding you just enough to breathe properly again.
That was when you saw him.
Seungcheol stood a few tables away, surrounded by men you recognised immediately. Board members of the Stanley, their wives perched neatly at their sides. He looked effortless among them, jacket perfectly tailored, posture relaxed in that way that always suggested control rather than ease.
But it wasn’t him that caught your attention.
It was her.
The woman he had danced with earlier stood close, far too close. Her hand moved along his back with familiarity, fingers tracing down his arm and then back up again, as if she belonged there. As if this was natural. As if it had happened countless times before.
Seungcheol didn’t stop her.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t step away, and didn’t even pretend not to notice.
Your jaw tightened before you could stop it. You drew in a slow breath, forcing your eyes away from him
'Get a grip,' you told yourself.
Which cell in your body is responsible for this ridiculous, unwarranted concern?
Why should you care if he lets himself be touched in public?
Why should it matter if, judging by her comfort, this clearly wasn’t the first time she’d been at his side?
You were still trying to reason your way out of it when you felt it. That prickle at the base of your neck. That instinctive awareness.
You looked up.
His eyes were already on you.
For a split second, something unreadable passed between you. Then, almost deliberately, Seungcheol took a step away from Selena. Not abrupt enough to draw attention, but clear enough that you noticed.
One of the men laughed and suggested a smoke.
Seungcheol took the opening.
You watched as he excused himself and followed them toward the exit, disappearing into the quieter corridor beyond the hall, leaving behind the music, the lights, and the woman who had just been touching him like she had every right to.
Drawing in a steady breath, your gaze drifted toward the spread of hors d'oeuvres laid out on the table. Without thinking too much about it, you reached for one. These days, hunger came on suddenly and without warning, sharp enough to make your hands move before your mind caught up. You really should schedule that check-up soon.
You were six weeks in, almost seven, well into the first trimester. Most days you stayed busy enough that you could pretend nothing had changed, that your body was still entirely your own. But then there were moments like this, quiet and unguarded, when awareness crept in. A subtle heaviness. A warmth. The undeniable sense of something shifting inside you.
A life growing.
The thought made your chest tighten, equal parts wonder and fear. Almost immediately, a dull ache followed low in your abdomen. Your hand moved there without permission, palm pressing lightly against your stomach as if instinct alone knew what to do.
“You might regret that.”
You startled slightly and looked up to find Jeonghan already seated in the chair across from you, having apparently appeared out of thin air the way he always did. He leaned back comfortably, eyes flicking briefly to the plate in your hand before returning to your face.
“I beg your pardon?” you asked, brows lifting as you tried to read his expression.
“This is your sixth piece,” Jeonghan said mildly, eyes flicking to your plate. “You might want to consider holding back.”
You didn’t even look at him as you replied, reaching for another bite. “Well, it’s between me and my cheese crostini, so please feel free to help yourself to one too.”
He clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed. “I’m just saying, these days you look a little…” He hesitated, searching for a safer word and failing. “Well fed.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt and reached for your glass of water, taking a long sip. If only he knew that for the last four weeks you’d been barely holding yourself together, retching over sinks and bathroom tiles, bargaining with your own stomach just to keep anything down. Oblivious as ever. You set the glass down and immediately reached for a mushroom quiche, pointedly.
“Hannie,” you said, biting into it, “you may be brilliant with bones, but tact is really not one of your strengths.”
“Of course,” he agreed easily, nodding as if this were a well-established fact. His gaze drifted across the room and he tilted his head slightly. “Look at the first-years.”
You followed where he pointed. A cluster of young interns hovered near a group of senior doctors, smiles too wide, posture too eager, each one trying to wedge themselves into conversations that clearly intimidated them.
“Remember when we used to walk around like puppies with Cordon?” he asked, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
“Speak for yourself,” you scoffed. “I never did that.”
“Oh yeah?” He raised a brow, clearly unconvinced.
“Yeah,” you said lightly. “I was only ever here for the dress and the drinks.”
He snorted. “Right. I forgot what a massive alcoholic you were. Especially that year you talked to the ice sculpture for fifteen minutes and almost picked a fight with the chairman of the NDS Group over the inflation of oxygen tanks.”
You paused, then smiled to yourself. “Those were the days.”
For a brief second, the noise of the gala faded, replaced by memory. Then, almost on cue, the two of you burst into laughter, unguarded and familiar
When the laughter finally faded, a quiet settled between the two of you. You felt it again, that familiar weight in your chest, creeping back now that the momentary distraction had passed.
Jeonghan was the one who broke the silence. He stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders before turning to you and holding out his hand.
“Come,” he said softly. “They’ll start the fireworks soon.”
You placed your napkin down and slipped your hand into his without hesitation, the gesture as natural as it had always been. There was no question in it, no uncertainty. Just the easy certainty of years spent side by side. Your best friend. Yoon Jeonghan.
As he looked at you, there was something steady in his gaze. Trust. Warmth. That quiet attentiveness he had always carried when it came to you. It made your chest ache in a different way this time. You wondered, briefly, if when every other door had closed, his would still remain open. If it always had been. If it always would be.
Walking through the opulent halls of the banquet, Jeonghan gently pulled you along, his fingers firm but careful around your hand. With every step, the noise of the gala softened. Laughter, clinking glasses, polite conversations all faded into a distant hum as he guided you toward a quiet, unassuming door tucked away behind tall marble columns.
“Come here,” he whispered, his voice low and warm, meant only for you.
He pushed the door open.
Cool night air rushed in first, brushing against your skin, carrying the faint echo of music drifting from inside. Beyond the threshold stretched a balcony that felt unreal in its beauty. Below, a still pond reflected the night sky so perfectly it was hard to tell where water ended and stars began. The moon hung low and luminous, its silver light spilling across a narrow, flower-lined path that curved gently toward the bank of the water. White blossoms trembled softly in the breeze, their petals glowing faintly, as if the entire scene had been painted by a careful, patient hand.
Jeonghan pulled you fully onto the balcony and closed the door behind you, sealing the quiet around the two of you. He turned to face you, eyes softer now, stripped of the public charm he wore so easily inside.
“Dance with me,” he asked.
You hesitated for only a second before nodding.
He placed one hand at your back, warm and familiar, the other finding yours with ease. There was no music out here except the distant orchestra bleeding through the walls, softened by air and space, but it was enough. You moved slowly, instinctively, letting him lead you across the stone floor. His steps were unhurried and careful, as if he was afraid to rush a moment that felt fragile in its perfection.
You swayed together beneath the open sky, the breeze tugging gently at your dress, loosening a few strands of hair from your updo. He spun you once, slow and playful, and you laughed softly as you came back into his arms.
“Y/N,” he said quietly, his forehead almost touching yours. “I have to tell you something.”
“So do I, Hannie,” you replied before you could stop yourself.
He smiled at that, a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes.
“It’s nice when you call me that.”
“Call you what?” you asked, pretending innocence.
“Hannie.”
You chuckled as he twirled you again, slower this time.
“Well, it might be better saved for non-professional settings.”
“I agree,” he said easily. “And I wouldn’t like other people picking up that nickname.”
“Yes,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze. “We wouldn’t want that.”
You looked at him then with quiet admiration. Time and again, he had been there. In ways big and small. Without asking. Without hesitation. And the reason was suddenly impossible to ignore. The realization sat heavy in your chest because you knew how little you felt you had to offer now, especially with everything you carried inside you. The future that once felt so carefully mapped now blurred at the edges, its certainty slipping through your fingers.
The breeze brushed against your skin, teasing the loose strands of hair that framed your face. You stared ahead, out at the water and the moonlit path, while his gaze stayed fixed on you. Minutes passed without either of you speaking, the silence comfortable, intimate, filled only with shared presence.
When you finally turned, you found him watching you.
“Hi,” he said, smiling softly.
“Hi,” you answered, a little embarrassed to be caught drifting again. You have been like this lately. Lost in thought more often than not. Lucy had told you it was normal. Your body is adjusting. Your mind is trying to keep up.
“The gala was mediocre as always,” you said quietly.
“Yeah,” Jeonghan nodded, rubbing at his eyebrow in a familiar nervous habit. He drew in a deep breath. “Y/N—”
“Hmm?” you hummed, waiting, heart quietly bracing itself for whatever came next.
“I wanted to talk to you about something… no,” he corrected himself softly, words tripping over each other. “I want to tell you something. About you. No—about me.”
He stopped, drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if steadying himself. “I want to tell you how I feel about you.”
“Jeonghan…” Your brows pulled together, instinctively bracing.
“No. Let me finish. Just once,” he said quickly, eyes searching yours. “Y/N.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Please.”
You didn’t respond. Instead, you straightened, stepping away from the balcony rail, giving him your full attention.
“Y/N, we’ve known each other since we were seven,” he began, a faint, nervous smile touching his lips. “Since you moved into that godforsaken building. You were nosy, annoying, and painfully stubborn.”
You both laughed at the same time, the sound soft and brief, easing the tightness in the air.
He continued, his voice steadier now. “Whenever my father used to beat my mother… or me… you were there. You shared your meals even when you and your mum barely had enough. Your generosity. Your passion. Your compassion.” He swallowed. “Your humour. All of it has been my anchor for all these years. And I can’t, in good conscience, pretend I didn’t fall for you.”
Your chest ached. Your eyes burnt. A shaky breath slipped past your lips.
Jeonghan stepped closer. Gently, carefully, he lifted your chin, as if afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. His touch was familiar and reverent all at once. He looked into your eyes like they held something sacred.
“Y/N, I like you,” he said quietly. Then again, firmer. “I like you. I liked you when we were eight. I liked you when we were sixteen. I liked you in med school, when you kissed me while you were drunk.” A breathless laugh escaped him. “And I like you now. To the point where I physically can’t keep this inside me anymore.”
“Oh, Jeonghan…” His name broke from your throat in a sob. Tears spill freely now, guilt and regret rushing through you all at once.
“Don’t cry, honey girl,” he murmured, cupping your face in both hands. His palms were warm and grounding. His thumbs brushed away your tears with tender patience. “Please.”
He leaned closer. You could feel the heat of his breath and hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat. His ears were flushed red, his eyes wide and earnest, watching your every reaction like he was afraid of hurting you.
“Jeonghan,” you whispered.
“Y/N,” he replied, lips hovering just short of yours. “Can I kiss you? I feel like I’ll die if I don’t.”
Your back pressed lightly against the railing. Slowly, you lifted your hand and rested your palm against his cheek.
And then you looked into his eyes and said it.
The sentence that would haunt both of you for the rest of your lives.
Your lips brushed his, barely there, as you whispered, steady but breaking, “Jeonghan, I’m pregnant.”
At that exact moment, the night exploded with sound. Fireworks burst across the sky with a deafening bang, orange and gold blazing overhead. The light reflected in Jeonghan’s eyes as he froze, the world shifting beneath his feet, everything before and after cleaved cleanly in two.
“Next,” the announcer called, her voice steady against the microphone, “Dr. Y/N Mira-Cordon.”
The operating theatre was unbearably bright, the overhead lights pouring down with clinical precision, illuminating every detail you could not afford to miss. The air was thick with the sharp tang of antiseptic, the silence broken only by the mechanical rhythm of the heart monitor—steady, fragile, alive.
“Dr. Mira-Cordon,” he said, “please raise your right hand.”
You lifted your hand, heart pounding—not from nerves alone, but from the gravity of the moment. Every step of training, every sleepless night, every sacrifice—it all seemed to settle in your chest at once.
“Now,” the Dean’s voice deepened, echoing slightly in the hushed auditorium, “repeat this pledge after me.”
You could feel every eye, each withholding an emotion, a weight of its own, the entire hospital was on their toes lines of security in black suits, a mistake and everything could run to the ground. You looked at the majestic Choi Siwon, and how he lay motionless beneath the sterile drapes, his chest rising faintly with the ventilator’s hiss. The anesthesiologist glanced at you, his eyes steady above his mask, and gave a firm nod.
“He’s ready.”
I Doctor Y/N Mira-Cordon, As a member of Baccalaureus Chirurgiae, I solemnly pledge.
You tightened your gloves, feeling the weight of responsibility settle into your bones. The scalpel was cold and thin in your hand, yet unbearably heavy. For one second too long, you stared at the man’s chest, at the life that balanced on your blade.
“Scalpel,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
The nurse pressed the instrument into your palm, and the first cut opened the sterile silence. Layer by layer, muscle and tissue parted, the body yielding to your practiced movements.
To dedicate my life to the service of humanity.
But the thought crept in. Quiet, poisonous. One slip, one hesitation—you could end it all right here. No one would know. The idea made your hand falter just slightly, your breath catch.
I will not permit considerations of age, disease or disability, creed, ethnic origin, gender, nationality, political affiliation, race, sexual orientation, social standing, personal emotions or any other factor to intervene between my duty and my patient.
“Doctor?” the intern asked softly, sensing the pause.
I will not use my medical knowledge to violate human rights and civil liberties, even under threat.
“Focus,” you muttered, pushing the darkness down. “Clamp.”
The nurse obeyed without hesitation. Your team moved in rhythm with you—passing instruments, calling out vitals, adjusting the field.
Then it happened.
The monitor shrieked with a broken rhythm. The heart stuttered, its fragile beat collapsing into chaos.
“Pressure dropping!”
“Epinephrine!” you barked, your composure cracking into urgency.
The syringe was in your hand within seconds. You injected, watching every nerve in your body tighten as the monitor hesitated… then caught. A rhythm returned, uneven at first, then building strength.
I , Doctor Y/N Mira- Cordon make take this pledge.”
The room exhaled together, but no one spoke. You carried on, hands steady now, as if anchored by that near-fatal reminder. You sutured with precision, restored the fragile order, and guided the heart back into rhythm.
At last, you tied the final stitch. The beeping on the monitor was steady, confident. Life had been reclaimed.
“Close him up,” you said, stepping back. Your gloves were damp with sweat. You hadn’t realized how hard you’d been gripping the instruments until you let them go.
The others moved in to finish. You stripped off your gloves, the air cool against your clammy hands.
“Good job, Doctor,” the anesthesiologist said, reaching over to shake your hand firmly.
“Well done,” another surgeon echoed, clapping your shoulder with quiet pride. The team, exhausted but relieved, exchanged brief nods. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe.
Then, instinctively, your eyes lifted toward the observation deck.
“Solemnly, freely, and upon my honour.”
Seungcheol's gaze was fixed solely on you—sharp, unreadable, yet searing in its intensity. You held it, feeling the weight of what had just happened, of what you had resisted, and of the life you had saved. You gave him a small, deliberate nod. Across the glass, his chin dipped in return, a gesture so slight and restrained, yet it carried the force of acknowledgement, of respect, of understanding.
With firm, deliberate steps you pushed through the doors of the operating theatre, the adrenaline that had kept you steady now draining from your veins. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, every breath sharp and shallow. You pressed your palm against your heart , rubbing frantically as though you could calm the pounding beneath your ribs.
The metallic clang of the surgical shower room door echoed as you shoved it open and slammed it shut behind you. The sound seemed to rattle in the silence. Hands trembling, you tore at the ties of your bloodied scrub and surgical gown, ripping the layers off with a rough, almost desperate urgency until the fabric clung half-loose to your body.
You stumbled beneath the high-pressure stream of the shower, the icy water crashing over your head and shoulders, soaking through your hair and the clothes you hadn’t yet managed to peel away. The spray drowned out the world outside, but it couldn’t silence the storm inside you.
Your knees buckled, strength slipping from your legs. You sank heavily onto the cold, tiled floor, the water running over you in relentless waves. Still half-dressed, drenched and trembling, you folded into yourself as the sobs broke free—raw, unrestrained, wrecking through the composure you had fought to hold inside the theatre.
Here, hidden beneath the hiss of water, no one could see the weight you carried.
Fresh scrubs clung clean against your skin, but your hair was still damp, droplets of water sliding down your neck and dripping onto your collar. If Cordon saw you like this, he would no doubt scold you for lacking decorum, for failing to uphold the strict, polished image he demanded. But tonight, you were past caring.
The corridor stretched before you, the hush of polished shoes on marble echoing with every step you took. Men in dark suits stood lined along the floor, each one with an intercom clipped neatly at the shoulder. As you passed, they bowed their heads, a wordless recognition that followed you like a shadow.
Fresh scrubs clung clean against your skin, but your hair was still damp, droplets of water sliding down your neck and dripping onto your collar. If Cordon saw you like this, he would no doubt scold you for lacking decorum, for failing to uphold the strict, polished image he demanded. But tonight, you were past caring.
The corridor stretched before you, the hush of polished shoes on marble echoing with every step you took. Men in dark suits stood lined along the floor, each one with an intercom clipped neatly at the shoulder. As you passed, they bowed their heads, a wordless recognition that followed you like a shadow.
your feet carried you forward until you reached the end of the hall.
There, outside Cordon’s room, stood Chan and Wonwoo. Their stillness alone was confirmation enough—the master was inside. The moment your presence registered, they stepped aside in unison, opening the way.
Before you could move past, they both bowed low. “Thank you, Doctor,” they said, their voices quiet but sincere.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t even glance their way. Instead, you pushed forward, crossing the threshold into Cordon’s room,
Cordon’s voice carried steadily through the room as you approached, the low timbre of his tone spilling into the hallway before you stepped inside.
“…the surgery stabilized him for now, but Mr. Choi’s condition is far from secure,” Cordon was saying. “There’s significant arterial damage. His heart will need another procedure—sooner rather than later—if we want him to stand a real chance at recovery.”
Seungcheol stood with his back to the door, broad shoulders squared, his posture rigid as if bracing against every word.
“But don’t worry,” Cordon continued, his tone softening into a polished reassurance. “He’s in the best of hands. Dr. Y/N is one of our finest surge—ah.”
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes flicking past Seungcheol to you.
You stood there, hair damp, water still dripping against the collar of your fresh scrubs. The air clung heavy with the faint scent of disinfectant and the sterile hush of the hospital, but Cordon’s gaze narrowed—not at your skill, but at your appearance. His eyes, once warm with praise, squinted sharply in disapproval. Still, with Seungcheol in the room, he swallowed whatever reprimand he wanted to unleash.
“Dr. Y/N,” he said instead, his voice clipped, the edge of curtness slicing through the air. “We were just talking about you.”
You met his stare without faltering. “Dr. Cordon,” you said evenly, though your voice carried the weight of exhaustion and something sharper beneath it. “I’d like to have a word with you.”
The silence that followed was immediate and thick.
“In private”
Cordon’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face before instinctively darting toward Seungcheol, as if the man’s back could dictate the next move, the next word, the next consequence.
Seungcheol didn’t move at first. He stood in front of the window, his reflection faint in the glass, hands folded loosely behind him. But his eyes—his eyes were on you. Watching your reflection. Studying. And as the seconds stretched, you could almost feel him fitting the pieces together.
So he hadn’t been wrong. Your hands had hesitated. He knew it.
Slowly, deliberately, Seungcheol turned. The weight of his gaze anchored you in place as he walked toward you, each step measured and unhurried, until only four steps remained between you.
“Excuse me…” he said at last, his voice calm and steady, but his gaze flickered and he took you in from head to toe. It had been three days since you last saw him – his eyes looked slightly sunken and his face wasn’t shaved.
You stepped aside from the door.
Your hands were at your side.
Seungcheol took his out from his pocket
His signet ring on his index finger was gleaming when it caught the reflection of the sunlight.
For some reason, you find yourself more and more aware of his gaze, his perfume and his shoulders, which almost brushed, your hands just a breath away – in that one second everything was slowed, and then before you could realise the breath was back which you didn't even realise you were holding in.
The door shut behind you with a sharp click, the sound reverberating in the stillness of the room. Cordon’s gaze lifted from his desk, those all-knowing eyes locking on yours. It was as though he looked straight through your composure, straight into the turmoil you were carrying.
“What’s going on?” he asked quietly, though the firmness in his tone left little room for evasion. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room with measured steps until he was standing directly before you.
You drew in a shaky breath, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I can’t continue with this case,” you said, forcing the words out. “Please… give it to Khan, or anyone else you deem best.”
“But you are my best,” Cordon cut in, his voice sharper, almost impatient.
Your eyes shut tight as if the words themselves struck too close. You shook your head, whispering, “No… I’m not.”
For a moment, silence pressed between you. When he spoke again, his voice had softened, carrying not reprimand but something closer to concern. “Y/N,” he said, “what’s going on? Tell me truly—because you’ve been acting so out of character. You’re not staying in your flat anymore. A strange car picks you up and drops you off… the same one you brought Choi Siwon in. Do you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Your head snapped up at that, meeting his eyes with a jolt of panic. The weight in your throat made it hard to breathe, let alone speak. Words tangled there, caught between confession and denial.
But Cordon didn’t give you the chance. He stepped closer, his tone threading with a mixture of weariness and care. “I may not have been part of the first fifteen years of your life,” he said, “but I was for the other fifteen. And honestly, love—I don’t know what says but according to the state law I am your father” his mouth curved into a bitter, knowing smile, “you’ve never had the skills to be a liar.”
Your breath came unevenly, heaving as though each inhale snapped another string already fraying under the weight of everything that had led to this moment.
“Cordon—” The word broke out of you on a sob, raw and trembling.
Before you could crumble entirely, his arms closed around you, pulling you against him with a firm, protective embrace. His scent—antiseptic and faint cologne—was achingly familiar, steady in a world that felt anything but.
“It’s alright, honey girl,” he murmured into your hair, his voice soft, unshakable. “I’m here for you.”
The door shut with a soft click, and though doubt clawed at his chest, Seungcheol couldn’t bring himself to question you. His throat burned, his veins ached for smoke.
Seungcheol only nodded and kept moving toward the exit, his silence heavy enough to end the conversation. He slipped a cigarette between his lips, fingers patting for a lighter that wasn’t there. Chan was already a step ahead—he flicked his own and held the flame steady before him.
Seungcheol leaned in, drew deep, and exhaled, watching the smoke unravel into the evening sky. The night was cool, but the air inside him was hotter, harsher.
All his thoughts kept drifting back—three days ago.
If Seungcheol had known how brutally this would backfire, he might never have staged it in the first place. All he had wanted was to take a strike at Jaein before the city port union leader election. Finding Jaein’s mole inside the mansion hadn’t been difficult, and buying his loyalty had been even easier. People always had a price—though not always measured in money.
For some, it was pride.
For others, women.
And for a few, it was family.
Seungcheol had crafted a plan around that truth, weaving it into something sinister. He made sure that even if nothing concrete happened, exaggerated rumors would still reach Jaein’s ears, tormenting him day and night with the thought that his most precious daughter was tangled in it.
But now, watching her—watching what the fallout had done—Seungcheol felt the edges of his own design cutting back into him. The guilt clawed at his insides, gnawed bitterly at the corner of his mouth until he bit down hard, as though the sting might keep the turmoil inside him from spilling out.
His gaze drifted to the window, where barren trees shed their last withered leaves. And as he stared at their quiet surrender to the wind, he wondered if he had already gone too far.
He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply until the burn settled in his chest. The smoke curled upward in thin, restless spirals, disappearing into the night sky. His jaw tightened, and under his breath, barely audible, he let the word slip out with the smoke—
“Fuck.”
Seungcheol couldn’t bring himself to move from your bedside. Why did it matter to him now? He had gotten what he wanted—he’d located Jae-in’s youngest son, even dragged Jae-in himself out of his den. That should have been enough. Yet this new, unfamiliar feeling gnawed at him in the dark, something he refused to name but could no longer ignore.
It was protectiveness. That’s what it felt like as he sat there, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. You had kicked the blanket down again, so he rose quietly, pulling it back over you with a care he didn’t think he was capable of. He was about to draw his hand away when your fingers unconsciously caught his.
His head shot up, panic flashing across his face, only to find your eyes still shut, your brows furrowed tight. A faint whisper slipped past your lips, fragile and pleading:
“Don’t—don’t leave me. Please, Mom… please.”
Seungcheol’s throat constricted. Did he have any right to this—to comfort you, when he was the reason you were in this position at all?
Still, his hand closed around yours, firm and steady, as his other brushed through your hair. “I’m right here,” he murmured, almost a vow. “I won’t go anywhere. I’m right here with you.”
A single tear escaped from the corner of your eye, tracing down your cheek even in sleep. He caught it with his thumb before it could fall.
And for the first time in years, Seungcheol felt the weight of something heavier than his own sins pressing against his chest.
With a resolve heavy in his chest, Seungcheol knew he had to draw lines—facts first, distance second. That resolve carried him into the garden where his father sat, the morning sun spilling over the edges of a neatly folded newspaper.
“Morning, Father,” Seungcheol greeted.
Siwon didn’t look up. He turned a page, calm as ever, and only after a deliberate pause did he answer, “Morning, son.”
The silence stretched, taut. When at last Siwon’s eyes lifted, they scanned his son’s untucked shirt, the stubble shadowing his jaw. A faint flicker of disapproval crossed his features.
“Your mother told me what happened last night,” Siwon said, folding the paper and setting it neatly on the table. His tone carried weight, finality. “I trust both the child and the mother are well.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. “They are—for now. But I don’t want what happened yesterday repeated. Tell Mother the same. She is my wife, and she carries the heir of the Choi family. If any disrespect befalls her, I will take it as a strike against me personally.”
Siwon’s brow arched, though his composure never faltered. Seungcheol pressed on.
“I’ll be in Japan for three days. In that time—”
“Enough.” Siwon’s voice cut like a blade. “I know where you’re coming from, but threatening your father at eight in the morning will not end well for you.” He leaned back, gaze piercing. “You’re getting too attached. It is my mercy that I won’t kill that girl after the child is born. Step back. Get your business in order. If you bring me proof to justify your suspicion, I won’t stand in your way. Until then, I promise nothing.”
A dull ache throbbed at Seungcheol’s temple. He forced the words through clenched teeth.
“I’ll be in Japan for a week.”
The cigarette burned low between his fingers, its ash threatening to fall. How could he have missed the signs? The wrinkles deepening on his father’s face, the pale tint of his lips, the way he kept shifting his left shoulder as if hiding the pain. Seungcheol wasn’t ready to lose his father—not so soon after losing his brother.
The corridor was quiet, too quiet. Only Chan stood a few meters away, posture tense, while Wonwoo lingered near Dr. Cordon’s door. Seungcheol’s thoughts were so heavy he didn’t notice the footsteps—until a hand clamped his shoulder and yanked him back by his coat.
“YOU PATHETIC, SPINELESS BASTARD!”
Dr. Cordon’s voice cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
“Cordon—no!” You stumbled out of the doorway, panic sharp in your tone.
Chan’s eyes widened. He and Wonwoo surged forward, but Cordon was faster, shoving Seungcheol hard against the wall.
“How DARE you—” his voice thundered, every word weighted with years of restrained fury. “How dare you and your father treat my daughter like she’s nothing! Nothing but a pawn in your pathetic gain and your irrelevant blood politics!”
“HOW DARE YOU REDUCE HER TO NOTHING MORE THAN A VESSEL!”
Cordon’s voice boomed through the empty corridor, echoing off the walls. Wonwoo lunged forward, trying to restrain him, but Cordon only fought harder, eyes burning with rage.
“I knew you people were wretched to your core,” he spat, his grip crushing Seungcheol’s coat, “but this—this is downright dehumanising. Do you think that just because you and your father hoard power and money, you can bend lives to your will? Treat anyone however your rotten hearts desire?”
You rushed forward, grabbing Cordon’s arm. “Cordon, please—I told you—”
But the flame of his fury turned on you in an instant.
“Y/N!” His voice cracked with betrayal. “DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT I THINK! How could you let yourself be caught in this? Was I dead to you? Couldn’t you call me?”
Seungcheol’s jaw locked, the fury finally snapping. He shoved Cordon off with brute force, sending the older man staggering back. You rushed to catch him, your hands steadying him before he could hit the ground.
“Who the fuck do you think you are,” Seungcheol hissed, stepping forward, his voice low but laced with venom, “to nose yourself into mine and my wife’s business?”
There was a raw humiliation clawing inside him. For all his power, all the weight of his name, here was this man — your adoptive father — daring to grab him, to spit fire in his face. And worse, he had done it with more backbone than Seungcheol had ever seen from your real father, a man equally drenched in influence.
His hand moved, deliberate, sliding into the inside of his coat. The metallic glint of the holster caught Chan’s sharp eyes, Wonwoo tense at his side.
“Take that father act down a notch,” Seungcheol sneered. “Do you even know what I do to people?”
The words weren’t just a threat — they were a promise.
But before he could draw, you shoved yourself between them, palms pressed hard against his chest. Your eyes, usually soft, were steel now — unwavering, burning with determination.
“We had a deal,” you said firmly, your voice cutting through the storm.
“You promised me you wouldn’t harm my people,” you said, voice trembling but steady, every word nailed into the tension between you.
Seungcheol’s teeth ground together, anger coiling hot in his chest. He crouched down to your level, his face close enough that you could feel the storm radiating from him.
“Well, one of your people is getting on my last nerve,” he spat, his tone sharp as a blade. “What do you want me to do? Play the son-in-law in front of your adoptive father, scrambling to win his approval?”
Your nose wrinkled, disgust contorting your face. “That’s the last thing I expect from you.”
He let out a low, bitter laugh that wasn’t amusement at all. “Well, Matilda, if you fucking know me so well, then why didn’t you keep your little mouth shut?”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Cordon snapped, his voice booming like a crack in stone.
Seungcheol’s head tilted slowly, his glare cutting across to him. “Doctor,” he drawled, venom dripping off every syllable, “don’t you have somewhere to be—six feet under, specifically? You already look like you’re two feet in.”
The air stilled, thick with the weight of the insult. Wonwoo shifted uneasily, Chan’s hand twitched closer to his weapon.
“Why don’t you go there first? It would be for the best.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. The moment they left your lips, the air seemed to constrict around you, thick and suffocating. Wonwoo and Chan froze, their eyes darting between you and Seungcheol, and even Cordon’s posture stiffened, the weight of your voice pressing down like a physical force.
Seungcheol glanced at you, his expression unreadable, and then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the corridor.
You followed his retreating back with your eyes, heart hammering, as Wonwoo took off after him. Only you, Chan, and Cordon remained, the silence heavy and tense.
You turned to Cordon, voice quieter but firm.
“I will call my lawyers. And the cops,” he said, his usual control strained, an edge tight in every word.
Chan scoffed softly beside you, but you didn’t respond. Instead, you fixed your gaze on Cordon.
“Cordon, please… I am far to in to go back now… This is my battle; let me fight on my own. I cannot lose you too.”
“Y/n…..”
“Papa, please.”
Cordon , letting the faint weight of your words settle. It was so rare—seldom—that you called him “papa,” especially here in the hospital.
He pressed his hands to his hips, the familiar tension settling into his posture.
“I don’t like your husband,” he said bluntly
You couldn’t help but laugh at the irony, the sound breaking through the heaviness of the moment. It was sharp, short, and almost incredulous—like laughing at a storm while still standing in the rain.
Even Cordon’s stern expression softened for a fraction of a second, just enough for you to see the reluctant warmth behind his words.
Raon couldn’t tell if it was day or night anymore, or how many days had bled into each other. What he did know—what he was certain of—was who had to be behind this.
At first, it had felt like punishment. But as the days passed, he found himself settling into a strange rhythm, almost a routine. Away from his father’s cold, disapproving gaze. Away from his mother’s endless nagging and complaints. For three months, he had lived in a space that, oddly enough, felt like a sliver of liberation.
Until the night they came for him.
Dragged from his bed by the collar, he hadn’t even had time to curse before the weight of it all settled in: these Choi bastards. That was all his teeth could grind against, the only thought anchoring his fury.
And yet—no blows had landed on him. Not yet. For all of Seungcheol’s notorious temper, he had been left untouched. The thought gnawed at him more than any bruise could have.
Then, the door groaned open with a long, deliberate creak.
Since his eyes were bound and his hands tied, every sound scraped sharper against his nerves, his senses straining in the dark.
“Who is it?” His voice cracked with impatience, the kind that came from fear he refused to show.
Nothing answered him, only the steady rhythm of boots—two of them, measured, deliberate.
“Speak, you bastard!” he barked, thrashing uselessly against his restraints.
Silence.
Then the slow grind of wood against concrete—the sound of a chair being dragged. It stopped directly in front of him. He could feel the shift in the air as someone sat, close enough that Raon imagined their breath might touch his skin.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. He forced a laugh, though his throat was dry. “So this is how it goes, huh? You’ll scare me with silence?”
Finally, the voice came, smooth but cutting through the air like a blade.
“Isn’t our little one a little jumpy?”
Every ounce of fight drained out of Raon’s body at once. His breath hitched, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Choi.
Fucking.
Seungcheol.
The silence that followed was worse than any shout. Raon’s ears rang with it, his pulse hammering in his throat. He tried to sit straighter, to mask the sudden trembling in his hands bound behind the chair.
“What do you want?” he forced out, though the quiver in his voice betrayed him.
Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. He only shifted slightly in the chair opposite him,Seungcheol looked at him for a full minute, unblinking, the silence more suffocating than any threat could be. He let his gaze linger, studying every twitch, every flinch, every futile attempt Raon made to appear unfazed.
Compared to Ryan—who carried the soft features of his mother—Raon was different. Those eyes… those damned eyes.
Jae-in’s eyes.
Sharp, dark, defiant.
And yet—worse than that—they were also yours. The same shape, the same quiet burn hidden behind fear.
Seungcheol’s jaw flexed as something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. It irked him, no, it infuriated him, that he couldn’t just raise his hand and shatter Raon’s face into submission the way his bloodline deserved. Because those eyes weren’t only Jae-in’s. They were yours. And hurting them would be like hurting you.
So instead, he leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees, letting the tension choke the room. His voice came low, deliberate.
“Did you and your father really think you could hide from me?” Seungcheol’s voice was smooth, almost mocking, as his gaze raked over the boy—barely twenty-one, still too green to understand the weight of what he’d stumbled into.
“Where were you that night when my brother was killed?”
Raon shifted against the bindings, the rope digging deeper into his wrists. His lip curled, and through clenched teeth he spat, “With your mom, you sock fucker.”
The words hadn’t even settled in the air before crack—Mingyu’s fist slammed across his jaw, the chair beneath Raon rocking dangerously as blood sprayed against the floor.
Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Instead, the corner of his mouth tugged upward, forming a smirk that carried no humor. He tilted his head toward Mingyu, voice low but sharp as glass.
“Don’t touch the face,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair as if he had all the time in the world. “That’s all the pretty boy has to offer anyway.”
Raon’s chest heaved, blood dripping from his mouth, his defiance dimming but not gone. The insult had landed its mark, but the smirk on Seungcheol’s face made it clear—he was in control, and Raon’s fight only amused him.
“Listen here min's wasted release, I know you don't have the ball to pull off something like this, so tell me who all are there with you.”
Roan groaned, his voice breaking with frustration.
“And how many times WILL I HAVE TO FUCKING TELL YOU—I WAS AT HOME WITH AN INJURED FEET. AND I AM NOT THE LIKES OF YOU GUYS, YOU DRAG CHILDREN AND WOMEN!” he screamed.
Mingyu’s fist slammed into his stomach, the impact knocking the air out of him and sending him crashing down with the chair still tied to him.
“There is no way to talk to your elders,” Mingyu muttered.
Roan coughed blood, but still managed to sneer with a mocking tone.
“Why, your master got offended? Listen here you fuckers—we have nothing to do with your brother’s death. And if you're that keen on finding the truth, then why don't you look into yourselves and see how many snakes you've been raising?”
Seungcheol rose from the chair, his silence heavier than the threat in his voice. Mingyu pulled his leg back, ready to kick again, but Seungcheol’s voice cut sharp.
“Easy.”
He walked toward the door, trying to ground himself after what happened with Cordon, you, and him. The taste of that clash still lingered bitter on his tongue—until Raon’s voice stopped him.
“Wait till my father hears about this.”
Seungcheol raised his brows, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He glanced at Mingyu, and the two shared a mocking laugh.
“Your father won’t do shit, pretty boy. After all, I am his son-in-law.”
Raon’s face twisted in confusion, his brows scrunching.
“You married Rayn? Well I always thought you were gay.”
Seungcheol’s steps echoed as he walked back to where Raon lay. He pressed his shoe down hard on Raon’s hand, drawing out a loud, raw scream.
“No, you dense fucker. I am married to your sister,” Seungcheol said, his teeth gritted.
Raon’s breath came in ragged gasps, his expression torn between pain and disbelief.
“I don’t have a sister.”
Seungcheol leaned down, his voice low and cutting as he pressed his heel harder against Raon’s hand.
“Oh, you do. Ask your father when you get a chance.”
The words hung heavy in the air, cruel and deliberate. Raon’s eyes widened—not just from the pain, but from the way Seungcheol spoke with the certainty of someone holding a truth too dangerous to ignore.
Mingyu smirked at the sight, but Seungcheol didn’t linger. He lifted his foot and straightened his coat, turning toward the door as though Raon’s cries were nothing but background noise.Seungcheol stepped out of the room, slipping a cigarette from his case. The flame flickered, catching the tip, and smoke curled lazily into the air as he drew a long drag. A minute later, Mingyu joined him, his broad frame leaning against the wall as he lit one of his own.
“I told you to go easy on him,” Seungcheol muttered, eyes still fixed on the night sky.
Mingyu exhaled a sharp stream of smoke, scoffing. “Couldn’t. Fucker’s bullet almost killed me.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint crackle of burning tobacco. They smoked side by side, neither in a hurry to fill the pause.
Finally, Mingyu broke it. “Now what?”
Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. He kept his gaze upward, watching the smoke twist into the dark, only speaking once the cigarette burned down near the filter. “If what Monica brought us—and what this little spawn swears—is true, then it’s time we stop looking outside. The rot’s inside. Wouldn’t be the first time for Rhys, now would it?”
Mingyu frowned, the cigarette balanced between his fingers. “But his own daughter?”
Seungcheol only shrugged, as if the thought didn’t sting him the way it should have. He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, his smirk faint but deliberate.
“So,” Mingyu asked, “what’s the next move?”
“We go to the hospital to pick up my wife and visit my father,” Seungcheol replied smoothly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then his lips curled into a sharper grin. “ after that… I’ve got a gala in two days. A lot of important people will be there.”
End of Chapter 16
Extra
The day slipped by faster than you expected, hours bleeding into each other until the hospital halls fell quiet. You hadn’t seen or heard from Seungcheol since your clash earlier that morning. A part of you was relieved—it was easier to breathe without his presence pressing against your thoughts. Still, work had piled up in the two days you’d been distracted, and you felt the weight of every missed task.
You caught yourself biting the inside of your cheek, tension winding through your jaw. You’d asked Cordon to hand the case over to Amer, but he had shut you down immediately. “If this goes out,” he had said, his voice firm. You knew exactly what he meant. Word about your hesitation—or worse, your failure—could spread like wildfire. And that was the last thing you wanted, not just for your career, but for the fragile secret you carried within you.
Baby. The word caught you off guard every time it slipped into your thoughts. Your hand brushed against your stomach almost unconsciously. The nausea had been mercifully quiet today, and Anita’s advice had proven true—if you kept nibbling, the queasiness stayed at bay.
You made your way toward Mr. Choi’s room, the steady beep of the cardiac monitor greeting you before you even stepped inside. The soft glow of the machines illuminated the wires carefully taped along his chest and arms, each pulse and rhythm of the monitor a fragile tether between him and life. His skin was pale, tinged with that grey exhaustion that always followed major heart surgery. His lips were dry, and faint bruising lingered along his wrists from the IVs.
Anita had been sitting by his side for most of the evening, her posture rigid with worry. You guessed Mr. Hwang had finally convinced her to go home and rest—her absence now made the room feel larger, emptier.
If your experience and calculations were correct, he should still be asleep. His vitals suggested stability, but another surgery loomed just two days away. Quietly, you slipped inside the dim room, the hush of the machines wrapping around you like a blanket. You busied yourself with the monitors, checking every reading, adjusting what Amer should have managed before falling victim to food poisoning courtesy of a vending machine sandwich.
“Annie told me what you did.”
The sudden voice in the stillness made you jolt. “Fuck!” The sharp yelp slipped out before you could stop yourself.
On the bed, Mr. Choi’s lips tugged upward ever so slightly, clearly amused by your startled reaction. But he didn’t linger on it. Instead, his voice softened as he continued, “I want to thank you.”
You cleared your throat, forcing your composure back. “All I did was my duty.”
“I heard you played a big part in this invention,” he added, his eyes half-lidded, heavy with fatigue yet sharp with intent.
You said nothing, unwilling to bite at the hook, and instead asked in a professional tone, “Are you feeling any discomfort anywhere? It’s alright, you can tell me.”
A beat of silence stretched before he admitted, “I am unable to feel my legs and hands.”
You immediately jotted it down in your chart, careful not to let your expression betray the weight of his words. His voice, however, shifted direction without warning.
“I heard you and Seungcheol had a fight.”
Your pen froze mid-word. You didn’t answer.
He pressed further. “Your father—”
You cut in quickly, your tone firmer than you intended. “I would appreciate if we keep things professional.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes, but he let it go. “You’re nominated for the Stanley Grant?”
“Yes,” you replied simply, focusing on administering the dose of medicine through his channel. His breathing slowed, consciousness slipping away like sand through fingers.
Just before sleep claimed him fully, he mumbled, words thick and blurred. “You have always been a brilliant child.”
Your brows knit tightly together, confusion flashing across your face. His last words lodged themselves in your chest.
Your mind couldn’t shake his last words. They echoed in your head as you left the room, your brows still drawn together in thought.
Outside, leaning casually against the wall, was a familiar face.
“Hi, stranger,” Jeonghan said with that disarming smile of his.
“Hannie,” you sighed, some of the tension in your shoulders easing. Together, the two of you fell into step, heading toward the elevators.
“You okay? You look a little pale,” he asked as he pressed the G button.
“Yeah.” You nodded, though the word felt heavy. “Just tired, that’s all.”
Jeonghan gave you a sidelong glance, unconvinced but unwilling to press. “Fair enough. Well—Cordon told me your team’s nominated for the Stanley Grant. Phew, man,” he said, half-boasting, half-proud.
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, rolling your eyes at his tone. “It’s nothing like that. I just… I just hope everything goes well on Saturday.”
He grew quiet for a beat, the silence stretching until the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. You both stepped out.
“So…” he started, hesitation in his voice, “any dates lined up for Saturday?”
The corner of your mouth twitched. “Not really. Just what we usually do. I know you’ve got your own invites and everything, but at least it won’t be utterly boring with you there.” You gave him a small, sideways smile as you approached the waiting black car.
Chan was already in the front seat, Jeonghan lingered just a step behind you. You opened the car door, not yet sliding inside, the night air brushing against your hair as you hesitated.
Not even noticing anything around you, you kept talking with Jeonghan.
“Sure, I’ll pick—”
“No!” you cut him off a little too quickly.
His eyes widened in surprise.
You scrambled to correct yourself, words tumbling out. “No, I mean… I’ll reach there myself.”
Jeonghan pressed his lips into a thin line, quiet for a moment before nodding. He reached out and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“There’s something different about you,” he said. “You look more tired, more distracted. Zoned out, even. I went by your apartment the other night, but you weren’t there.”
You didn’t answer that. Instead, he cleared his throat and asked with an awkward little smile, “Come with me to the Stanley gala. As my date.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard, a moment passed you were still standing with the car door open waiting to slid inside, drawing in and followed by an awkward chuckle, “Hannie for the last 15 years you’ve been my plus one to everything, what makes you think anything will change”
Jeomghan waited a beat and voiced, “I don’t know, Y/N, I feel like something has changed; it’s just—it’s nothing. Has anything changed, right?”
“Hannie…”
“You know what, forget it; it’s just the tiredness talking. Good night, Y/N. See you tomorrow.”
You slid into the black car, relieved to finally have a moment alone, still unaware of the presence camouflaged in the seat next to you, staring outside of the window, seeing Jeonghan walking back inside the hospital.
“Hannie, huh?”
“FUCK!” You jumped, hand flying to your chest. Your heart nearly stopped at the sudden voice. Seungcheol’s voice.
How the hell had you not noticed him? He was sitting right there, blending in with the black leather seats, dressed in the same shade of darkness.
“What the hell, Director Choi—” you snapped, still catching your breath. What the hell is wrong with you both father and son, you wanted to spit out, but bit your tongue.
He leaned back, voice deceptively calm. “Why don’t you call me by my name?”
“I do. Director Choi.”
“Director Choi is not my name.”
“Is it not? Couldn’t have guessed.”
From the front seat came a barely contained snort, Chan’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
“So,” Seungcheol drawled, “how’s Father now?”
“Cordon’s pissed,” you replied sharply. “Best if you steer clear of his path.”
“I wasn’t talking about him.” His voice softened, then paused as if something caught in his throat. “I meant my father. Anyway… are you sure you want to be eating that?”
You followed his gaze down to the lollipop in your hand and raised a brow. “Everything looks good. Once we install the chip, he’ll function normally by next Monday. And there’s nothing wrong with these.” You waved the Chupa Chup like evidence.
He scoffed. “It’s nasty.”
“Would you rather I puke in your seat? Because I’ll gladly do it.”
That earned the faintest curve of his lips. “If you wish, I’ll just shove your face outside the window.”
“No, you won’t.” Over 7 trillion nerves are there in a human body and this man always manages to get on your right ones.
The car moved along, with occasional quips and remarks but mostly silence when the same line of forest and trees filled in the vision, when he said.
“Come with me.”
You froze mid-munch of the Sour Patch and turned to look at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Excuse me?”
“To the gala,” he clarified, watching you closely.
You barked out a laugh. “Why can’t you afford to hire one of your little favorites to keep you company at boring events?”
“Why should I,” he countered smoothly, “when I already have an unpaid one?”
“Funny.”
“Hilarious.”
“No. I can’t. I already have a date.”
“Who?”
“None of your business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, wife.” His voice dropped low, almost a murmur, but it carried that quiet authority that made your stomach tighten. “Everything you do is very much my business.”
Your face twisted into a sour expression, half disbelief, half defiance.
The car rolled to a slow stop in front of both of your wing. You didn’t look at him when you said, “Not for long, Director Choi. You can control the situation, but you don’t determine my fate.”
The door clicked open, the cool air spilling in. You stepped out before he could say another word.
Inside the car, Seungcheol leaned back, one arm over the seat, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched you walk away.
“Now that was some Shakespeare shit,” Chan muttered with a chuckle, eyes glued to his phone, doing a poor job of hiding his grin.
“I beg your pardon?” Seungcheol’s voice was calm, low—too calm.
“Oh, this thing,” Chan said quickly, flashing his screen as if that would save him. “The media caught these two co-stars dating.”
“Uh-huh? Is that so?” Seungcheol leaned back, the faintest edge curling his tone. “Chan, is your head feeling too heavy for your shoulders?”
Chan’s grin faltered instantly. “No, boss,” he said, already straightening up in his seat. “But if you’ll excuse me, I, uh… have to pick up Rocky and Laila from daycare.”
Seungcheol hummed, the sound low and almost amused—but his eyes stayed cold. “Good,” he said, pushing open the door slightly. “Make sure to lose that dog along the way.”
Cha;n blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t think Doc will like that very much,” he said carefully, glancing at him through the rearview mirror.
Seungcheol just shook his head, a faint scoff escaping as he stepped out of the car. “Go,” he ordered, gesturing with a flick of his hand.
“Yes, boss,” Chan replied quietly, and without another word, drove off into the night.
A/N: I love you guys so much thank you for the kind messages, I will try to set a scheduel but I will make no promises. Enjoy and let me know your thoughts.
Seungcheol stood by your bedside, his hand hovering near yours as the doctor inserted the IV line. The faint click of the needle sliding into place was followed by a sigh.
“It looks like she’s under a lot of stress,” the doctor murmured, glancing at the report in his hand before passing it back.
On the sofa by the wall, Anita sat perfectly still, her eyes fixed on you. Your face was ghostly pale, lips drained of colour, hands fragile and dry against the sheets, and your hair falling in disarray.
“In a situation like this, stress is the last thing we would want for both of them,” the doctor added. He gestured for assistance, and Seungcheol—lost in the storm of his thoughts—snapped back at the sound of his voice.
“If you could help me, please,” the doctor urged. Together, they turned you gently onto your left side.
“This position helps with blood flow.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his hand brushing over your wrist as if reassuring himself that your pulse still beat steady beneath the skin. Your voice, your words, were playing on repeat, making him feel like a pawn in his own game.
When your breathing finally eased into a calmer rhythm, the doctor straightened and walked over to Anita. His voice softened.
“Although both mother and child are safe, I would still recommend she takes a few days of absolute rest. Her diet is crucial. Pregnancy invades and reshapes every part of the body, every part of life. As you know better than anyone, Anita, babies are made cell by cell. That delicate process needs the utmost care and consideration.”
Anita’s chest rose in a slow breath. “I see,” she whispered, her gaze never leaving you.
The doctor glanced from you to Seungcheol, narrowing his eyes as if trying to place a memory.
“But who is she? She looks familiar. Judging from her outfit… is she a doctor?”
“Yes, she is a doctor. Actually, she’s my—”
“She is our guest,” Anita’s voice cut through like a blade, calm but firm, before her son could finish.
The doctor, who had been serving the Chois on call for nearly three decades, knew well enough when to step aside. He caught the sharp exchange of looks—the youngest Choi holding his tongue under his mother’s gaze—and cleared his throat.
“Well then… I’ll leave her in your care.” He gave a short bow before excusing himself from the room.
The silence that followed pressed heavily against the walls. Only the faint hiss of the IV drip filled the space.
Seungcheol turned to his mother, jaw clenched. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Anita’s voice was calm but edged with warning as she began to step toward the door. This was one of the guest rooms, quiet and intimate, yet heavy with unspoken tension.
“You know what,” Seungcheol said, his voice low but firm, watching her back.
“Cheolie, I would advise you not to get too caught up with this girl. I’ve heard about her, and trust me—her history has been… complicated. So, as soon as this child is born, make sure you take care of her departure.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. “I am well aware of her past, Mother. Your intel—where their knowledge ends, mine already surpasses it. Trust me, nothing escapes me.”
Anita paused in the doorway, her shadow falling across the floor, before saying, “Good. Then be wise, and do the needful. You are the heir now.”
“I think I can decide for myself,” he said, stepping slightly closer, his tone steady but threaded with restraint. “I have done what’s best. At Father’s command, I married her. And now this… But as for you, I would appreciate a little civility. Not for her sake, but for the future she carries.”
For a long moment, Anita’s eyes held his. The silence stretched, weighted with grief and memories neither of them could undo. Finally, she spoke, her voice trembling. “Don’t ask me for consideration, boy. You may have lost a brother, but I have lost my firstborn. Our pain is not the same.”
Seungcheol opened his mouth. “What’s the point? It’s not like you can bring back the dead.”
In a sudden, sharp motion, Anita’s hand connected with Seungcheol’s face. The sound cut through the quiet room, sharp and final. Time seemed to freeze for a heartbeat. Seungcheol’s head jerked slightly from the impact, his eyes widening in surprise, a flash of pain crossing his features. Anita’s own face was taut with grief and anger, her lips pressed into a thin line as tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
For a few suspended seconds, neither moved. The air was thick with all the things neither could say aloud—the weight of past losses, regrets, and the chasm of misunderstanding that had grown between them. Her hand hung momentarily in the air before dropping to her side, trembling slightly from the force of the moment and the emotion behind it.
Finally, without another word, Anita turned and walked toward the door. The door clicked softly behind her, the sound echoing in the quiet room like a Seungcheol pressed his lips into a thin line, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling as he ran a hand over his face. He finally turned toward you.
Your cheeks, once pale and drawn, were slowly regaining colour. He felt a sharp ache settle deep in his chest—a mix of frustration, fear, and something far harder to name. Seungcheol closed his eyes, trying—and failing—to shake off the look in his mother’s eyes. What had he done? The images of his brother, his nephew, Veronica, and the chaos of his own feelings pressed in on him. He hated this conflicted mess inside him, this tangle of duty, fear, and desire. And yet, amid the storm of emotions, a quiet resolve began to form. It was time to set boundaries—for their sake and his own.
𓃰𓃥 𓃠 𓃰 𓃱 𓃯 𓃭 𓃸 𓃵 𓃗 𓃘 𓃙 𓃟 𓄀 𓄁 𓄂 𓄃 𓃚 𓃛 𓃜 𓃝 𓃞 𓃒 𓃓 𓃔
Your entire body felt as though it had been pinned down by heavy bricks. Every muscle ached, your head throbbed with a dull, relentless pounding, and even the simple act of opening your eyes felt like it took more strength than you had left.
The room around you was unfamiliar—quiet, dim, too neat to be yours. As you slowly sat up, you noticed the IV taped against your arm, the faint tug of the line reminding you how fragile your body felt. Your throat was dry, almost burning, as though you hadn’t had water in days. Reaching with trembling fingers, you grabbed the glass on the bedside table and took two careful sips.
The relief was brief. The cool water slid down into your empty stomach, but instead of settling you, it churned violently. A hot wave of nausea rose so suddenly it stole your breath. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you stumbled out of bed, the IV line tugging lightly as you half-ran, half-fell into the bathroom.
You dropped to your knees, gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet as your body convulsed. The water you had just swallowed came back up in harsh heaves, your throat raw from the force of it. The bitter taste filled your mouth, and the sour burn of stomach acid made your eyes water. Sweat broke out along your hairline, and your arms trembled with the effort of holding yourself up.
The waves of sickness came in intervals—sharp and unrelenting, leaving you gasping for air in between. Your chest heaved, and you pressed your forehead against the cool rim, tears stinging your eyes, unsure if they came from the strain of vomiting or the sheer exhaustion weighing you down.
When the retching finally slowed, your body sagged, drained and clammy. The room spun faintly as you sat back on your heels, every nerve buzzing with weakness.
When you finally had enough strength, you flushed, dragged yourself up, and rinsed your mouth at the sink. The icy water against your lips and the splash across your face dulled the sting in your throat but did little to wash away the hollow ache in your stomach.
You stepped back into the room, still pale and weak, only to freeze. A woman stood in the center of the room, dressed in a crisp uniform, her posture straight, hands folded neatly in front of her. She looked like she had been waiting.
“Yes?” your voice rasped, still hoarse.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she said smoothly, her tone polite but firm. “My name is Grace. I will be your personal maid from now on. Anything you need, you can let me know.”
A flicker of discomfort ran through you. You didn’t like the way the words sounded—like you needed constant supervision, like you weren’t capable of moving through your own life without someone shadowing you.
“I don’t think that would be necessary, Grace,” you replied, a tired edge in your tone. You made your way back to the bed, lowering yourself onto the mattress with a soft exhale. Leaning forward, you planted your elbows on your thighs and buried your face in your hands, speaking through your fingers. “I don’t need a nanny.”
Lifting your head, you glanced toward her. “You can go now. I’ll be going to my room…” You tried to push yourself up, but your knees buckled with weakness, and you sank back down, forcing a small, humorless chuckle. “…in a minute.”
The silence of the room broke with the soft but unmistakable sound of footsteps. The door opened, and Anita walked in. Her eyes swept over you, then to Grace, the tension in her expression betraying that she already understood more than she said. Anita’s eyes flicked toward Grace, and with a firm but polite nod, she excused the maid out of the room. The door clicked shut, leaving the air heavy between just the two of you.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice steadier than her expression.
“We don’t have that relationship where we will share pleasantries with each other, Mrs Choi,” you muttered, your gaze sliding past her as you sighed. You stood, intent on leaving, but Anita’s hand pressed gently against your arm, urging you back down onto the mattress.
“I don’t like you very much, Y/N,” she said bluntly.
A scoff slipped from your lips as you shook your head, a bitter half-smile tugging at your mouth. “Yes, you’ve made that clear time and time again.”
Anita paced for a moment, then sat down on the bed beside you, her posture straighter than her tone. “But I’m also aware that I’ve been… unfair to you.” She paused, searching for the right words. “And now, in your condition—” her voice caught, and she cleared her throat, eyes darting away as if the walls themselves had become easier to look at than your face.
“Your mother…” she began, her voice softer now, as though the name alone pulled something raw from her chest. “She was a really good friend of mine.” She stopped, exhaling slowly before trying again. “I don’t know how much you know about… everything that happened. But your mother—” Anita’s voice faltered, then steadied with quiet conviction, “—she saved my life. When I was pregnant with Seungcheol. And I think… for that alone, I owe her daughter at least that much. For as long as you’re here.”
The silence stretched. You pressed your teeth into the inside of your cheek, grounding yourself in the sting rather than her words. Finally, you gave the smallest nod, rising from the bed with stiff movements.
“I understand,” you said simply. “Now I would like to go to my room. I have to go to the hospital.”
“About that…” Anita’s words cut through the air just as your hand reached for the doorframe.
𓃰𓃥 𓃠 𓃰 𓃱 𓃯 𓃭 𓃸 𓃵 𓃗 𓃘 𓃙 𓃟 𓄀 𓄁 𓄂 𓄃 𓃚 𓃛 𓃜 𓃝 𓃞 𓃒 𓃓 𓃔
This was the third egg white—you were stabbing it like it had personally offended you. That fucker. He’s done it again. The fork scraped a little too hard against the porcelain as you muttered under your breath, how dare he.
The faint whiff of egg yolk already had your stomach turning pale, but Anita, with her poised calm, had suggested you eat at least one whole egg before moving on to the whites. You glared at the plate like it had betrayed you.
This asshole, Choi Seungcheol.
Without so much as asking you, he had gone ahead, called the management, and arranged for Cordon to give you three days off. Three whole days—stripped from your schedule, snatched out of your control. And then he had the audacity to vanish to Japan, for God knows what business he couldn’t entrust to anyone else.
By the second day of enforced “bed rest,” you had grown restless, your body craving the hum of hospital corridors, the rhythm of your patients’ voices, the endless list of surgeries lined up before the gala. Instead, here you were—dragged out of your room and into the suffocating normalcy of breakfast at the Choi residence.
Anita, ever the gracious hostess, had asked you to join her and Mr. Choi at the table. You sat stiffly under the weight of her request, prodding food you didn’t want.
Eggs. Egg whites. Soup.
And not even a decent kind of soup.
You eyed the pale green liquid swirling in its porcelain bowl with disgust. “Who the hell drinks spinach corn soup at 9 a.m.?” you muttered, bringing the spoon halfway to your lips before setting it down again.
The breakfast table had fallen into a heavy, uncomfortable silence. The clink of cutlery was absent, the usual chatter missing—only the faint hum of the air conditioner filled the room. Anita cradled her porcelain teacup as if it might steady her nerves, her eyes flicking now and then toward you, as though quietly measuring your mood.
Across from you, Siwon sat stiffly, his fork dragging through scrambled eggs he hadn’t touched. There was something in his body language that unsettled you—an odd stillness that didn’t quite match his usual composure.
Then you noticed it: his left hand kept drifting toward his shoulder. He kneaded it absently, rolling the joint as though trying to release tension, yet the unease in his posture clung stubbornly.
“Are you okay, honey?” Anita’s voice finally broke the silence. Her tone trembled with worry. “You’ve been rubbing that arm all morning.”
Siwon shifted in his chair, clearly trying to downplay it. “I’m fine. Just a little—” His words slowed, dragging unnaturally, as though his tongue had grown heavy. A bead of sweat slipped down his temple, catching the morning light.
You leaned forward instinctively, your body sharpening into alertness.
He pushed back his chair too suddenly, the scrape of wood against tile jarring. He took two unsteady steps toward the door. “I’m okay… maybe… woo—” The sentence crumbled into air. His knees buckled, and before Anita could even rise, he collapsed.
The thud of his body against the floor snapped the room into chaos.
“HONEY!” Anita’s scream tore through the air, raw and desperate. Her teacup shattered against the ground as she lurched toward him.
The doors slammed open, security guards flooding the room, guns still holstered but eyes wide. Mr. Hwang pushed through first, only to freeze when he saw Siwon sprawled lifeless on the tiles. His face drained of color, and with a stagger, he slumped weakly against the wall .
“Move!” Your voice cut through the panic like a blade. You dropped to your knees beside Siwon, fingers already searching the pulse at his neck. Weak—there, but fading. His chest heaved shallowly, his lips paling fast.
“Phone! NOW!” You barked without looking up. A guard fumbled forward, nearly dropping his device into your hand.
You tilted Siwon’s head back, forcing open his airway. “Mr Choi, breathe—stay with me, damn it. Don’t you stop now.”
Your fingers flew over the keypad. The call connected. “This is Dr Y/N. Male, early sixties, acute myocardial infarction. Prep the cardiac emergency unit—Liberty Hospital. We’re bringing him directly. Repeat: prep cardiac emergency now.”
You tossed the phone aside and locked your palms over his sternum, pressing hard, steady, counting under your breath. “One, two, three, four…” Each compression reverberated through your arms.
Anita was sobbing uncontrollably beside you, her trembling hands hovering helplessly over her husband’s body.
Mr. Hwang just stood frozen, eyes wide with disbelief, as if refusing to accept what had just happened—that the one crumbling before them was none other than Mr. Choi.
Your voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding, “We don’t have time for the helipad or to wait for an ambulance.”
The room went still for a heartbeat before you turned, snapping your gaze toward Chan. He looked shaken, his eyes wide, his body stiff.
“Chan.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Y-yes, doc?”
“Can you get us to Liberty in twenty minutes?”
For a moment, his eyes flickered with panic, then determination surged in them. He nodded, almost too quickly. “I can. I will.”
“Then move. Fast.”
You immediately bent back over Siwon, your fingers pressed against his pulse, your other hand steadying his head as the security detail scrambled to lift him.
Behind you, Mr Hwang’s voice wavered as he tried to regain control of the moment. “Wait—the helipad would be quicker. I just need to make a call—”
Before he could finish, Anita’s voice erupted, raw and desperate, tearing through the air:
“JUST DO AS SHE SAYS!”
The command jolted everyone into motion. The staff rushed to your side, lifting Siwon with hurried, trembling hands. Chan was already sprinting to the car, barking orders for the way to be cleared.
The car felt less like it was driving and more like it was tearing through the air—every bump rattling through your bones as you kept your focus solely on Siwon. His head lolled back against the seat, his skin damp and pale. You pressed two fingers against his carotid, relief pricking when you felt a pulse, though faint and uneven.
“Stay with me, Mr Choi,” you muttered under your breath, your voice sharp but shaking. One hand braced his chest, monitoring the rhythm beneath his ribs, while the other adjusted the improvised oxygen mask Anita held trembling against his face. Every few seconds, you leaned forward, tilting his chin, ensuring his airway stayed clear. When his breathing hitched, you pinched his nose, gave two rescue breaths, then went back to compressions—counting steadily under your breath, sweat sliding down your temple.
The car halted with a violent screech outside Liberty Hospital. You barely registered the shocked faces of your interns—the cardiac team you had trained yourself—already in scrubs, waiting at the emergency bay. But another face, stiff and bewildered, cut through the haze: Cordon. His brows knitted, confusion carved deep into his expression, as though he couldn’t understand why you were climbing out of the car with Choi Siwon cradled in your arms, barking orders.
“Move! Crash cart ready! Oxygen, IV lines—two wide bore, now! Prep adrenaline, and page Dr. Khan on standby. I want an OR cleared on the fifth floor immediately!” Your voice cracked like a whip, leaving no room for hesitation.
Within minutes, Siwon was wheeled through the emergency corridor, monitors beeping erratically, a mask covering half his face. You stripped off your coat, scrubbing in, every movement fast but precise. Your hands were steady, though your pulse hammered in your throat.
Then the interruption came. Mr. Hwang’s voice, sharp with fear and authority, cut through the tension.
“No. I don’t want her operating. Get another surgeon.”
The room froze for half a heartbeat. You lifted your eyes, mask pulled down under your chin.
“Mr. Hwang, with respect, Dr. Y/N is one of our best cardiological surgeons. She’s also part of the Stanley grant research team —”
“It’s okay, Doctor; every patient has the right to decide their surgeon. If that is Siwon’s wish, I’ll step aside. Dr Khan will take over.”
Cordon tried to intervene again, his tone urgent.
But Mr Hwang’s refusal was sharp, almost desperate. “No. I said no.”
You didn’t fight it. You couldn’t. Not here. Not when a life was on the line. Your voice was calm, even as your chest tightened.
“It’s alright, Dr Cordon. I’ll hand over. Call Dr Khan. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
And then, a new voice entered, low but commanding, the kind that silenced a room.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Seungcheol.
You froze, your gloved hand hovering above the sterile field. He stood just beyond the glass, his presence like a storm contained in human form, eyes dark and unyielding.
“But young master—” Mr Hwang’s protest was cut short.
“I said that won’t be necessary.” His tone brokered no argument. Then, his gaze shifted—burning, unwavering—locking onto yours through the glass as if no one else existed.
“Do your best, doctor.”
Your breath hitched.
When had he even arrived? But most importantly, did your heart skipped a beat now?
END OF CHAPTER 15
A/N: Alexa play guitar intro of 'Do I wanna know by arctic monkeys
A/N: I have recieved alot of asks about Severalty being a Poly story and all I want to say is wait for chapter 17.
Go ahead and cry, little girl. Nobody does it like you do.
The garden was alive with the sound of children’s laughter, bright and ringing, as if the air itself carried their joy. Butterflies fluttered lazily between blooming marigolds and swaying hibiscus, while the tall trees bent slightly with each whisper of wind. The fragrance of Anita’s favourite rose tea drifted between the table and the flowerbeds, its soft floral sweetness settling like a warm memory.
Anita’s eyes softened as she looked across the table. You were barely two years old, perched securely in your mother’s lap, a small fist clutching a half-eaten macaron. Your cheeks were sticky from the crumbs, but you were too busy examining the biscuit as though it were treasure to notice.
“She takes after you,” Anita said, a fond smile tugging at her lips.
“You think so? ” Your mother replied, glancing down at you. “But her eyes are exactly like Jaein’s… aren’t they? ”
Anita tilted her head, studying your face with mock seriousness. Then she leaned in closer, her perfume mingling with the scent of tea and roses. “Now that you say it…” she murmured, narrowing her eyes playfully.
“Y/N, baby,” Anita cooed, her voice warm, “do you want to come to Aunty? ”
You blinked up at her, momentarily distracted from your macaron. When your mother gently shifted you into Anita’s waiting arms, you went without protest, curiosity shining in your gaze. Anita gathered you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Her fingers smoothed over your fine hair, the gesture instinctive, protective.
Across the lawn, Anita’s boys – ten-year-old Mincheol and seven-year-old Seungcheol – were caught in a spirited game of football, tumbling over each other in the grass. Anita glanced at them, a mixture of pride and amusement in her eyes.
“Jaein is always talking about Mincheol,” your mother said. “He’s really fond of him — says he’s a smart boy.”
Anita let out a soft, nostalgic laugh. “If it weren’t for Jaein, Siwon and I might have divorced years ago. Not even I can get through to my husband the way Jaein can.”
Your mother nodded knowingly, taking another sip of her tea.
Anita looked down at you, her gaze tender. You looked right back at her, then held up your macaron in a silent offer.
“Aww,” she cooed, her heart melting. She gave your cheek a gentle pinch. “I wish I had a daughter… but Siwon is completely against it.”
“Really? I thought he liked children,” your mother asked.
“Oh, he loves the boys,” Anita replied with a sigh. “It’s just… you remember how difficult my pregnancy with Seungcheol was? I practically had to threaten him just to keep my baby boy.”
Her eyes softened as they drifted toward Seungcheol, who was now trying to wrestle the ball away from his older brother. Absentmindedly, she stroked your hair.
“Can I keep you, Y/N? Would you like to live with me in this big mansion? Aunty will buy you the biggest dollhouse, and we’ll go shopping every day.”
You blinked up at her. “Macaron?”
“Yes!” she laughed. “I’ll ask Raina to make you mountains of macarons, my darling girl.”
“Okv,” you mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs, making both women burst into laughter.
But the moment was broken by a sudden cry from across the garden. Seungcheol had spotted you in Anita’s lap. His little legs carried him as fast as they could across the grass, eyes wide.
“Mama! Mama!” he called.
“Yes, my treasure?” Anita answered, still holding you.
“Mama, up!” he demanded, reaching for her with small, insistent hands.
You, still focused on your half-eaten macaron, barely noticed the look in his eyes—that flicker of childish possessiveness, of wanting his mother all to himself again.
“Wait, Cheolie, Mama is holding Y/n right now.”
“No! You’re my mama; I want to sit there now!” His little voice came out sharp, almost trembling with the stubbornness only a child could manage.
“Cheolie, be good.” Her tone softened, almost pleading, but the boy’s pout deepened.
“It’s alright here,” she finally said, taking you gently from Anita’s lap. Her perfume lingered faintly on your clothes as she settled you into her arms.
Seungcheol reached for the crystal glass, and the maid—quiet and efficient—stepped forward to pour fresh orange juice. Without a pause, he drank greedily, the sunlight catching on the rim of the glass.
Anita clicked her tongue when he set it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, what did I say? “Use a napkin,” she reminded, leaning over to pluck one from the table. But instead of insisting further, she bent down and pressed a kiss to the back of his head, her voice lilting in warm, singsong Italian. “My Cheolie, my treasure.”
Meanwhile, your mother was carefully wiping your mouth and sticky fingers with a cool, damp cloth. The touch was brisk, almost absentminded, her attention partly on the conversation around her.
When Mincheol approached the table, Anita’s eyes brightened. “Cheolie, what do you think—shall we keep Y/n in the mansion?”
He glanced from you to his mother, weighing something in his child’s mind before replying flatly, “No.”
“No? Why?” Anita asked, brushing his bangs back from his eyes with deliberate tenderness.
“She is ugly.”
“Bad manners, Seungcheol,” Anita chided, her tone still light but carrying a thread of warning.
You stretched your little arms toward Mincheol, making soft reaching noises, your eyes fixed on him as though he were the only safe anchor in the room.
But before he could move, Seungcheol slid off his mother’s lap and darted toward him, hugging his brother’s legs protectively. “No, my brother.”
“Seungcheol,” Anita’s voice grew firmer now, “is this how to behave? She is younger than you—you have to be nice to her. What if one day she becomes your bride?”
“Yuck, no. Y/n is ugly. All she does is cry and eat biscuits. I don’t want a bride like that.”
“Hyung, hyung, I want to go there!” he demanded, tugging impatiently at Mincheol’s hand. Without waiting for a reply, he began to pull him away.
Anita sighed, shaking her head, and called after them, “Careful, Minnie, your tutor will be here soon, so freshen up, okay, amore?”
“Si, Mama,” came Mincheol’s voice, faint now as they rounded the corner.
Anita leaned back into her chair, the faint clink of porcelain as she lifted her teacup again. She turned her attention back to your mother—one of the last true friends she had left before everything unraveled, before the years stripped away this easy, sunlit morning and replaced it with the weight of the moment they were both now hurtling toward.
“No wonder how he will react when he gets to know what his uncle J and father have cooked up,” mirth evident in Anita’s voice and your mother joining in with her small laugh and shaking her head.
A deep sigh escaped Anita as she sat back on the same patio, in the same wicker chair, where years ago the air had been filled with children’s bickering and the scent of freshly squeezed oranges. Now, the only scent was of damp earth and the faint tang of frost. The sun was crawling up over the horizon, pale and sluggish, as if even it didn’t want to rise. The garden below, once bursting with tulips and roses, was nothing but brittle branches and stubborn patches of frostbitten soil.
She pulled the thick shawl tighter around her shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric as though it could hold her together. The sound of laughter. The mock outrage in Seungcheol’s voice .
Those voices were gone now. The patio was too still.
Her throat tightened, and before she could stop it, a sob broke loose. It came again, sharper this time, shaking her shoulders. She pressed her palm to her mouth, as though she could push the grief back inside, but the tears were already spilling, warm against skin chilled by the morning air. The silence only made them louder.
The day was already folding into night. The office was dim except for the warm glow of a desk lamp, casting shadows across the mess of files scattered on the table. Red strings crisscrossed the corkboard, connecting photographs and documents into a sprawling web. At the pinnacle of it all were three faces—Choi Si-won, Min Neè Han Jaein, and Leonard Amretes. Lines branched out from each, touching every corner of the city.
Each had their own dominion. Si-won owned the land and water routes. Jaein controlled the factories and the workers who kept them running. The Amretes handled the city’s lifeblood—medicine. Together, they were an empire carved into three kingdoms.
Commissioner Susan Paul sat at her desk, eyes fixed on a photograph of a man named Dan Frazer. She didn’t hear the door unlock until it clicked open.
Jacob strolled in, his walk slow and lazy, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. His thick glasses slid slightly down his nose, messy curls pulled into a loose bun. The oversized shirt hanging off him did little to give away the fact that he was one of the department’s sharpest detectives.
He stopped beside her desk, waiting for her to notice him.
“You know,” he said casually, “if you stare at a picture long enough, it starts talking to you.”
Susan finally looked up, her gaze steady. “Did you drink on the job again?”
Jacob smirked and shook his head, setting one cup down in front of her.
“So,” he asked, eyes wandering over the files, “what’s all this?”
Susan leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. “I’ve been digging into these three for the last five months. Something doesn’t add up. Just a month before Rhy announced his run for Vice President, Choi’s bought out a university hospital. The board was collapsing, and suddenly, they swoop in.”
She tapped her finger on the photographs. “Here’s the strange part. These three—Si-won, Jaein, Leonard—whose people can’t stand each other, all have ties to that hospital. Jaein? Every nurse there has a relative in his union. Vantage—Leonard’s people—supply everything from bedsheets to surgical machines. And the Chois—”
Jacob let out a long sigh, interrupting. “The Chois again. You do realise you have a bit of an obsession with them, right?”
“Focus,” she said, her tone sharp.
“So,” Susan continued, leaning back in her chair, “buying the hospital earned them a lot of goodwill. Since Rhy’s daughter and son-in-law were so active politically, on the surface, it looks like a perfect story. But—” She let out a heavy sigh, scrunching her brows.
“You remember that article last year about the missing homeless people? Someone from Rhy’s campaign anonymously posted it, but we could never trace the source. It was like the person didn’t even exist.”
Jacob frowned. “Wasn’t that around the same time Choi Mincheol and Veronica Rhy started that shelter program?”
Susan nodded. “Exactly. Something’s not adding up,” she muttered, tapping a pen against the desk.
“If I’m being honest, Commissioner,” Jacob said slowly, “we all know the roots are rotten, but there’s almost nothing we can do. Millions, maybe thousands, depend on them. And they’ve made sure their supporters are fiercely protective. Remember the Rhys–Choi funeral? It’s almost a miracle that, despite everything, Choi and Han’s men didn’t turn the city into a bloodbath.”
Susan tilted her head, thinking. “Can you believe it? After every single meeting, some petty whose-dick-is-bigger competition between their men seems to follow. It’s ridiculous… but also telling.”
Jacob leaned back, taking a slow sip of his coffee, letting his words settle between them.
Now that you mention it,” Susan muttered, leaning back and sighing, “it is weird.”
Jacob snorted. “And the worst part? Choi’s youngest son. He’s the kind of arsehole you don’t want to cross. Apparently, he’s in Italy right now, in his uncle’s territory, for the international arms exhibition.”
“No, he’s back,” Susan corrected, flipping through the case reports. “He usually stayed behind to manage his father’s other businesses.”
Jacob flopped into the chair next to her, a lazy grin on his face. “Word on the street is he’s seeing someone. His inner entourage is always with that person.”
Susan waved a hand dismissively. “Must be another fling. Wasn’t he also involved with Salerno’s daughter?”
Jacob chuckled. “Yeah… not gonna lie, she’s smokin’.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “Any other updates from Liberty? Glad you brought it up. I’ve gone through the records—over the past twelve months, eight employees have vanished into thin air. Most of them worked night shifts.”
Jacob pulled a file from under his arm and handed it to her. “The last person before Frazer went missing. Name’s Isayah Nogoya, 25, from Nigeria.”
“Where is he now?” Susan asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jacob just shrugged. “Poof. CCTV footage shows he was seen with some doctor.”
Susan leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Did you meet this doctor?”
Jacob pressed his lips into a thin line. “I was going to… but she’s always too busy.”
Susan gave him a long, scrutinising look. “So you didn’t meet her?”
“I was going to,” he replied, defensive.
“Then go. Get on with it. I have a feeling this leads to a bigger picture. What’s her name?”
Jaein never imagined that, after walking out of this mansion twenty years ago, he would one day return to the Choi estate on his own accord aside from that day. Yet here he was, flanked by former Commissioner Salerno, standing in the grand living room where tension practically dripped from the air. Both he and Siwon wore scowls that hinted at the storm about to break between them.
Siwon had his back to the door, conversing with his wife over a glass of wine after dinner. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he immediately guessed who had just entered. The subtle shift in the atmosphere was enough. Jaein carried himself with that air—the kind of man who seemed to take satisfaction in being disliked.
“I would offer you a seat, but I just enjoyed a lovely dinner with my wife,” Siwon said, his tone deliberately calm, though his gaze was sharp. “And your face has an effect that can make people sick in their stomach.”
“It’s alright; weak metabolism is a sign of old age. I wouldn’t promise I’d hold back if I saw your wrinkled-ass face,” Jaein shot back, smirking.
Siwon let out a dry laugh. “On a shitty day, I might ask what brings you here. But your presence… well, I know you won’t do anything that makes things difficult.” He downed the rest of his wine in one smooth motion, rising to his feet. His hands sank into his suit trousers’ pockets; the jacket had been discarded long ago, but the waistcoat remained, sharp against his frame.
Jaein’s smile didn’t waver. “I would agree—but then we’d both be wrong. Because if it weren’t for me, I’m not sure you’d still be alive, let alone talking to me in that tone.”
“Salerno,” he looked at the man next to Jae-in.
“Choi,” he cleared his throat, definitely unsettled by the dynamics of these two men. The room seemed to tighten around them. Salerno stood quietly to the side, knowing better than to intervene—this was a duel of wills, decades in the making.
“Annie. How’s your health keeping up?” Jae-in stepped forward, his tone measured but carrying that familiar undercurrent of authority.
Siwon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Best you keep your greetings limited… to me,” he replied coolly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Anita’s hands trembled slightly as she set down her glass, taking note of the man before her. Jaein had changed since the last time she saw him at the Salerno’s party. There was a weariness etched into him, a restless energy that never seemed to settle. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sharp but guarded, like a man who had seen too much and trusted too little and for some reason helpless.
And yet, she wondered quietly to herself—had any of them truly stayed the same over the years?
“Long time, J,” she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of warmth and caution, unsure of the storm she was stepping into.
Jaein’s eyes blazed with accusation, barely held in check, his hands twitching at his sides. “I heard your medication makes you…stab people.”
“YA! HAN JAE-IN!” Siwon’s voice thundered across the room, startling even Selerno, who froze mid-step, trying to process the tension. “You’re crossing the line,” his tone sharp but measured, the kind that demanded attention.
“Am I?” Jaein’s voice was low, trembling with barely contained anger.
Siwon’s jaw tightened.
“I’m regretful for what happened, J. But I cannot take away the past, nor can I undo the pain of losing my firstborn and grandson. I was not myself then.” Anita’s gaze softened as she watched the exchange. She and Jaein had always shared a special bond. He reminded her of her elder brother, who had always doted on her, treating her like a little sister until circumstances pulled him away.
“But whenever I see that girl,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly, “I am reminded of why she is here, and I cannot come to terms with it.”
He averted his gaze from Anita, a grimace shadowing his features, before looking back at Siwon, his chest tight with unspoken frustration and grief.
Jaein seemed to remember Salerno’s presence and cleared his throat. Salerno, right on cue, broke the silence.
“Although we usually keep things on neutral ground,” he said, his voice steady but purposeful, “I think it’s necessary we meet before the annual gathering. Jaein has a proposal.”
Siwon studied Jaein for a long moment, his gaze heavy with quiet calculation. The air between them carried an unspoken history, sharp and unyielding.
“Fine,” Siwon finally said, turning towards the hallway. “Let’s take this to my study.”
Your head throbbed, the kind of pressure that made you feel like a vein might burst. With everything piling up lately, all you wanted was to make it to your room, close the door, and sleep. Lucy’s voice still echoed in your mind—avoid any kind of stress.
You were cutting through the main garden of the mansion, hoping the quiet greenery would make the walk quicker to your wing.
Jaein stopped in his tracks, the air catching in his chest. You looked… 'Tired' wasn't even the word. you looked drained, like someone had wrung every last drop of life out of you. The pale hue of your skin stood out against the dark smudges beneath the eyes. Your bun was loose, with strands falling into your face. He noticed the way your steps were careful and slow—like even walking required effort.
She hadn’t seen him yet. She was heading towards the garden path that led to her wing of the mansion, clutching something in her hand—a cardigan maybe, or a file of papers.
“Y/N?” he called, his voice softer than he intended.
You froze, back stiffening. Slowly, you turned, and their eyes met.
For a moment, Jaein wasn’t sure if she would even answer him. There was no anger on her face, but there wasn’t warmth either. Just a calm, distant mask.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice steady but flat, like she was conserving her strength.
“I came to see you,” Jaein replied, and even to his own ears, it sounded too simple for the weight of what he meant.
Her gaze flickered over him, then past him, like she was deciding whether to turn and walk away. He could see her shoulders tense, her jaw working as if holding back words.
“Aren’t these people like your enemies?”
The question caught him off guard. His eyes widened, and a short, humourless laugh slipped out, barely audible. “Yes,” he admitted, “but the situation is different now.”
You tilted your head slightly, your brows knitting together. “How come?”
For a second, Jaein almost believed you would walk away mid-conversation, yet you stayed rooted there, waiting for his answer. That unsettled him more than your words.
“Because…” he faltered, his tongue heavy in his mouth, “we’re doing business together.”
The confusion on your face deepened, your expression tightening into disbelief. “Business? Why? Didn’t they say you killed their son? Who in their right mind does business with someone like that?”
“Did you have anything to do with Director Choi’s brother’s death?”
Jaein’s throat constricted. He opened his mouth, closed it, then forced the words out. “I…” He exhaled sharply, then shoved his hands into his pockets, needing something to anchor them. His fists curled tight against the lining of his jacket. “No. I had nothing to do with Director Choi’s brother’s death.”
He paused, the silence dragging for a beat before he added, almost reluctantly, “But Siwon thinks I did. And he wants to…” Jaein broke off, his chest tightening as the weight of the explanation pressed down on him. A sigh escaped his lips, heavy and resigned. “I can’t tell you everything. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” you echoed, your voice sharpening into a scoff. Your arms folded across your chest, your stance closing in. “You know what’s complicated?”
You took a step closer, the sharpness in your eyes enough to pin him in place. “My entire fucking life. I tried to control it down to the smallest detail, and still—still—it’s all gone completely astray.”
“Y/N…” His voice softened, breaking through the strain in the air. The word came out almost like a plea. “Doll.”
You cringed at his words, the name curling in the air like something foul.
“Don’t call me that.”
“I am— I am sorry,” your father stammered. His eyes darted anywhere but yours. In that moment, he looked smaller than you had ever remembered him— not a man, not a father, but a withered shadow shrinking into itself.
“For what?” your voice cut sharp, steady, though your chest burned. “To check if I’ve died or not? Good news— I haven’t. So take that sorry excuse of concern and leave. I’ll find my way around, like I always have.”
The long coat wrapped around your scrubs shifted as you moved, its hem brushing your legs. The open zip of your handbag gaped wide, a corner of a worn file sticking out like an unspoken reminder of the life you had built—without him.
“I know I’ve been an inadequate father,” he whispered, voice faltering, “and I failed you… and Mira. But please… give me a chance to make things right.”
A bitter laugh escaped you, hollow and sharp.
“I think you’re misapprehending something, Mr Min Jae-in.” You lingered on the name like a curse. “My father, Han Jae-in, died when I was sixteen years old—two years after my mother. He died in central jail. My mother died her first death the day her husband refused to see her while she stood outside prison gates through blistering heat, snow, and rain—always waiting, always begging. And when he would not see her, she withered.”
Your words trembled, but your anger steeled them.
“She worked herself to the bone to feed me. Do you know how?” You stepped closer, forcing his eyes to the ground. “She cleaned tables at a restaurant. They gave her scraps—one bowl of rice and a plate of chicken bones. She pretended to eat them, just so she could bring me food. She starved herself until her body collapsed in on itself. Her stomach shrank, and her tubes closed. Gestational cancer ate her alive. She couldn’t even be fed through the tubes in her nose.”
A soft gasp broke from Anita somewhere behind, who walked out when she saw Jaein leaving, followed by a faint whisper—“Oh Mira…”—but you didn’t turn. Your eyes stayed fixed on the man before you.
Your father dragged his hands down his face, refusing to meet your gaze.
“Why are you hiding your face?” Your voice cracked, raw now, every word unravelling. “LISTEN to it. LOOK at me!”
Your breath shuddered as the memory crashed back—the frail, hollow body that once held your mother’s warmth. “Her veins were so dry they couldn’t even place a cannula. She was just skin and bones. And the last pathetic truth of it all? The final thing she said before her heart gave out wasn’t my name. It wasn’t God’s. It was yours. She died calling for you.”
Your voice broke, but you forced the words through the lump in your throat.
“So when she died, when her heart failed from pain and hunger—and when I couldn’t afford her surgery—I became an orphan. Because the day I lost her, you died for me too. I already mourned you.”
You pulled your coat tighter around you, as if bracing against an invisible chill.
“So no, I don’t have a father. Not anymore. And don’t worry—this,” you gestured vaguely to the mess, to your body, to the life you carried, “I’ve handled my obligations. And when this child is born, if they kill me—” your lips trembled into something almost like a smile, “I’ll be grateful. At least I’ll finally be free. Free from carrying the weight of your sins.”
You were sick of it all. Sick of the weight pressing down on you, sick of the invisible chains that seemed to bind every step you took. Your life didn’t feel like your own anymore. Every decision, every turn, seemed to echo with someone else’s choices—choices made long before you had the chance to make your own.
It felt so damn unfair.
Your father, the same man who had once cast you aside, now stood as the shadow behind every misstep. He claimed it was to protect you, to shield you from the world he was part of. Yet here you were, your life hopelessly tangled in the very web he said he wanted to keep you away from.
And the cruellest part? You had failed in the one thing you swore to your mother—that you would live differently, that you wouldn’t let his sins spill over into your life. But promises, it seemed, were fragile things.
The words of others rang in your ears.
The sins of the father often skip over the son and embed themselves into the bones of the daughter.
Seungcheol was walking back toward his wing when your voice, raw and trembling, cut through the quiet halls. It wasn’t just a sound—it was sharp, almost desperate. He froze for a heartbeat, then his feet moved on their own, carrying him toward you.
Jaein’s eyes flickered nervously from your face to the figure approaching behind you, but you were far beyond the point of noticing. Emotion had drowned your awareness of space, of audience.
“I never wanted kids,” you burst out, your voice cracking. “But here I am, pregnant—fulfilling some deal I wasn’t even part of. Shoved into a man’s life who loathes my existence.”
The footsteps behind you stilled, but you pressed on, words spilling like a wound too deep to close.
“I hear a woman break whenever she sees my face. I see an old man look at me with such contempt that it makes me want to end it all. Why? All because I’m your daughter?”
Your chest heaved, your throat raw. Your eyes burnt with tears you refused to let fall.
“I’m so scared,” you whispered, your voice breaking against the weight of it. “I’m so scared for this child—that when he opens his eyes in this world, all he’ll ever see is contempt. And he’ll ask himself why. What is his fault? And the only answer he’ll ever get… is that he carries his mother’s blood.”
Your hands were shaking uncontrollably, your heart hammering against your ribs, as though even your body wanted to collapse under the truth you had finally given voice to.
“And i will not be there; I know they will make sure of that—”
“No, they won’t, Y/N, I promise. I will protect you this time, doll.” He pleaded
All you wanted was to go home. Not this room in a gilded prison they called a mansion. Not these walls drenched in someone else’s name. You wanted your home—your apartment, your bed, the silence you could claim as your own.
“Y/N, calm down. It’s dangerous,” Seungcheol said, his tone firm and controlled. He stepped closer, his hands gripping your shoulders as though that alone could anchor you. “Let’s go.” Without waiting for your consent, he began to move you toward his wing.
But the fury that had been choking your lungs ignited again.
“Don’t show your face in front of me,” you spat, voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid. “And don’t think for a second that I’m doing this for you. I have a father. He adopted me when I was sixteen. His name is Dr George Cordon—and he has been more of a father to me than you could ever be.”
“Y/N, princess—”
“DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!!” The words tore from your throat like glass.
Blood rushed hot and dizzy to your head, your vision flickering black at the edges. You stumbled, losing your balance, desperate for air. Your voice broke one last time, ragged and panicked.
“Don’t—!!”
And then everything slipped.
“Y/N!!” Seungcheol shouted as you collapsed into his arms.
Jaein rushed forward, but Seungcheol’s glare cut through him. He raised a hand like a blade.
“I would advise you to get the fuck out of my house.” His voice was ice. “If something happens to my wife or my child, I will hold you personally accountable.”
Without waiting for a reply, he lifted you against his chest. Anita’s heels clicked rapidly behind him as she called out,
“Rania, call the doctor—now!”
Jaein stood frozen, misery crushing his ribs. He stepped forward once but stopped. He swallowed hard, his throat raw with guilt. How he wished he could take your pain away. But all he ever seemed to do was add to it.
Part 2
A/N: *wink*
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I will not have you without the darkness that lies within you.
I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me.
If our demons can’t dance, neither can we.
-Nikita Gill
15 years ago
Drip. Drip. Drip
The steady drip from the ceiling was driving you mad.
Each drop landed in the dent it had carved into the cement floor, a small pool of water glimmering under the dull yellow bulb. The old steel bowl beneath it was already half full, the echo of water against metal filling the quiet room like a clock ticking too slowly.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over your notebook, trying to focus on the math problem in front of you. The pencil scratched across the page, but every so often you’d pause, tapping it against your cheek as the rhythmic dripping distracted you. But the sound of the drip wasn’t the only thing that was distracting you; your stomach grumbled. Your eyes darted from the hands of the clock that promised that it's closer to the time your mother will be home and the front door.
The smell of food pulled your attention away. From the other side of the door, before the sound of keys, Your mother stepped into the room, her apron still tied loosely around her waist, a faint smear of flour on her cheek, her eyes, once filled and shining, looked hollow and sunken. She set down two chipped plates of rice and vegetables, the steam curling upward in the cold air.
“I am sorry, doll; you must be hungry? You know how Fridays are the busiest; there were just too many dishes,” she said softly, settling onto the floor beside you. “Eat before it gets cold.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. The first bite warmed you from the inside, chasing away the dampness that clung to the air. She ate slowly, watching you. When you finished your plate and looked up, your stomach still gnawed with hunger but you didn't say anything. “Thank you for the lovely meal,” you smiled at your mother but she noticed.
Without a word, she slid her plate toward you.
“Mama, I am full; you always do this,” you started, guilt prickling at your voice.
“Eat; you have to eat to grow up well. And honestly, I already eat at the restaurants,” she insisted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, an unconscious habit when she was uncomfortable or lying, smiling faintly. “Seeing you eat fills me up.”
You hesitated, then picked up the plate. As you took a bite, her hand reached out to smooth your hair, fingers lingering on your head. Her eyes softened. “I can’t believe my baby is already 14,” but there was a weight behind them. Your mother's hands were very pretty, with long, nimble fingers. She always told you that your father used to bring her rings or bracelets; her wardrobe had a separate side for her jewellery. There would always be a sorrowful remembrance that glimmered with nostalgia and hope – hope that maybe this was all just a bad dream – but every once in a while when your mother felt like the weight of life became unbearable, when she’d catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her hands and wrists reduced to bones, her curves all gone. Her hair was dry and brittle, her rough hands were filled with cuts from glass and knives and burns from hot cookware, and her feet were filled with blisters. She would curse out your father all night and lock herself inside her room and then go to the central jail in the hope that maybe today he will meet her. But after standing all day, she would come back and pick up her apron and go to work.
“Y/N, my child,” she said, her tone quiet but firm. “Remember this. You always have to be independent. Don’t let others control you. Don’t let yourself believe that someone else will take care of you. You must take care of yourself.” She paused, the lines in her face deepening. “Don’t be like Mom. Work hard on your studies. Get a good job. Never trust a man if he ever says he will take care of you. Okay?”
You nodded, your mouth too full to speak. You extended the spoonful of rice towards her and she leaned and ate it. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. The dripping from the ceiling continued, steady and relentless, as you finished her share of the meal.
13 years ago
It was late—the kind of late where the streets outside seemed swallowed by silence, broken only by the occasional bark of a stray dog. But inside your small apartment, it was far from quiet.
You were hunched over your history assignment at the kitchen table, pencil tapping against the paper. It could have been done hours ago if you hadn’t spent most of the evening rambling about the upcoming science school trip. Only a handful of students had been chosen, and you were one of them—handpicked by your teacher as one of the top students in class.
At first, your mother had said no. The trip was expensive, and money was always a shadow in your house. But then, one day, she’d slipped an envelope into your hands.
“Here. Why should my smart daughter miss out on anything?”
You remembered squealing so loudly that Mr Kwan from next door had banged on the wall, muttering about the noise.
Now, as she stacked the clean dishes back into the cupboard, you kept talking, unable to contain your excitement.
“Did you know,” you began, eyes wide, “we’ll get to see an actual meteorite? And the guide said it’s older than the Earth itself! Imagine touching something that existed before everything we know!”
Your mother smiled faintly without turning, her hands moving slowly over the plates. “Sounds like my daughter’s already travelling through the stars.”
That’s when the banging started.
Loud. Sharp. Impatient. Each thud rattled the old wooden door, the lock shivering in place. The sound seemed to crawl into your bones.
Your mother stiffened. In the dim kitchen light, you could see how thin she’d grown—her wrists delicate as twigs, her skin pale under the fading warmth of her smile. For months she had been pressing a hand to her stomach and brushing off your concern. Meals had grown smaller. More often than not, she’d pushed her portion toward you with the same quiet lie: I’m not hungry. You eat.
But you knew better.
“Y/N, go hide.”
Your eyes flicked to the door. The lock shook under the force of another blow.
“Mama… who is it?”
She grabbed your hand, pulling you up from your chair with more strength than you thought she still had.
“Just do as you’re told. Go.”
She had been desperate enough to take a loan from men who were nothing more than wolves in human skin. That money had paid for your fees. That trip. That envelope is still sitting on your desk.
From the other side of the door, a nasally voice sang out, drawing her name into a sneer.
“Miraaaaa. Open the door. It ain’t doin’ shit holdin’ out.”
The pounding grew louder. A man’s voice barked, sharper now. There was menace in it, the kind that curled your stomach and made your throat tight.
“Just go!” she hissed, shoving you toward the bedroom.
But you didn’t move fast enough.
The moment she cracked the door open, they forced their way in. Two men, stinking of cigarettes and cheap liquor. She tried to reason with them, voice trembling as she begged for more time. One of them laughed. The other’s gaze slid toward you, slow and predatory, and he muttered something about “collecting in other ways” before his eyes slid toward you.
“She’s got potential. What ya think, boys?”
The laughter that followed felt like knives scraping down your spine.
You froze, every instinct screaming at you to run, yet your feet were rooted to the ground.
“No!” Your mother’s voice broke. “My daughter has nothing to do with this! Don’t you dare!!”
And then, before the man could take another step, a shadow filled the doorway.
Jeonghan.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The baseball bat in his hands made the first statement for him—crack—the sound of wood colliding with bone echoing in the cramped space. One man stumbled back, swearing, clutching his shoulder. The other yelped in pain as the second blow drove them both toward the door. They fled, curses trailing behind them.
Your mother dropped to her knees beside you, wrapping you in her arms so tightly you could barely breathe. Her sobs shook against your chest as she cursed your father’s name again and again.
And then she coughed.
A horrible, wet sound.
You pulled back, your stomach turning cold as you saw the red staining her lips. Her eyes widened for a moment—like even she didn’t expect it—before her knees buckled.
“Mama!”
She collapsed in your arms.
12 years ago
The rain was relentless, falling in cold sheets from a black, heavy sky, drumming against the hospital’s tin awning. It plastered your clothes to your skin and your hair to your face, but you didn’t care. You stood there, trembling, walking from your part-time job to the hospital, waiting—praying—for Dr Cordon to appear.
When his white coat finally emerged through the glass doors, you ran to him, your breath fogging in the night air, your fingers clutching his sleeve like it was the only thing tethering you to hope.
“Please,” you begged, your voice raw. “She’s all I have. Please save my mother. I’ll work for you; I’ll do anything you want. I can wash dishes, mop the floors—anything. I promise, when my father comes back, I’ll give you every single penny.”
For a moment, his eyes softened, but the heaviness in his voice didn’t lift.
“Y/N… love, this isn’t about the money. I tried to get her enrolled in the programme, but…” He hesitated, glancing toward the ward behind him, where shadows moved behind drawn curtains. “Your mother has aggressive lintis plastics. It’s rare. Cruel. Her stomach lining is thickening, slowly suffocating her, and the toxins are shutting down her organs. There’s nothing we can do for her—because your mother herself doesn’t want to fight it.”
“NO!” The word tore out of you, cracking apart in the rain. “You’re lying. You don’t even want to try! What kind of doctor gives up? Aren’t you supposed to fight until the very end?”
His shoulders sagged, the rain soaking through his collar. “Y/N… we both know that’s not true. It’s best you spend time with your mother,” he murmured, before turning away, his footsteps slow and heavy.
Inside, the air reeked of disinfectant and stillness. Your mother lay pale and weightless against the white sheets, her breaths shallow and uneven. In her daze, she kept calling for J, telling any passing nurse about how smart you were, how proud she was—speaking as if he stood right there at her side.
You stayed beside her, fingers threaded through her cold, fragile hand. Sometime around 3 a.m., you stirred at the feeling of someone brushing your hair back.
“Mama? You need something?”
She shook her head, too tired to speak, her skin paper-thin and covered in taped channels. Slowly, she pulled down her oxygen mask.
“Y/N, doll…”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her eyes glistened, trembling as they searched your face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be better. You deserved so much. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you that.”
Your throat tightened, your hands clutching hers. “No, Mama, don’t say that. You did everything you could. I… I was the bad daughter. I was unfair to you. I shouldn’t have asked for that trip. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” Your voice dissolved into sobs. “But don’t worry. I’ll do better. I’ll study harder. I’ll cure you. I’ll become the best doctor.”
Her frail hand cupped your face, her touch trembling. “Of course you will, baby. You’re my perfect girl. My precious doll. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, be successful, never rely on anyone, and always help others.”
“I promise, Mama.”
“Good.” She exhaled slowly, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Y/N… If your father comes back, tell him something for me. Loving him was my biggest mistake… But I would do it all over again. Because I got you. if there is another lifetime, then I want to be your mama again. Will you come back to me, doll?”
“Always, Mama, always.”
Her eyelids drooped, and exhaustion claimed her once more.
By dawn, the pale light spilled into the ward. You slipped away to the dim, cramped bathroom down the hall. On your way back, the corridor felt too still. At the far end, a shadow in a black coat disappeared around a corner. You blinked, dismissing it as your tired mind playing tricks, and returned to her bedside.
Then her body jerked violently, her breaths breaking into choked gasps. Panic surged through you.
“Help! Somebody help!”
You stumbled into the hallway, shouting until nurses and a doctor rushed in. The chaos blurred around you—hands, voices, the frantic beeping of machines—until the sound flattened into one long, unbroken tone.
She was gone.
You didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. You just walked out into the rain, each step feeling like it belonged to someone else. The downpour blurred the world, and somewhere along the roadside, brakes screeched.
“Y/N? What’s wrong?” Jeonghan’s voice was sharp with concern from atop his bicycle.
You didn’t answer. You just kept walking, head down, the rain hiding the tears that finally began to fall.
You had no idea where you were going—only that your feet kept moving, carrying you forward while your mind floated somewhere far away. The world felt muffled, like you were trapped underwater, every sound dulled by the numbness eating at you. The sun was beginning to rise, spilling pale gold over an empty road, but you didn’t notice.
Your steps were slow, heavy, and bare against the rough asphalt—you’d lost your shoes somewhere along the way.
From behind, the low roar of an engine approached. A white Jaguar sped past, but as it did, the driver’s eyes caught something in the rearview mirror. He slowed, just enough for the passenger to notice.
“What’s wrong?” the passenger asked, glancing over.
“There’s someone walking,” the driver murmured, his brow furrowed. “No shoes… she looks like a kid.”
The passenger twisted to look, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah. Fifteen, maybe sixteen.” He leaned back with a dismissive shrug. “I bet it’s nothing serious.”
The driver didn’t answer. His eyes flicked back to the mirror again.
Then, from the distance, a figure on a bicycle came into view—Jeonghan, pedalling hard, his hair damp with rain.
“See?” The passenger smirked. “Lover’s spat.”
The driver huffed a quiet laugh, though his gaze lingered in the mirror.
“ London turned you into a softie,” the passenger teased. “Let’s go. Mama’s waiting.”
He hesitated a heartbeat longer, watching as Jeonghan caught up to you. Jeonghan hopped off his bike and pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping protectively around your trembling frame.
“Cheol!”
“Yes, hyung?”
“Let’s go, buddy.”
“Yeah,” Cheol murmured, shifting gears and driving off.
You lifted your head from Jeonghan’s chest, your eyes dull and swollen. “Hannie… I don’t have money for my mother’s funeral.”
He looked down at you, rain still dripping from his lashes. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.”
But you shook your head, your voice hoarse yet steady. “No. I’ll take care of my mother’s funeral—with my own money.”
The chilled December air cut against Seungcheol’s skin the moment the aircraft door swung open. He stepped out onto the metal stairs of his private jet, his breath ghosting in the frigid morning light. Below, Chan and Wonwoo were already waiting, their silhouettes sharp against the frost-tinged tarmac.
“Welcome back, boss,” they said almost in unison.
Fred slid into the driver’s seat of the waiting car, Mingyu ducked into the back, and Chan moved to hold the door open for Seungcheol. As Seungcheol stepped inside, Chan leaned down slightly, his voice low and deliberate.
“Congratulations, boss.”
Seungcheol’s eyes flicked to him, his tone flat. “Who else knows?”
“I don’t know, boss,” Chan replied. “She handed me the paper and said, ‘This will make them happy.’ I haven’t told Capo yet.”
“I see.” Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. “Just keep it to yourself. I’ll tell him myself.”
But the thought gnawed at him even as he settled into the seat. Why didn’t she tell me herself? The question stuck in his head like a thorn, and no amount of logic could shake it loose. Were you and Chan that close now?
Chan closed the door and got into the passenger seat. “We should’ve held out for a few more days, you know?” Mingyu said, glancing at Seungcheol. “Could’ve pushed them harder in Milan.”
They spoke briefly about the deal: "Doesn't matter anyways; Denzel knows better than to seek someone else, because no one takes responsibility for delivery like us," but Seungcheol’s mind wasn’t entirely in the conversation.
“Where is she now?” he asked suddenly.
Wonwoo and Mingyu looked confused. What is he talking about?
Chan hesitated before answering. “I dropped her at the hospital. She’s still there.”
Seungcheol pressed his lips into a thin line, his gaze darkening. That hospital was the last place he wanted you to be.
“Where to, boss?” Fred’s voice broke through his thoughts from the front seat.
Sometimes, when work became too much, Jeonghan found his mind drifting, slipping through the cracks of exhaustion back to the final year of med school.
Back to that night.
You’d both been walking home from a frat party, your heels dangling from his hand while you wobbled along in his too-big sneakers. He, on the other hand, was padding through the cool night in just his socks, each step picking up the damp from the pavement.
The street was mostly quiet, save for the hum of distant traffic. He’d been looking up at the night sky, lost in thought, when your soft giggle snapped him back. His brows drew together, curious.
Your eyes met his—and your giggle burst into full laughter.
“Nooooo~” you shook your head at something only you knew. You turned again, still laughing. “It’s not possible.”
“What’s not possible?” he asked, and your laughter pulled a smile from him too.
“Today Alicia and Lucy were saying we should have backups,” you explained.
“Backups?” he echoed.
You nearly tripped on a crack in the pavement, but his hand shot out, steadying your arm before you could fall.
“A backup as in—” you swayed a little, grinning, “—someone to marry if you’re still single when you’re forty. At least then you have… security.”
“Ah,” he nodded slowly, though the idea was strange to him.
“So what did you say?” he asked.
“Well, Lucy said her backup is Jun because his family’s loaded and he’s going into dermatology—and what’s wild is he agreed. Alicia said she’d ask you, but she thinks you’d refuse, so she went for Dokyeom instead.”
That caught his interest. “Why does she think I’d refuse?”
You rolled your eyes, brushing it off. “Ah—it’s rubbish. She thinks you’re in love with me or something.” You waved your hand and shook your head. “Told her that’s not the case.”
He didn’t press. You were drunk enough that maybe you wouldn’t even remember this tomorrow. Still, the thought lingered.
“Who,” he said after a beat.
“Who what?”
“Who’s your backup?”
You stopped walking, lifting your gaze toward the stars as though the answer might be there, tapping your chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
“Haven’t really thought about it. Not that keen on the whole marriage thing.” You tilted your head at him. “What about you?”
“I can be yours,” he said without hesitation. “Your backup. If we’re both still single when we’re forty.”
You burst out laughing, staring at him for a long moment before nodding. “Fine.”
His brows shot up. “So you agree?”
“Yeah. We’ve already spent half our lives together—what’s the other half? Might even be easier with you.”
A slow smile curved his lips. “Promise. I won’t let you forget this, honey girl.”
“I won’t, Hannie.” You flashed him one of those bright, unguarded smiles that always knocked the wind out of him.
“Promise,” he said again.
“Wanna seal it with a kiss?” he teased.
You didn’t even hesitate. Leaning in, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Promise,” you murmured, your breath carrying the sweet tang of candy apple and vodka.
And even now, years later, he could still feel the ghost of it lingering.
The warm, sweet scent of apple pie drifted through the air, pulling Jeonghan back to quieter, softer moments. A small smile curved his lips as he held a slice delicately on his plate, a cup of your favorite coffee warming his other hand.
He knew you’d been distant lately — avoiding him, slipping away in ways that made his chest tighten. But still, for now, everything seemed fine.
He thought back to the day you both went to the game, laughing side by side like nothing had changed. Then came the shift: you joining Cordon’s research team, your days swallowed up in long hours and quiet intensity.
He’d seen the sleek black car waiting outside to pick you up and drop you off, but he hadn’t said a word. Maybe you had a new driver, or a hired helper. You earned well enough with your surgeries to afford such luxuries.
Not that he was complaining — he was plenty comfortable himself, and somehow, that made the space between you feel just a little less wide.
Jeonghan had been pacing outside your office, his mind racing with the words he planned to say — a mix of concern and frustration he’d rehearsed so many times before. He’d heard you were sick, almost throwing up. It wasn’t new. You had this stubborn habit of starving yourself, skipping meals, and forgetting to eat even when he’d warned you over and over.
He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair, wondering how to break through your walls without pushing you further away. And then Khan’s warning echoed in his head: what if someone else had already caught your attention? The thought twisted painfully inside him. Eighteen years of quietly holding onto his feelings—was that enough to finally speak up, or would the weight be too much?
Just then, a muffled voice cut through his spiralling thoughts. “I said enough!” It was you, your voice raised and raw, pressed against the door.
Jeonghan froze, his hand still gripping the doorknob.
“It’s pathetic enough that I have to go through this, and now you barge into my place of work and question me like this?”
“Don’t you dare say a word to my chi—”
Before you could finish, a low male voice interrupted, pulling Jeonghan from his hesitation. Without thinking, he pushed open the door.
And there, looking back at him, were two people whose presence shattered the quiet tension in a way he never expected.
If there was a need to evaluate himself, Seungcheol would not consider himself to be an indecisive person; since the beginning, he was taught that your every action should be backed by a meaning – some purpose – but here he was walking in the same corridors of a hospital, 5ft floor, 20 steps from the elevator, third door. Here he was, Dr Y/N, surgeon, cardiology specialist.
He wasn’t sure why he told Fred to take a sudden U-turn from the road to the mansion, much to Mingyu and Chan’s silent confusion. The words had just slipped out, like instinct steering him before reason could argue.
Now, he stood outside the door, staring at the brass handle as if it might bite him. A strange, restless weight pressed against his chest. Thirty-six days since he last saw you—not that he was counting.
He pushed the door open just slightly.
There you were.
A stray strand of hair had escaped the messy bun at the crown of your head, curling loosely against your cheek. Your fingers toyed absently with the edge of a paper in the file you were reading, eyes fixed, expression pulled tight in concentration. The faintest crease lined your brow. He noticed the subtle movement of your jaw—you were biting the inside of your cheek, something you always did when deep in thought or balancing a difficult decision.
For a fleeting second, something in his chest tightened—sharp, almost disarming—and he hated that it caught him off guard. He shoved the feeling down before it could take shape.
A sudden gust from the open window beside the door caught it in his hand, slamming it open with a bang.
Your head snapped toward him.
And then your eyes met.
Seungcheol stood at the threshold, one hand still resting against the doorframe. You didn’t move, your body frozen in place as the file slipped from your fingers and landed on the desk with a soft thud.
The gust from the window rattled through the room, snapping the curtains and slamming the pane shut with a hollow clack.
But neither of you flinched.
Your eyes locked—steady, searching. The space between you felt heavier than the air itself and you could feel your shoulder dropping.
“You’re back,” you whispered, the words leaving your lips before you could think better of them.
Something unfurled in your chest, a knot you didn’t even realise had been cinched tight slowly loosening.
He looked… different.
No, not different—tired. His hair was slightly mussed from the wind outside, and for the first time in months, you noticed the shadow of a stubble along his jaw. Breaking his always clean and well-kept appearance.
It suited him.
But leave it to Choi Seungcheol to slice right through the moment.
“Looks like you missed me, wife?”
“No.”
The word snapped out of you like a whip as you pushed back your chair and stood.
You rounded the desk, stopping in the centre of the room, chin lifting ever so slightly. “Aren’t you going to let me in?” he asked, head tilted in confusion.
Your brows arched. “Since when did you start taking permission before barging into any aspect of my life?”
He smirked, slow and deliberate. “Touché.”
Seungcheol stepped forward, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound seemed louder than it should have in the stillness between you.
He crossed the space until he was only a few steps away, clearing his throat like a man buying himself a second he didn’t quite know how to spend.
“How’ve you been?”
“So far so good, I guess.”
He nodded once, his eyes darting away as they scanned the room.
And if you didn’t know better, you’d almost believe Choi Seungcheol—the man who could stare down any threat without blinking—was actually nervous.
“And the– ahem,” he looked from the wall to straight right at you, “I got Chan’s message.” he said at last.
“Yeah.” You pressed your lips into a thin line.
“So… how was your business in Ita—”
“I guess we have to tell Father,” he said at the exact same time.
“No, we should wait—” you began, your voice measured, though your hands tightened on the edge of your desk. “I mean, you should wait. Not before eight to ten weeks, at least… until I’m sure.”
His brows drew together. “Why?”
“Because sometimes it’s normal to lose the foetus in the early stages of pregnancy.”
“And why is that?”
“It depends… varies from woman to woman. Sometimes it’s stress. Sometimes…” you exhaled sharply, “…something else.”
His expression darkened. “Fine. Take your things. You’re not working anymore in this stressful environment.”
That hit a nerve. “What is it with you and my work?!” you snapped, stepping toward him. “I have asked one thing—just one thing—from you: do NOT involve yourself in it. How much more are you all going to take from me?!”
“How can you be so sure that the only stressful thing in my life is my work and not your mansion?” His eyes which met yours at the doorway; the way the air between you had felt unfamiliar but warm was already crumbling under the weight of the words spilling from your mouths.
“It is pathetic enough as it is to be going through this—” your voice broke, raw with frustration.
Seungcheol’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t call my child pathetic.”
“Oh, you speak as if this isn’t some kind of curse instead of a blessing—”
He closed the space between you in two strides, his hand clamping around your arm. His voice was low but dangerous. “DON’T YOU DARE say a word to my child—”
Your breaths were ragged, the silence between words thick with the remnants of what could have been a different kind of conversation.
That’s when the door creaked open.
“Is everything alright?”
Both your heads turned in unison.
Jeonghan stood at the threshold, his gaze flicking between you and Seungcheol. His tone was casual, but the edge underneath it was unmistakable.
“I heard noises, so I came in.”
“Hannie,” you said, biting your lower lip, forcing a small, nervous smile. “Everything is fine.”
You turned slightly toward Seungcheol, who stood with one of his arms loose at his side, but his eyes didn’t so much as flicker away from Jeonghan. And Jeonghan, for his part, seemed equally unwilling to break the stare.
“Director Choi,” you said, trying to bridge the thick silence. You nudged your arm from his grip.
Seungcheol’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second to the items in Jeonghan’s hands. “He was here to talk about something.”
“I see.” Jeonghan’s voice was even, but there was something unspoken there. He held up the small paper bag and the cup. “Well, I heard you threw up in the ER. So, I brought something to ease your stomach.”
“Oh—thank you.” You crossed the space between you, fingers brushing against the warm cup as you took it from him, the scent of coffee and sweet apple pie between you. “I’ll… have it later.”
You stepped to move past him, but his hand shot out, curling gently but firmly around your forearm.
The contact made your heart jolt—not from surprise, but because of the look in his eyes.
“What’s going on?” Jeonghan’s voice dropped low, meant only for you.
“Is he bothering you?”
'Bothering you' would be an understatement, you thought bitterly. The tension in the room was almost oppressive.
“No. We were talking about something,” you said, your tone careful, glancing between the two men like you were standing in the middle of a chessboard.
“About what?” Jeonghan pressed, the words deliberate, his thumb unconsciously brushing your sleeve while his eyes searched your face for the truth.
From behind you, Seungcheol’s voice came—slow, deliberate, with just enough weight to make the air feel heavier. Seungcheol felt his shoulders lock and his spine straighten the second he saw Jeonghan’s hand still resting on your arm.
“I thought there was something called doctor–patient confidentiality.”
Jeonghan didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked toward Seungcheol.
Seungcheol took a slow step forward, sliding his hands into his pockets with calculated ease. “Is there not? Then I’d love a second opinion on the entire situation. Maybe there’s some… new information on her condition.”
“Doctor Yoon specialises in orthopaedics,” you replied in a clipped tone, your chin tilting slightly. “So this information wouldn’t be relevant to him.”
You shifted your attention back to Jeonghan, softening your tone. “Hannie, why don’t you give us a moment? I’ll walk Director Choi to the elevator and be right back.”
You turned on your heel. “D-i-r-e-c-t-o-r Choi, shall we?”
Seungcheol’s gaze lingered on Jeonghan for a moment too long before he followed you. As he passed, his shoulder brushed hard against Jeonghan’s—deliberate.
“You better be home by nine,” Seungcheol murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
“If I’m not?” Your voice was calm, but there was an edge in it.
“You don’t want to know.”
You shot him a dirty look.
As the door began to close, Seungcheol’s eyes locked with yours. His lips moved soundlessly: Trust me.
Your jaw tightened. You mouthed back: Fuck you.
The corner of his mouth curled into that infuriating smirk. You wish.
The elevator chimed shut.
Your eyes widened in disbelief. Fucker.
You spun on your heel, storming back toward your office, the taste of frustration bitter in your mouth.
Your team was crammed into the small conference room—two interns, Dr Cordon, and two other physicians from the department—papers, lab reports, and annotated slides scattered across the table.
“We’ve run the numbers twice,” one of the interns said, pointing at the data chart. “If the leukocyte proliferation pattern stays consistent, it could mean the immune response is far more adaptable than current literature suggests.”
“That’s exactly what the committee needs to hear,” Dr Cordon replied, tapping his pen against the table. “We’re not just talking about white blood cell counts—we’re talking about a possible reclassification of how we approach chronic immune disorders.”
One of the senior doctors, Roger, leaned back. “If we present this right, the funding is ours. No question. And the Stanley Awards? I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re nominated in two weeks.”
There was some laughter and a few teasing comments. When the meeting broke apart, you lingered.
Dr Cordon stayed too, shuffling through the latest blood smear images. “You realise what this means, right?” he said, looking up at you, eyes bright. “If we can prove this abnormal lymphocyte activity is consistent across cases, it could change treatment protocols for dozens of autoimmune conditions. This—” he held up the chart, “—this could be your career-defining work.”
You smiled faintly, but the words Thanks, Cordon, but research aside, did you know my father, whom we all thought died, was actually very much alive and is one of the top working-class mafia, and in order to stop a war, this other family – yes, yes, the Choi’s family. I married their youngest son in order to give them an heir or, what I assume, an unbreakable bond, tying both of their atrocities against each other, after which I have no idea what will become of me. And guess what? I’m pregnant!! Pressed against the back of your throat like a stone.
“It’s… exciting,” you said instead, your voice softer than you intended.
“Exciting? It’s historic.” He chuckled, flipping another page. “Now, go get some rest before I rope you into another late-night data session.”
“Y/N”, his voice softer like a father about to impart a life lesson to his child, “If your mother got to see you , she would be as proud as I am of you today.
You nodded and stepped out of his office, the hum of the lab fading as you moved down the quieter corridor.
Halfway to your own office, you saw him.
A man leaning casually against the wall, speaking to a nurse. Something about his profile tugged at an old memory you’d rather not revisit.
The nurse glanced up mid-conversation, spotted you, and subtly pointed in your direction.
The man turned.
And in that instant, your mind connected the pieces. The faint scar near his temple.
Your stepbrother.
“Long time,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “sister”
You stopped a few paces away, your grip tightening on the folder in your hands. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know…” He let his gaze sweep the hallway. “Family visit.”
End of Chapter 14
A/N: It was a long week. Comments are most welcome!
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How often does it happen to you where you start dreading the moment even before it even arrives? Surely we all go through our fair share of disappointments, but how we pick ourselves up from it defines who we are, because the moment you’re dreading shall come either way—and so shall it pass, because that’s the cruel thing about time. It will pass.
The days blend into nights, and for the past two months, they have fallen into a tepid routine. Your work still continued, but an addition to that was your visits to Lucy, managing your dates and cycles, and keeping up with your appointments and medicine, which started in early October and withered in the air of December.
Your life has been no less than a gallery of misfortunes, and to this point now you’ve made amends with them, but holding that negative stick in your hand dawns upon a form of vanquishment that you only heard at times from your patients and friends who were trying for kids. Resonating with something that Cordon always said, you won’t know the pain till it happens to you.
The silver clinked lightly against porcelain as the breakfast table filled with the quiet rustling of napkins and the soft pouring of tea. Mr Choi sat at the head of the table, dignified as always, his posture straight and gaze fixed ahead. Beside him, Anita stirred her tea slowly, though her clenched jaw made it clear she wasn’t tasting any of it.
“Where is this new summit?” Mr Choi asked, slicing through the silence without looking up from his plate.
Seungcheol looked up from his coffee. “This time they have decided to host it in Italy. Due to the issues with some of the other American familias, Tio thought our home ground would be the best place for all the deals and more discretion.”
Anita blinked; something was troubling her mind. Setting her spoon down a little too loudly. “Seungcheol, why was your wife coming home at 2 am in the morning? Why would she be out that late?”
“She works late,” Seungcheol replied simply.
Anita scoffed, exchanging a glance with her husband. “What possibly would she be doing that doesn’t end before a respectable hour? What would people say if they got to know that a daughter-in-law of the Choi family stays out so late at night?”
Seungcheol cleared his throat, straightening a little in his seat. “She is a surgeon, so her schedule often doesn’t keep up.”
Siwon narrowed his eyes, the faintest twitch of disapproval tugging at his lips. “It’s been two months since the contract…” He caught himself, “—since the marriage. And it hardly matters what people will think, honey; she isn’t here for long, so don’t worry too much over that girl—before you know it, she will be long gone. Right, son?”
Anita sighed and pressed her fingers to her temple.
“We are trying.” He could feel his fist clench under the table, scrunching the napkin on his lap.
“I see,” Siwon muttered, leaning back slightly.
Anita straightened her spine, suddenly sharper than the fine cutlery in her hands. “I think I’ve made myself abundantly clear: I expect everyone at this table during breakfast.”
The head maid, midway through pouring Siwon’s tea, hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Seungcheol, who was now watching his father closely, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“Honey,” Siwon said gently in Italian, “everyone is here—Mincheol and Veronica are both—” his voice slightly on edge, worrying that his wife is slipping into one of her episodes.
“I’m talking about Jae-in’s daughter,” Anita cut him off with a wave of her hand, voice rising. “She is his wife, still? She should be here, sitting beside her husband. With his family.”
“Mama,” Seungcheol said carefully, “I don’t think that’s necessary—”
“You married her, Cheol. Whether either of you like it or not, that girl has to abide by the traditions and rules set in them, and it starts at this table.”
The tension in the room coiled tight and sharp. Siwon’s expression darkened with something unreadable. Without even glancing at the staff, he gave the order: “Tell Jae-in’s daughter to come downstairs.”
A beat passed, and then a cool voice interjected.
“Her name is Y/n.”
All eyes turned to Seungcheol. His tone was calm, but his eyes gave something away—frustration, or maybe guilt.
Siwon leaned back again, and for the first time that morning, a knowing smile crept across his face.
“Now you tell me.”
“Raina,” he said, addressing the head maid, “Call Miss Y/n. Ask her to join us for breakfast.”
But before she could leave the room, Seungcheol stood up abruptly, brushing past his chair.
“Mrs. Kang—wait. I’ll do it.”
He could feel their eyes on his back as he left the dining hall. His mother’s insistence, his father’s amusement, —he carried them all as he walked towards your room.
He stood at your door, knocking once. When there was no reply, he knocked again—firmer this time. Still silence. The door creaked open slightly on its own, and with a sigh, Seungcheol stepped inside.
The air in your room was warm, faintly tinged with your perfume and something like citrus. Sunlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains, lighting up the quiet chaos that surrounded you—clothes hanging off the edge of an armchair, a few medical journals strewn across the floor, your laptop still open on the dresser, blinking on sleep mode. And there, right in the center of it all, was you.
You were fast asleep, your Doberman—Rocky—curled up protectively beside you with his big head resting gently across your stomach. Your hand rested on his back, the rise and fall of your chest syncing with his slow breathing. A stray lock of hair fell across your cheek, half concealing your face.
Seungcheol exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck as he approached the bed. “Y/n,” he said quietly, standing over you. “Get up.”
No movement.
He stared at you for a beat longer. Something inside him shifted—something he’d been ignoring since the night you showed up at his door, your voice steady but tired, telling him the procedure didn’t take. That they’d have to try again. He hated how that night had unsettled him for reasons unbeknownst to him.
Not because of the contract. But because despite himself, despite everything that tethered him to reason and pride, he'd found it hard to sleep after. That damned guilty desire he kept chained in the dark corners of his mind was clawing out, and it wasn’t even lust anymore—it was… something more terrifying.
You shifted slightly, and the corner of your lip twitched. Seungcheol’s eyes dropped to your face. Soft snores. Skin flushed faintly from sleep. He hesitated, then slowly reached out to move that one lock of hair away from your cheek.
But before he could even brush your skin—
“Woof!”
Rocky barked—loud, sharp, and immediate. You shot up like you’d been yanked from a dream. “What—when—what’s the status?” you muttered, your eyes darting around in confusion before settling on the figure by your bed.
Seungcheol quickly stepped back, hands shoved into his pockets like a boy caught somewhere he shouldn't be. His pulse had spiked. Damn this dog.
“Director Choi?” You blinked, groggily. Then your eyes widened slightly as you realised you were still in your scrubs. You quickly pulled the blanket higher, which still smelt of the lingering antiseptic and for some reason, now his perfume. He sure smells nice.
“What… is it?” You asked again, voice raspy.
He cleared his throat, trying to ground himself, jaw tightening. “I came to ask,” he said carefully, eyes not quite meeting yours, “if you’d… like to join us for breakfast.”
You blinked again, still processing.
Rocky let out a small huff beside you, stretching his paws before standing on the bed.
You glanced at the clock. 9:14 AM.
“Us who?” you asked, voice still thick from sleep, eyes blinking slowly.
Seungcheol, still standing at the edge of your bed, replied coolly, “My parents and I.”
You squinted. “Why?”
He exhaled slowly, jaw ticking before he responded, “Because it is a rule in our home to have breakfast together—and as my wife, your presence is mandatory.”
You let out a soft, humourless laugh. “After two months?”
His lips pressed into a thin, tight line. “Well,” he began, voice harder now, “this rule was set by my mother. And it’s been a difficult few months for her, as you would know.” His eyes narrowed on you, sharp and unreadable. “And her doctor said we shouldn’t cause her any stress.”
You pushed yourself up against the headboard slightly, rubbing your face. “Then go and have breakfast with her. Why are you here?”
He stepped a little closer, his voice calm but taut. “I was. And according to her, you should be there as well.”
You looked at him with tired disbelief. “Why?”
His expression twitched. “Because”—UNFORTUNATELY. YOU. SIGNED. UP. FOR. IT, WIFE. he said with a tinge of exasperation, like he was saying it for the hundredth time.
You gave him a soft, hollow smile. “I really appreciate the invite,” you said, brushing the hair out of your face, “but I don’t acknowledge that title.”
A long silence followed.
His body stilled. Then, very slowly, he turned to face you fully and stepped closer to your bed. His voice came low and flat, laced with cold condescension.
“Y/n,” he said, “if your opinion mattered, then you wouldn’t be here to begin with.”
It was like a slap that didn’t need sound. The words didn’t echo—they just landed, heavy and still.
You didn’t blink. You didn’t flinch. You simply kept your eyes on his. Not with defiance, not with anger. Just… stillness.. And that, somehow, was worse.
He realized it too.
Seungcheol’s jaw twitched, the silence stretching, his fists clenching and unclenching inside his pockets as if trying to crush the words he’d just said and take them back.
The pain settled in your throat like a weight, thick and sharp, and your heartbeat slowed with it—an ache that didn’t throb but stayed like cold steel pressed against bone.
“I would appreciate it,” he said quietly, “if you’d join us for breakfast.”
You swallowed, and your voice came out barely above a whisper, frayed at the edges.
“I’ll be right there.”
your breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a sob. You had no idea why you felt so hurt. Why those words—so expected, so in character for him—landed like a gut punch instead of a passing jab.
Maybe it was the exhaustion.
The relentless research.
The back-to-back surgeries.
The late-night revisions.
The 45-minute commute each way from the institute to the house, dragging your sore body after Lucy had given you those damn hormonal injections to elevate your chances.
Maybe it was the six negative tests still stacked in the bottom drawer of your bathroom cabinet like little monuments to your failure.
Maybe it was the fact that none of this was supposed to matter—because this wasn’t supposed to be real.
And yet here you were, hurting like it was.
You got up quietly, brushing a hand over Rocky’s head. He immediately lifted himself from the bed, stretching his legs before trotting to the door.
He followed Seungcheol. Rocky had caught up to him in the hallway. Seungcheol didn’t turn, but he must’ve heard the soft, deliberate paws because he slowed slightly.
Then he looked down.
And Rocky was looking up at him.
The two stared at each other for a long beat. Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head, brow arched like he was trying to figure out if he was imagining the disdain in the Doberman’s gaze.
He huffed. “What?”
Rocky, true to his bloodline, didn’t bark or growl. He simply turned his face—slow, offended, deliberate—and walked ahead with that same calm dignity, as if to say, You know what you did.
Seungcheol scoffed softly under his breath but didn’t say anything.
Of course the dog would take your side.
You were out in fifteen minutes, hair still damp from the shower, a few droplets clinging to the back of your neck and the curve of your collarbone. The soft fabric of your lounge dress clung gently to your still-warm skin, the clean scent of your body wash following you like a veil. You walked into the hallway where Seungcheol stood, checking something on his phone.
He looked up.
“Oh,” you said casually, adjusting the sleeve, “you’re still here.”
“Ya—”
His reply was cut short when you started walking past him, and he naturally fell in step beside you.
Silence wrapped around the two of you like a taut wire.
Until you spoke, voice flat:
“So what—”
But you cut yourself off.
“Lucy said we should start with the second trial next week,” you finally said, not turning to look at him, your tone clinical.
He gave a short nod. “I see. So do I need to be there?”
“No,” you said, gaze forward. “They have enough from the second batch sample.”
“Good.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Anyways, I’m flying to Italy for some business, so I won’t be here for a little while.”
You didn’t respond.
Your silence wasn’t unusual—but this one, this particular stretch of silence, made something in him itch. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t icy. It was… tired.
You kept walking side by side down the corridor, past glass windows spilling sunlight onto the marble, past the quiet hum of the staff prepping breakfast inside. You could already hear the muted clink of china and the sound of his mother’s talking from the dining room.
By the time you reached the main house’s dining room, you still hadn’t spoken.
And neither had he, but just as the dinning room door was near he said something which you never even expected.
“Ahem…” he cleared his throat. “Y/N”
You turned at his soft call, “I am sorry…”
Your eyes widened. “For what?” you asked.
“For what I said earlier and… the IUI thing.”
“I see…”
For some reason you could make sense of this man’s confusing attitude. But it's too early to play: decode Choi Seungcheol, and proceed towards the dining room. You could feel the air shift as soon as you stepped inside; the two maids near the door and the head maid, Raina, maybe, were standing behind Anita’s chair. Her eyes shifted towards your approaching figure, then to her son, who was walking behind you; the table laid out a spread based on preference for each of them and set precisely for them. Seungcheol pulled the chair for you to sit; mumbling an almost inaudible ‘thank you,’ you settled down, taking in everything in front of you—eggs, fruits, baguettes, jam, and the lack of plates, utensils, or napkins for you.
Anita cleared her throat, as if it was a cue. Raina eyed one of the maids and she quickly laid down the plates for you.
“I want to say, as the hostess of this mansion, I’m embarrassed by the lack of hospitality extended towards the new daughter-in-law… no matter how unconventional and unwanted they are.” Your gaze lifted from your plate with an exhausted calm.
“It’s alright. I don’t expect courtesy from people with a faux sense of conscience either.”
You sipped your juice, your tone detached but respectful. “And ma’am, as much as I am understanding of your condition, I would advise you not to burden yourself with such baseless rules and formalities.”
You didn’t say it to be cruel.
You didn’t care enough to be cruel.
But you’d rather treat her like a patient—detached, clinical, human—than feed into the delusions this house survived on. Every one of them was cut from the same cloth of polished charm, high-functioning denial, and selective morality.
Anita raised her chin slightly, eyes narrowing—but she didn’t reply.
With a flick of her eyes, Raina approached and placed your breakfast in front of you like it was an offering laid at the feet of a soldier who might detonate if touched.
Anita didn’t wait.
“Are you my doctor… Y/N, was it?” she said, lifting her teacup with an elegance sharpened by sarcasm.
You didn’t respond.
She continued, voice smooth:
“Then I suppose you’d best keep your advice to yourself and not teach me how to run things in my mansion.”
Seungcheol’s spoon paused mid-stir. Siwon’s eyes flicked from you to his wife and back again. Neither of them said a word.
You didn’t look up.
You didn’t flinch either.
Instead, you picked up your fork and calmly stabbed a piece of melon.
You were far too sleep-deprived to deal with theatrics at 9:00 a.m.
And all your years in medicine had taught you: to handle difficult patients, you need patience. You could scream or you could win.
You chewed slowly, focusing on the crisp sweetness of the fruit, making a mental list of your schedule:hospital at 1, lab samples at 3, Lucy’s meds, then—
You felt it.
A gaze.
Without turning your head, you shifted your eyes to your left—only to find Seungcheol already staring. You raised a brow wordlessly. What?
He tilted his head just slightly toward your untouched eggs.
You blinked once. And looked away.
Then, pointedly, picked up another piece of fruit.
He exhaled faintly, a sigh or a scoff—you couldn’t tell.
That’s when Siwon spoke up, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade against porcelain.
“The Stanley Gala is in two months.”
Your fork paused mid-air. Just for a second. You recovered quickly.
“I don’t think your mother and I will be able to chair the event,” he went on, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “So make sure to show your face. And take a date. Events like those are a drag if you’re not with the right partner.”
He set his table napkin down with the finality of a gavel.
“Well, thank you, honey, for the lovely breakfast,” he said to Anita, then added, with a smirk that didn’t bother hiding its thorns, “I’m sure you must be stressed, given the company.”
Anita lifted her face with habitual grace. Siwon leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek—like they were the picture of harmony.
Then his voice dropped into something steelier:
“Check in with the shipment from the Russians. And make sure the thing in Italy is taken care of.”
Seungcheol, finishing his coffee, nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”
Siwon turned to you, maybe expecting you to say something.
But you were already back on your phone.
He turned to his son, and for a second, their eyes locked. A silent language passed between them, shaped over years of war disguised as love.
Then Siwon walked out.
Your phone rang. You rose to take it, brushing your fingers lightly against your collarbone as if trying to relieve a pressure that had been building there since sunrise. You were halfway to the hallway when Anita’s voice stopped you.
“Y/N, I don’t know how you’ve been living your life till now but since you’re here try to maintain the decorum and come back home at a respectable time. .”
You paused. Taking her words in and evaluating whether the taunt warrants a response.
Then turned slightly over your shoulder.
“Are you my mother… Anita, was it? Then it’s best you keep your suggestion to yourself. It was nice meeting you, Mrs Choi. I am glad to see you’re doing well aside from your episodes,” you said with a cool finality.
And walked out. The maids were anxiously looking at each other, wondering what just happened.
Seungcheol pushed his chair back with a soft scrape against the marble floor and stood. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. He could see his mother’s expression, which looked almost, like she was recalling something.
“Whatever it is you’re trying to do, Mom—don’t,” he said quietly, almost tiredly. “You know Father better than I do. You know how he reacts when he feels challenged.”
Anita didn’t look at him right away. She was staring at the rim of her teacup, one finger circling its edge slowly, as if she could find answers in its cold porcelain.
“I do,” she murmured after a long pause. “I’ve known him since I was nineteen. I know exactly what he’s capable of. But I also know what people are capable of when they feel small… and desperate.”
She looked up at her son, her eyes searching his face with quiet anguish. “He’s willing to sacrifice you to protect his illusion of control. His name. His power. How could he do this to you, Cheolie?” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, her lips trembling with disappointment more than grief.
Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, stepping closer to her. “Don’t worry about me, Mom. I have it under control.”
That made her laugh – soft and bitter, the sound of a woman who had watched too much for too long. She shook her head slowly, her earrings catching a sliver of morning light. A sad smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve always had it under control. Even when you shouldn’t have to.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering a moment longer than usual. She reached up and lightly cupped the side of his face, her thumb brushing his cheekbone like she used to when he was a boy.
“Take care, Mama,” he said, pulling back.
Anita gave a small nod, blinking back something she wasn’t going to let fall. “You too, my Tesoro.” Her voice softened with warmth. “Tell your Zio I miss him… and that his sister is still waiting on that wine.”
Seungcheol let out a low chuckle under his breath and turned for the door. He didn’t say anything else, but Anita knew he heard her.
The silence he left behind was familiar—clean, still, and just a little too heavy.
Seungcheol stepped out of the main house, his phone buzzing silently in his pocket. Mingyu was already waiting by the black SUV, arms folded, his phone in hand. He looked up as Seungcheol approached and handed him the device without a word.
On the screen was a grainy image taken from security footage, probably. A man in a dark suit shaking hands with someone in the shadows outside a backdoor of a nightclub. Time-stamped, dated. The name below caught his attention.
“This is from two nights ago,” Mingyu said. “The club’s called Nocturne. It's in the industrial stretch outside Trastevere. Quiet place. But the man in the picture… he’s Veronica’s brother-in-law.”
Seungcheol’s brow furrowed as he studied the image. “The finance guy. What’s he doing there?”
Mingyu gave a humourless smile. “The same thing most of them do—coke, women, and running their mouths when they think no one’s listening.”
Seungcheol handed the phone back. “Wasn’t Jenna’s husband the talkative one?”
“Still is,” Mingyu replied, slipping the device back into his coat. “That’s actually how we got the lead. Apparently, he’s been bragging about some high-stake investments. All of them are quietly funnelling money into certain nonprofit medical corporations. The kind that claim to be charitable but spend millions on R&D and distribution for select clients.”
“Pharmaceutical laundering,” Seungcheol muttered, jaw tightening. “Let me guess—they’re using it to wash cash through fake donation channels?”
“Exactly. And here’s where it gets worse.” Mingyu pulled out a folder and handed it to him. “I went back through this year’s presidential campaign finance records. There was one name that stood out, apart from us. A significant private sponsor.”
Seungcheol flipped open the file and saw the name printed on official stationery.
Vantage Medicines.
His eyes narrowed. “Vantage... That’s a subsidiary, isn’t it?”
Mingyu nodded. “Yeah. Of the Avań Group.”
A cold beat of silence passed between them before Seungcheol finished the sentence without looking up.
“Owned by Leonard Ametres.”
Mingyu held his gaze. “Exactly.”
Seungcheol snapped the file shut, the paper trembling slightly in his grip. “Get me everything we have on Avań. And keep eyes on everyone tied to Vantage. If this ties back to the campaign, we need to move before they do.”
Mingyu nodded and pulled out his phone. “On it. And Cheol—” he paused, voice lowering, “—if Leonard’s behind this, we might be in deeper than we thought.”
Seungcheol looked past him, jaw clenched, gaze dark.
“We’ve always been deep, Mingyu. Now we just know which monster’s swimming with us.”
At any moment, you felt you might draw blood from the inside of your mouth—a habit you had when you were deep in thought or quietly unravelling from the inside out. You didn’t realise how hard you were biting down until your jaw ached.
After dropping Rocky off at daycare, you sat behind Chan in the car, both of you facing the road ahead as the hospital grew closer in the distance.
“Chan,” you cleared your throat softly.
“Yes, doc?” He glanced sideways at the rearview mirror before returning his focus to the road.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Here?” he asked, then gave a faint chuckle. “You mean with Director Choi?”
You nodded.
He exhaled through his nose, a short breath that carried years. “I was fifteen. My old man owed the boss a debt—lost money on something stupid; I don’t even remember what anymore. Then he offed himself.”
You glanced at him, but his face stayed passive, focused on driving.
“Boss didn’t say much. Just sent me back to school. But I hated studying. Hated sitting still. I used to sneak into their old gym all the time. Director Choi and Mr. Mingyu used to train there weights, boxing, the usual. They’d always shoo me away, telling me to stay in school or scram.”
He smiled at the memory, though there was sadness tucked under it. “I didn’t listen. I started cleaning the gym. Started copying their moves when no one was watching. Then one day, there was an ambush. Someone came after Mr. Mingyu, and I was there, just by chance. I don’t know what came over me, but I fought. Stupidly. I wasn’t even good then. But I helped. I guess that’s when it all changed.”
You listened in silence. The streets around you were familiar now—the curve before the coffee shop, the pharmacy with the green sign, and the alley with the bent railing. The hospital wasn’t far.
“I see,” you said softly. Then, after a pause, “Did you ever feel like... you shouldn’t be here?”
Chan didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his thumb along the steering wheel.
“To be honest, doc,” he finally said, voice low, “I would’ve been a lot worse off if it wasn’t for the boss. My jackass father took the first flight upstairs, and my mom? She ran off with some pimp. There wasn't really a ‘should be’ for me. Just this. And it isn’t perfect, but it’s mine.”
The hospital came into view. Its towering glass walls caught the late morning light.
Wanting to shift the mood, you asked, “How did you meet Layla?”
This time, his voice brightened. “Oh, you mean Her Royal Fluffness?”
You grinned.
“I was at this ramen joint, yeah? Their chilli oil noodles are the best; you should try them someday. And I see this little poodle on a leash tied to the chair outside. Pink bow, little attitude. Some street kid tried to steal her leash. She barked so loud I thought she summoned Satan. I ran out and scared the kid away. She’s been mine since.”
“Layla chose you,” you laughed.
“Obviously. I’m her humble butler.”
As the car rolled to a smooth stop in front of the hospital gate, Chan got out and opened your door. You stepped out just as Layla popped her tiny head out of Chan’s messenger bag, letting out a prim bark like she was announcing your arrival.
Chan made some offhand comment—something sarcastic about Layla being the real boss in her daycare and how her vet's clinic is just across the hospital parking lot. For a moment, the earlier tension in your chest loosened. You laughed, full and light, adjusting your coat as you started walking toward the main entrance.
You didn’t see Jeonghan watching you.
He stood by the register of the hospital cafeteria, fingers idly tapping the back of his phone. The glass panel beside the cashier counter gave a wide, unobstructed view of the driveway out front. His usual coffee run before the shift.
He watched you laugh. Watched Chan adjust the strap on his shoulder while the ridiculous poodle stuck her head back into his bag like she was bored of the world. He watched the two of you walk in together, your head tilted in easy conversation, your shoulders close.
The barista called his name twice before he blinked and turned around.
“Sorry,” he muttered, reaching for the coffee he hadn’t tasted yet.
But his eyes flicked back to the entrance.
Trying to recognise why that face looks so familiar.
The surgery had gone well, but your mind was far from calm.
You stood at the sink in the surgical suite, washing up, sleeves rolled past your elbows, water sluicing off your forearms in practiced motions. The silence let your thoughts wander—specifically, to breakfast.
You weren’t expecting it. Not from them. The first month in that house had been brutal. Being ignored was one thing; silence could be tolerable. But that? That felt like quiet cruelty. As if the entire staff had decided you didn’t belong but were too well-trained to say it out loud.
You never asked for : your meals, clean sheets, and a driver. Still, no one deserved to be treated like they were a shadow. Like they didn’t exist.
Sighing, you pulled off the surgical gown and changed into a fresh pair of scrubs. As you tied your hair back and stepped out, you called, “Nurse Moya, can you prep the patient files for rounds?”
She nodded, then hesitated. “Doctor… There’s someone waiting in the OPD. He said it’s for consultation.”
Your brow furrowed. “I don’t take OPDs on Wednesdays.”
“I know, I told him several times,” she said, her voice taut with unease. “But he was... insistent.”
You exhaled sharply, tired but curious. “Fine. I’ll see what this is.”
You stepped into your office, expecting a pushy patient or an entitled relative.
Instead, you froze.
Standing near your desk, awkward and clearly out of place in the sterile space, was the man you hadn’t seen since that fateful day at the mansion. The man whose DNA you shared. The man who had left.
Your voice sharpened without warning, the words punching through the thick air. “What are you doing here?”
He looked startled—caught off guard, like a child caught lying. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and he gave a weak laugh. “I just… I came to check on you. No, I mean—get checked up. Right. I’m here as a patient.”
Rage bloomed in your chest, slow and rising like water about to boil over. You bit the inside of your cheek. Not here. Not now.
“Nurse Moya,” you said calmly, without looking away from him, “please take the patient to Dr. Khan. Tell them I referred him. And bring the files—I need to finish my rounds.”
You turned on your heel to leave.
“Y/N… doll, please,” he called after you. “I didn’t know any other way. I just wanted to know how you’re doing. I heard you were hurt.”
You stopped at the door. Your hand curled around the handle. Eyes closed.
A pause. Then quietly, coolly, you replied—
“You’re two decades late.”
And with that, you stepped out, the door slamming shut behind you.
Jaein stood there, rooted in place, watching the door swing shut behind you. The coldness in your voice echoed in his ears.
You’re two decades late.
He had no right to be hurt—but he was. And he knew he deserved worse.
Still, he followed. Not quickly. Not with any real courage. Just enough to stay within sight, as if hoping proximity alone could mend years of absence.
He was rounding the corner near the west wing hallway when he heard the brisk clip of footsteps—and then, a firm voice.
“There she is!”
You stopped mid-step as Cordon approached, a disapproving frown carved into his usually warm features.
“You skipped lunch again,” he scolded, reaching to straighten the sleeve of your coat like you were ten years old and rushing to school. “You think I don’t notice? How many times do I have to tell you, YN? You’re not invincible.”
You mumbled something under your breath, avoiding his gaze, but there was no real protest in you. Cordon clicked his tongue, then handed you a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water from the bag slung over his shoulder. “You’re not stepping into a single ward until you eat at least half of that. I’ll be checking. Don’t test me.”
Despite yourself, a corner of your mouth twitched upward. “Yes, sir.”
He gave your arm a light squeeze, the kind that said, 'I worry about you more than I should but I’ll never stop.' Then he walked off, grumbling about residents and their bad habits.
Jaein saw all of it. Just as Cordon was about to step inside the elevator, their eyes met, and Cordon gave him a slight nod and smile.
He saw the ease with which you accepted Cordon’s fussing. The way your shoulders loosened under his care. The small smile that had been absent just moments ago when Jaein had stood in front of you, fumbling for excuses.
And for the first time in a long while, he hated himself—not for what he did, but for what he didn’t do. For the time he didn't show up. For the care he never gave. For not knowing if you liked your coffee with milk. Or if you even liked sandwiches.
He turned away, guilt curdling in his stomach.
You already had a father figure.
And it wasn’t him.
The air inside the station buzzed with the chaotic rhythm of a weekday crowd. Phones rang in uneven chorus, keyboards clacked from multiple desks, and a television mounted in one corner played the news on low volume. Officers moved briskly, file folders under arms, conversations overlapping like static. The scent of instant coffee, sweat, and aged paper hung in the air.
A holding cell tucked in the corner was lined with grimy metal bars. A few men sat slumped on the benches inside, some dozing, others glowering at the floor. On a plastic chair outside the cell, a man in his early forties sat rigidly. He hadn’t moved much in the last three hours, his fingers gripping a tattered file folder with a silent desperation.
Two constables sat at a nearby desk, typing reports.
The younger one, Kwon, leaned toward his partner. “What’s his deal?” he whispered, nodding discreetly toward the man.
His partner, John, barely glanced up. “Claims his brother’s dead body vanished from a hospital. Been sitting there for hours.”
Kwon blinked. “Wait, what?”
John sighed, tapping away at his keyboard. “Says the guy was homeless. If he cared that much, why’d he let him rot on the streets?”
Kwon made a soft sound of agreement, more tired than judgemental and returned to his paperwork. A few seconds passed before he looked up again. “Did he say which hospital?”
Before John could answer, a sudden outburst cracked through the station’s noise.
“You’re all a bunch of ungrateful bastards! I pay taxes so people like you can sit here in your uniforms pretending to serve justice but you’re just dogs serving your masters!”
Heads turned.
“I’ve been sitting here for four goddamn hours and no one’s even looked at me! What kind of justice is this? Is this what my brother deserved?!”
The man’s voice quivered with fury as he stood, slamming his hand on the counter.
The station’s commotion stilled when the glass doors opened and Commissioner Susan Paul stepped inside. Her presence commanded immediate attention. Officers stood up instinctively, nodding their greetings one by one.
She paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing at the man’s shouting.
“What is the matter, sir?” she asked, stepping forward.
The man turned to her, his body shaking with rage and exhaustion. “My brother died on the night of 22nd November,” he said. “We had no one else—just the two of us. When I went to claim his body on the 27th, they told me it had already been collected.”
Susan’s expression stayed calm but alert. “Alright,” she said. “Then why didn’t you file a complaint?”
His laugh was dry and bitter. “I did. I’ve been coming here almost every day for the past two weeks. But no one listens. They keep saying, 'Come tomorrow, come later, sit and wait.' I waited! But nothing!”
She turned slowly, scanning the room. Her jaw tightened at the pointed silence of the officers.
He continued, voice hoarse. “Because they won’t dare bite the hand that feeds them.”
Susan’s eyes flicked back to him. “What do you mean by that, sir?”
The man looked straight into her eyes now, his voice dropping low, the fury condensing into something cold and certain.
“Because my brother’s body went missing from Liberty University Hospital.”
A hush swept over the room.
For a moment, it felt like even the television had gone silent. Every eye in the station was on them, on her.
And Susan Paul didn’t blink.
As the lines in her head began to connect.
ོ༘ ₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚ෆ༄.°.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
A month later….
The world outside the hospital windows had turned pale and brittle, as if the cold had drained the colour from everything it touched. The trees stood stripped and shivering, their bare branches etching sorrowful lines into a grey morning sky. Frost clung to the glass like delicate lace, and the wind howled low through the city’s bones, making even the most indifferent hearts slow their step.
Inside the operating theatre, it was still sterile in light and controlled in breath but humming with the quiet intensity of life suspended. The room was warm, too warm, in contrast to the chill outside. The kind of warmth that sticks to skin and beads on brows. Monitors beeped rhythmically, a steady reminder that time was not stopped, only slowed and sculpted into precision by your gloved hands.
Your breath fogged slightly behind the mask as you leaned over the open chest, fingers steady, eyes trained on the pale throb of exposed life. A hush fell over the team, broken only by the clipped instructions you gave in a low voice.
“Clamp… suction… hold there.”
You were in the middle of surgery, scalpel in hand, clamps in place, the beeping monitors ticking like a second heartbeat beside you—but your mind kept drifting elsewhere. You were focused, yes, but in the quiet moments between movements, thoughts kept bleeding through the cracks of your concentration.
The research with Cordon had been going surprisingly well. The presentation last week had impressed even the more stoic members of the review board. For the first time in months, your name was being mentioned not just in whispers behind closed doors but in open admiration. Still, the success had come at a cost. The past month had been exhausting. Sleepless nights, unpredictable shifts, emotionally charged tension with Anita, and a thousand loose threads pulling at the seams of your life.
And yet, according to Chan, Seungcheol won't be back for another week; it's almost the middle of January since he's been gone in Italy. But why would you care?
The mess you left in your room after crashing from 24-hour shifts? Gone. The laundry was folded. The floors are clean. There was always food waiting for you even if you barely managed two bites before falling asleep. Chan gave vague answers, brushing it off. "You have too much on your plate already," he'd say, handing you tea with a rare softness in his eyes.
Anita still had her episodes, but according to Chan, nothing escalated. “She cried last Tuesday,” he had mentioned casually. “But no glass was thrown. That’s a win.”
Then it hit you—the smell.
It wasn’t the iron tang you’d grown used to in this room. It was sharper. Foul. And rising like bile from the pit of your stomach. You blinked and stumbled back slightly from the operating table. The nurse looked at you, confused.
“You okay, doctor?”
You couldn’t respond.
Your heart kicked up in your chest, and the nausea hit hard. You tore off your gloves, muttered something—anything—about the sandwich you’d eaten earlier, about food poisoning or a sudden migraine.
“Dr Y/N!” Someone called, alarmed, but another surgeon was already stepping in, barking orders to resume the procedure.
You pushed open the doors and made your way down the hall.
You barely made it into the restroom before collapsing to your knees.
The retching was violent and raw, and you gripped the cold edge of the sink as your body emptied itself.
Somewhere, between the acid rising in your throat and the burn in your eyes, a thought clawed its way to the front of your mind.
This isn’t just exhaustion. Something’s wrong.
The metallic taste of bile still clung to your throat as you leaned over the sink in the surgical washroom, the acrid scent of antiseptic barely masking the sharp sting of blood that had triggered it all. You gripped the cold edge of the porcelain, staring at your own pale reflection as your mind scrambled.
What the hell did I eat? The sandwich. That stupid egg sandwich. You’d taken one bite before the scent turned your stomach inside out. Was it off? Were you coming down with something? But your stomach wasn't the only thing in rebellion. It was your entire body—heavy, flushed, foreign.
You pressed your hand to your abdomen, the nausea giving way to something colder—something more certain.
When was your last period? Your eyes darted to the foggy mirror. Late November? No—no, that was when the mice trials started. December was just a blur of blood reports, Anita’s surveillance, and long nights going over the data with the team. January had arrived without warning, buried under data sets and missed meals.
You hadn’t noticed. You hadn’t even thought to notice.
Your breath hitched.
What will Dr. Mirek think? You could already hear it—that low, measured tone he used when he was disappointed. “You had such promise. Such discipline.” The long-winded lectures, the probing questions.
“Whose is it? Why now? Are you throwing your future away?” And the hospital staff... Whispers behind latex gloves, pity in their eyes. “The surgeon who had it all. Guess she didn’t want it after all.”
What the hell are you going to tell Cordon?
He’d notice. He notices everything. Only next week was the damn presentation, which managed to impress the miserly research board. After that, the gala. If the project was selected—and you were praying it would be—you’d have to walk into a ballroom full of donors, faculty heads, and medical board members...
But your grip on the sink softened, and your jaw unclenched.
Because this was it, wasn’t it?
The goal. The plan. The final stage of the exit. The child.
A son.
After months of injections, of hormone therapy disguised as vitamin regimens, of “just in case” ultrasounds masked as research scans—it worked. It was here.
All you needed now was a few more months. A little more silence. A little more control. Then you could disappear. Leave the mansion, the people, the grief—that man—behind. You are so close now.
You stood up slowly, the pounding in your head finally giving way to a cold, sharp focus.
There was only one person you could trust with this. One person who already knew more than anyone else ever could.
Your fingers hovered over the screen for only a second before pressing Call.
The night draped over Tuscany like velvet—thick and dark, with a chill that clung to the bones. Far from the noise of cities, the Bellandi estate sat like a living relic—an Italian villa older than any map that dared name it. Seungcheol’s mother had been born here, in the grand hall with its frescoed ceilings and cold stone floors. The family—La Famiglia Bellandi—held a legacy soaked in influence, its reach stretching from Florence to the forgotten corners of war zones.
Tonight, the mansion buzzed with the quiet tension of power. Inside the drawing room, the most elusive of circles had gathered—political brokers, retired generals, and defence contractors. The private wing of the International Defence Exhibition had concluded hours ago, but here, at the Bellandi villa, the real conversations were only beginning.
A long oak table stretched beneath a chandelier that glowed like fire caught in crystal. Laughter broke through plumes of cigar smoke. Seungcheol sat at the end, elbow on the table, whisky sweating in his hand as his Zio Riccardo recounted a tale.
“My boy, I tell you, he was only 5. One day he came to my office and kicked the chair down. Why? Because I didn’t wake him up to go for hunting, hahaha.”
He smiled vaguely and nodded at the right beats, but his heart wasn’t there—not really.
Not for the past month.
There had been moments when he had to physically slap himself—not hard, but enough to feel something—to stop his fingers from dialling Chan’s number. To stop himself from asking, “What’s she doing?” and “Did she eat today?”
“Did she ask about me?”
But pride was a louder force than longing. And so he swallowed the ache, letting silence bruise where words wanted to spill.
Until tonight.
The moment his phone buzzed, something in his chest tightened. It was a message from Chan.
No words—just an attachment.
He tapped it open.
And the world stopped moving.
It wasn’t loud—this panic. It was silent and numbing, a slow-motion unravelling. The sound in the room blurred. The warmth from the fireplace couldn’t reach him anymore. His fingers curled around his phone as his eyes read and reread the document. He stood so suddenly the chair skidded back and scraped against the marble.
Riccardo paused, laughter dying in his throat. “Figlio mio, tutto bene?”
My son, is everything okay?
Seungcheol didn’t respond. His lips parted slightly, eyes still frozen to the screen. Then, as if underwater, he said quietly, “Scusami.”
And walked out.
The hallway outside was dim, painted in gold light from ancient sconces. He passed portraits of long-dead ancestors with watchful eyes, the soles of his shoes echoing against polished floors.
Mingyu caught up seconds later. “Hyung—what’s wrong?”
Seungcheol didn’t stop. He pressed the bridge of his nose and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a century. At the base of the staircase, he finally turned.
“Call the pilot,” he said, voice clipped.
Mingyu blinked. “We’re leaving?”
“In an hour.”
“Why? What happened?”
Seungcheol met his eyes.
“Y/N is pregnant.”
END OF CHAPTER 13
Extra:
You were biting your lip, a nervous habit you’d never quite broken, fingers anxiously fiddling with the edge of the envelope resting in your lap—the one that held your pregnancy reports. The paper inside suddenly felt heavier than any chart you’d ever read. You were still in your scrubs, the hospital’s fluorescent light fading behind you as night crept across the city.
Maybe you should text him. Yes. That would be easier—less eye contact, less pressure.
You unlocked your phone, thumb hovering as you scrolled slowly through your contacts. “Choi Seungcheol,” you whispered, scanning again. Five minutes passed before you stopped and stared at the blank screen.
You didn’t have his number.
Of course you didn’t.
You let out a dry, humourless breath and wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering slightly despite the still air. Headlights flickered at the kerb. Chan’s car rolled to a gentle stop in front of the hospital entrance, the engine humming like a lullaby you couldn’t fall asleep to.
You slipped into the back seat, and the silence hung for a moment—thick and uncertain. The streetlights painted golden streaks on the window glass as the car started moving.
“Can I ask you something, Chan?” you said, quietly.
Chan glanced at you through the rearview mirror, eyes calm. “Sure, doc.”
You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “When is Director Choi coming back?”
Chan exhaled, thinking. “Not before next week, maybe later. Depends on the Bellandis and the summit stuff. Why?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked down at the envelope one more time, as if it might whisper advice. Then you leaned forward, slipping it gently into the front seat beside him.
“Can you send this to him?”Chan looked at it, then back at you. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once. “Yeah. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
A/N: did you really think i have forgotten bout you?
Feedback time my darlings!! Drop your thoughts.
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WARNING: The first manifestation of yearning is accidental masturbation, IUI, Male Masturbation, blowjobs, and rough play. Happy Weekend babies ♥️
It had been thirty full minutes past the agreed time. The coffee in his cup had gone cold. Seungcheol could already feel the dull throb of a headache pressing against his temples—not surprising, considering he’d barely gotten a few hours of sleep before being forced to wake at 5 a.m. again.
His father’s voice still rang in his ears: “You’re losing your edge, son. There’s a long way to go before the port union elections. Try not to get too caught up.”
Too caught up.
The phrase irritated him almost as much as the reason he was sitting here in the first place. He didn’t fully understand his own behavior lately, but he understood one thing—her attitude was infuriating from the first time he saw her in the hospital when Mingyu was shot by her fuckass little step brother who’s sitting somewhere in hidden by Jaein in someone Island in Hawaii, and yet… she wasn’t exactly unattractive.
And Seungcheol wasn’t the kind of man who tolerated interference with what was his. Whether he liked it or not, she was still his wife—if not in the public eye, then certainly within the walls of his mansion. And in the eyes of the famiglia, An insult to one’s wife was an insult to oneself.
And if this… IU…thing or whatever she says somehow managed to get her pregnant, that insult wouldn’t just be to him. It would be to his blood. His child.
He’d been taught better than to let something like that pass. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, his father had said.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
And a little fun never killed a man?
The last update Seungcheol got was through Chan, who’d mentioned something vague about you “still not being done”—something about a new prognosis, whatever that meant. He didn’t care. You were late.
He looked at his watch again and exhaled sharply, tapping the armrest of the leather handrest in his car with growing impatience, looking at the coffee order he had for you, Black: two shots of espresso.
Don’t ask him why does he know it? Such a mundane information, because again these days his actions are beyond his own comprehension, like the time in the middle of the night he dressed your wound given by his mother… he wasn’t sure why he was feeling this weird feeling gnawing at his chest, apparently it’s called guilt? it’s a grace your damned dog was sleeping in the living area that night, or else that fucker would’ve attacked him.
“Is she always this delayed?” He asked, eyes still flickering from the cup to the road.
Wonwoo, sitting on the passenger seat, cleared his throat and replied cautiously, “Wouldn’t know, boss. But if you ask Andrew, he’ll tell you her five minutes usually means an hour or more.”
Seungcheol’s brow twitched.
“I don’t think this woman understands the importance of my time,” he muttered under his breath, the irritation bleeding through his usually composed tone.
Wonwoo wisely said nothing. He knew better than to prod when Seungcheol’s jaw was clenched like that.
Just as his patience began to fray at the edges, he caught sight of a familiar black Mercedes pulling up next to his.
Identical to his own. Of course.
Chan rushed out of the driver’s seat, tugging the door open after the car had fully stopped. And then you stepped out—calm, unhurried, like you hadn’t just kept one of the most influential man in the country waiting for over thirty minutes.
Black wide-legged jeans and a simple grey t-shirt. No makeup, no effort. Just you.
Seungcheol blinked once, slowly.
So she has normal clothes, he thought dryly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—but it vanished just as quickly.
Wonwoo let out a small breath next to him, but said nothing.
Seungcheol simply leaned back in his seat and waited—watching as you adjusted your bag, said something to Chan, and started walking toward the entrance.
Shaking his head, Seungcheol stepped out of the vehicle, nodding briefly at Chan before following behind you as you rushed inside.
“Running won’t bring my thirty minutes back. Slow down,” he called out, voice low but cutting.
You jolted, spinning halfway. “Oh, you’re here.”
“Been here for a while,” he replied, voice clipped.
“Sorry—just got caught up with a new case at the hospital. It’s for my research and—”
“You know I have other things to do, right?”
“And I don’t?” you snapped, turning fully to face him now. “Whatever it is you have going on can’t possibly be more important than saving lives.”
He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “Get off your high horse, doctor. Just because I let things slide doesn’t mean you get to keep taking jabs at me. I don’t know what delusional, Godfather version of crime you think I live in, but let me be clear—most people don’t even dare look me in the eye, let alone talk to me like that. Here.”
You stared at him, looking at the coffee cup he extended your way; without a second thought, you took it, because let's be honest, in order to breathe the same air as this man, you need to have something in your system. Breathe shallow with irritation. “Well, someone has to—”
“Y/N! You’re here.” Lucy’s voice rang out from down the hallway, bright and oblivious. “I was just about to go on my lunch break.”
You turned to her instantly, schooling your expression, jaw still tight. “Thanks for waiting, Lu.”
You didn’t spare him another glance as you walked away, but Seungcheol remained where he stood—jaw clenched, tongue pressing into his cheek.
You’d gotten under his skin again.
And he hated that you could.
You stood beside Seungcheol, the air still tense from your earlier exchange, but your voice steady.
“Director Choi, this is Dr. Lucy Wen. And Lucy, meet…” You glanced at him, searching for the right word—you couldn’t call him your husband. “…Choi Seungcheol. He’s the one I’ll be going through the procedure with.”
Lucy looked between the two of you with a curious flicker in her eyes, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Ah yes, the new director of the corporation that acquired Liberty. We’ve heard a lot about you.”
Seungcheol gave a polite nod, his expression unreadable, hands in his coat pockets.
“Please, follow me,” Lucy chirped, leading you both down the corridor. “Don’t worry, Director Choi— Y/N filled me in on your case. And I can assure you, I’m very strict when it comes to doctor-patient confidentiality.”
You avoided Seungcheol’s gaze as you entered her office, choosing instead to focus on enjoy the now lukewarm coffee in your hands which was exactly how you like it..? How did he know?
Seungcheol took the seat beside you, his knee brushing yours—not quite accidental, not quite intentional.
Lucy didn’t miss the tension. But she said nothing, only smiled and shut the door.
“Since I already discussed the requirements with Y/N yesterday,” Lucy began, settling into her chair, “I’ll just repeat it briefly for you, Director Choi.”
She turned to him with a bright, clinical professionalism. “The IUI procedure—Intrauterine Insemination—is relatively non-invasive. What we do is insert a concentrated sample of sperm directly into the uterus around the time of ovulation, which increases the chances of fertilization. You’ll both have to undergo a few preliminary tests—basic bloodwork, hormone panels, and of course, semen analysis. Once the samples are processed and matched with ovulation timing, we schedule the first cycle. It’s usually done without anesthesia, takes about 15-20 minutes.”
She looked between you both. “So we’ll just need to get that sorted—then we can try our first round. What do you think?”
You offered a small smile. “Thank you for doing this for us, Lucy. It really means a lot.”
Lucy grinned and waved her hand dismissively. “Psssh, don’t worry about it! I mean—everyone has a right to family, am I right, Director Choi? No matter what society says.” Her gaze softened toward you. “I think it’s really selfless, what you’re about to do, Y/N.”
Seungcheol’s head turned sharply toward you. His jaw clenched slightly.
What exactly did you tell this woman?
You could feel the weight of his stare drilling into your temple.
You forced a small, awkward laugh. “Haha… yes.”
But Lucy wasn’t done. “I mean, not a lot of people would offer this kind of help, especially with how complicated these things get emotionally. I just think it’s amazing that you’re putting someone else’s future first like that.”
“Very noble,” Seungcheol said finally, his voice low and dry, his eyes never leaving you. “She tends to do that.”
There was something about the way he said it—so calm, so polite—but you knew it was a loaded bullet dressed as a compliment.
Lucy smiled, blissfully unaware. “Well, I’ll give you both a moment to review the forms. Just knock if you need me.”
As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, you turned to him.
“What?” you whispered.
“I didn’t know we were putting on a martyr act,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “Selfless? What exactly did you say to her, Y/N?”
You sighed. “I told her what she needed to hear. To get this done.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping. “Next time you want to play the humble saviour, let me know in advance. So I don’t look like the emotionally barren villain in the room.”
You blinked at him. “But you are one.”
“Was that a joke?.”
“Maybe” you shrugged and levelled him with your challenging stare
“I don’t like jokes.”
“And I don’t like you” you countered and turned to your attention to your form. But the small faint smirk at your silly retort that you were trying to bite down with your teeth wasn’t unnoticed by him.
About ten minutes into your conversation , a nurse knocked gently and stepped into the room. She greeted you with a kind smile before moving efficiently—tying a rubber band around your arm, swabbing your skin, and drawing a few vials of blood. You looked away, focusing on your breathing instead of the sting.
Then, without missing a beat, she turned to Seungcheol and handed him a sterile plastic cup after taking his blood sample.
He blinked at it. “…Uhm?”
His hand hesitated mid-air as if unsure whether to even take the thing. His eyes darted toward you, searching for context. You met his gaze evenly, then slowly dropped your eyes—just briefly—to the front of his pants before looking back up at him with a raised brow.
He narrowed his eyes at you, brow lifting in disbelief.
“This is for your sperm sample, Director,” the nurse explained helpfully, clearly used to this kind of reaction. “We need it to assess motility and count—it’s a basic part of the initial evaluation.”
His jaw tightened. “Is that… absolutely necessary?”
You exhaled a breath that was far too close to a laugh. “Been asking myself the same question for the past month and a half,” you muttered under your breath.
His head snapped toward you. “What?”
“Hm?” You blinked innocently. “What?”
Lucy stepped in before things could escalate. “It’s just protocol, Director Choi,” she said smoothly, as if she were gently placating a jumpy horse. “We know it can be uncomfortable, but it's a quick process. Cece can take you to the private collection room. There are various, uh… materials available. If you need assistance—visual, not physical—and there are supplements too, if necessary.”
Seungcheol’s face stiffened, eyes flickering with mild horror. “That won’t be necessary,” he said sharply, voice clipped.
From the corner of his eye, he caught you turning away—your shoulders shaking faintly as you tried, and failed, to hide your smirk.
“I’m perfectly capable,” he added, clearing his throat in an attempt to salvage his dignity.
“Of course, sir,” Lucy said diplomatically, gesturing to the nurse. “Cece?”
“Yes, this way, sir.” Cece stepped aside, waiting.
He gave you one last look, full of quiet exasperation, before following her out. The door shut with a soft click.
Silence.
Then Lucy let out a breath through her nose and glanced at you with an amused expression. You gave her a polite smile in return, but your eyes sparkled with barely restrained laughter.
“Well,” she murmured, straightening a few papers on her clipboard, “I think we’re off to a strong start.”
Then Lucy let out a quiet snort. “He’s… intense.”
You smoothed your expression, failing slightly. “You have no idea.”
Lucy leaned back in her chair, glancing at the closed door. “So… just so I’m clear. You two are not…?”
You gave her a tight-lipped smile. “No.”
You could see the curiosity flickering in her expression. She spun a pen between her fingers. “Well, either way. You two have potential. Even if it’s the kind you want to strangle.”
All you did was shake your head.
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If there was one thing Seungcheol prided himself on, it wasn’t his title nor his wealth—it was his eye for real estate. For the way he could walk through hollow concrete and cracked floor plans and see gold beneath the dust. That same eye had spotted Mingyu years ago, raw and reckless but brilliant—exactly the kind of man you wanted working in shadows where the city’s veins ran thick with secrets.
Mingyu flicked the last drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly before he ground it beneath the heel of his boot. He was dressed in one of his informal suits—a graphite grey two-piece, rumpled but intentional, with the top two buttons of his black shirt left undone. He never wore a tie unless paid for it. His hair was slicked back, but a few strands rebelliously curled over his forehead. He looked less like a deputy and more like trouble walking in slow motion.
The apartment building before him towered like something out of a forgotten era—majestic in its architecture, the façade wrapped in dark marble and angular glass, balconies jutting like sharp wings. It was private. Expensive. The kind of place where people paid more for silence than security. Alas, this was one of his and Seungcheol’s many buildings.
Inside, the security guard stationed near the elevators rose the moment he saw Mingyu approaching. “Sir,” he greeted, straightening.
“How’s your wife?” Mingyu asked casually, already reaching for his wallet. “Baby’s due soon, isn’t she?”
The man blinked, then smiled nervously. “Next week, sir. Thank you for remembering.”
Mingyu slipped him a folded note. “Get something nice. For both of them.”
The guard bowed slightly, murmuring his thanks.
Mingyu didn’t respond, just nodded and stepped into the elevator. As it rose, he watched his reflection in the polished metal, adjusting his cuffs with one hand. The doors opened to an empty corridor, sleek and hushed. His footsteps echoed across the marble tiles as he made his way to Monica’s door, stopping in front of it.
The door creaked open before he could knock.
She stood there in a silk robe the colour of dark wine, loosely tied, the neckline dipping just enough to make his eyes pause. One of her shoulders was bare, her skin warm-toned and smooth. Her hair was loosely curled, and her lips were painted the colour of blood and berries. She leaned against the frame like a cat stretching in sunlight.
“Took your time,” Monica murmured, her voice lazy and honey-thick.
“What can I say? I came back from the brink of death,” he replied coolly.
She smiled. “Pity.”
She stepped back, letting him in. The moment he crossed the threshold, the door clicked shut behind him, the lock sliding in place with a finality that felt deliberate, and eyes not leaving each other.
Later…
The curtains were drawn now, the room dimly lit in amber. Mingyu stood by the edge of her sleek, modern kitchen island, buttoning his shirt again. His chest still glistened faintly with sweat under the warm light. Monica moved with feline grace, a file folder in her hand, teasing the edge along her thigh before offering it to him.
“It was almost too easy,” she purred, settling onto a stool. “He leaves everything with that idiot secretary—Rhys really should hire smarter people if he’s going to play politics.”
Mingyu flipped through the file briefly, his expression unreadable. “And what did you say to get it?”
“Just a little lipstick, some stupid compliments, and pretending. Men like to explain things, you know? Makes them feel important.”
He chuckled softly, eyes not leaving the documents. “Thanks.”
She tilted her head, watching him. “When do I see you again?”
But before he could answer, her phone buzzed sharply on the table. The name on the screen flashed: Secretary.
Mingyu snatched it before she could. His eyes flicked over the message—“Did you get home okay?”—and then he placed the phone face down. “No need to reply,” he said curtly.
“What about Rhys?” He asked.
He looked up at her, slowly walking back to where she sat. “Rhys won’t cheat on his wife. Not with a woman, anyway.”
Monica laughed, but it was short-lived. Her robe had slipped slightly, the thin strap of her bralette falling from her shoulder. Mingyu’s gaze drifted lower. With deliberate slowness, he reached out, tracing her cheek with the back of his fingers, then letting his thumb trail down her lips to her neck, gliding over her collarbone.
He hooked the strap with two fingers and gently pulled it back into place.
“I’ll call you if I need you again,” he said softly.
Monica bit down on her lower lip, saying nothing.
He turned, walking to the door. She watched him—bare-legged and bare-shouldered—as he left without another word. The door shut quietly behind him.
She exhaled, long and slow, her fingers still pressed where his had just been.
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“How long has it been?” you asked, glancing at the wall clock across Lucy’s office. The second hand ticked loudly in your ears, only adding to the awkward weight in your chest.
Lucy leaned back in her chair, her brows slightly raised in thought. “I think… about 40 minutes?”
Your head tilted slightly. “Does it usually take this long?”
She gave a soft, amused huff. “It varies, but… not really. Some people get nervous. Others are just quick and done. But—”
“I’ll ask Cece to check on him.” She was already pushing her chair back, rising to her feet.
You stood up quickly. “No—no, it’s okay. I’ll do it,” you offered, brushing invisible lint from your jeans. “Be right back.”
Lucy nodded and sat back down, giving you a small smile that held just a hint of curiosity. You turned toward the hallway, trying not to let your imagination get the best of you as you stepped out, the click of the door muffled behind you.
The corridor was quiet. A faint humming from the ceiling lights followed you as you walked,You took a slow breath, steeling yourself before you reached the door.
Knock, knock.
“Director Choi, are you done yet?”
“Not quite,” he called back.
“What do you mean? What have you been doing all this while?”
You could feel his grin, even leaning against the door. “Flipping pancakes. Fancy one, wife!?”
There was a pause on the other side, then a snort.
“Seriously, dude?”
“Jeez, woman, don’t rush a man. And I’m not your dude.”
“Fine,” you huffed, crossing your arms.
A few seconds of silence stretched between you.
“Y/N? Are you still there?”
You hesitated for a moment, debating whether to reply. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Oh, I thought you left.” His voice was muffled, a little distant.
Then his tone shifted, low and teasing. “What are you wearing?”
You pulled back sharply. “I beg your pardon? Ew!”
“Come on, help me out. For science purposes.”
“Uh, no. Fuck off, you perv.”
Despite yourself, a weird warmth bloomed in your stomach, a blush creeping up your cheeks.
“What—what are you doing?” Your voice shook slightly at first, trying to keep your cool.
“Trying to jerk off,” he muttered, voice dry, “in the most un-arousing situation known to man. Feels like I’m back in my hostel dorm again.”
You couldn’t help but ask, “Don’t they have, you know, those magazines or videos?”
“Porn?” he repeated, sounding bored.
“Yes. Porn.”
“I don’t watch porn,” he said flatly. “But go on, keep talking.”
The next words were too low to catch clearly through the door, but you caught a muffled groan.
You pressed yourself tighter against the door, exhaling deeply. How do I always end up in situations like this?
“Do you really need help, or are you just being yourself?”
“Help me help you, wife,” he challenged.
You lowered your voice and sighed. “Fine…”
“What do you want?”
“Are you really doing this? Are we really doing this?” You could hear the amused curiosity in his voice, which now sounded a little closer.
“You know what? I am leaving.” You stomped your feet; your heart was pounding.
“No, no, wait!” He exclaimed, “Wait.” the tone a register lower
“What are you wearing?”
Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, and a rush ran through from your fingertips to your toes, but you could contain yourself and bite your lips.
“Y/N?”
“Yes…” you breathed
“What are you wearing?”
“I am… I am wearing a black thong and a net bralette.” Your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest given the absurdity, curiosity, or brazenness—call it what you want—of the situation.
Before the embarrassment could fully register, the door swung open abruptly, and you stumbled forward—landing against a firm chest.
“Are you now?” Seungcheol’s voice was thick with amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk.
You looked up at him, cheeks burning. “You’re done?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I was done ten minutes ago.”
That was the final spark. Anger bubbled to the surface, hot and sharp.
“You insufferable bastard!” You snapped, voice low but fierce, and without another word, you started marching ahead.
“Wait for me, Black Thong!” He called out playfully from behind.
You spun around, scandalized, eyes wide. Your hand darted to the newspaper stand nearby, grabbing the day’s paper and flinging it at him.
He dodged with ease, laughing heartily.
Seungcheol crossed to the counter, handing over the cup, then fell into step beside you as you exited the hospital.
“I guess this is it for today,” he said, his voice more serious now. “Your friend will send the results by tomorrow night. Then we’ll know how to proceed? ”
You nodded, absently rubbing your arm as you walked.
He glanced up from checking his emails on his phone. “Come on. I’ll drop you to your hospital.”
“No need. I’ll walk from here,” you replied firmly.
“I wasn’t asking, wife. Sit down.”
“No.” You turned sharply and started walking away in the direction of your hospital. Because if there is a god, then only he can take this urge to find the cliff and fling yourself from it.
He sighed deeply. “Chan.”
“On it, boss,” came the swift reply.
You felt his presence linger as Chan quietly fell in behind you, while Seungcheol climbed into his car.
The engine started softly, and Seungcheol closed his eyes for a moment. If he had the power to erase any memory, he’d choose this one without hesitation.
He could feel the nurse’s eyes on him—what was her name again? Cece, yes. The way she watched him as he followed down the hallway was almost palpable, like a quiet challenge wrapped in a polite smile. His steps were steady, but his mind was already racing.
Inside the small, private room, the first five minutes were a blur of awkward fumbling. Seungcheol tossed through various magazines scattered on the table, pages filled with glossy images of models and scenes he recognised all too well. Most were familiar faces from his past—a world he swore off the moment he left his hostel days behind. Porn? That was for guys who couldn’t get girls the “real” way. He never needed it.
He grunted softly to himself, flicking through the pages without interest, feeling the absurdity of the situation settle in. Here he was, forced into this ridiculous procedure, and all he wanted was to get it over with.
When was the last time he had to take care of himself? With a gun to his head, he can’t recall. Still he loosened his top button from his collar and unbuckled his belt and leaned against the chair as if the moment of orgasm would come to him like an epiphany and all he has to do is wait. In the moment of silence in this small room, Seungcheol's mind was racing and retracing everything at 100 miles per hour. Everything that has led to this moment.
If his brother hadn’t died, then what and where would he be? Maybe not so busy, of course. He would be able to concentrate more on the new development project or go to his friend’s bachelor’s party. Yeah, Raul is known for his wild parties and it would no doubt be intense.
Most of them would be there, Jake, including that annoying-ass guy. Hoshi, Selena—AH Selena, If Tony Salerno had one of the best late projects, it would be his daughter. Seungcheol chuckled darkly; that woman can be a little insistent, but she sure knew how to use her mouth. It was one of his latest projects: launch parties on his yacht. Seungcheol could feel imagination working its magic. Her pouty lips, green glassy eyes, and thick lashes were the only things that put him off; it was her strong perfume. She traced her lips with his tip, circling her lips around it and sucking on it. “Fuck,” Seungcheol groaned. His eyes closed at the sensation.
“Don’t be a tease, Selena.”
“But you love it when I take my time,” and dragged her tongue from under the shaft up. “Daddy,” she purred.
“Sure do, princess, but right now—” His voice cut off when she enclosed him without resistance inside her throat. Seungcheol's hands tightened around himself and his breath got ragged. “Right now I have to go and meet everyone, instead of Father.”
“Always Daddy’s little puppet.” His mind was surely playing games, because it isn't Selena on her knees anymore; there was only one woman who could degrade him like this and it was you.
Your shiny eyes looking up through your lashes, you bit your lips—fuck those lips and fuck you. He would roughly grip your chin and pull you on your feet; maybe your legs would be a little unstable, but he won't care. His hands would slide under the nape of your neck and grip your hair, and he would smash those lips and kiss you, or rather, he would bite them till they bleed, that stubborn mouth, and he will drink every last drop. Maybe you will bite his tongue like the rebel you are. His hand, the one resting on your hip, would slide down and grip one of your cheeks in a tight and bruising way. And hike your leg and wrap it around his waist.
“If I wasn’t in a rush, I would definitely make you pay for it.”
“It’s alright; I am sure they can wait 10 seconds for you.” Seungcheol would maybe throw you a death glare. What would your state be? Cheeks flushed, eyes encapsulating, wide and lust-driven, your neck covered in his bruises. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s unbecoming for a wife to challenge her husband?”
What would your reply be? Most probably something more biting. Seungcheol could feel himself getting closer; his imagination was getting better; the chase to the end looked sweeter. He would slide inside your panties—but oh, he won't fuck you, no no no! Only good girls get fucked; he would rub against your hot and ever-flowing folds roughly, ecstasy beating any propriety, your breath hot against his ears, breathing out Seungcheol… Your smell, that clean citrus smell—if the blood in your veins is worth loathing, then why does the thought of taste of your lips seems so addictive?
“Fuck! Y/N”
The white flashed against Seungcheol’s tightly closed eyes.
Looking at the amount in his cup, one thing was clear: he is fucked. Royally Fucked.
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Ryan was working in the office building with his father’s right-hand man.
“Young master, this is the file of the new shipment that arrived from Egypt. And here are the documents you asked for,” Craig said, stepping forward with the usual precision.
“Right. Thank you. That’ll be all for now, Craig.”
“You’re welcome.” He lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze fixed on the young man behind the desk. An unfamiliar warmth crept into his chest—something akin to pride. The boy who once ran barefoot through the garden with his younger brother had grown. Rayn had always carried a quiet gravity, more mature than most children his age. He didn’t speak unless necessary. Not aloof, but selective. He had friends, yes—but his circle was tightly drawn, an invisible wall always around him.
Craig was still rooted to the spot when Rayn looked up.
“Do you have something to say?”
“Yes. Shall I pass the approval through Master once you’re done?”
Rayn leaned back in his chair, assessing Craig for a long moment. Was it protocol or a lack of trust in his judgement? Or maybe a quiet reminder that the old man still held the reins?
“Sure—if he opens his door for you. But make sure you file them before the deadline.”
That was one thing about Rayn: he was meticulous. Hard-working. But there was a detachment to him. Unlike his younger brother, it often felt like Rayn could walk away from everything and never look back.
But he was still here, wasn’t he?
Craig cleared his throat, as though unsure if he was crossing a line. “It’s been a difficult month for Master. I’m sure he’ll be back soon—”
“Craig.”
“Yes, young master?”
“Can you call Taejin?”
“Taejin is with Little Master at the moment. Is something the matter?”
Rayn shook his head, already skimming through another document. “Just curious about what my sister has been up to these days. About time we got to know each other, don’t you think?”
He gave a small smile, but his eyes—his eyes told a different story. Something darker. Deeper.
END OF CHAPTER 12
A/N: If I had a penny for every-time I wrote an arranged marriage fic I will have two which isn’t a lot but it is weird for someone who has such strong aversion towards marriage to think and write so much about it.
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You never realised how much time had passed since you'd met up with Lucy. Maybe that’s what happens when you sit down with an old friend—the world outside just fades. The two of you were seated in a cosy corner of the café, laughter spilling from the table between sips of tea and shared bites of dessert, reminiscing about med school days, about the all-nighters, the cadaver room, and that one professor who always smelt of cinnamon.
“So,” Lucy asked as she stirred her second cup of tea, “how’s life treating you? It still feels surreal that you actually were the first one to reach out for a chat, the great cardiologist Dr. Y/N. You know you were always Roger’s favourite intern.”
You let out a small laugh. “Rubbish, more bitter than amused. “It’s... complicated. But that's not why I wanted to see you.”
She arched an eyebrow but waited, knowing you too well to push.
You hesitated before speaking, fingers brushing the rim of your cup. “You see, an old friend of mine is in dire need of a child and I offered him my egg and womb.” God, I truly hope he never finds out! “Why is he gay? But that doesn’t matter; he can come to me directly and we can arrange some options for adoption for him or some other surrogate.”
“No, no,” you spoke up a little too loudly that people turned to look at your face; leaning closer to the table, you lowered your voice. “No, outsiders; you see, they are a quiet, well-connected, and known family, and it would not look good for them. They are kind of traditional,” you tried to reason, using your please-understand-the-subtext, “and the guy has a male problem.” I am so dead, you thought to yourself, but what if it’s true? You tried to reason. Then you recalled the time when he walked out of the shower in nothing but a towel. Shaking those thoughts out of your head, you continued. “Sex is difficult for him. But the family—his father—needs an heir. They’re desperate for continuity.”
Lucy’s expression softened. “Tch. Poor thing…”
“We were childhood friends,” you said slowly, “and I want to help. I don’t know if I’m cut out for motherhood, Lucy. I don’t even know if I’d be in the child’s life. But I want to know what it feels like. To carry a child. To have that moment, even if I’m not there every step of the way.” You paused, eyes flickering down to your lap. “It’s selfish. Diabolical, even. But I don’t know if anyone else would understand—except you. And given the family’s reputation, I’d really appreciate your confidentiality.”
Lucy didn’t hesitate. She placed her hand over yours and gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze. “I understand. How could you even for a second think I wouldn’t? You’re one of my oldest friends. And you’re not selfish. You're trying to make sense of a very impossible situation.”
You smiled, but your chest felt tight. “Thank you.”
“But tell me,” she added, her voice a little lower now, “what about Jeonghan? Or Cordon? Did you talk to either of them about this?”
You shook your head. “No. And you can’t tell them either. If you happen to cross paths, please pretend you know nothing. The fewer people know, the better.”
Lucy tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching yours. “Still... Jeonghan. He’s one of your closest friends. Don’t you think he deserves to know?”
“I’ll tell him,” you said quietly. “When the time is right.”
“I hope so,” she murmured. “You’re not alone in this, Y/n.”
You reached out and pulled her into a tight hug, the kind that made you want to cry for no reason. “Thank you, Lu. For everything.”
She squeezed back. “Always.”
“God, I’m hungry,” you muttered as you pulled away, trying to shake off the heaviness.
“Well, lucky for you, there’s a place just one block away. Great food, and they have beef sandwiches.”
Your face lit up. “Perfect. I need food before I overthink this entire situation.”
Lucy laughed as you both stood and grabbed your coats. “Can’t wait to tell you what Mei Mei’s been up to.”
“Oh no. New mischief?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. That girl is Jun’s clone. She’s picking up all his ridiculous habits—and stunts. He’s actually thinking about putting her in a martial arts class.”
Your eyes widened. “She’s five!”
“Exactly,” Lucy grinned. “She wanted nunchucks for her birthday.”
“Sounds like Jun,” you laughed, linking your arm with hers as you stepped into the early evening breeze. “Bet she’s already broken three vases.”
“Four,” Lucy sighed dramatically. “And the TV.”
Dinner went by in a blink. Comfort food, stories, and a few more laughs. Time felt slower and warmer when Lucy was around.
Eventually, you flagged down a cab and waved her goodbye, promising to meet again for the appointment. You climbed into the backseat and sank into the leather.
As the city lights slid by the window, your thoughts drifted. You remembered how Lucy mentioned she'd run into Jeonghan a few days ago. Said he looked... sad. Distant.
Well, of course he did. You’d been avoiding him for weeks.
A month, to be exact.
Your heart ached quietly in your chest. Maybe it was time. Maybe Jeonghan needed to know the truth—about everything.
You looked out the window again, at the tall buildings, then the trees, and later the looming silhouette of the Choi estate in the distance.
The sky above it was a dull charcoal grey, the moonlight barely breaking through. You paid the driver, murmured a quiet thank-you, and stepped out of the cab.
Your heels clicked once against the pavement.
Then—
A black car tore out of the mansion gates, screeching to a sudden halt right in front of you. The tires hissed. The passenger door flung open, and Chan burst out, breathless.
“Doctor, where were you?!” He shouted, not even trying to hide his panic. “Boss is losing it. He’s going to kill Andrew because he thought you ran away or were kidnapped.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”
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The look of horror was plastered on every face. No one dared breathe. The thought hung heavy and unanimous—it could’ve been any of us next.
It was no secret that Choi Seungcheol had a temper that could dry oceans and still burn. And it wouldn’t extinguish until he got what he wanted.
All he could think about was how careless he had been. How he should have been more vigilant. You were under his protection—and the only person allowed to make you miserable was him. He gave no one—no one—the right to drag their vendettas to your feet.
He was already striding toward the gates where Andrew stood, flanked by four guards who had just returned from your apartment and the city dispatch. The tension in the air was thick, every man waiting for orders, punishment, or worse.
That’s when he heard one of them mutter.
“I still can’t believe he’s making us do all this for Jaein’s whore of a daughter. I don’t know what Big Boss was thinking bringing her here. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tre—”
The sentence never finished.
Seungcheol’s hand was at the man’s collar in a blink. A sharp pull. A crack of bone and breath as the man’s body hit the ground with a dull, stunned thud.
No one moved.
The guard gasped, struggling. “S-sir—I didn’t mean—”
The first punch silenced him. The second sent him crashing to the ground.
Seungcheol was no longer shouting. He didn’t need to. His fists did all the talking.
Again. And again. Blood smeared across his knuckles as he drove the heel of his shoe into the man’s ribs.
The house shook with the sound of violence.
Maids rushed out of their quarters, gasping. The head housekeeper appeared in the hall, flanked by staff, her eyes wide.
They watched as Seungcheol kicked the man again—hard and deliberate. His breathing was ragged now, shoulders rising and falling with fury.
But his eyes, his eyes didn’t look down.
They were locked on the housekeeper.
The housekeeper’s expression tightened, and she bowed her head.
Above the group of staff, Seungcheol’s father stood at the mansion’s veranda, silent. Watching.
He leaned slightly on his cane, his face unreadable, but his eyes fixed on his son.
Seungcheol crouched beside the guard, gripping his bloodied collar and yanking him close until their faces were inches apart. The man flinched, nose broken, lips split—but Seungcheol’s expression was calm. Controlled.
“I let you speak. That was my mistake,” he whispered, voice like smoke curling around fire.
He noticed the air shift before he saw you—like the gravity had changed.
A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, soft footsteps too hesitant to belong to a guard. He turned his head just slightly.
You stood frozen at the edge of the courtyard, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.
Andrew lay bleeding near your feet.
And in the middle of it all, Seungcheol stood tall—blood on his shoes, rage still radiating off his skin like a second heat.
His eyes met yours.
And without a flicker of hesitation, he crushed the guard’s already broken face beneath his boot.
cold and composed, and said—voice low and lethal—
“I hope you remember this lesson on how to treat my wife in the future.”
The man groaned, barely conscious, before Seungcheol slammed his head once more against the ground.
You gasped.
He heard it.
You took a step back, heart thudding so violently it felt like your ribs might crack.
And that was when he turned.
Strode across the courtyard with long, determined steps.
Before you could speak—before you could decide whether to run or reason—his hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but not painful.
“Inside,” he growled under his breath.
He didn’t let go as he dragged you through the mansion’s grand halls. Servants scattered at the sound of his boots. No one dared make eye contact. His fury hadn’t burned out—it had just changed targets.
When you reached your wing, he slammed the door shut behind you.
Just the two of you. His eyes pinned to yours. A storm behind them.“Where have you been?”
“Work.”
“You weren’t at work.”
“I was.”
“Don’t lie to me, wife.” His voice was low, taut with restrained fury.
“I’m not lying to you, Seungcheol.”
The sound of his name from your lips sent a chill down his spine. It was the way you said it—sharp, cold, foreign. The way your lips curled
“On my way to the hospital, I told Andrew that I want to go and visit my doctor, but he told me it’s against the orders, and besides, I am not answerable to you.
“Oh, but you are,” he said, taking a step closer, his shadow falling over you like a storm. “You’re answerable to me for as long as you reside in my territory, wear my ring, share my name—” his voice dipped as he caged you between him and the wall, “—and soon, carry my child.”
“Not for long,” you said defiantly, eyes locked with his, chin raised.
Raising your hand to his eye level to show your empty left hand, “And what ring? I think you’re forgetting, Director Choi, that we’re only married on paper. I don’t see you as my husband, and it's quite unsettling when you go on in your amusement and call me your wife. Husbands don’t let their mothers stab their wives, nor do they let their servants treat them like scum. I hold no expectations from you; best you do the same from me. If you do, your daddy will be truly disappointed.”
He could feel it—the fire, the challenge, the unmistakable intimidation that radiated off of you. It didn’t scare him. It thrilled him.
He bent down slowly, his face near yours, and you instinctively turned your head away. “You can’t touch me.”
“I’m not touching you,” he murmured, his breath ghosting against your skin. His nose traced the slope of your neck subtly, and then he inhaled.
“You’ve been drinking.”
You didn’t respond.
“Back off, Director Choi.”
His mouth twitched at the sound of the title.
“Hmmm. Who were you with— that little doctor, what’s his name?”
“Jeonghan,” you supplied, without missing a beat.
His eyes flickered, the name slicing into him with the sting of familiarity.
“Such… familiarity,” he muttered, leaning in even closer.
“Is none of your business,” you cut him off.
“I was with my doctor,” you added coolly. “Who we will see tomorrow. And besides if I recall correctly then I did tell you about it, that we have to meet my doctor who has agreed to do the procedure.”
He straightened, suspicious. “And why the hell would I do that?”
“Fine,” you said with a shrug, “then I’ll just tell your father you refused to cooperate.”
Something in your voice—casual, taunting—shook something loose in his mind.
And then he heard it.
That long-forgotten voice from another time, high-pitched, unafraid, and annoyingly bold:
“Then I’ll tell Uncle Siwon!”
He froze.
You watched him, brows furrowed.
Then, slowly, his posture relaxed. He rose to his full height, staring down at you—and laughed.
The sound was sudden, amused, and entirely out of place in the tension-filled room.
“You haven’t changed one bit,” he said, shaking his head. “Still a little tattletale, aren’t you?”
You blinked in confusion as he turned and backed away, still chuckling to himself.
“It’s late,” he said over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
He took one step past the threshold—then stopped.
Slowly, he turned, gaze hooded with something far more dangerous than jealousy.
“And next time…” His voice was soft, almost too soft. “Don’t make a move uninformed.”
You didn’t say anything, but your body tensed.
“Because before I get to you,” he continued, tilting his head, “I’ll go through everyone you hold dear. One by one.”
Your breath hitched.
He smiled, but it was devoid of warmth—calculated, cold, surgical. “And the first one will be your little Jeonghan. I mean—” he shrugged lightly, “that was the deal, wasn’t it, sweetheart?”
And just like that, the door shut behind him.
You stood frozen, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to process what had just happened.
Glaring at the door like you could set it ablaze.
“...The fuck is his problem?” you muttered, jaw clenching, the confusion now tangled with something darker—fear.
Seungcheol stepped into the hallway, the smile still tugging at his lips like a satisfied predator. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, muffling whatever fury or confusion still brewed on the other side.
He rolled his shoulders once, breathing out like he’d just completed a performance.
Down the grand staircase, a tall man stood waiting—impeccably dressed in grey, posture straight, expression unreadable.
Mr. Hwang.
"You're late," the older man said, not looking up at first.
"I was handling a personal matter," Seungcheol replied, descending the stairs without hurry. "It’s been resolved."
Mr. Hwang’s gaze flicked up to meet his, scanning his expression like he always did—measuring if Seungcheol was losing control or ascending into something more dangerous.
Apparently satisfied, he gave a curt nod and turned on his heel. "Your father wishes to see you. Come to the office."
Seungcheol followed him down the corridor, past portraits and relics of the old guard, toward a room built to resemble power—polished mahogany walls, a glass decanter bar untouched but present, and maps and monitors lit in soft blues on one side.
The door shut behind them with a heavy thud.
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──
Dim lights humming low, velvet furnishings absorbing whispers, and the clink of glasses softened by jazz spilling from hidden speakers.
Monica stood at the edge of the second-floor balcony, the city lights behind her like a crown. She didn’t blend in—she commanded. Draped in a crimson silk gown that flirted with every step, her back bare, slit high, and neckline low—she looked like temptation had chosen a human form and walked in with purpose.
She watched.
Below, across the polished floor and candlelit tables, sat Rhys's secretary, Leo Park. Monica smirked, then descended the spiral staircase, her heels clicking softly like a countdown. Every man in the room stole a glance. Leo didn’t notice her until she was close enough for her perfume to brush his senses—bergamot, smoke, and something dangerous.
“Mr. Park,” she greeted, her voice lilting like a practiced melody. “Mind if I join you?”
Leo’s eyes brightened instantly, his hand sweeping toward the empty seat beside him. “Of course. Please. Though I should warn you—I’m told I’m terrible company for beautiful women. Too much talk about politics.”
“Oh no,” she said sweetly, sliding into the booth. “I love men who talk like they’re the ones pulling the strings.”
Leo chuckled, clearly pleased. “Well, let’s just say the vice president doesn’t move without a word from me.”
“Must be exhausting,” she said, swirling the drink the server placed before her. “Carrying that kind of power.”
He grinned like a teenager, adjusting his tie. “It’s a lot of responsibility, yes. But someone has to make the hard calls.”
Monica leaned in, her perfume wrapping around him like a trap. “Then I’m lucky to be sitting with the man behind the curtain.” and a subtle hand on his knees, and he wouldn’t even realise that he has been drawn.
End of Chapter 11
A/N: If this gets 150+ notes within 24 hours I will upload Chapter 12!
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A/N: You guys have no idea how much your comments make me happy and motivated. Hope you guys enjoy this early update, I kind of like this chapter.
Warning: Blood, strong language, and a very fictionalised depiction of a grief-stricken episode and mental illness, as I lack the professional knowledge of any sort. My deepest sympathies to those who have gone through losses that have forever taken a piece of themselves. I am always here if you ever need an ear. Happy weekend & happy reading!
CHAPTER 1 --- PREVIOUSLY
Jaein no longer knew whether it was day or night. Time had collapsed into a single, stagnant loop, and with every passing hour, the month of October gnawed deeper into his already weathered soul. The air in the study was stale, thick with the sharp, bitter scent of alcohol and grief that had long since soaked into its walls.
The door creaked open slowly, a sliver of light slicing through the room’s darkness. With it came the faint perfume of jasmine and regret.
“Go away, Cassandra,” his voice growled from the shadows—deep, coarse, and jagged. A sound that could scrape flesh from bone.
“You haven’t eaten in three days,” she whispered, trying not to flinch at the emptiness that followed.
The soft clink of glass being filled echoed through the study. Then the familiar twist of a bottle cap.
“I’m full,” Jaein muttered, “from your betrayal.”
She stepped further in, carefully. “And what was I supposed to do?” she asked, her voice trembling, “Let them kill my son?”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen,” he said coldly.
“The way you behaved, I wasn’t so sure.”
“Get out,” he snapped, low and venomous. “I don’t want to see you. Or hear you. Not now.”
She stood her ground, just barely. “Is this all because I told them that the woman’s daughter is alive? I did it to save our son. How much longer will you act like a pathetic old ghost clinging to a corpse?”
CRASH!
The glass shattered against the mahogany desk, shards exploding like sharp stars in the dim light. A stray sliver sliced across Cassandra’s cheek, leaving behind a thin crimson line.
“That dead woman,” Jaein growled, rising from his chair like something ancient and haunted, “was my wife. And that girl… that girl is my daughter. The only pure, untainted thing that ever came from my miserable existence.”
He seized Cassandra’s arm, his fingers biting into her skin. She gasped in pain.
“You ruined it again,” he hissed.
“Jaein, please… you’re hurting me,” she whimpered, tears slipping down her face.
“Good. I wish I could do worse. If you weren’t the mother of my sons, I would’ve dealt with you the day I found out what you did to Mira while I was rotting in that prison.”
Her sobs cracked open something ancient between them—something broken long ago.
“If anything happens to Y/N,” he said, his voice a deadly promise, “this time, Cassandra, you will not leave unscathed. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, choking on her fear. “Yes… yes, I understand,” she sobbed.
“I. ASKED. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?” His words thundered with a wrath that had long festered.
“Yes! I understand!” she wailed.
With a disgusted grunt, he dragged her to the door, flung it open, and hurled her onto the thick, carpeted hallway floor.
“Now get out of my sight. Even looking at you makes me want to rip you apart with my bare hands.”
He slammed the study door with such force that the walls trembled.
And in the heavy silence that followed, the only sound was the muffled, broken weeping of a woman who had gained everything she ever schemed for—only to lose the last remnants of love in the process.
A victory, yes. But at what cost?
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
The room reeked of damp cement and dried sweat. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, its dim light casting flickering shadows across the cracked walls. The man in the chair flinched every time the bulb creaked with motion. Blood crusted along his temple, and his lip was split open, swollen from the last round of interrogation. His wrists were bound tightly to the arms of the metal chair, the rope biting into raw skin.
He was shivering, whether from fear or the cold, no one could tell.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Steady. Heavy. Calculated.
Seungcheol entered the room, his coat still dusted with the city’s grime, sleeves rolled up as though he meant to do the dirty work himself this time. Behind him followed Mingyu, silent, looming like a second shadow.
The man’s head shot up, wide eyes blinking past the blood and sweat. “I already told you—I don’t know anything else!”
Seungcheol ignored the plea. He stood just far enough that the man couldn’t kick out. He didn’t need to.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low and calm, laced with menace.
“You were the driver on Route 47 the night my brother died.”
“N-no… I wasn’t—” the man stammered. “That wasn’t me, I swear—”
Seungcheol’s hand lashed out and backhanded the chair across the concrete floor with a screech. The man yelped.
“I don’t care what you swear,” Seungcheol said, his voice dropping into a dangerous quiet. “I care what you did.”
He crouched now, eye-level with the man.
“That truck was meant to look like an accident. But you weren’t moving any regular cargo, were you?”
The man’s lips trembled. “I just— I just drive what they tell me. I don’t ask questions. I’m a transporter, that’s it.”
Mingyu stepped forward, folding his arms. “Then let’s start with who ‘they’ are.”
The driver hesitated.
“Listen,” he muttered, “you think I was carrying something for a hit? I wasn’t. I didn’t even know the guy who crashed. That wasn’t my shipment.”
Mingyu and Seungcheol exchanged a glance. Seungcheol narrowed his eyes.
“Then what were you transporting that night?” he asked.
The driver shook his head furiously. “I can’t— you don’t understand, they’ll kill me if I talk—”
“And what makes you think we won’t?” Mingyu said flatly.
The silence was suffocating.
“I-it wasn’t even my route,” the man finally said, breaking. “I was filling in. It was supposed to be a routine pickup— from Liberty University Hospital.”
Seungcheol’s face froze. “What kind of pickup?”
The man shifted in his chair, eyes darting to the shadows behind them.
“Bodies,” he whispered. “Four of them. From the hospital morgue.”
Mingyu’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, bodies?”
The driver licked his cracked lips. “Dead bodies. No names. Just tags. I was told to deliver them to a remote crematorium downstate, no questions asked. But I’ve done jobs like that before. Too many, honestly. They’re always from the same place—Liberty. But the logs? The logs say the bodies were released to families.”
Seungcheol stepped back, exhaling slowly as the room seemed to shrink.
“So you’re saying someone is sneaking bodies out of a hospital morgue,” he said coldly, “off the books.”
“I’m not the only one who’s done runs like this,” the driver said quickly. “Some of them aren’t even in bags. Just… just covered in sheets. Like trash. Sometimes they’re still bleeding.”
Mingyu’s eyes darkened. “Why?”
“I don’t know!” the man insisted. “I just drive.”
Seungcheol turned away for a moment, jaw clenching. His mind spun back to your words—something about missing bodies… Isa… something he hadn’t taken seriously.
Until now.
He turned back, face cold. “Who gives the orders for these pickups?”
“I swear I don’t know,” the driver begged. “It’s always someone different. They call, give a time and place, sometimes use aliases—”
“Give us a number,” Mingyu interrupted. “Or we’ll carve one into your skin.”
The man flinched and spat out a burner contact.
Seungcheol handed it off to Mingyu. “Trace it. Now.”
As Mingyu exited the room, Seungcheol leaned closer to the trembling man in the chair, voice like ice.
“If I find out you’re lying, you’ll wish you were delivered with one of those bodies.”
He stood tall again, gaze steel.
“And if you're right…” he muttered, more to himself than anyone, “then someone is going to answer for it.”
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
Some days, she would stare blankly out the window for hours, unmoving, barely blinking, as if watching something only she could see. Other days, she wandered the halls barefoot, hair tangled, pretending she was thirty-five again—playing hide and seek with children who only existed in memory. The staff didn’t stop her anymore. They’d learned there was no point.
Today, she had a good day.
Siwon sat beside her on the patio, a warm shawl draped across Anita’s shoulders. Her eyes were bright in that distant sort of way. Looking at the sun setting in the horizon. She was back in time—back when Seungcheol had just turned five and she had hosted his birthday party in this very garden. Her words flowed easily, full of affection and nostalgia.
“The little ones loved the magician… and those balloons, oh, you should’ve seen the mess they made near the fountain. I told the chef, no more chocolate cake—Cheolie got it all over his face.” She laughed softly, patting her lap.
Siwon smiled faintly, nodding, his fingers folded neatly in his lap. He was used to this—used to her swimming between past and present.
That was when Y/N came into view.
She was walking briskly through the garden path, her coat barely brushing the flowering rosemary hedge. She had to pass through to get to Seungcheol’s side of the estate, her steps focused, her face unreadable.
“Excuse me!” Anita’s voice rang out suddenly, surprising both Siwon and Y/N.
“You—nurse!”
Y/N halted mid-step and turned, blinking.
“Yes?” she answered cautiously, stepping toward the older woman.
Anita leaned forward, inspecting her face like she was studying a painting she had seen before, long ago.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” Anita asked with a sweet, curious tone. “Have we met?”
Y/N hesitated, her mouth parting as if to speak—but she didn’t know what to say. Siwon quickly intervened.
You looked down at yourself—your scrubs still slightly crumpled from the shift, your ID badge hastily tucked into your pocket. You barely had time to change before slipping out of the hospital gates alongside the nurses and interns, blending in to avoid suspicion. It was supposed to be a quick walk back—just two blocks. Maintaining the facade.
“Yes, sweetheart. She just joined yesterday. Riwona is still training her.”
Anita looked you over with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I see… What is your name, miss?”
“Y/N, ma’am.”
Anita tilted her head. “Y/N… What a pretty name.” She turned to her husband, “Darling, doesn’t that name sound familiar?”
Siwon chuckled tightly. “Does it? I wouldn’t know.”
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I should get back to my duties.”
Anita raised a hand. “Oh, no, I’m sorry if I startled you. It’s just—my two boys drive me mad with their mischief.” She gave a fond laugh. “Y/N. That name takes me back. My old friend Mira named her daughter Y/N, too. Such a sweet little thing—just three months old when I last saw her. Like a little bundle, always smiling…”
Something in her face changed. It was sudden—like a gust of wind had blown through her memories and scattered them into the present. Her eyes sharpened. “Wait… what did you say your name was?”
You hesitated. Too long.
“Y/N,” you finally answered, slower this time.
Her mouth twitched. The glimmer in her eyes turned to fire.
“Are you Jaein’s daughter?”
Silence.
You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t deny it either.
She got up from her seat, “I could recognise those eyes anywhere, you sure have your father’s eyes.”
The slap came so fast you didn’t see it coming. Your face snapped to the side, stinging from her palm.
“How dare you?!”
The shriek pierced the stillness of the garden. Servants appeared in the doorways like ghosts, watching, wide-eyed, but no one moved.
“Siwon!” she screamed, thrashing toward you. “You let the daughter of my son’s murderer walk freely in my home?!”
“Anita, stop—” Siwon caught her arm, but she was wild, unhinged. She lunged, fingers clawing for your hair.
You stumbled back, heart hammering, trying to keep balance as she kicked and screamed.
The world blurred for a second—her voice, the tight grip of Siwon’s hands around her wrists, the still eyes of the staff.
You tried to hold her hands, voice trembling, “Mrs. Choi—please…”
Anita’s eyes burned, her nails digging into your wrists. “My little grandchild,” she hissed, “what was his fault?”
Before you could answer, she shoved you hard—your back hitting the table with a sickening thud. The fruit knife that had been resting near the edge clattered to the floor, but not before it grazed your arm. You gasped. Blood began to trail down your forearm in slow, glistening rivulets.
“Mrs. Choi, please, let go—” you tried again, grabbing her hand, your training on the verge of kicking in—if she didn’t stop, you’d have to use the dismantling technique to break her grip—
“Mama!” A familiar voice rang out, sharp and urgent.
You barely registered Seungcheol before he was beside you, prying his mother’s hands off your arm and stepping in front of you like a shield. “What are you doing?” His tone wasn’t angry. It was heartbreak.
Anita's fury remained undeterred, her arm still reaching toward you over Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Get away, Cheolie! This bitch—she’s with my son’s murderer. Her father killed our Jiwoo!”
“I know, Mama,” Seungcheol said quietly, a bitter truth he carried in his chest every day. “I know.”
She still tried to claw past him, still wanted to hurt you, until you took three silent steps backward—your blood dripping softly onto the marble table.
“ANITA!” Siwon’s voice boomed like thunder from the patio door.
Anita turned to face her husband. Her tear-glazed eyes locked with his and in a moment all the rage vanished, dissolving into something heartbreakingly fragile. “How could you, Siwon?” she whimpered. “How could you do this…? Collude with the enemy like this?”
Her voice cracked into sobs as she collapsed against Seungcheol’s chest. He caught her. Held her.
Then her body slackened.
“Mama?” his voice trembled. “Mama!”
She had fainted.
“Call the doctor, right now!” Siwon bellowed. Servants scrambled. The hallway filled with the rush of footsteps and tension.
They carried her away. Seungcheol with her. Siwon, following closely behind.
You were left standing there. Alone. Blood still trailing down your arm.
Your body ached—not from the wound, but from the weight of what had just happened.
You took a breath. Then another.
With silent resolve, you closed your eyes for a beat, picked up your bag and file from the mowed lawn, and walked to your room.
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
The warm water from the shower cascaded down your skin, washing away the dried blood, the sweat, the echo of Anita’s words.
But not the sting.
When you emerged, wrapped in a bathrobe, your hair damp against your back, you looked at your arm. The cut had stopped bleeding. The skin was angry and red—
“Are you a pig?”
You flinched at the sudden voice.
There he stood in the doorway, shirt rumpled, sleeves haphazardly rolled up, and blazer long discarded. His eyes swept across your room with visible disdain.
“Do you enjoy living in your own mess?”
“I didn’t get the time to clean,” you replied flatly, not turning around.
“What do you mean you didn’t get the time? There are maids. They’ll take care of it. Didn’t Mrs. Kang tell you?”
“Who?”
“The head maid.”
Your face scrunched in confusion. You walked over to the dresser, uncapping your leave-in conditioner like the conversation didn’t need your full attention.
“They’re here for you, not me.”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You let out a soft, exhausted sigh, eyes locking with his through the mirror. “It means they’re not obligated to serve me. I’m not the one they work under.”
He stepped further into the room. “Y/N… you’re my wife. Even if they don’t want to, they have to.”
“In name only,” you shot back, voice cold.
There was a beat of silence. His gaze lingered in the mirror, meeting yours.
“So, they’re supposed to clean after me, but you’re fine when your meals arrive just how you like them?”
You scoffed. “My dude, I haven’t had a single kernel of cereal in this house since I moved in. It’s been a month.”
His brows drew together. “Wait, what? No one’s been giving you food?”
“Not that I asked. Look, I don’t care. I eat at the hospital canteen. I have to be back there in nine hours. And for your information, I booked us for the IUI procedure tomorrow.”
He blinked. “And I’m supposed to know what this ‘IU’ thing is?”
You moved to the bed, pulled the comforter back and rested your knees on it. Your bathrobe shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of your thigh under the warm light. His eyes flicked down instinctively.
“IUI,” you said evenly, “is a process where they wash the sperm and inject it. Plain and simple.”
You stood and turned your back to him, plugging your phone into the charger.
“I’ll text you the hospital name and time.”
“I know the hospital,” his voice came quietly behind you. “If you were keeping up with the current affairs, then you’d know we are the biggest shareholders, wife.”
You jumped slightly at how close he’d gotten.
“Well, Sherlock,” you muttered, not turning to face him, “I don’t know about you, but I have a professional reputation to maintain. Your non-existence in my orbit is preferred. That was the deal. So, no—we’re not going to your hospital. We’re going to one of my colleagues. She’s agreed to help me.”
You turned toward the bed again when he reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Is that the real reason?” he asked. “Or are you just scared you’ll break your little boyfriend’s heart, wife?”
“Fuck!” You yelped, snatching your hand from his grip. The sudden motion reopened the cut on your arm. Blood seeped through the gauze.
“Shit—”
You immediately grabbed a tissue and pressed it against the wound.
“Did my mother do this?” he asked, his voice lower, but not without concern.
You didn’t answer. You were too focused on stopping the blood.
“It’s alright,” you murmured, dabbing the tissue against the bleeding wound. “I used to work in the ER. This is level 101—I’ve dealt with much worse.”
Seungcheol stood stiff. “My mother’s not a patient,” he said quietly. “She’s just… grieving her son. And her grandson.”
You paused, catching the weight behind his words. For a moment, your eyes found his, and something passed between you—something tired, unsaid, and suspended in grief.
“I see,” you said simply.
He cleared his throat, awkward now. “You should wrap it up. Do you want me to bring something?”
You shook your head without looking at him. “It’s fine. I’ll have one of the interns bandage it up. Now if you may…”
“Right,” he murmured, lingering for half a second too long. Then he turned for the door.
“And can you close the door on your way out?”
No sarcasm. Just exhaustion.
The curtains were drawn. The room is dark. You pulled the covers over your head, shutting out the light, the voices, the noise of this new life. You let sleep take you like the sun fading beneath the moon.
With a soft click, the door closed behind him.
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair as he entered his room. The lights were dim. His blazer landed in a crumpled heap on the leather armchair. He peeled off the rest of his clothes, the weight of the day sinking deep into his bones.
The bathroom lights cast a golden hue over the marble walls. He stepped under the stream of hot water.
Steam curled around the broad planes of his shoulders, trailing down his muscled back. Water glided along the strong lines of his chest, down the tight ridges of his abdomen. His jaw clenched as he tilted his head back, water streaming through his hair. A vein in his neck pulsed from fatigue.
He rested his palms against the cold tiles, letting the heat work into the knots of his spine, his breath slow and deliberate. As if he could steam away the memory of your bleeding arm… your voice, steady even in pain. As if the water could drown the guilt pooling in his gut.
By the time he stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist, his expression was unreadable again—mask firmly back on.
He sat on the edge of his bed, hair still dripping, and picked up his phone.
“Chan,” he said, voice gruff.
“Yes, boss?” came the voice through the line.
“I want a report on everything that’s been happening in the house. Every detail. Every maid, every guard. Especially around her.”
“It’s almost a month since she moved in, sir,” Chan said cautiously. “She mostly keeps to herself. The maids… well, they don't really take to her.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t act like she’s one of us. Doesn’t ask for anything. Comes home late. Doesn’t ask for food, or sometimes she’ll bring her food from the outside and eat alone through a container. Doesn’t talk unless it’s work.”
“And the staff?”
“They follow your lead.”
Seungcheol said nothing for a while.
“What about you,” he said finally.
“Yes, boss.”
“How is she with you?”
“Well, get along well. at first it was a little awkward, then I told her I am Layla’s father so we talk from time to time. She asks me to pick her food or recommend good dog treats and pick and drop rocky so most of the time I get him from the day—”
He ended the call.
While Chan was still talking.
The mansion was quiet, almost painfully so. Outside, the wind brushed against the windows like a whisper.
Inside his chest, something had begun to stir—and he wasn’t sure if it was anger… or something else entirely. But all he wanted was to close his eyes and sleep this exhaustion away.
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
If decades of service had taught Susan Paul anything, it was this: to catch the devil, you must first learn to walk through hell. Maybe that’s why she now found herself in the sterile, too-quiet corridor of Leonard Amertes Jr.’s private pharmaceutical lab, tucked away on the bleak outskirts of the city. The building stood like a monument to power acquired through charm, cunning, and a trail of chemical patents no one really looked too closely into.
If this meeting turned out to be a waste of time, she was ready to slap him with enough charges to drag him back to central just for making her drive this far. She didn’t like owing people, and she liked being summoned even less.
The name Amertes had long since been carved into the Choi family history — and not as a pleasant footnote. They were sworn enemies. Yet, in one matter, Leonard had triumphed. He’d succeeded where no other rival had: breaking Siwon Choi’s most valuable alliance. It was Leonard who drove the wedge between Siwon and Han Jaein — once brothers in arms, now strangers in suits. No one could hurt you like the people who once fought beside you.
Susan’s boots echoed along the polished concrete floor — steady, heavy, measured. That was until a voice, playful and reckless, cut through the air like a paper plane dipped in poison.
“Hands up, police!”
She stopped in her tracks, spine stiffening. Slowly, she turned.
There he stood — Leonard Amertes Jr. in all his smug glory, leaning against a doorframe, dressed too casually for someone with so much power. A white lab coat was draped over a grey turtleneck, and his hand formed the shape of a gun, pointed right at her. His fingers cocked back with a smirk.
“Bang,” he said, amused.
Susan stared at him, expression unreadable — that special kind of impassivity only seasoned officers and long-suffering mothers could master. The silence that followed was heavier than the steel beneath their feet.
“You always this charming,” she deadpanned, “or am I just the lucky one?”
Leonard straightened up, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves. “Only for you, Commissioner. After all, it’s not every day a woman like you graces my laboratory.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” Leonard said, his voice low, edged with satisfaction. “But where there’s hope, there’s always a way.”
Walking toward him without breaking eye contact, “I thought I’d check in on the city’s most morally flexible chemist.” She brushed past him, eyes scanning the sterile room behind him. Shelves of locked samples. Computers humming. A tension in the air like the place itself held its breath.
Susan Paul stood tall beneath the humming fluorescent lights, her coat still dusted from the road. “Unlike you, Mr. Amertes, I don’t have the luxury of time to waste. So tell me—why did you ask me to come all the way out here? And how did you know my father?”
Leonard stepped forward, his shoes clicking softly against the concrete floor. “Your father was a good man. Too good, in fact. Honest to his boots. That’s what got him killed.”
Susan didn’t flinch, but the shift in her jaw betrayed her.
Leonard tilted his head. “Officer Paul was close—so close—to dragging Siwon Choi and his hound Han Jaein to the dirt. He had everything but time. And fate? She never plays fair.”
She clicked her tongue and folded her arms. “Mr. Amertes, if I wanted a recap of the night my father died, I’d read the damn report myself. Thanks for the melodrama. I’ll be going.”
She turned on her heel, footsteps echoing behind her—until his voice followed.
“Speaking of reports… you might want to look into Salerno’s archive of cases. A year after your father’s death.”
She froze. Turned. Met his eyes. “I won’t be your bait.”
“Bait?” Leonard let out a sharp laugh, echoing off the cold metal walls. “Oh, Sweetheart. You misunderstand. You’re not bait. You’re the butterfly.”
Her brow furrowed.
“The one that flaps its wings in the wrong place… and starts a storm where it was never expected,” he said with a soft smile, something both amused and unsettling. “And trust me—it’s coming.”
She swallowed, keeping her voice level. “What about you? You’re no saint, Amertes.”
“Did I say I was?” He stepped closer. “But I’m not the one who made a child bury her father in disgrace while her mother was left to fend for a life they were never meant to carry alone.”
He leaned in. “Kim Rowan. 1998.”
Their eyes locked.
Then he turned and walked away.
Susan exited the hallway with a clipped pace, her jaw tight and eyes stormy. The overhead lights caught the sharp edges of her face, but even they couldn't hide the troubled expression that had settled there. Whatever she came hoping to find, it clearly wasn't what she left with.
As she neared the glass doors of the main exit, she slowed just a fraction—her gaze caught on a figure stepping in.
A man.
Young, poised, He walked with unhurried ease, like he belonged here, like the world owed him a few answers.
Susan's eyes narrowed.
Sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw softened by full lips. Jet-black hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. His presence was quiet but commanding.
He didn’t notice her—or if he did, he gave no sign.
Her eyes lingered, troubled, then she turned and got inside her car.
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
The door clicked shut behind Jeonghan as he moved further in, hands in the pockets of his long coat. The sterile lighting cast pale shadows against the floor, but Jeonghan’s gaze remained straight ahead—unbothered, unreadable.
From the far end of the corridor, a slow clap echoed.
Leonard Amertes Jr. stepped into view, wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew.”
Jeonghan stopped, cocking a brow. “You mean your only nephew.”
Leonard let out a chuckle and approached, arms open like he was greeting royalty. “Still sharp with the tongue. Just like your mother.”
Jeonghan's face tensed at the mention, but he didn’t flinch as Leonard pulled him into a quick embrace. It lasted just long enough to make it uncomfortable.
“You’re a striking image of her,” Leonard murmured near his ear, then leaned back. “What a wretched thing destiny is, don’t you think?”
Jeonghan’s smile was faint—more muscle than warmth. A beat passed between them. Jeonghan’s posture never faltered, but the discomfort didn’t go unnoticed. Leonard, on the other hand, soaked in the moment like a spider watching its prey hesitate on a thread.
Outside, the wind rustled faintly against the tall lab windows. Inside, the silence tightened. Something unspoken passed between uncle and nephew—something that would take more than words to unravel.
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
The roads were littered with dried leaves, scattered like brittle confessions left behind by a weary October. The chill in the air whispered of November’s slow approach. People bustled past in heavy coats and scarves, some on their way to work, others ushering yawning children toward school gates.
You sat in the backseat of the black Mercedes, the leather warm beneath you. The windows fogged slightly with each breath as you stared at the blur of trees and passing cars. Your fingers instinctively drifted to your left hand, tracing the bandages you’d woken up with that morning. The ache was dull now—physical pain, at least, made sense. It was the other kind that always twisted deeper.
“Andrew,” you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window, “take a quick detour to the hospital. I need to meet a friend.”
There was a beat of silence before the driver replied, “Apologies, ma’am. I can’t do that.”
Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”
“I was instructed to bring you straight from the hospital to the mansion. No stops.”
You leaned forward slightly. “And who gave you that instruction?”
“Boss,” he said flatly. “Mr. Choi Seungcheol.”
Of course.
You inhaled through your nose. Of course it was him.
“Andrew, I’m not asking. I am telling you.”
He didn’t respond. You caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror—unapologetic and firm.
“I just need ten minutes,” you pressed. “A left turn and a few floors up. That’s all.”
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s against the order. I can’t.”
You sat back, a bitter laugh escaping under your breath. “Against the order,” you repeated. “Like I’m a fucking courier package.”
He said nothing.
You clenched your jaw. “Fine. Then I’ll get there myself.”
“I can’t let you do that either.”
The words hung in the air like a slap.
You leaned forward again, voice low and sharp now. “Listen carefully, Andrew. You’re not my warden. You don’t get to let me do anything.”
A tense pause.
Then, he quietly pulled the car over near the hospital gates and killed the engine.
You stepped out without another word, slamming the door harder than you meant to. The echo of it bounced off the concrete, jarring and final.
Inside, the hospital smelt like it always did,cold steel, antiseptic, and exhaustion. You moved through the halls with robotic ease. White coat on. ID badge clipped. Hair tied back. You passed the nurses’ station.
“Morning, doctor,” one of them greeted.
You nodded. “Morning. Any new cases?”
“Nope. Just the regular rounds.”
“Good.”
You moved from room to room, checking charts, murmuring reassurances, and offering smiles that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
But inside?
Inside, you were still in that car. Still hearing Seungcheol’s name like a chain tugging at your ankle.
He doesn’t trust me. That’s what this is. Not concerned. Not care. Just control—dressed up like protection.
You paused in front of the next room, staring blankly at the patient chart in your hand. Your fingers pressed against the bandage again, not for comfort. You took a slow breath and opened the door with steady hands. The storm inside could wait. For now, you still had things to do. As you calculated your en route in your mind.
The day passed with a graceful monotony, the first time in a while; after submitting your case analysis in Cordon’s office, the time was nearing for your shift to be over. You paused by the corner window, pretending to check your phone as your eyes flicked to the hospital parking lot. The black Mercedes was still there, parked at a diagonal under a tree, with Andrew still seated inside waiting. Watching You knew how this worked. Every move was being watched not just by Andrew, but likely by whoever Seungcheol had trailing in plain clothes. You’d seen them before: pretending to read newspapers, lurking in hospital cafeterias with empty coffee cups and too many glances your way.
You tapped your fingers against your thigh. The back stairwell. It was rarely used, mostly by interns sneaking out to cry or smoke. It connected to the lower wing—where the outpatient block emptied out to the far side of the grounds. That exit had no cameras.
The thought rolled over your mind like a calm wave: This is still my life. My body. He doesn’t own either.
You walked with casual ease past the nurses’ station again.
“Doctor? Need anything?” one asked.
“Just heading to radiology,” you lied easily. “Tell Dr. Mina I’ll drop by her patient in 15.”
“Got it.”
From there, you turned down the west wing corridor, then another left—until the hum of foot traffic faded behind you. You slipped through the door to the back stairwell and exhaled as it closed behind you with a soft click.
The air here was cooler and dustier. The hum of fluorescent lighting above buzzed faintly as you descended, careful not to make a sound. With every step down, your heartbeat steadied. You reached the lower exit, pushed the rusted door open, and slipped out into the crisp air. The path ahead was quiet—a narrow service lane that wrapped around the outer boundary wall.
And there it was.
Parked exactly where you’d told the dispatcher, your cab waited at the edge of the old outpatient wing engine purring softly, windows slightly fogged. A silver Hyundai, unremarkable, anonymous. Just the way you needed it to be. The driver leaned against the side, scrolling on his phone, oblivious to the tug-of-war you’d just waged upstairs.
You stepped out into the open, coat tucked tight, head low just another tired doctor catching a ride, nothing more. The wind pulled at your hair, but you didn’t slow.
As you approached, the driver looked up, recognising you from the booking.
“Y/N, right?” he asked casually, holding the door open for you.
You buckled your seatbelt and sat back, letting the warmth of the car heater brush over your frozen hands. The driver glanced at you in the mirror, waiting for instruction.
“St. Mary’s Hospital, please,” you said evenly, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. Then, after a beat, “Take the back road.”
There was a pause. Maybe he sensed something in your tone—not fear, not urgency, but a kind of deliberate silence.
“The back road’s longer,” he offered, cautious.
“I know,” you replied, voice quiet but certain. “Take it anyway.”
He gave a small nod, shifted gears, and pulled out without further question.
You leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city shift around you. He doesn’t know where I am right now, you thought, almost stunned by the fact. For the first time in weeks, Seungcheol wouldn’t know where I am.
It should’ve scared you. Maybe it did. But beneath the hum of adrenaline, something else stirred—something stubborn, something dangerous.
Freedom.
You traced the curve of the bandage on your hand again, this time not out of pain, but remembrance. A choice was coming. One that couldn’t be made from inside golden cages or chauffeured traps.
The cab took a sharp turn, entering the quieter street—cracked pavement, old trees lining both sides like sentinels.
An accomplished smile playing on your lips.
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
The meeting room inside the main Choi estate was nothing short of regal—high ceilings with coffered panels, warm mahogany walls lined with old oil paintings and gold-trimmed ledgers, and a polished black marble table that ran nearly the length of the room. The chandeliers above glowed softly, casting a quiet authority over everything.
Seungcheol sat near the middle of the table, pen idle between his fingers, suit crisp, and hair combed back with the kind of precision that betrayed how tightly he kept everything in his orbit controlled. At the head of the table sat his father, stern and commanding even in silence, his cane leaning against the chair leg beside him.
Across from them, two men, a naval architect and a marine engineer, presented the newest renderings on a sleek digital monitor mounted to the wall.
“We’re calling her the Orion-Class,” the engineer explained, tapping the screen to rotate the 3D model. “This is a next-generation cargo vessel designed for long-haul efficiency. Dual-engine propulsion, with hybrid capabilities. Diesel offshore, electric within port zones. Solar grid installed across the upper deck feeds directly into auxiliary power.”
The architect chimed in. “It’s optimised for low-noise navigation and minimal environmental disruption. The bow design cuts through crosscurrents and reduces resistance. We’re estimating a 16 percent fuel savings compared to current leading vessels.”
Seungcheol’s father nodded slowly, hands folded in front of him. “And how much revenue will it generate once operational?”
The engineer didn’t hesitate. “Initial projections suggest an average of 2.3 billion in net cargo value per voyage, assuming Mediterranean-Asia routes. Annualised, with six ships active? North of 120 billion won in clean profit, sir.”
The room went silent for a moment. Seungcheol finally looked up, tapping his pen once against the table.
“Fastest container processing?”
“Fully automated. Port-to-port turnaround in under twenty hours,” the architect said. “She’s designed to outrun delays. No idle time.”
Seungcheol gave a curt nod, about to speak again when the heavy double doors creaked open.
Mingyu stepped in.
He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, dark tie, and polished shoes. He looked like any other corporate executive, except for the tension in his jaw and the quiet urgency in his eyes.
He walked around the table in silence, bent slightly at Seungcheol’s side, and whispered low in his ear.
Seungcheol froze.
Only for a second. But the shift was enough.
His hand stopped moving. His expression didn’t change, but something sharp settled behind his eyes.
He looked at his father. “Excuse me,” he said calmly. “I need to step out for a moment.”
His father barely turned his head. “Keep it brief.”
Seungcheol rose from his chair and exited the room in long, controlled strides. As soon as the door shut behind him, the calm cracked.
He spun toward Mingyu in the corridor.
“What do you mean you can’t find the woman?”
Mingyu straightened. “She didn’t leave for over two hours from her set exit time.”
“And Andrew?”
“He’s outside; after going inside and checking in everywhere himself, he saw the footage of her entering a room after radiology but there are no cameras in that corridor.”
“I told him to bring her straight to the house,” Seungcheol snapped.
“You didn’t say watch her like a hawk. You just said, Don’t let her go anywhere else.”
Seungcheol inhaled sharply, then looked away, eyes scanning the hallway like he could piece together her steps from here.
“She planned this.”
“Looks like it, but where can she go? I sent the boys to her apartment, but no one’s there, nor at her father’s place.”
Seungcheol looked back at him.
“What do you think? Is Jaein behind this? I can’t say for sure; no one has heard from him in the last two weeks. His eldest is managing everything.”
“Find the cab; there is no way she would’ve walked. Trace the dispatch company. Pull camera footage if you have to. I want the exact location. Who she met. What she’s doing.”
“What if she ran away?”
Seungcheol’s voice dropped.
“Then she made one of the most regrettable decisions of her life, and I will make sure she knows that…”
AN: Holy shit!! I am so glad you guys love Rocky; actually, he's our main star and no, I do not make the rules. On a side note, Rocky is based on my own late dog Jimmy, who was a Doberman and the best boy! Always in my mind, forever in my heart.
CHAPTER 9
SVT Choi Seungcheol X Reader Mafia X Doctor AU!
Warnings: A dog named Rocky.
The sun was sinking into the horizon, its last amber rays slanting across the estate walls, but Seungcheol barely noticed. Exhaustion settled deep in his bones like lead. Every muscle in his body ached with the weight of the day—of many days. Ever since his brother's death, the world had moved at a pace that left no room to stop, to think, or to mourn. His grief hadn’t been buried—just shelved, waiting for a quieter hour.
Running a tired hand through his hair, he pushed open the door to his room, already dreaming of hot water and clean sheets. But instead of the quiet sanctuary he craved, his steps halted cold.
There, sitting squarely in the middle of his pristine bed, was a Doberman.
Not just sitting—sprawled, front paws muddy, tongue lolling lazily to the side like it owned the place.
He stared.
The dog stared back.
He blinked. Closed the door.
Paused.
Then slowly opened it again, just wide enough to peek inside—yep, still there. The Doberman had adjusted itself, now sitting upright like it had been waiting for him all day.
“…What the actual—”
Just then, a maid passed by with a stack of folded linens. Seungcheol stepped into the hallway, gesturing vaguely at the open door.
“Can you also see the dog?” he asked, as if double-checking reality itself.
The maid leaned slightly to glance inside. Her eyes widened, and her lips twitched as though suppressing a laugh. “Yes, sir,” she replied softly.
Seungcheol looked from her to the dog, who was now purposefully avoiding eye contact.
Fantastic.
“Whose dog is that?”
“I believe… the doctor’s, sir. Miss Y/N brought her.”
Of course she did.
Because why wouldn’t she?
Seungcheol sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered under his breath, “So much for peace and clean linen.”
Before Seungcheol could say more, Chan—ever chirpy—came striding down the hallway, towel slung over one shoulder and a satisfied grin on his face.
“It wasn’t there when I dropped by her place this morning,” Seungcheol noted, narrowing his eyes. “So where was the dog?”
“Oh, Rocky was at daycare,” Chan responded cheerfully.
Seungcheol’s brow rose. “…Daycare?”
“Yes, boss,” Chan nodded, clearly thrilled to be talking about dogs. “They train them, groom them, play with them—it's like a luxury resort for pets. Best in the city. It's been around for about four years now. They’re even expanding soon—”
“Wait,” Seungcheol cut in, eyeing him suspiciously. “You seem to know an awful lot about this place.”
Chan didn’t even hesitate. “Of course! It’s actually on one of your properties. I take Layla there every time I’m in the city. Total lifesaver for busy dog parents. It's owned by this ex-FBI K9 vet, real stand-up guy—”
“Okay,” Seungcheol snapped, palm raised. “Got it. Where’s Y/N?”
“Oh, the Doc went to the hospital. She got an emergency call.”
Seungcheol’s expression darkened. “And you let her?”
Chan blinked. “I—I wasn’t supposed to?”
There was a long pause.
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Did someone go with her?”
Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that made the hallway temperature drop five degrees.
Chan winced. “She said it’d be quick...?”
“Of course she did,” Seungcheol muttered, already pulling out his phone, thumb hovering over his contacts.
The Doberman barked behind him, as if agreeing.
It was his fault, really.
He hadn’t laid down any rules, hadn’t established protocol. Not for her. Not for himself. The last two weeks had been a blur—funeral rites, hostile boardrooms, restructuring logistics, and now this marriage... this arrangement. All of it gnawed at him.
He ran a hand down his face.
He hadn’t slept in two days.
Now with his brother gone, all the roles Mincheol used to handle had landed squarely on his shoulders. Seungcheol was doing damage control on every front—personally, professionally, and publicly. Thank God his father was back at the company for now. If he wasn’t, Seungcheol didn’t know what would’ve happened.
And now she had gone off to the hospital. Alone. No security. No warning.
He glanced at his watch. Three hours before the next meeting—shipment routes and deployment chains across the Mediterranean sector. Three hours. And he’d wanted, stupidly, to take a shower. Maybe even fall asleep for twenty minutes.
“Take it out,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward Rocky, still sitting like a royal in the middle of his pristine sheets.
Chan perked up immediately, more than happy to oblige. “Yes, boss.” He clicked his tongue gently at the Doberman. “Come on, Buddy.”
Rocky leapt down in a thud and trotted toward him.
“And,” Seungcheol added, tone firm again, “put Andrew on her. I want eyes on her at all times. No exceptions.”
Chan nodded crisply, but as he turned away, he couldn’t help but melt again, cooing as he walked. “Hello, Rocky! You’re Layla’s friend, right? I’ve seen you at the daycare. Do you both play well together? Bet you’re the bossy one…”
Seungcheol sighed and leaned against the doorframe for a second, watching Chan and the dog disappear down the hallway—soft voices trailing behind.
Maybe he'd catch that shower now.
But knowing her? He had the strange feeling rest wouldn’t come that easy.
Seungcheol let out a slow sigh as he stepped back into his room, the weight of the day pressing heavy on his shoulders. He made a mental note to ask the maids to change the sheets—Rocky’s muddy paw prints were still visible on the duvet, and a faint smell of dog shampoo lingered in the air.
He unbuttoned his cufflinks absently, his gaze drifting around the room until it landed on the suitcase resting against the wall. At first, he thought nothing of it—until his eyes swept toward the bathroom.
The door was slightly ajar, steam still ghosting from within.
He stepped closer.
The sight that greeted him made his brow twitch.
A towel was slumped carelessly on the floor, damp and clinging to the marble tile like a wilted flower. The oversized t-shirt you’d worn that morning was tossed near the sink, still slightly crumpled, smelling faintly of your perfume and mint toothpaste. Watermarks streaked the bathroom mirror, catching the low evening light and making the space look even more dishevelled.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, kicking the towel aside with the toe of his shoe, irritation building—not because of the mess itself, but because of how much space you were already starting to take up in his life.
In his house. In his routine.
In his mind.
Shrugging off his vest coat, he rolled his shoulders and dropped it into the laundry basket with unnecessary force. There wasn’t time for this. He had another meeting—one that could not be rescheduled.
He rolled up his sleeves and splashed cold water on his face, straightened, and caught his reflection in the mirror—wet-eyed, tired, and faintly aggravated.
The hospital lobby was awash in the dim glow of overhead fluorescents. Polished tiles stretched ahead of you, their surface reflecting the occasional scurry of interns and the gentle squeak of rubber soles. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, layered faintly with coffee from the nurses' station and something metallic you’d rather not place.
Your steps echoed softly as you passed through the wide corridor, your laundry bag in hand, which held your scrubs, your white shirt loose around your frame. You had just stabilised a patient—an older gentleman whose earlier minor cardiac episode had escalated into a full arrest. You’d warned them. You knew it would be recurring, but insurance complications had sent him out too soon. Thankfully, luck—or something close to it—was on your side tonight.
As you neared the glass-panelled front entrance, your eyes caught a sudden burst of motion. The pit interns were rushing through the lobby, their scrubs stained with fresh blood, voices raised in urgency.
“Female, 33, crash on the highway intersection—excessive bleeding,” one of the first responders called out, breathless. “Five months pregnant. The foetal heart rate is low. Mother's BP is crashing. Page Dr. Bay now—we don’t have much time!”
The woman on the stretcher was pale—far too pale—and barely conscious, crimson soaking the blankets beneath her. The wheels of the gurney screeched as they turned sharply into the emergency lift.
Your lips pressed into a thin line as you stopped for a heartbeat, watching them disappear. The knot in your chest tightened—but there was nothing more you could do but feel sad for the mother.
You resumed walking, nodding at familiar faces. A nurse from the PICU gave you a tired smile. A fellow attending passed you with a glance that said, Long night? You didn’t respond. Just dipped your head in acknowledgement and kept moving.
The automatic doors opened with a soft hiss as you stepped out into the cool night, the weight of the hospital slowly beginning to fall from your shoulders—even if only for a few hours.
The parking lot was half-lit, mostly quiet, save for the faint hum of distant traffic and the sharp tap of your shoes on pavement.
And then—you saw it.
Leaning casually against the sleek, black Mercedes you had ridden in that morning, stood a man in a fitted black suit. Hands folded neatly in front of him, posture rigid, expression unreadable. He wasn’t there for anyone else. He was waiting for you.
You walked past him, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot forming in your gut. But you barely made it a few steps before the sound of his shoes behind you made you turn sharply.
“Can I help you?” you asked, brows furrowed, exhaustion giving way to annoyance.
“Andrew,” he said crisply. “Your bodyguard.”
You blinked. “For what?”
“For your security,” he replied. “Please—this way.”
Before you could argue, he was already guiding you toward the car with a practiced motion, pulling the back door open for you like this was all routine.
You paused. “What about my car?”
“That will be taken care of.”
“The keys—”
“We don’t need them, ma’am,” he said, nodding with quiet finality.
And just like that, he shut the door in your face with a soft thud—polite, impersonal, but firm.
The grand hallway of the estate was dimly lit, silent except for the quiet padding of his shoes on the floor. The meeting had dragged on longer than expected—his body was aching, and all he could think about was a hot shower and ten minutes of sleep.
Chan had mentioned, offhandedly, that you were home.
Home.
He pushed open the bedroom door—and stopped in his tracks.
“Y/N!” he called out, already rubbing his temple. “Why is this dog here again—in my bed?”
From the walk-in closet came your voice, firm and annoyed. “Don’t call him a dog. That’s Rocky. My baby.”
Seungcheol stepped further in, eyes narrowing at the large Doberman sprawled confidently across the bed—like he owned the damn place.
“We’ve already met. This afternoon. When you weren’t here—again. Now send him out.”
“What do you mean, send him out?” you walked into view, drying your hair with a towel. “This is my room. You go to your room.”
He stared at you for a moment. “Did no one tell you?” He gave a dry chuckle. “This is also my room.”
You blinked. “No, it isn’t. The housekeeper said your room was the master bedroom, first door on the left…”
You looked around, the realization dawning as the deep-toned design and faint cologne in the air connected the dots. Your lips tightened into a scowl.
“Fine. I’ll leave.”
“You can’t.” His voice was calm but final. “We’re to occupy the same room. That’s the rule.”
“I will adhere to no such rule,” you snapped. “The arrangement is for a child. I’ll give you that child.”
A shadow of something darker crossed his face. He took a step toward you. Then another. And another. Until you instinctively began backing away, step by step, until your back brushed the edge of the dresser behind you.
“And how do you plan to do that… wife?” he asked, his voice dropping a register.
You stiffened.
“Children don’t appear out of thin air, do they?” he murmured, brushing the back of his fingers faintly across your exposed collarbone through the oversized T-shirt. “How will you give me a child when you’ve forbidden me to touch you?”
Your heart pounded in your chest—but your eyes held their fire.
He tilted his head, his voice curling with cruel suggestion.
“Well,” he said, almost lazily, “you’re more than welcome to share my bed. In case you want things to go the traditional way. I’ll just close my eyes and imagine someone else.”
You let out a sharp, biting laugh. “I’d rather bite the cold earth than lie with you—or next to you.” Your tone sharpened like broken glass. “Or is it that you were taught harassment is the only way someone would ever sleep with you?”
His jaw twitched. The muscles along his neck tensed. He took another step closer—so close, you could feel his breath ghosting against your cheek.
“I’ll have you know,” he said, in a low, tight voice, “my women are very willing.”
You didn’t flinch. “Sure they are,” you said, voice calm and cold. “Willing… for the price they’re paid.”
There it was again—that silent, dangerous electricity sparking between you. Rage. Frustration. Something unspoken clawing beneath the surface.
The heat between your gazes was smothering.
Until—
A sharp, growling bark sliced through the air.
Rocky jumped off the bed, landing between you both in a protective stance, lips curled and ears alert. His growl rumbled low, warning.
You both stepped back instinctively.
Seungcheol muttered something in Italian under his breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Send the dog to the hunting grounds. Let him be with other dogs.”
You moved immediately, placing yourself between Rocky and him, chin raised. “Over. My. Dead. Body.”
He stared at you, chest rising slightly with contained fury, then turned on his heel with a grunt.
“Keep him out of the bedrooms,” he snapped over his shoulder. “And away from me.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
Rocky whimpered once and nudged your leg. You placed a gentle hand on his head, still burning from the nearness, the tension, and the awful weight of everything this life had become.
“Dare she bark at me.” Seungcheol hissed under his breath as he stormed out of the room, slamming the heavy door behind him with a satisfying thud.
He barely made it five steps down the hallway when Mingyu rounded the corner, holding a thick folder in his hand.
Seungcheol muttered to himself, voice just loud enough to carry, “What a bitch.”
Mingyu, unfortunately, had the ears of a fox and a grin to match.
“Well, what can you do?” he said, walking alongside him with zero sympathy. “She is your wife.”
Seungcheol didn’t miss a beat. He stopped, turned, and stared him down cold.
“I was talking about the dog.”
“Oh.” Mingyu blinked, pretending to stifle a cough. “But… Rocky’s a male.”
That earned him one of Seungcheol’s death glares—sharp, wordless, and boiling with restrained annoyance. Mingyu wisely chose not to add more and handed him the file in silence.
Without another word, Seungcheol turned and made his way down the long corridor toward the eastern wing—his side of the mansion. His footsteps echoed with clipped determination, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease.
The moment he stepped into his office, he tossed the folder onto the nearest table and let out a sharp breath.
With a practiced motion, he ran his hand through his hair—an old habit when frustration sank its claws in. His jaw clenched as he muttered under his breath,
“Guess I’ll be settling for the goddamn couch tonight.”
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The music throbbed like a second heartbeat—heavy, slow, and pulsing through the dark-lit room with the rhythm of temptation. Crimson lights bathed everything in a velvet haze as shadows moved against chrome poles and private whispers slipped beneath the bass.
Mingyu stepped into the VIP zone like he owned the place—black shirt unbuttoned just enough, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, gold watch catching a glint of the strobe. His gaze swept through the room once, sharp and clinical, until it landed on her.
Monica.
Perched on the edge of the plush leather seat, legs crossed, dressed in a high-slit number that shimmered under the lights, Monica was a vision meant to disarm. And she tried—she really did.
She stood and moved toward him with that effortless grace, her hands sliding up his chest as she climbed into his lap, straddling him like muscle memory.
"Missed you," she purred near his ear, lips grazing the edge of his jaw. The music dropped low, bass kicking in again.
But Mingyu didn’t react the way she hoped. He let her dance, let her move for a moment—then placed one hand firmly on her hip, and with the other, gently but unmistakably, pushed her back just enough.
"Not tonight, sweetheart," he said, voice low, smooth, and unreadable.
Confusion flickered in her eyes. “You didn’t come for me?”
“Oh, I did,” he said with a smirk, then reached for her chin. His fingers curled just under it, tilting her face up to him. His thumb brushed her lower lip, then pinched it lightly between his fingers. Her breath hitched.
“I have something better for you.”
Monica blinked, the tease fading from her eyes for something sharper—curiosity. Obediently, she stayed still under his touch, her heart hammering under the surface.
“Better?” she echoed, lips still caught between his fingers.
Mingyu leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper just for her. “I need eyes. Discreet ones. On someone important.” His thumb let go of her mouth slowly. “Think you can do that for me, beautiful?”
A beat passed. Then she nodded.
Of course she would. After all, she'd been in love with Kim Mingyu long before he ever looked at her like this. And she’d take whatever scraps of attention he threw her way—especially if they came wrapped in danger.
He leaned back against the booth, spreading his arms lazily along the top, eyes glinting under the blood-red light.
“Good girl.”
End of Chapter 9
A/N: I have came up with an interesting analysis that you guys like scenes with seungcheol more than Jeonghan and I am kind of worried for you all as the story will proceed.
AN: Sorry for the delay. I went to the beach and almost forgot that I had to upload because I started bingeing The Bear. I am OBSESSED! Thank you so so so much for the responses you all are giving to the story. I read every comment at least thrice a day. Looking forward to more!! ENJOY!!
CHAPTER 8
This would have been the 6th night in a row where you didn’t go home in the last two weeks, although the world around you remained unchanged. Rocky was going to his daycare, taken care of by his dog walker. Alberta was coming in and going to your apartment every other day, mumbling and grumbling about the contents of the fridge going to waste, the one she puts so much of her hard work and care into, when you barely eat. Promising herself that she won't bother from now on, then showing up with a big bag again on Sunday.
But here you are burying yourself in work, not allowing a moment to think, although the world is still spinning on its axis, while yours seems to have shifted. Long shifts, early mornings, late nights—you kept moving, kept thinking, kept talking, just to avoid the silence that waited back at home like an uninvited guest. You hardly spoke to anyone outside the hospital, barely acknowledged messages from friends, and actively avoided anything remotely social. The thought of entertaining anyone’s curiosity about your “So what’s new with you, Y/N?" made your skin itch.
Today was no exception. You were on your third round of the morning, clipboard in hand, eyes heavy with sleep you hadn't gotten, and patience worn thin like old thread.
You stepped into Room 302, where Mrs. Carsen, one of your trial patients, sat propped up in bed, her eyes tired but curious. She’d been responding to the new regimen slowly, and every small shift in her bloodwork was being closely monitored. There were four interns trailing behind you, all fresh-faced and eager to impress, but more green than useful.
You softened your tone as you glanced at the patient and gave her a small smile.
"Good morning, Mrs. Carsen. How are you feeling today?"
“A little better than yesterday; I could barely keep my eyes open. it's been a while since I last slept like that.”
“That's good. Anything else, like are you feeling the same aversion towards food or nausea?”
Before the elderly woman could respond, one of the interns—Erica, if you recalled correctly—spoke over her.
"Trial Case Number 23’s vitals have stabilised overnight. Pulse rate holding, no further febrile spikes."
The words were cold and clinical. Erica didn’t even glance at the patient as she read them out.
Mrs. Carsen frowned. “Case number twenty-three?” she asked gently, her voice frail. "Is that me?"
Erica didn’t look up from her chart. “Yes, ma’am. That’s your ID within the study protocol. You’re being administered the third-tier chemo compound, variant A,” she said in a robotic tone, as if reciting from memory.
You had been flipping through Mrs. Carsen’s file—but that tone made you pause. Your fingers stilled.
You closed the file with a quiet but definitive snap.
Then you turned fully toward the woman in the bed, stepping closer. You crouched slightly to be eye-level with her, your voice warm and deliberate as you explained—clearly, humanly—what her numbers meant, what the next few weeks might look like, and what symptoms she should keep an eye on. You placed your hand gently over hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze, the way you would your own grandmother.
"We’re right here with you, every step of the way," you said quietly, just to her.
Mrs. Carsen’s eyes brimmed slightly with tears, and her lips trembled into a soft smile.
“Thanks, love. i would just truly appreciate if you’d talk to me not just about me.” You gave her a small nod. “That will be taken care of, Mrs. Carsen; let me know if you have any difficulties.” Standing and walking out, the four interns scramble to keep up behind you.
You stopped in front of the staff elevator, and before pressing the button, turned to face them.
"The person in that room is more than just a case number or a study sample."
Your voice was calm but sharp. Stern, yet level. Although you didn't take names, your eyes were very level at the intern.
"When interacting with a patient, don't ever talk over them. You’re not doing her a favour by treating her. You’re doing your job. That woman—any patient—entrusts you with their life. Do you understand the weight of that?"
A pause. You looked directly at Erica.
"Your duty is not just to medicate, but to communicate. To help them understand. To be present in a way textbooks never will be. They are not your test subjects; they are your patients. Talk to them, reassure them, and explain things in a way that they understand. They came to us. Learn about your patients beyond their lab results and bed numbers."
They all nodded, slightly stunned.
"Yes, Doctor Y/N," they echoed, almost in unison.
You turned and stepped into the elevator. Just before the doors closed, you added,
"Brian—bring me the full file for Mr. Dominic to my office. Now."
“YES, DOCTOR!”
The doors slid shut.
Outside, Erica stood frozen for a beat, cheeks pink and jaw tight. She looked ready to cry or snap—maybe both.
Her boyfriend, another intern trailing behind, leaned over and whispered just loud enough:
"She’s been so prickly the last couple of weeks. What’s gotten into her?"
Erica shot him a sideways glance, her voice dry and cool.
"Nothing. Maybe that’s exactly the problem."
On cue, the two shared a low chuckle and walked off, as Erica’s boyfriend tried to lighten the mood.
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Something was wrong with you; maybe something was bothering you. Therefore, you were in such a sour mood. Jeonghan couldn't exactly diagnose what it was—but one of the signs was visible: you were trying to suppress it, and what's a better way to distract yourself than overworking? But Jeonghan had been watching you closely for days now—closely enough to know something had shifted. It wasn’t just the way you skipped out on drinks two weeks ago. You’d vanished that night with a mumbled excuse, one even your closest friends hadn’t bought, and since then, you hadn’t quite returned.
There was a tension to you now, not loud but present—like a thread pulled taut beneath your skin. You moved with more purpose, spoke less, and your kindness—once as gentle as gauze—had taken on a clipped edge, especially with the interns. Everyone chalked it up to burnout, maybe too many shifts back-to-back. But Jeonghan knew you. Knew the rhythm of your moods, the silences between your sentences, and the way your smile used to reach your eyes.
And it hadn't, not for a while now.
So today, with something like determination humming under his skin, he found you alone in the break room, poking at your food more than eating it. You looked tired—tired in that deep, unspeakable way that sleep couldn’t fix.
He cleared his throat with a hopeful grin. “Guess what?”
You raised an eyebrow without looking up.
“I got us tickets to the match. You know—the one you’ve been talking about for months?”
A soft, amused scoff escaped you. “You mean the one you were talking about while I pretended to listen?”
“Don’t be like that,” he huffed dramatically. “You love the Eagles.”
“Right. Which ones are they again?” you deadpanned, barely hiding a smirk.
He narrowed his eyes, feigning offence. “Funny. Real funny.”
But something in him lightened at the hint of your old self peeking through.
“On Saturday, Be ready by 3. I’m picking you up.”
“Nooooo,” you whined into your salad. “It’s my first off-day in two weeks!”
“Oh come on… You have Sunday too. Let’s not pretend you were going to rest. You’ll end up answering emails or reorganising the medicine cabinet alphabetically.”
He leaned down a little, voice softening.
“Come on, honey girl. You can give one day to this very patient, very charming best friend of yours.”
You looked up slowly, catching those stupidly hopeful eyes twinkling at you like a guilty golden retriever. You sighed, heavy and dramatic.
“Huuu… fine. But don’t call me that.”
His grin stretched wide. “Perfect. It’s a date then, honey girl.”
And before you could throw a spoon at him, he was gone—slipping out of the room with a bounce in his step, walking so fast he didn’t have to show you how red his ears were or how loud his heart was thudding in his chest.
He was still smiling when the elevator dinged open and he stepped inside, only to jump at the quiet voice behind him.
“You alright there, Dr. Yoon?”
He turned to find Nurse Martha standing beside him, arms folded, brows raised.
“Oh! Nurse Martha. Didn’t see you there.”
She gave him a knowing once-over. “You look a little flushed.”
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting. “Ah… just the heat, you know.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The elevator dinged again, and as he stepped out onto his floor, he called back, “See you around, Nurse Martha.”
The doors slid shut behind him.
She chuckled to herself.
“It’s October.”
A sigh escaped you—long, tired, and a little hollow.
The hunger you'd felt just minutes ago had vanished after barely two bites. The food sat heavy in your hands, untouched and somehow offensive in its presence. You stood there for a beat, unsure what to do next, before placing the container back in the staff fridge. You grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled on a sticky note:
“Eat me.”
You stuck it on the lid with more force than necessary and turned, walking out into the dim hallway.
The hospital's fluorescent lights hummed softly above you, cold and pale like always. But your eyes had already drifted further down the corridor—to the heavy double doors of the mortuary, sitting like a mouth waiting to swallow.
It had been a while since you last saw Isayah. Days? Weeks? Everything felt blurred now, folded in on itself from the moment your life was signed over to a name you didn’t want to say aloud. You tried to remember what he'd been trying to tell you—something about missing bodies. You hadn’t followed up. You hadn’t had the time. Or maybe you just hadn’t had the energy.
Still, your feet had started carrying you toward that door, the quiet dread curling beneath your ribs… when a familiar voice pulled you back.
“Y/N.”
You turned, blinking out of your thoughts.
Dr. Cordon approached with his usual composed gait, his silver hair combed neatly back and his sharp features slightly softened by age. He wore a navy waistcoat beneath his lab coat, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a Rolex that had probably seen more emergency surgeries than most residents. His accent was clipped, clean. British
“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said, glancing between you and the direction you were headed. “Are you busy?”
You shook your head faintly. “Not really. I was just… Do you know an Isayah Noyago?”
His brows furrowed. “Isayah…?” he repeated, like testing the name on his tongue. “Doesn’t ring a bell…”
“He worked in the morgue,” you added quietly, almost regretting it.
“Oh!” His eyes lit slightly in recognition. “Yes, yes. Noyago. Young fellow. Odd hours. Haven’t seen him in some time, now that you mention it.”
You nodded, eyes flicking back toward the morgue. Something tugged at your gut.
“Well, you can always ask the floor manager. They’ll know better who’s on shift down there,” he suggested.
He paused, studying you. “But why are you looking for him?”
You opened your mouth, then hesitated.
“He told me—” You stopped. The words faltered before they could land. What exactly had he told you? Did it even matter now?
“…You know what, never mind,” you said, brushing it off. “You said you wanted to talk?”
As if suddenly remembering, he snapped his fingers lightly. “Ah yes. Alberta mentioned something to me this morning. Said you haven’t been going home. And, more worryingly, that you’ve barely touched your meals.”
Your mouth opened in instinctive protest, but he raised a gentle hand to quiet it—fatherly, not commanding.
“Y/N, I’ve known you long enough to see when you’re treading water. And right now, you look like you’re about to go under.”
“I was going through the case,” Dr. Cordon continued, adjusting the file under his arm, his tone shifting into something more clinical—comfortably familiar. “It seems like the trial is moving in a rather positive direction.”
That caught your attention, even if only slightly.
“If you have the time,” he offered, “perhaps we could go over the updated charts together. I’d like us to present it at the Stanley Organisation Conference next month.”
Your eyes lifted to his, a faint crease forming on your brow. “You’re going with that?”
He smiled, small but assured. “Of course. It’s your work as much as it is mine, and frankly, you’ve been the heart of it.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t care—but because caring right now felt like dragging a half-broken limb across a finish line.
Still, a quiet part of you appreciated the recognition.
“…Yeah,” you finally murmured. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
“Good,” he said, with a slight nod. “I have a sandwich with your name written on it, your favourite.”
“Cordon—”
“Ah-ah,” he held his hand up. “Come on, or else I will call Alberta here,” and started pushing you towards the direction of his office.
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You’d been standing outside your apartment building for five minutes now, arms crossed, leather jacket slung over one hand. The night air was cooler than expected, but not enough to make you reach for it yet. Your black tube top clung neatly to your skin, wide-legged pants swaying every time the breeze shifted, and your hair—slicked back into a tight bun—was already starting to feel a headache coming up. You hated waiting.
Your thumb hovered over Jeonghan’s name on your phone, ready to call and ask if he’d forgotten—
And then you heard it.
The low, unmistakable roar of an engine.
You turned toward the sound, squinting just in time to catch the flash of headlights and a sleek red Porsche rolling up like it belonged in a commercial. The passenger window slid down, revealing that smile the one that always landed somewhere between smug and stupidly charming.
“What took you so long?” You called out as you approached.
Jeonghan leaned an arm casually against the wheel. “It’s been a while since I took my baby out for a spin. We were bonding.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small twitch of a smile as you slid into the passenger seat. The interior still smelt like polish and some kind of citrus cologne he definitely overused.
“Tell me again,” you said, buckling in. “How the hell can you afford this car?”
He shifted the gear and shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My mother had a rich father and a shitty taste in men. When my grandfather died, he left her a little something. That’s all.”
And with that, he pressed the gas, and the engine growled like it had something to prove. The streetlights blurred into lines as the Porsche peeled away from the curb.
The arena was alive.
Floodlights cast a clinical sheen over the glossy hardwood court, where tension danced with every bounce of the ball. The air crackled with anticipation and the roar of a full house—popcorn salt, stadium grease, and sweat clinging to every breath. This wasn’t just a game. This was ritual. Noise. Escape.
You and Jeonghan were seated just three rows behind courtside, close enough to hear the players’ shouts and the slap of the ball against the hardwood. The chairs were cushioned but firm. From here, you could feel the tremor in the floor every time a player’s sneakers hit the ground. And Jeonghan? He was buzzing. Practically vibrating in his seat like a kid on sugar.
“Let’s go, Eagles!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.
You smirked, leaning back slightly, letting him have his moment. The Eagles were his team—he’d been talking about this match against the Tigers for weeks now, like it was the event of the year.
On the court, the Tigers’ defence tightened up. Number 14 from the Eagles—a tall, lean forward with arms like steel cables—dodged a block, dribbled once, twice, then launched into the air with startling grace.
Slam. A perfect two-handed dunk.
The crowd exploded, and Jeonghan jumped up like he’d been launched from a cannon, both fists in the air. “Did you see that?! That’s what I’m talking about!”
You glanced at him, laughing under your breath as you stayed seated, sipping from your bottle of water. “You act like you trained him yourself.”
He beamed, flushed with joy, the lights of the arena dancing in his eyes. “I could’ve, in another life.”
You watched the players high-five, the scoreboard flash, and the cameras swing toward the bench. The cheers were loud and overpowering, but your mind had begun to drift—just slightly.
Jeonghan didn’t notice. He was clapping, yelling something about a missed call, completely in his element.
And honestly, you were glad. For a moment, his joy made the world feel normal. Like the last two weeks hadn't happened. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you could just be... here.
And even if your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, it was real enough to hold onto—for now.
By the time halftime rolled around, the roar of the arena had faded into white noise. You sat back in your seat, phone in hand, replying to an email from hospital administration about pending supplies for your department’s research wing. The blue light of the screen cast a faint glow on your face as your fingers danced across the glass.
You barely noticed Jeonghan sipping his soda beside you, his legs bouncing from leftover adrenaline.
What you did notice was the shift in energy.
A ripple through the crowd.
Eyes—not one or two, but many—fixing in your direction.
You frowned slightly, lifting your eyes from the screen… and that’s when you saw it.
The Kiss Cam.
Your face filled the massive stadium screen, outlined with floating cartoon hearts, the bright text underneath flashing:
“Kiss Cam” Row 3 – Seats 12 & 13
Your head snapped toward Jeonghan, who blinked in delayed realisation as the camera panned wide enough to catch him too—mid-sip.
“No,” you mouthed quickly, subtly shaking your head. A small wave of laughter rippled through your section.
Thankfully, the camera seemed to get the hint. It panned away.
You let out a sigh, returning your gaze to your phone, only for Jeonghan to nudge you lightly. “You want something to eat?” he asked, ever casual.
You barely had time to answer when the crowd cheered again.
You looked up.
The Kiss Cam was back.
Zoomed in. Closer. Persistent.
“Are you serious right now?” you muttered under your breath, more to the universe than anyone else.
Jeonghan turned to look at you then, eyebrows raised, lips parted—like he was trying to gauge something in your expression he couldn’t quite name. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Or hesitation.
The crowd started chanting. Lightly at first. Then louder.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
You felt your cheeks burn—not from embarrassment, but from the absurdity of it all. Of being seen. Pinned under the gaze of strangers. Like you were in a spotlight you hadn’t asked for.
Jeonghan leaned slightly closer, his voice low, barely audible beneath the noise
“Let it be,” Jeonghan said softly, barely glancing at the screen. “They’ll just move away on their—”
Before he could finish, you turned to him.
Your hand came up suddenly, cradling his jaw with a quiet urgency that startled him. The heat of the crowd pressed in, a thousand eyes watching, but your movements were precise—controlled. You angled your face just enough to block your profile from the camera, your body shielding the truth from the lens.
The crowd erupted in cheers behind you.
To anyone watching, it looked like a kiss.
But it wasn’t.
Your thumb hovered over his lips. Then, gently—without trembling—you pressed your lips to it. A soft, deliberate touch.
For a moment, Jeonghan didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, and for the briefest flicker of a second, a shadow passed through them—quiet and aching.
Disappointment.
It came uninvited, sharp in his chest, curling under his ribs.
You turned your attention back to the court as the game resumed, face calm, focus sharp. You didn’t see the way Jeonghan kept looking at you. Not with frustration or offence—but with something deeper.
A knowing.
A silent wonder, repressing it to focus on the game. At least he tried to.
The cool night breeze trailed behind you as you both stepped out of the stadium, the city alive with horns, headlights, and the hum of late-night traffic. Jeonghan walked a step ahead and opened the car door for you, the gesture casual—automatic—but his silence lingered heavier than usual.
You slid in without a word. The ride started the same way.
Quiet.
A little too quiet.
You shifted in your seat, glancing out the window at the blur of taillights and neon signs. “I don’t know why they put people on the spot like that,” you said with a small, awkward chuckle. “The Kiss Cam. It’s... unnecessary.”
“Right,” Jeonghan murmured, his eyes never leaving the road. The tone in his voice didn’t match yours. It sat somewhere between a shrug and something unsaid.
Silence again.
You could feel him trying to push past it when he asked, “What do you want for dinner?”
You didn’t answer.
The city rolled past you in soft streaks of light.
“Y/N,” he said, voice sharper this time.
You blinked out of your thoughts and turned to him. “Sorry. You were saying something?”
“I asked what you’d like for dinner,” he repeated, more carefully this time. “It’s like you’re always… gone. Either buried in work or stuck in your own head. Is something wrong?”
You hesitated, then gave a quick shake of your head. “No. It’s nothing.”
He glanced at you briefly, frowning. “It can’t be nothing if it has you making that face.”
You looked over, eyebrows raised. “What face?”
“The face kids make when they’re about to pass a tight stool,” he said, completely deadpan.
“Jesus Christ—” you smacked his arm, laughing despite yourself.
He grinned, pleased with himself. “No, seriously. Are you constipated? Blink twice if you need laxatives.”
“Jeonghan, I swear,” you said, unable to hide your smile, your voice lighter now.
“Smack me again and I’ll crash into the median.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Let’s go to Chow’s Palace?”
“Chow’s it is,” he said, his hands smooth on the wheel as he took the left at the roundabout. “Been a while since I had proper Chinese.”
As the street lights flickered over your faces, the tension from earlier melted slightly—slightly. And though neither of you said it, you both felt the shift. That familiar safety. That ache of almost.
But neither of you reached for it.
As the car slipped into a quieter lane, the rush of the night muted behind the closed windows, you leaned your forehead gently against the glass. Outside, life went on—people crossing streets with grocery bags, neon signs flickering over late-night diners, and a couple laughing at a bus stop, their world untouched by yours.
For a moment, you let your eyes fall shut.
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting pale strips of light across the room. A dull, relentless headache throbbed at your temples—probably a souvenir from last night’s beer at Chow’s. You blinked against the sting, willing yourself back into the comfort of sleep.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Persistent. Unrelenting.
Groaning, you kicked the quilt aside with more irritation than grace. You really needed to give the milkman a sterner warning.
Rolling out of bed, you shuffled toward the door, extending your hand for the milk carton, expecting the usual morning ritual.
But no carton was pressed into your palm.
Instead, when you opened the door wider, there he was.
The face you wanted to see least of all: your husband.
His dark eyes lifted with a crooked brow, calm and almost amused.
Behind him, two towering figures stood silently—his bodyguards, unwavering shadows.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice sharp, breath uneven.
He smirked, stepping forward. “Aren’t you going to let me in, wife?”
The word hit you like ice.
You shuddered, a cringe crawling along your spine.
“No.” You tried to close the door swiftly—but he was faster.
His foot slid against the wood, halting it mid-swing.
“Why have someone inside?” he muttered, nodding toward the door as he motioned his men to stay outside.
Before you could protest, he pushed past you, stepping into the apartment. His gaze swept the room with cold precision, moving toward the veranda as if expecting someone to leap out at him.
After a moment, he turned, striding to the bathroom, eyes scanning every corner, measuring your space.
You cleared your throat, voice firm despite the knot tightening in your chest. “Please don’t call me that.”
He glanced over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure.”
Turning back, he folded his arms, studying you. “So, tell me, wife—what have you been up to?”
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, making the loose shirt ride up slightly. You caught the flicker in his eyes as they traced you up and down—the oversized men’s T-shirt, the tired slump in your shoulders.
“The usual,” you said evenly. “Saving lives and studying.”
He nodded slowly, as if weighing your words. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s about it,” you replied coolly. “Why do you ask?”
His lips curled in a ghost of a smile. “I see. The Eagles play well, don’t they? That last touchdown—the Balkan’s throw—I must admit, it was impressive.”
You pursed your lips into a thin line, irritation bubbling beneath your calm exterior.
He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Most interesting of them all—the halftime shows they pull off.”
You met his gaze evenly, feeling the weight of unspoken words swirling between you.
“What are you trying to do?” you asked, voice steady but edged with frustration.
“Nothing,” he said smoothly, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous. “Just here to remind you things have changed. It’s time you change your ways. And your clothes. And pack your bags. I gave you a week—two weeks have passed. Father’s asking about you.”
You arched an eyebrow. “Does your father always take this much initiative?”
He shrugged, smirking. “Only when it involves his eldest son’s killer’s daughter.”
Your pulse quickened at the words. “Why do I have to go to your house?”
“Not this dance again,” he groaned, rubbing his temple like it was a bother.
You crossed your arms, stepping closer, voice sharp. “Why don’t you expect me to commute to work every day? It’s like a forty-five-minute drive from your place to Liberty. From here, it’s just two blocks.”
His eyes glinted with a cold amusement. “You sure talk a lot for a collateral.”
“Bastard,” you spat, stomping toward your room, fury blazing. Way to ruin a day off.
Seungcheol’s phone buzzed just as he saw you disappear into the bedroom, the door shutting hard behind you with a sharp slam.
Fifteen minutes slipped by. He ended his call, still hearing no sound from your side of the apartment.
Did she slip in the bathroom or something? He wondered, tension creeping into his chest.
He made his way down the hallway and spotted a door left slightly ajar. Assuming it was your bedroom, he paused—Not going to peek. Maybe she’s just changing.
He knocked softly, voice tight. “Y/N, are you done? We need to leave. I don’t have all day—”
No answer.
He knocked again, louder this time.
A sudden, wild thought flared: What if she jumped out the window? Ran off through the fire escape?
Without hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
There you were—laying on your stomach, fast asleep, a soft snore escaping your parted lips, buried beneath the quilt.
His gaze flicked over the room and cringed a little at the mess—dog toys scattered haphazardly, clothes strewn across the floor.
“Hey, get up.” His voice was low at first, but then he shut his eyes and shouted, “Y/N!!”
You jolted awake, heart hammering. Your hand flew to your temple, clutching at the relentless pounding inside your skull.
“What the fuck?” You groaned, disoriented and irritated, the harshness of waking crashing over you like a wave.
“Pack your things,” he said briskly, voice sharp but controlled. “Just the essentials—you can come back for the rest later or whatever. I’m waiting downstairs. So, chop chop.”
He muttered under his breath, “What a fucking mess.”
You flung yourself back onto the pillow, crushing the breath out of your chest, the weight of him, your father, and everything else pressing down on you like a storm.
A long, ragged groan escaped your lips, a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and the raw ache of being caught in a life you never asked for.
You came down the stairs slowly, dragging a small suitcase behind you—just the essentials, like he said. The building’s quiet was broken only by the scuff of your shoes on the steps and the low hum of the idling car outside.
One of his guards was already waiting at the bottom. At Seungcheol’s simple gesture, the man stepped forward, took your suitcase without a word, and moved to open the car door.
“Get in,” Seungcheol said, his voice as casual as if he were sending off dry cleaning. “They’ll take you to the mansion.”
You paused, hand on the car door, your fingers curling tightly around the handle. Your mouth opened—maybe to ask, to argue, to demand—but nothing came out.
“And what about you?” you finally managed, the words stiff with suspicion.
He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Aww… you’re leaning into the title’s responsibilities, wife?”
The word landed like ash on your tongue. Your expression soured immediately.
“I have a meeting,” he continued with a shrug, already glancing at his phone. “Don’t worry. I lead a very busy life. We won’t cross paths much.”
“I hope not,” you muttered, climbing into the car.
And before he could respond, you slammed the door shut behind you. The sound echoed down the street, final and sharp, like a line drawn in sand as the car's engine roared to life and drove off.
Seungcheol watched silently as the car carrying you turned the corner and disappeared from view. His jaw tightened. He didn’t say a word.
Just then, another car rolled up in front of him—sleek, identical in build to the one you'd just left in. A black Mercedes S-Class. Tinted windows. Armored. Quiet like a predator in a suit.
He slipped into the backseat, nodding once at the driver without bothering to speak. The door shut with a heavy click, sealing him off from everything.
He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, eyes falling shut for a moment.
But peace didn’t come.
Instead, the silence was pierced by a memory—two weeks ago. Blunt. Loud. Unshakeable.
“Who said you’re in a position to negotiate?” he pressed, voice low, sharp enough to cut.
You drew in a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as you gathered what was left of your composure. “If I’m to accept this barbaric barter,” you said, voice taut, “I have my terms.”
His silence was invitation enough.
“You will not interfere with my work,” you said, opening your eyes to meet his. “And no one—absolutely no one—will know that you are my husband.”
He cocked a brow. “What? Is someone secretly holding out for that title?”
Your jaw clenched, nose flaring. “You will not touch me.”
A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “Well, do you expect me to air-drop my sperm, Doctor?”
You didn’t blink. “Given your limited understanding of medical advancement, I don’t expect much. But I’ll figure that part out. What I need is your cooperation. Even during the pregnancy, you will not control what I do. My work, my decisions—none of it concerns you.”
“No can do,” he replied smoothly. “It’s my heir you’ll be carrying.”
“And it’s my body that will carry it.”
A pause.
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, noncommittal. “Go on.”
You pushed forward. “When this whole… child thing is fulfilled—”
“A son,” he corrected.
You ignored the interruption. “—you will grant me a divorce.”
“Gladly,” he replied without hesitation.
“One last thing.”
He rolled his eyes. “You sure don’t run out of demands.”
But you pressed on. “You will not touch a single soul at Liberty Hospital. You will leave everyone out of whatever mess you and Han Jaein have dragged each other into.”
A pause. His expression shifted, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.
“Min,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“It’s Min Jaein. Your father took your new mother’s surname. Thought you’d know.”
You hesitated, your gaze slipping past him toward the door, somewhere far beyond this room. Why should I mourn someone who didn’t even share a name with me anymore? You had changed your name too—when Dr. Cordon took you in.
“Right. Whatever,” you said quietly, brushing the thought off.
“So,” you met his eyes again, “do you accept?”
He stepped back, letting go of you entirely, his expression unreadable. “I’ll think about it,” he said, mocking you with a smile as sharp as the steel behind his tone.
That was it. The flicker of restraint inside you snapped. You surged forward and grabbed the lapel of his coat, yanking him back before he could walk away.
“Listen here, Daddy’s puppet,” you hissed. “I don’t care what you or your father do to me. But if you don’t accept my terms, I would rather die than follow through with anything that man wants. Do you understand me?”
His grin returned, this time with amusement dancing behind it. “Easy there, tigress,” he said, pulling his coat free from your grip.
“When I said I’d think about it,” he added as he stepped toward the door, “then I’ll think about it.”
And then he was gone. Leaving behind the bitter taste of powerlessness and the weight of your own defiance clinging to the air like smoke.And yet, moments later, with hands that barely stopped trembling, you signed your name beside his—Choi Seungcheol—the man Dr. Cordon once warned you about with a heaviness in his eyes that only hindsight could explain. In that quiet, irreversible gesture, you bound yourself to him, not in love but in necessity. Two names inked together, sealing a future neither of you could truly predict—unfolding not in vows, but in the quiet dread of what comes next. A bond rising on legacy, betrayal, and revenge.
CHOI SEUNGCHEOL X READER (Mafia x Doctor AU! Arranged Forced Marriage; Enemies to Lovers? Slow Burn!!)
Warnings: Strong language, manipulation, shitty parents, forced marriage, guns, and some wrist and chin holding ANGST!. They get married.
AN: Missed me?
CHAPTER 1 --- PREVIOUSLY
𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Seldom there comes a time in a man’s life when he has to relive his nightmare over and over again, making one realise how much more he has to give before he has nothing left to give at all. Maybe that’s what Min-Jaein is going through. Seeing his most precious being in this world walk into the dragon’s lair, guided by the most vicious of the devil’s spawn.
The office smelt faintly of old leather, strong alcohol, and cold—like the stone that never felt the sun. Everything was sharp-edged: the heavy desk carved from dark walnut, glass shelves lined with books, and worn and beloved books read and passed through generations. So many memories—Choi Si-won sat at the centre of it all like a man carved from the same wood as his desk. Expressionless and composed, fingers steepled as he looked across the room at the man sitting opposite him.
Your father.
And beside him, a curly-haired boy—young, no older than 24, his wide brown eyes bouncing between them, uncertain.
The air seemed to shift the moment your foot crossed the threshold. Your heart dropped as if someone had yanked it downward with a string. Cold swept over you, creeping across your skin, gathering like ice at the base of your neck.
Everything became muffled. Voices sounded distant. Like you were underwater.
The heartbeat in your ears was deafening, steady, and brutal.
Then—
“Y/N, Doll.”
Your eyes snapped to the source, your body jolting back into sensation as if someone had ripped the cord connecting you to reality.
“Y/N.”
Your eyes met his—and everything inside you shattered.
“No,” you whispered, your voice cracking at the edges. “No, no, no—this… this can’t be—”
You stumbled a step backward, vision blurring. “You were dead—they told me you were dead. They showed me pictures, the ring—you were wearing your ring—”
Panic bloomed like poison in your chest. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t breathe.
“I asked to see your face. I begged,” you choked out. “But they said it was too damaged. they told me it was you—how could they—how could you—”
You turned, your eyes darting, the room spinning too fast, too loud.
And then—
You backed into something solid.
A chest. Broad. Familiar. Unyielding.
Your father.
Alive.
He rose slowly from his chair, every movement deliberate. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt.
“Doll…” he said softly, voice husky, like glass ground into velvet. “I had to do it. I had to keep you away from all of this.”
His hand reached for yours, hesitating just before touching. His eyes—usually cold and calculative—were glassy.
You didn’t reach back.
You couldn’t.
Rayn stood just behind him now, unmoving, his gaze locked on the man before him. Disbelief warred with something softer. Recognition, maybe. Or betrayal.
Is that really him? Rayn thought. My father? Was he ever capable of anything akin to showing emotions?
“You’re not my father,” you hissed, the words slicing out of you like shards of glass. “My father is dead. I don’t want to be a part of this—I never did. I just want to go back.”
“Doll, hear me out. Just once—”
“Why?” you snapped. “Why should I? If you really wanted to keep me out of this, why bring me here? I don’t care what it’s for—I never asked for any of it!”
Your voice broke. A splintering sob fought its way up your throat, but you bit it down with shaking lips. Everything around you was suffocating—too much. The polished marble, the stifling scent of cigars and leather, the unreadable faces in the room. The weight of it all pressed against your chest like a concrete slab.
You didn’t notice him step closer. Not until warm, calloused hands suddenly landed on your shoulders, steadying your trembling frame.
“Steady, sweetheart,” came the deep, low voice from just behind you—smooth like velvet dragged over steel. “Breathe, will you?”
Your body jolted, your breath caught in your throat. You knew that voice. Heard it in nightmares and memories alike. The new heir. Choi Seungcheol.
But before you could even react—
“Take your hands off my daughter.”
The thunder in your father’s voice cracked through the air like a bullet. You’d never heard it that loud. That's cold. Gone was the man with glassy eyes and a hesitant touch. In his place stood something darker—older. A roar of a wounded tiger.
The room fell still. The tension wound tight, like a string pulled too far.
Seungcheol lifted his hands in the air, a lazy smirk stretching across his lips. He stepped back, slow and deliberate, two mocking paces.
“Too soon?” he drawled, his tone dancing with amusement, but his eyes never left your father’s.
Your father stepped forward.
“I said—” he growled, every word drenched in venom, “—don’t touch her.”
He didn’t speak. But you felt his presence behind you shift—like a wall of heat inching forward. He didn’t need to reply. The weight of his silence was louder than a gunshot.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch him in the corner of your eye.
Dressed all in black. Eyes colder than winter on the Tiber.
Watching you like he already owned you.
And for the first time…
You felt it.
The real reason you’d been brought here.
“Hey Han—”
A slow, gravel-thick voice cut through the room like smoke curling from an expensive cigar. “If your little reunion is over… shall we get back to business?”
Your head turned instinctively toward the sound, eyes landing on the man behind the massive mahogany desk.
He sat like a monarch—reclined but commanding—one leg crossed over the other. The light caught the silver in his slicked-back hair, age-worn but powerful, dressed immaculately in a three-piece charcoal suit. His gold cufflinks gleamed like bloodstained medals of honor. A signet ring caught your eye—thick, old, and engraved with a Choi family crest.
Late sixties, maybe older. His skin bore the years, but his posture? Straight as a blade. And his eyes…
Cold. Calculating. Cruel.
You didn’t know his name. But your body recognized him.
“Wh-what business?” you asked slowly, voice cracking as you looked between your father and the stranger. “What the hell is going on?”
The older man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he laced his fingers together.
“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N,” he said, with mock warmth. “You’ve grown into a promising young woman. I’m not sure if you remember me—but once upon a time, you used to run through these halls. Little footsteps. Little braids. You always asked for those vanilla almond cookies my housekeeper used to bake.”
You didn’t remember. Or maybe you didn’t want to.
He sighed dramatically and continued.
“Well, that’s the past, isn’t it? And from what I gather… the past hasn’t been particularly kind to you. Or to Mira.”
At that name—your mother’s name—your heart stopped.
“Oh yes,” he went on, lips curling into a mockery of sympathy. “My deepest condolences. Mira… she was a woman of God. One of a kind. May her soul rest in peace.”
“Keep her name out of your mouth, Choi.”
Your father’s voice had never sounded so sharp. So lethal.
Min Jaein had risen from his chair like a stormcloud. His hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides, and for a second, you thought he might leap across the desk.
Choi Siwon raised his eyebrows, that smirk never faltering.
“Well,” he chuckled, “looks like some things never change. Even after all these years, Han Min Jaein is still all fire and no finesse.”
Then his eyes slid toward someone else.
Toward Rayn.
Your half-brother stiffened—barely—but it was enough. Siwon caught it like a predator sensing weakness.
“Poor Cassandra, am I right?” he said, so casually it felt like a slap.
Rayn’s face twitched. His gaze dropped to the floor—first to his shoes, then to the rug beneath them. He didn’t respond. Didn’t look up.
Your eyes jumped between the three men.
You didn’t know all their stories. Not yet.
But one thing was already crystal clear:
The Choi men—young and old—were sadistic bastards. The kind who fed off discomfort. Who toyed with people the way children pulled wings off flies.
Choi Siwon’s expression twisted, venom replacing amusement. His eyes—wolfish and cold—cut toward Jaein with quiet cruelty.
“And now,” he said, voice slicing through the silence like a blade, “it looks like your father’s gone and put your entire future in jeopardy.”
Your father shifted slightly, unease flickering across his face as his eyes met yours. He looked at you as if he wanted to explain—but there was no room to speak. Not here. Not anymore.
Siwon didn’t wait. He continued, savoring each word like poison on his tongue.
“Your daddy dearest signed a treaty with me,” he said, slowly circling his desk, swirling the amber liquor in his crystal tumbler. “A truce that clearly stated: If one violates it, the price would be paid on equal terms. Isn’t that right, Han?”
Jaein clenched his fists, but said nothing.
Siwon stopped in front of a large portrait mounted high on the wall—a gilded frame gleaming in the dim light. You followed his gaze.
The painting looked almost sacred, the kind of thing you saw in European churches or forgotten wings of palaces. In it stood Mincheol—tall, a proud, content smile, dressed in a dark tailored suit. He held a small baby wrapped in ivory christening silk, like something pulled from a royal baptism. Beside him stood his wife Veronica, a unique glimmer in her eyes, the man standing behind you with his hand resting on the shoulder of a seated woman. Her eyes—glassy, haunting—stared straight ahead. And sitting next to her, Choi Siwon, his hand gently placed on her knees . The image screamed of power. And control.
Maybe Nurse Hanna had been right.
They really are like royalty here.
“But,” Siwon continued quietly, “your father took something from me… something that nothing can replace. Not even if I took everything from him in return. Not even if I carved him open with my own hands.”
He turned from the portrait. “Still. A deal is a deal.”
He took another sip of his drink, eyes burning as they landed on Rayn for a brief moment.
“Before you,” he said, “your brother was to pay the price. And your father… well, he didn’t seem all that heartbroken about it. Cold bastard, really.”
A dark chuckle escaped him.
“Then your new mother, I mean Stepmother—sweet Cassandra—told me something very interesting,” he said, dragging out the word like honey over a blade. “And when I looked at your father's face... saw his expression change that’s when it hit me.”
He stepped forward, deliberate and slow.
“My people,” he said, “need stability. A symbol. A promise.”
He stopped right in front of you.
“And you, my dear,” he whispered, “will give me that.”
You felt your skin crawl before the meaning even registered. When it did, you froze.
“You,” he repeated, “Han Min Jaein’s daughter… will give me a grandson.”
Disgust twisted your face. You took a step back. “What makes you think I’ll give you anything?”
Siwon didn’t flinch. His voice was silk soaked in steel.
“Oh, you will,” he said. “Because I won’t leave you any room to negotiate.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Why me?”
He let out a long sigh and turned briefly to his son, Seungcheol, who hadn’t said a word. The younger man gave a low, bitter snicker under his breath.
“For a doctor,” Siwon said dryly, “isn’t she a bit slow?”
You stiffened.
“Well,” he went on, “if you weren’t around for the prologue, allow me to read you in. Our business doesn’t answer to the public. But our actions? They affect thousands. Every word, every move, causes ripples. Right now… those ripples are starting to look like waves.”
He paused, then stepped toward you again—closer this time. His voice lowered, not with tenderness, but with power.
“And I will not let my son’s death be used as an excuse for revenge. Or disrespect. For anyone’s personal vendetta”
You felt your throat tighten.
Siwon looked down into his glass as if it held answers. “As much as it sickens me,” he muttered, almost to himself, “you will marry my son. Quietly. No press, no announcement. What father buries his eldest son and then parades the wedding of the youngest a week later?” His voice broke on that sentence—just slightly. Barely noticeable.
You clenched your jaw. The rage was thick, humming in your bones. “What kind of father uses his own son like a stallion?”
A visible shiver ran down Seungcheol’s spine. He opened his mouth to speak—but Siwon beat him to it.
“The same one who’s lost one,” he snapped, eyes glittering with unshed fury. “And the same one who refuses to lose his legacy with him.”
The room dropped into silence.
Even your heartbeat had the sense to quiet.
“Back off, Siwon.”
Your father's voice rang clear across the room—controlled, but deadly. “I told you, there are other ways to settle this.”
Siwon turned his head slowly, a mocking smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He raised an eyebrow, the glint in his eye sharp and cruel.
“Is there, Jaein?” he asked silkily. “But then... where’s the fun in that?”
“Siwon—” Jaein warned.
But Siwon was already moving. “You know what?” he said, stepping back a pace. “Fine.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, and for a second the room tensed. Fingers twitched. Muscles coiled. Then he pulled out a sleek black pistol and held it up by the barrel.
He walked toward Jaein, slow and theatrical, and pressed the cold metal into his palm.
“Here,” he said, voice like venom. “You choose. A son... for a son.”
With a sudden, violent grip, he seized Rayn by the nape and shoved him forward, right in front of his father. “Go on. Choose. Shoot your eldest, and I’ll be merciful. I’ll let your daughter walk out of here untouched.”
For a long moment, time collapsed into silence.
Jaein stared at the gun in his hand.
For a man like him—who had lived and bled by the bullet—this used to be second nature. But now, the weight felt foreign. Like holding the ghost of a past he’d buried in a shallow grave.
“You always find new ways to show how pathetic you are,” Jaein said finally, his voice low, deliberate. “Shortsighted. Impulsive. If only you’d seen through that meeting with Leon, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
A dark line of fury slithered across Siwon’s jaw. But behind him, Seungcheol—who had stayed silent till now—lowered his eyes.
A storm of emotion brewed within him, quiet but violent.
His jaw clenched. His teeth ground together.
Born of a devil, he thought.
There was no doubt now.
Siwon stepped back, arms folded smugly across his chest. “So?” he asked, almost cheerfully. “What’ll it be, Jaein? Your son... or your daughter?”
Jaein didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, the gun heavy in his hand—heavier than it had ever felt.
He looked at Rayn. Then turned his gaze toward you. And finally, to Siwon.
“If it’s blood you want…” he murmured, stepping close to his son.
He raised the gun—slowly, steadily—pressing the muzzle against Rayn’s temple.
Your breath caught in your throat.
“F-Father?” Rayn’s voice broke, eyes wide, paralyzed.
Seungcheol stiffened beside Siwon, eyes narrowing. The tension in the room crackled like dry air before a storm.
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The scene in front of you shattered every illusion you ever had of the man you once called your father.
And then—just as his finger found the trigger—Jaein moved.
In a sharp motion, he turned the gun on himself, pressing the cold barrel to his own temple.
His eyes locked on Siwon.
“See you in hell, Siwon.” And pulled the trigger
“FATHER!!”
You stared in horror, hand clamped over your mouth, unable to comprehend what had just unfolded.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The gym smelled of sweat, leather, and disinfectant. Heavy bags swung lazily on chains, their rhythm matching the sharp, precise punches Jeonghan landed on the bag in front of him.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Shirt damp with sweat, gloves taped over his knuckles, he moved like a machine—tight footwork, quiet breath. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they were struggling to keep up.
From the corner, Dr. Aamer, arms crossed and dressed in scrubs still stained from the day’s work, watched with a raised brow. When he walked into the gym room their shared flat. His lab coat hung off the back of a chair like a ghost waiting for its body.
“You know,” Aamer started, grinning as Jeonghan paused to wipe the sweat from his jawline with his wrist, “you don’t punch like a man who’s keeping things casual.”
Jeonghan gave a breathy scoff, turning back to the bag.
THUMP. THUMP.
“What are you talking about?” he muttered, but his ears were already turning red.
“Y/N,” Aamer said simply, pulling a protein bar from his coat pocket and unwrapping it. “It’s pretty damn obvious you’re head over heels, brother. Might as well step up and ask her out straight up instead of your little hints, man”
Jeonghan stilled, hands on his hips, chest heaving as he caught his breath.
He looked at his roommate and shook his head, “You don’t get it, man, you don’t know her like I do.”
Amer rolled his eyes and waved his hand in the air in dismissal, “Yes, yes– you both have known each other all your life blah, blah. Wallahi dude I tell you, you would’nt know what hit you– if you dont make your move then pooof” he snapped his fingers, “she’ll be gone, you know i saw this new intern talking with her all giggly and shit”
Jeonghan smirked and tuned back to his hook.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP
Jeonghan was fifteen. Skinny. Bruised. Eyes were hollow with too many sleepless nights.
The building was a crumbling mess—flickering hallway lights, mildew in the corners, water-stained ceilings. The sound of glass breaking and a woman’s cry echoed from his flat. His father’s drunken rage was a daily routine.
Then, her door creaked open across the hallway. Y/N, hair wild and a little messy, stood barefoot in pyjamas too big for her. Her collarbone peeked out. She held a bandage box in one hand and a small flashlight in the other.
“You need ice,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer. Just stared.
“You’re bleeding, Jeonghan.”
She was the first one to say his name like it mattered.
It is unbeknownst to him when she became such an important, indispensable part of his life, despite his many efforts to push her away. Then one day, the night when he saw her lose everything
The doctor had just said it: "She didn’t make it. I’m sorry." Cordon knew it was inevitable that her mother’s illness had become too aggressive to bring her back. And upon her insistence, he didn’t make her undergo any treatment, in all honesty, for a first time in his career, he felt such helplessness for his patient, watching her wither away in pain, with the hospital and its strict rules and funding. Despite the attempt to help her enrol on the testing program. What made his heart screech was this girl, no more than skin and bones, so smart stare down her mother’s body without any tears in sight.
Y/N didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. She just turned and walked out of the hospital into the rain, the orange band that gave her a pass to come to the ward drenching was like a shackle breaking off.
Jeonghan ran after her.
Didn’t say a word. Just kept pace behind her as the rain soaked them both. They walked for nearly two hours. Not once did she look back.
He was there. That was enough.
Jeonghan snapped out of it, eyes narrowing.
“She’s been through enough,” he said quietly, tapping his glove twice against the heavy bag before leaning on it. “She deserves peace. And she’s finally got some control now.”
Aamer hummed, biting off a piece of his protein bar.
“Well,” he said between chews, “you might want to make your move before someone else gives her more than peace.”
Jeonghan shot him a look.
“I’m serious,” Aamer laughed, raising both hands. “She’s brilliant. Beautiful. Got fire and bite. I mean, I’ve met enough people in this city to know—that kind of woman doesn’t stay unclaimed for long.”
Jeonghan exhaled through his nose, picked up the towel hanging off the bench, and slung it over his shoulder.
“I’m not claiming anything,” he muttered, heading toward the locker room.
“Sure,” Aamer called after him, smirking, “keep telling yourself that. But I saw the way you looked at her when she fell asleep in the waiting room last week. Like you were afraid even time would steal her from you.”
Jeonghan didn’t respond.
But in the silence of the locker room, standing under the flickering light, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. His knuckles were red. His heart is louder.
The only sound that echoed in the silence was the sharp click of the gun as the film rotated.
Empty.
The barrel never held a bullet.
There was a beat of stunned stillness—then the silence shattered with a hollow, mocking laugh from Siwon, and a sombre look dawned on Jaein’s face. The elder Choi’s shoulders shook with delight, like a man thoroughly entertained by his own cruelty.
“Always so emotional,” Siwon chuckled, shaking his head as if disappointed in an old friend.
You stood frozen. Disgust twisted inside your chest like a wire.
Your eyes darted between the men in the room—your so-called father, who played Russian roulette with lives and didn't blink, and the devil himself, Siwon, who puppeteered pain for sport.
You could feel the bile rising.
"You’re all sick." The words slipped out before you could stop them.
But no one answered you. Siwon’s attention was still on Jaein, his voice smug.
“Did you really think I’d give you an easy way out?”
Something in Rayn’s chest swelled, eyes burning, jaw clenched. His father… hadn't pulled the trigger. Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as heartless as he’d thought.
But for you, it was too much.
Your stomach lurched. The heat behind your eyes blurred the walls. The stench of lies, power games, and betrayal felt suffocating.
You turned on your heel and ran.
Down the hall. Past the portraits. Away from the gun, the laughter, this blatant display of cruel cogency.
You barely made it to the door when a hand seized your wrist, yanking you backwards. The next thing you knew, you were shoved into a dim, cold room—the scent of cedarwood and iron clinging to the air.
The door slammed shut behind you.
“Where do you think you’re running off to, doctor?”
His voice slithered through the dark like a blade. You thrashed against his grip with every ounce of strength, your body twisting violently, sending both of you stumbling back.
“Let. Me. Go—”
“Enough!!” he barked, and before you could resist further, he slammed you against the nearest wall, the impact jolting through your spine.
You hissed, pain flaring through your shoulder. He loomed close, breath hot, expression merciless.
“You might be under some misconception about me… maybe no one’s told you what I do to people who cross me.”
Your eyes narrowed, the fury of a cornered animal gleaming through the haze of pain.
“I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. And I don’t care if you kill me—
But I will not let anyone decide for me. Or for my body.”
You took a breath, voice trembling yet sharp as glass.
“It’s tragic what happened to your family, truly. But I had nothing to do with it.”
He didn’t flinch. In fact, his grip on your wrist tightened, bone pressing on bone.
“Oh, I know that, sweetheart.” His tone dropped into something colder. “This isn’t about your guilt. It’s about leverage. You’re your father’s only weakness.”
His other hand reached up—fingers brushing your jawline. You jerked your head away, but his touch persisted, rough and deliberate.
“He was ready to sacrifice his son for a deal tonight. But you…” He smirked, pressing his thumb against your chin, tipping your face up.
“You are priceless. Every moment you spend in agony will carve a hole in him he can’t fill.”
Your heart thudded like a war drum. Rage surged. A scream built in your throat, but you swallowed it.
“Do you really want to father a child with your enemy’s daughter?” you spat.
He paused.
Then smirked. “Oh, sweetheart… even the thought of touching you makes my skin crawl.”
You almost smiled.
‘Likewise.’
Still, you pushed.
“Then why the hell are you holding me like this?”
For a moment, he looked—confused. As if he just noticed how tightly he still held you.
His eyes trailed to his own hands: one clutching your wrist in a bruising grip, the other still on your chin.
His grip tightened further, fury flashing like lightning.
“Here’s the deal.” His voice was low, lethal.
“We’ll marry. You’ll give me a son. And then— I’ll decide what becomes of you.”
You stared at him, voice quiet but ice-cold.
“And if I don’t?”
A smirk. A shrug. A promise carved in cruelty.
“Then I will crush everything and everyone you hold dear. Starting with the people in that hospital.”
Your heart froze.
You closed your burning eyes, breath shallow, pain pulsing through your wrist. There was no escape—you opened your eyes—still burning, still defiant—but clearer now. Controlled. Calculated.
“Fine.”
The word dropped from your lips like poison.
“But I have some terms.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
If her math was right, this would be her third glass of the hard liquor—dark, peaty, and far too smooth for the bitterness she wanted to feel. It had been a gift from her predecessor, a relic left behind like the dusty files crowding her desk. Commissioner Susan Paul stared at the stack of reports, each one stamped, signed, and soaked in the rot of a name she could no longer read without fury: Choi Siwon.
Her fingers rubbed the bridge of her nose as her eyes skimmed through records—arrests that disappeared, evidence that changed hands mid-process, and testimonies that collapsed just before court dates. A low sigh escaped her lips as she threw her head back, the ceiling above spinning slightly.
The dull burn at the back of her eyes wasn’t just from the alcohol.
A whisper from memory slipped in, uninvited but firm, like her father’s voice had always been
“Even if it’s buried under a mountain, we dig it out. That’s what we do—we seek out the truth.”
Her jaw clenched.
He had lived that code. An honest officer, dignified to a fault, respected across ranks—until one of his own men, a junior hungry for power, sold him out. A scapegoat. They let him fall. Then let him vanish.
Now that junior lived in a gated mansion, pension doubled through “consultancy,” children schooled abroad, vacations taken on bribes they never admitted to. And her father? A ghost. A man who couldn’t walk into a station without whispers trailing behind him.
Susan took another sip.
The bastard had good taste in alcohol. She’d give him that.
The files in front of her blurred slightly, her vision swimming not with the drink but with a cold, steady rage. Every thread she pulled on led to one man—or more accurately, one legacy: the Choi empire and his previous lackey, Jae-in.
Then, in the silence of her office, her phone buzzed to life. A single message lit the screen:
Tonight. 3 AM. Same place. Don’t bring your car.
She stared at it. No name. No number. Just the weight of what it meant.
She set the glass down and leaned forward, her reflection faint in the dark screen.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The sound of the key twisting in the lock alerted Rocky. Your Doberman rose from his place near the kitchen, ears perked, head tilted—he knew something was wrong before he even saw you.
You stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind you. Darkness swallowed the room whole. You didn’t bother turning on the lights.
You couldn’t.
You didn’t make it more than two steps before your knees buckled under the crushing weight of everything. You collapsed onto the cold floor, your hands hitting the ground as the first sob tore through you loud, aching, from a place so deep it startled even you.
Your whole body trembled. The sobs came again and again, wracking through your chest, shaking you like a storm too big for your frame.
Rocky whined and padded closer, gently nudging your arm with his nose. He lifted a paw and rested it awkwardly on your slumped shoulder, then leaned down to lick the tears streaking down your cheeks. It only made you cry harder.
“Mama…”
The word spilt out of you like a wound reopening. A desperate, helpless cry. Your breath hitched and your body curled in on itself.
You didn’t even know why you were crying anymore.
Was it because you were stripped of your pride? Because someone had taken away the control—the most basic right—you had over your own body?
Or was it because of your father?
Because after all these years, he was alive. Breathing. Living. And yet he had done nothing. Nothing to save your mother. Nothing to stop her from dying a slow, quiet death, waiting—hoping—for a man who never came home.
Your cries grew louder. Uglier. You buried your face in your hands.
“How am I supposed to face you, Mama?”
The question echoed inside you, louder than the sobs still trembling through your chest. What would you even say to Dr. Cordon? That everything he built for you, every sacrifice he made, was undone in a single afternoon? That his belief in you, his endless faith, had been swallowed by something so vile you could hardly name it?
And Jeonghan—how could you ever look him in the eye again? How would he see you now? Not as the girl who fought tooth and nail to survive, not as the one who dared to hope in impossible futures—but as someone who had given up everything without a fight.
You rocked forward on your knees, choking on air that refused to fill your lungs. Rocky pressed close, his whines soft but insistent, his presence the only thing anchoring you to the present.
But even that couldn’t keep the truth from surfacing.
Within six hours, your life had been rewritten.
You hadn’t just lost control—you had been reshaped, rebranded. And not by choice.
The word wife clawed its way through your thoughts, unfamiliar and unbearable. It didn't feel like it belonged to you. And yet—it did. It was yours now, carved into your reality without permission.
You were married.
Married to Choi Seungcheol.
The name tasted bitter in your mouth, like poison you couldn’t spit out. The truth sat there, heavy and immovable. It didn’t matter that the thought of him repulsed you, that the touch of his name alone made your skin crawl.
The question echoed through the darkness. A fact written in ink, in law, in something far more binding than paper.
You felt hollow, like something had scooped you out from the inside. Like a vessel meant to carry someone else’s legacy, not your own. And worst of all, your mother wasn’t here. She wasn’t here to rage on your behalf, to hold you close, to whisper that this wasn’t your fault.
You were alone.
And somewhere in that darkness, with Rocky curled beside you and the night pressing in from every wall, a part of you wished she had never lived to see this.
Warning: The following work deals with concepts not suitable for impressionable minds and scenarios that shouldn't be normalised. despite the aesthetic appeal. Proceed with caution.
CHAPTER 1 - PREVIOUSLY
SONG: MY TEARS RICOCHET BY TAYLOR SWIFT
CHAPTER 6
The city felt… off.
You’d been stuck in the same spot for nearly an hour, surrounded by a sea of cars that weren’t moving. No one honked anymore. It was like even the chaos had paused to listen.
Outside your window, the tall buildings of the business district loomed, screens plastered with one headline after another. Every LED, every TV in the storefronts, every phone in the hands of people walking by—it was all the same:
“Tragic Accident Claims Lives of Senate Candidate Choi Mincheol, Veronica Rhys, and Their Son Jiwoo.”
You didn’t know them personally, of course. But you knew of them—who didn’t? The perfect couple with the picture-perfect child. The son of a corporate dynasty. The daughter of a senator. Their boy was barely two. If you remember correctly, then he was Director Seungchoel’s elder brother.
And now… gone.
The footage played again and again, like the world couldn’t quite believe it either. That morning, the caskets had arrived—one small, heartbreakingly small. People on the sidewalks had stopped to watch the motorcade go by. Some wiped away tears. Others just stared.
You’d seen grief before. You worked in a hospital—it was part of the job. But this? This felt different. Bigger, somehow. Not because they were famous or powerful—but because they were young. And the child… God.
You swallowed hard and shifted in your seat, your stomach heavy. A weird, ominous feeling brewing You remembered seeing that little boy when the hospital led that fundraiser party. A small sigh escaped you.
In the hospital earlier, the halls were strangely quiet. Nurses whispered at the nurses' station. Yesterday there was news about some violent altercation leading to putting the entire six blocks into curfew.
People were already questioning if it had really been an accident. You didn’t want to think like that. You didn’t want to believe the world could be that cruel. But the whispers wouldn’t stop.
Your phone buzzed on the seat beside you. Since you had no surgeries lined up, unless one comes up, you will be taking over Dr Malone’s cadaveric dissection classes for the interns. It was a text from the nurse that you, our OPD patients, have arrived and are waiting.
Then—movement. Finally, the traffic started to inch forward. You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Shooting her a quick text, you dropped the phone back on the passenger seat.
“What a tragedy,” you whispered to yourself, voice barely there.
And as the car crept ahead, you added softly, “Finally.”
Silence was something Jaein was fond of, but today this silence felt akin to one before a storm; a blaring pain was making its way from the back of his neck to the side of his head– it was all a mess, everything. Jaein knew well-laid execution when he saw one – the Choi heir’s tragedy was no accident. A weird uncertainty coiled in his chest– ever since the news has made headlines, he knew all fingers are pointing towards him. Jaein wasn’t a coward but he was no fool to be pinned for a sin he didn’t commit, again.
He rolled his neck, but the ache only deepened. It wasn’t an accident. Not a chance. Not with how clean it had been. Not with how public it had become.
And worst of all—everyone believed he had something to do with it.
He wasn’t afraid. He was many things, but not afraid. But this… this was chaos.
And chaos had a scent. It smelled like betrayal.
Without knocking, he pushed the door open.
Ro-won looked up from where he lay on the bed. His injured leg was elevated, propped up with a pillow. There were dark circles under his eyes. He looked thinner than usual—tired, but wary.
“Father?” he said, voice hoarse.
Jaein walked in, slow and measured.
“You did something?” he asked plainly.
Ro-won blinked. “What?”
“Don’t act like a child. Tell me now. Was it you?”
Ro-won straightened with effort, his face a mix of pain and confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The crash,” Jaein snapped. “Mincheol. His wife. Their son. You think I don’t know how these things work? You think I didn’t notice the timing?”
Ro-won interrupted, voice rising, “I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re impulsive. Angry. And just smart enough to think you could get away with something if you covered your tracks.”
“I can’t even stand without help!” Ro-won said, pointing to his leg. “I’ve been in this bed for days. You think I hired someone?”
Jaein took a step forward, eyes sharp and unreadable.
“That’s exactly what I think.”
Ro-won looked at him, something breaking behind his stare. “You think I’d kill a child?”
Jaein didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed his son by the front of his shirt, pulling him up roughly, face to face.
“I don’t care what the hell you were trying to prove,” he hissed. “If you did this—if your name comes up—I will not burn with you. You hear me?”
Ro-won didn’t respond. He just looked at his father—hurt, humiliated.
“Leave,” Jaein said coldly, releasing him. “Tonight.”
Ro-won staggered back against the pillows. “You’re throwing me out? When you don’t even know—”
“I know enough,” Jaein cut in. “Enough to know what this looks like. And I won’t have the Choi dogs tear down this house with you inside it. Taejin will take you to the safe house and now not a squeak from you till I tell you so. I will handle it my way.”
He turned without another word, slamming the door behind him.
Jaein reentered his study and reached for his phone.
“Get Taejin,” he said when the line connected.
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re attending the funeral. I want the car ready by 7:30. Black suits. Full protocol. And I want eyes everywhere. Don’t take your hand off your weapon, even for a second.”
A pause.
“And one more thing,” Jaein said, his voice like gravel. “Whatever happens, no retaliation. Not yet.Tell this to boys.”
“Understood.”
He hung up.
For a long moment, he stood still, staring at his reflection in the glass.
He wasn’t sure anymore if this was the beginning of a war—or the price of one already lost.
Seungcheol sat on the floor of his nephew’s room, back resting against the side of Jiwoo’s tiny bed. The soft pastel sheets still held the scent of toddler lotion and apple shampoo. The walls were littered with scribbled drawings, paper aeroplanes, and stars that glowed faintly in the dark. His giggles echoed in his ears. Seungchoel was never fond of kids, but Jiwoo held a special place in his heart, not just in his but in everyone’s, even their father’s. He didn’t remember the last time his father gave in to any musings and imaginations from their childhood, as he indulged in Jiwoo’s.
He held the small plastic model of the blue plane in his hands—the one he had gifted Jiwoo on his last birthday. It used to make the child giggle uncontrollably when he’d fly it around the room making absurd sound effects.
Now it just sat still.
Seungcheol’s fingers tightened around it.
He hadn’t cried. Not yet. Not since the call. Not when he saw his mother faint in the hallway screaming his brother’s name. Not when the caskets arrived—three of them.
He stared at the toy. His jaw clenched.
The rage—God, it was like a second skin now. Right beneath the numbness, right beneath the ritual duties, was fire. Blazing. Quiet, controlled, but always there. Waiting.
But he knew better.
Mincheol deserved dignity. Jiwoo deserved peace. Veronica, for all her strength and all her contradictions, deserved the farewell of a woman loved—and she was loved. Not just by Mincheol, but by this family, by the boy who called her “Vero” before he called her Mama.
He would make sure of it.
There was no denying that something in Choi Seungcheol had changed. He placed the plane gently inside his coat pocket and stood up.
The house was heavy with silence, save for the occasional shuffle of black shoes and muffled instructions from staff preparing for the procession.
His father, Choi Siwon, hadn’t come out of his room since the night before. The door was locked. No words. No movement.
His mother sedated, she lay in bed, unable to speak, eyes glazed.
The entire household moved like ghosts.
After a week of planning when the day of funeral arrived, not everyone reacted the same.
Veronica’s mother sat quietly in the back garden. A black shawl wrapped around her. Tea untouched.
She was calm. Too calm.
Almost unmoved.
Seungcheol noticed it when he stepped out to breathe—just for a moment—and saw her sitting perfectly straight, gaze fixed on the tree Jiwoo used to try climbing. No tears. No trembling hands. Just stillness.
He frowned, but said nothing.
As for Veronica’s father, he was a wreck.
He paced the corridor in his crisp black suit, eyes bloodshot, words stammered in response to every question. Devastated. Lost. But when Seungcheol passed him briefly to head toward the front room, he noticed something strange—Rhys was gripping his phone a little too tightly. Not out of grief.
Out of calculation. Almost like a performance?
Seungcheol didn’t say it out loud—but something was amiss. He couldn’t name it yet, but in the midst of mourning, there was a scent of something else. But for now, he would bury it.
Today, he was his brother’s keeper. His nephew’s uncle. The last man standing between grief and chaos.
PLAY
He inhaled deeply and stepped out to greet the guests. Slowly building his strength to the hallway where his brother and his small family rested. With steady steps he reached there.
The mourners had begun to thin out. The air inside was thick with incense and lilies, blurred by whispered condolences and the rustle of dark fabric. Three caskets sat at the front of the hall. Only a few remained in the hall now. Some bowed quietly and left. Some lingered at the edges. After a few moments, they also left to join the others at the service and the funeral was about to start.
But Seungcheol stayed.
He stood before the smallest casket first—Jiwoo’s. The wood was polished to a soft sheen, barely taller than his knee. It was wrong. So wrong to see something this small in a place like this.
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out the toy plane—blue, chipped at the wings, still perfect.
He opened the small panel the funeral home had left unlocked for keepsakes and gently placed the plane inside, next to Jiwoo’s hand.
His voice cracked but he whispered anyway, “Fly high, little angel.”
He lingered there, head bowed, breath shallow.
Then he stepped over to Mincheol’s casket, fingers brushing the edge as if he were shaking his brother’s hand one last time.
Cold against his shaking warmth.
“I swear to you…” He closed his eyes, steadying himself. “…the ones who did this…they will see their end. I don't care who they are. I promise you, brother.”
His throat tightened, but the tears still didn’t come. Not yet. He didn’t deserve that release. Not until justice was done.
He straightened up, fixing the lapel of his coat, and stood between both caskets—one hand on each.
“I’ll carry what you left behind.”
And then he walked out into the sharp, cold air, fists clenched, heart blazing with a quiet, vengeful fire.
How does one describe in words the pain of a loss that makes you want to lose your mind if you try to accept it? Siwon knew he wasn’t an affectionate father but that doesn’t mean he didn’t love his children. How can one not? They are the best of him and his wife– his wife, oh, his wife, for the years of cruelty he couldn’t muster the courage to console her. He felt as if someone had broken his back and left him in a morass. And there is no escape from it
A muted grey sun hovered behind thick clouds, casting the funeral in a dim, motionless light.
Rows upon rows of chairs lined the graveyard’s open field, arranged in near-military precision. The guests who filled them were the nation’s most powerful—senators, CEOs, and cabinet ministers—in crisp black suits; entrepreneurs, co-workers, campaign managers, even the media—standing a respectable distance All gathered for the same unthinkable reason.
Three caskets.
The small casket sat in the middle, flanked by his parents.
Even the wind seemed too afraid to move.
At the front, the priest spoke slowly.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the lord… They will rest from their labour, and don't fear, for blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. And remember, if we live, we live for the Lord, and if we die, we die for the Lord. We gather not only in mourning—but in awe. In awe of what they were and what they meant. Parents, a son, a family… now laid to rest together. May the Lord receive them in peace. May their memories outlive the cruelty of their passing.”
Rows of mourners bowed their heads and echoes of amen were heard.
In the front row— Anita could not stay seated. Her cries were wild and broken. She had fainted once already and had to be held up now by Veronica’s older sister, who sat like stone, her mouth a silent scream.
Siwon had not spoken since the morning. He simply stood. His back straight, hands clasped in front of him. Looking not at the priest, not at the cameras peering through from the road beyond the trees, but at the caskets. Just the caskets.
When the final prayers ended and the three coffins were lowered into the ground—first Mincheol, then Veronica, and lastly, the tiniest among them—the real silence began.
Seungcheol stepped forward first, laying a single white lily on each grave. His face was unreadable, but his hands shook.
Then came Siwon.
He moved slowly, but deliberately. Kneeling—first by his son’s grave, then his daughter-in-law’s, and finally the child. His grandson.
He picked up a fistful of soil and held it for a long time in his palm, as though deciding whether his heart could take this next step.
He released it.
The earth made a soft sound as it struck the lid.
More dirt followed.
Who can explain the pain an old father faces when he has to bury his first child with his own hands at this age?
He stayed there, hunched over, hand hovering over the soil—and when he finally lifted his head to breathe, he looked across the field.
And saw him.
At the farthest edge of the crowd, standing just beyond the reach of the main circle, cloaked in black and shadow, stood Min Jaein.
A ghost in a living man’s shape.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He made no show of being seen.
But his eyes—they held Siwon’s gaze, and in them, strangely… was no gloating, no malice.
Only something like sympathy.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe understanding.
The kind that comes from old men who’ve survived more than they should have.
Siwon looked at him for a long moment, unmoving.
Then he turned back to the grave and pressed his hand gently into the soil. As if holding his son’s heart one last time. His eyes were burning; maybe it’s time to collect the debt with interest.
The day was going like any other—rounds, files, a bitter coffee clutched between sleep-stiff fingers. It wasn’t until after noon, when you headed down to the mortuary to prep for the anatomy demonstration, that something shifted.
You needed a body. One had been donated the night before, and you were sure of it—there was even a yellow tag placed aside for academic release.
But when you stepped into the mortuary's cool sterility, the metallic scent of antiseptic and steel hanging faintly in the air, the body was gone.
Gone.
The shelf where the cadaver should have rested stood bare, the drawer labeled 24B: Jones, Max sealed shut with nothing inside. The logbook, typically pristine, had a faint smear of ink and an overwritten signature.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you flipped through the intake records. Everything looked legitimate—on paper. But something was wrong. You could feel it. Something in your gut curled tight. A chill settled in your stomach like a bad omen.
Just as you turned to march outside the gate when a hand reached out and yanked you in the corner, a blind spot from the camera’s fury mounting in your chest, someone called your name.
“Doc.”
You turned. Isayah stood before you, the fluorescent light flickering faintly behind him. He was a quiet man—gentle, careful with his words. He'd been working night shifts in the mortuary rotation for nearly two years now. It's been three years since he came from Nigeria, although he speaks wells, his accents sometimes makes it difficult for others to understand. Today, there was a strange tightness in his expression. Eyes alert. Hands shoved too deep into his scrubs' pockets, like he was holding something in.
He stepped closer, voice low. “I no wan’ to say this here... but somethin' is not right, ma. At all.”
You blinked. “Isayah, what are you talking about?”
He glanced down the corridor, then back at you. “The body… the one from last night. It was there when I left. I checked. Logged it myself.” His Nigerian accent, usually soft and lilting, had an urgency now. “But when I come back this morning... drawer be empty.”
“Are you saying someone moved it?”
“No, ma, sorry, Doc,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I dey say… somebody took it. Not official. Not right. And this—” he reached into his pocket and unfolded a worn piece of paper, slightly crumpled, “—this be the camera log. Timestamp. I steal a small copy before them go wipe it.”
You took the paper with shaking fingers. It was a screen-capture from the CCTV in the morgue hallway. Time: 03:13 AM. A figure in scrubs, face obscured, pushing a covered gurney out the service elevator.
“What the hell…” you whispered. “How long has this been happening?”
He shook his head. “Three times I count. All same method. They think say we no notice.”
A sick feeling bloomed in your chest. Three missing bodies. Maybe even more before Isayah noticed. You were starting to feel sick in the stomach.
You stared down at the image, your own reflection distorted in the glossy paper.
“Come with me,” you said, voice firm. “We’re going to Jeonghan. And this time, no one is brushing it under the rug. We’ll figure this out.”
Just as you reached for Isayah’s arm to lead him toward Dr. Jeonghan’s office, his hand pulled back sharply.
“No,” he said, firm but not loud.
You paused, blinking. “What do you mean no?”
“We can’t go to him. Not yet,” he murmured, eyes scanning the hallway as if even the walls could hear him. His voice dropped lower, the words nearly catching in his throat. “Not Jeonghan. Not no One”
A cold pit opened in your chest.
“What are you saying, Isayah?” you asked slowly, every syllable measured. “You think he’s involved?”
He hesitated—but it was just a second too long.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I seen this before, back in my village. In Nigeria. Bodies gone missing from the mission hospital. People say it’s the spirits, or curse... but no. It was people. Doctors. Big ones. Selling organs, selling names. Using dead for things that would make you throw up your whole soul. We cannot trust easy. ”
Your mouth went dry.
He continued, voice trembling now—not from fear, but from restraint. “You bring this now with just one photo? They’ll bury it before you even get out the office. These people has power. You know this.”
You looked down at the grainy CCTV still in your hands. A vague silhouette, unrecognizable. Not enough.
“I know what I saw last night,” Isayah whispered. “But I also know when we need more. Better proof. Or we’ll end up in the next empty drawer.”
You stared at him, the fluorescent light above flickering once, then twice.
“…Okay,” you finally said, throat tight. “Then we don’t go to him. Not yet. But we’re not letting this slide either.”
He nodded once. “Tonight. You come down. Midnight. I’ll show you something.”
You opened your mouth to ask what, but he was already walking away, each step swallowed by the silence of the sterile corridor.
The rain had not let up since six in the evening. Heavy droplets battered the sprawling Min estate, drowning out everything except the steady pulse of thunder overhead. Two weeks had slipped by since the tragedy — but inside these walls, the past was anything but distant. It hung thick, like the humid air before a storm.
The silence was shattered by the screeching roar of tyres.
A sleek black car barrelled through the manor gates, the metal scraping harshly against the rusted iron. Guards rushed forward to intercept it, but before they could react, gunfire cracked sharply through the air — cold, calculated, deadly. The suited men with Siwon moved with brutal efficiency, their bullets silencing opposition instantly.
Cassandra, who was preparing for her nighttime routine a few minutes ago, let out a scream that tore through the chaos, raw and desperate. She ran toward her eldest son’s room, heart pounding in her chest.
But before she could reach the door, it slammed open with a heavy kick. Rough hands seized Rayn, dragging him, his protests muffled by the storm of noise.
From the shadows stepped Min Jaein, his eyes sharp and hard as flint, a gun clenched tightly in one hand. Opposite him, Siwon emerged, calm but fierce, his own weapon drawn.
Their eyes locked — a lifetime of hatred and betrayal flashing between them.
Siwon’s voice was low, bitter. “I should have ended this the moment I found out about your deal with Leonard. You backstabber.”
Jaein smirked, but there was no warmth in it. “You’re quick to judge, Siwon. Blinded by whispers and lies, as always.”
Without warning, Siwon dropped his gun and lunged. Jaein met him head-on, fists flying in a deadly dance of years of grudges. The room echoed with the sound of flesh against flesh, their breaths ragged with exertion and fury.
“You’re always so short-sighted,” Jaein spat as his fist collided with Siwon’s ribs.
“And you’re a fool to bite more than you can chew ,” Jaein shot back, twisting free.
But Siwon was relentless. He overpowered Jaein, shoving him to the ground, blood trickling from a cut on Jaein’s forehead.
Dragging a wooden chair close, Siwon sat heavily, chest heaving. Alas, realising how they both are now in their sixties yet his voice was cold steel.
“That was the deal — a life for a life. You took my heir, so now I take yours.”
Jaein, bloodied and beaten, met his gaze with defiance. “Since whatever I say will fall on deaf ears, go ahead, Siwon, do what you see fit; I just hope you’re pointing your gun in the right direction .”
Siwon’s eyes darkened with something that could only be described as hunger — not for violence, but for justice twisted by pain.
Pressing the barrel on his forehead, Siwon murmured, “Since you can’t give me my son back or an heir to replace him, I’ll take one from you.”
Cassandra’s eyes darted between the two men and then her son, who was being held by a muscular man standing next to Seungchoel.
“If only your daughter were still alive, maybe we could’ve negotiated better.” Siwon scoffed, “Well...” and clicked the safety off his gun, removing the aim from Jaein's head to Rayn.
When a shrill cry echoed, “SHE’S ALIVE”, Cassandra crawled to where Siwon was standing and bowed her head. Making everything halt in that moment.
“His daughter. She’s alive,” she sobbed.
Jaein’s face crumpled for a moment — the weight of betrayal etched into every line.
“She’s changed her last name, Y/N. She works at Liberty Medical University Hospital,” Cassandra continued, tears streaming. “Please, spare my son. Please.”
Seungcheol stood rigid beside Siwon, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. His eyes burnt with silent fury; an unknown feeling of uncertainty slowly wrapped itself around him.
Rayn’s gaze fell to the floor, ashamed but stoic, hiding the storm inside.
Siwon leaned back on the chair, a slow, bitter smile curving his lips.
“ You bastard, you know I always had this feeling. For so many years I felt guilty because of that night– tch, you sly fox.” A laugh echoed in the manor. Before Siwon settled his gaze back on Jaein.
Jaein’s voice cracked with desperation. “You’ll leave my daughter out of this. She has nothing to do with this; this is between us.”
Siwon’s smile sharpened into a razor’s edge. “No, Jaein. This is no longer just between us. Now this is between every drop of blood you’ve passed on.”
Jaein’s jaw clenched, fury and fear battling in his eyes.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you stood before the interns, gloves on, pointer in hand, as another donor body lay still beneath the surgical light. Your voice carried smoothly over the sound of scribbling pens and shuffled feet, but your mind wasn’t really in that cold, sterile room.
Not after what Isayah said.
By the time your rounds were over, the clock had crept past 11:30 PM. The hospital was in its hushed, nocturnal state—less like a place of healing and more like a building that held its breath.
You made your way down the old corridor. Past the staff-only signs. Past the vending machines that never quite worked. And out into the cold air.
The cobblestone path leading to the west wing—the part of the hospital no one used anymore—was quiet. Your heels clicked against the gravel unevenly, echoing off brick walls and steel pipes. The night wind picked up, catching the edge of your coat.
You slowed as you approached the agreed-upon meeting point.
It was dark there. Just one overhead lamp flickering in and out, casting long, uncertain shadows.
Your phone buzzed once: a text from Isayah.
“Behind the boiler. Come quiet.”
You moved, carefully, your breath curling in the air.
But just before you turned the corner—
—you felt it.
A shift in the air. The electric charge of someone else behind you. Close.
Too close.
Your spine stiffened. For a second, you froze. You didn’t dare look back.
The softest crunch of gravel answered your unspoken fear.
A/N: Hi guys, I hope you're all doing well and taking care of yourselves. I love seeing the messages you guys sometimes leave and the comments. Do pop into my asks; it really makes me happy. Well, the thing is--- I am going on a little break due to personal reasons, not indefinitely, of course, but for a bit.
Warning: Exploitative parents, arranged political marriage, drinking and avoidance as a coping mechanism, smut (explicit oral, vaginal, and P-in-V; a hint of exhibitionism as a kink), and a surprise.
Pairing: Veronica Rhys X Choi Mincheol
Chapter 1, PREVIOUSLY
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙ Song: Overcome by Skott ‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Veronica and Mincheol were not a love match. Like many marriages within their circles, theirs was a calculated arrangement—carefully negotiated, despite initial resistance from Veronica Rhys's side.
Mincheol bore the weight of legacy—the expectations and burdens every heir knows too well. Though he and Seungcheol shared the same bloodline, they were shaped by different versions of their father. Where Seungcheol received indulgence and freedom, Mincheol was moulded into a successor—disciplined, scrutinised, and prepared.
The only true constant in his life was their mother. If Seungcheol had their father’s affection, Mincheol had hers. She was the great equaliser, balancing their father’s partiality with quiet but unwavering support. When Mincheol first showed an interest in politics, it was she who nurtured it, even as their father opposed the idea of the Choi family stepping directly into the public eye. “Anonymity breeds fear,” he would say. “And fear is power.”
But his mother had other ideas.
It was through her carefully drawn plans that he met Veronica. She had studied the landscape well. Veronica’s father was a gatekeeper—powerful, well-respected, and positioned exactly where Mincheol needed to be. The marriage, then, was not just a union—it was a move. And Mincheol played his part.
On paper, Mincheol and Veronica were a power couple—poised, composed, the perfect image of political alliance. But behind closed doors, their marriage was a well-oiled machine built for function, not affection.
There was no great romance between them. No whispered confessions in the dead of night. No shared secrets between fingers laced in bed. What existed instead was calculated cooperation.
Mincheol respected Veronica. How could he not? She was razor-sharp and socially intuitive and carried the Rhys family name like armour. But he never loved her—not in the way stories promised. And she never expected him to. From the beginning, Veronica knew what this was. She hadn’t grown up naive.
They moved around each other with the elegance of practised dancers—never stepping on each other’s toes, never lingering too long in each other’s shadow. At galas, they smiled for cameras, standing side-by-side, perfectly timed. In private, their conversations were clipped and logistical: events to attend, favours to call in, and statements to release.
Veronica had carved her own kingdom inside the home. She didn’t meddle in his ambitions, nor he in hers. She entertained the wives of senators, cultivated allies through whispered dinners, and sharpened her tongue like a blade in high society. She knew how to wield her influence, often more effectively than her husband.
Mincheol , in turn, appreciated her discretion. She didn’t question his late nights, nor the silence he carried like a second skin. She never asked why he stared too long at old photographs or walked out during family gatherings whenever his phone buzzed.
Intimacy was a currency they rarely traded. When it happened, it was more out of necessity than passion—routine rather than desire. There were no children. Whether that was by choice or quiet avoidance, neither of them had ever brought it up.
Sometimes, she would watch him across the dinner table and wonder who he might have been if he hadn’t been born a Choi. And sometimes, Mincheol would glance at her in the mirror before turning away, wondering if she ever missed being in a life where love was not a political manoeuvre.
But neither of them asked.
Because asking would mean wanting.
And wanting had no place in their world.
He is Choi Mincheol
She is Veronica Rhys
And this reality would always overpower every favourability life has to offer.
It was the third week and the last week of her father’s senate campaign, and in all honesty, Veronica was tired. The presidential suite of their hotel was dimly lit. With the heavy scent of rain drifting through the open window. The quiet hum of city traffic echoed faintly through the walls, but inside, silence reigned.
Veronica and Mincheol sat across from each other at the dining table near the window. The only sounds were the soft clink of glasses and the occasional drip of rainwater from the window ledge. Their dinner had been eaten, but the uneaten plates and the untouched glass of wine between them remained, a silent testament to their unspoken tension.
Veronica shifted, her fingers tapping lightly on the stem of her glass as she glanced at him.
“My sister called me today; she told me that I look exhausted and asked me if i am okay, and I told her I didn’t know.”
"You could’ve told her you were fine. That’s what we do."
Her lips pressed together in frustration. She leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze.
"Do we?" she said quietly, almost to herself.
That made him glance up briefly, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He didn’t answer, but his tone sharpened when he spoke again.
"You’re not unhappy, Veronica. You’re just... restless."
Veronica stood up from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Her movements were stiff, as though her patience was wearing thin.
"And you’re not even trying anymore, Mincheol. You used to at least pretend we were a team, that this wasn’t just about the cameras. Now, you go back to your study every night like I don’t exist." Her tone was sarcasm.
Mincheol stood as well, pushing his chair back with a sharp scrape. He paced slowly, circling the table like a predator preparing to strike.
His icy tone freezing her veins, "This arrangement is the reason you have everything you’ve ever wanted. The luxury, the events, the recognition. You think I wanted this marriage? I didn’t, Veronica. You were always a political move. And I was yours."
Her chest tightened, but she met his gaze, unwavering.
“Oh no, no, of course you didn’t, young Master Choi. It's what your mother wanted, isn't it?”
“Keep my mother out of it,” he said through his gritted teeth.
"If you hate it so much, then why am I still here? Why are we still playing this game?"
Mincheol ’s posture stiffened, but he didn’t back down. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a lower, more dangerous register and quiet.
"You were packaged and sold, Veronica. Gift-wrapped by your father’s ambitions. I saw you at the dinner table when you were handed over like an offering. You didn’t even have to try. You were chosen. And I accepted the deal. That’s all it ever was."
Her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. She stood her ground. "Then why are you so fucking angry? You knew what this was from the start! WHY DO YOU HATE ME, Mincheol ?”
Mincheol's face softened for a split second, but it quickly darkened again as his frustration mounted. His voice became quieter, almost defeated.
"I don’t hate you, Veronica. But I can’t love you."
The words fell between them like a heavy, final sentence. Veronica’s breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t allow herself to react immediately. She turned, walking slowly toward the door, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
"Then let’s stop pretending, Mincheol. This isn’t real. None of it is."
Mincheol's voice followed her, just above a whisper, a tone filled with reluctant vulnerability. "Veronica, stop. You’re acting out of character. This isn’t like you."
Veronica paused at the door, her back still to him. She looked down for a moment, gathering herself. When she finally spoke again, her voice was steady, colder than it had been before.
"Maybe I’m finally done being who you want me to be."
Mincheol stepped toward her, but she was already reaching for the door handle. Mincheol stood frozen for a long moment, the weight of her departure settling over him like a storm cloud. He sank back into his chair slowly, staring at the empty chair before him.
Veronica walked down the corridor, her heart pounding in her chest, the weight of their words lingering in the air. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.
The night felt colder now, the rain outside still pounding against the windows of the hotel as the elevator descended. With long strides she exited the hotel, without any destination in mind, the rain soaking her body, and she silently prayed that it cooled down her soul too.
After an hour of walking, she found herself near a park overlooking a big pond. she didnt even realise how much time has passed when she noticed the first gleam of the moonlight fading and the sight of twilight
she pulled her phone from her bag to check the time. The moment she unlocked the screen, her stomach lurched.
A news notification flashed across her screen:
“Choi Mincheol and Veronica Rhys Caught in Heated Argument – Speculation Grows About Marital Troubles”
She froze, her fingers trembling as she read the headline.
Her chest tightened. Of course. They were always watching. Always listening. She hadn’t even been gone five minutes, and it was already everywhere.
She scrolled through the article, her stomach sinking further with every word. The details were hauntingly accurate. Quotes from their argument, taken straight from the scene in the hotel room. The press had somehow gotten hold of an inside source, someone who must have overheard or witnessed the exchange. The story included excerpts from the fight, making it sound as if the marriage was on the brink of collapse.
The accompanying photos were taken through a window—shot from a distance, capturing her storming out of the room. She could almost feel the eyes of the world on her, looking at her like she was something to dissect. A piece of gossip, something to chew over.
And a message
From: Mincheol
“You need to get back here, now.”
Mincheol stood at the window, staring out at the rain-soaked city, his mind racing. their argument, playing on a loop in his head.
The sound of a knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts. He opened it to reveal his assistant, who quickly stepped inside, holding a tablet in one hand.
"Sir, the situation’s escalating," his assistant said, voice low but urgent. "The press has already gotten hold of a recording of your argument, and it’s spreading fast."
Mincheol ’s jaw tightened. "How the hell did they get that?"
"We’re not sure yet," the assistant replied. "But it’s everywhere. Social media, news outlets. The speculation is... it's not good. People are saying it’s the beginning of the end for your marriage."
Mincheol ’s stomach churned, his mind immediately flashing to the scene in the hotel room. He could still hear Veronica’s words, the cold bite in her tone. He had known their marriage was fragile, but seeing it out there—spun into a scandal for the public to consume—was something else entirely.
"Get a hold of the PR team," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. "We need a statement, now."
His assistant nodded and left quickly, leaving Mincheol standing in the center of the room, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The journey from the night to the morning was a blur, in a few minutes he is supposed to leave for another schedule, after the meeting with the PR team he decided that there will be no official statement from both their sides still the election results are out. He sat on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. The room felt small, suffocating.
He glanced at his phone again. No response from Veronica.
His assistant knocked and entered without waiting for a response.
"Sir, there are too many reporters outside, but you need to prepare yourself," the assistant said, voice grim. "There’s a lot of backlash already. People are calling for you to address the issue in person. They want a statement."
Mincheol let out a breath, his mind still spinning. "What are people saying about her?"
The assistant hesitated. "That she's falling apart. That she’s done. People are painting her as the one who walked out, who gave up. The speculation is... brutal."
Mincheol stood, his heart heavy. And left the hotel room. Their hotel room.
After the entire night of wandering, Veronica found herself at the doorstep of her old friend from dance school, who was travelling at the moment, when she called her but told her to go home and her door code that allowed her entry to the apartment building as well as the flat.
Veronica sat on the edge of the bed, her phone pressed to her ear, her fingers clutched around it like a lifeline. She had been silent for the better part of the call, listening to her mother’s calm, methodical voice on the other end, each word growing colder as the conversation wore on.
"Veronica, darling, you can’t let this get to you. You’re in the public eye—everything’s magnified. People are looking for cracks. The press is always hungry. It’s nothing new."
Her grip tightened on the phone as her mother’s words swirled in her head.
"If you want things to settle down, you have to tolerate it. A little patience, Veronica. That’s all. Keep your head up. And perhaps... have a baby."
Veronica’s eyes closed, a bitter laugh escaping her. A baby? It felt so hollow, so far removed from what she truly wanted. But her mother’s voice never faltered, a practised calmness that always accompanied her advice.
"A child will keep your mind occupied. Focus on that. You’re both so busy with the campaign and this... whatever it is that’s causing tension. It’ll pass. You’ll see. Keep your focus on the bigger picture. For your future. For your family."
Veronica's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t say a word. Instead, she hung up quietly, letting the silence stretch between them. Her mother's advice echoed in her mind. How could she just tolerate this? Was her marriage really something that could be glossed over with a child? She felt like a pawn in a game she didn’t understand.
And like that, three days passed. There was radio silence from Veronica’s side and Mincheol continued his campaign with the same precision, the same politeness that had become second nature to him. But as the days wore on, Veronica's absence at the events became more noticeable. She was there at first, by his side, a constant presence, but now there was an empty space beside him—a space where she had always been but no longer was.
The campaign trail felt long and gruelling, but he kept moving, pushing forward. Still, there was an unsettling quiet between them. The tension was there, thick and palpable, and no amount of public smiles or speeches could mask it.
Mincheol was walking through the lobby, preparing for the last event of this campaign, when a reporter caught up with him, eager to ask about the ongoing speculation regarding his marriage.
“Mr Choi, there’s been a lot of talk about your marriage with Ms Rhys. She’s been noticeably absent from recent events. Some are wondering if there’s trouble in paradise. Can you shed some light on what’s going on? Is it because of your public fight?”
Mincheol ’s gaze hardened, his hand clenching slightly around the lapels of his jacket as he turned to face the reporter.
Levelling his gaze down on the reporter with a stern voice and a murderous aura emitting from him, “This is a matter between my wife and me. No marriage is perfect, and neither is ours. We’ve had our challenges, like any couple. But I love my wife. And that is the only truth that matters here. The rest is noise. Personal matters should remain private.”
He didn’t let the reporter ask another question, his tone cutting off any further probing. With one final, cold glance, he turned away and continued down the hallway, his mind preoccupied with the storm brewing at home. But there was a certain finality in his words. A quiet, undeniable truth that he needed to make clear, not just for the world, but for himself.
The press could speculate, the rumors could fly—but in that moment, Mincheol had made up his mind: his marriage to Veronica was his to navigate, not anyone else’s to dissect. And that, he realized, was something he could fight for, no matter what.
Later that night, Veronica sat by the window of the quiet apartment, the soft glow of the city lights casting long shadows across the room. She hadn’t returned to the campaign events. She hadn’t even answered Mincheol ’s calls. The silence between them had stretched further, becoming almost unbearable.
Her phone vibrated, a text from her mother blinking on the screen: “Veronica, you need to step back and think about what’s best. The press will die down. Think about the future. Keep your head up. For Mincheol . For your family. You know what to do.”
Veronica stared at the screen for a long moment, the words blurring as her eyes filled with unshed tears. Her mother’s advice—always so calculated, so devoid of emotion—rang in her ears. How much longer would she have to pretend? Pretend to be the dutiful wife, pretend to be happy? The strain of it was exhausting, and each day felt like a slow unraveling of everything she once believed in.
But Mincheol 's words from earlier that day—his declaration of love despite everything—lingered in her thoughts. He loved her. That was all that mattered, he had said. Could it be true? Or was it just another part of the performance?
She pulled herself from the window, her hand resting on her belly, a silent, heavy thought settling deep within her. Could she truly bring a child into this world, into this fragile, shaky marriage?
The doorbell echoed through the silence, sharp and insistent. Veronica, sitting on the couch with her arms crossed, didn’t move immediately. She had expected this, had felt the weight of his presence hovering at the edges of her life for days now. She hesitated, a mixture of frustration and curiosity swirling inside her, before standing and walking toward the door.
She swung it open to find Mincheol standing in the hallway, his figure framed by the dim lighting. His jaw was tense, his expression unreadable as always, but there was something different today—a desperation she hadn’t seen before.
Veronica raised an eyebrow, her voice thick with bitterness. “So, you love me now?”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting. Mincheol ’s face tightened, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“I didn’t come here to fight, Veronica.”
Her eyes flashed with anger, her posture stiffening. “Then what did you come here for? To apologize? To make it all better with some well-placed words?”
He took a step toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. “I came here to talk. We need to figure this out.”
Veronica let out a dry laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “Figure it out?” She took a step back, crossing her arms tighter. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t get what it’s like to feel like I’m just a part of some arrangement—someone who exists just to make the picture look right for the cameras.”
His face twisted in frustration. “Veronica, that’s not—”
“What, Mincheol ?” she snapped, cutting him off. “What is it then? You think a few words of ‘I love you’ are going to fix everything? Do you really think I’m that naive, That I will fall for the same tricks as my mother?”
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and something else she couldn’t quite place. “I’m trying, Veronica. I’m trying to fix this, to make it better. But I don’t know how to make you see that I’m not just pretending anymore.”
Veronica shook her head, a laugh escaping her lips again, but this time it was more strained, more desperate. “You don’t know how?” she repeated. “You just told a reporter that you love me. You told them you loved me. But when you’re with me... when it’s just us, it feels like we’re strangers. You don’t even look at me the way a husband looks at his wife.”
Her voice broke on the last sentence, the weight of the words choking her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, her eyes welled up. The tears came unbidden, falling down her cheeks as she took a step back, feeling the cold, empty distance that had become their relationship.
Mincheol ’s expression faltered, his own frustration slipping into something softer, more vulnerable. He moved toward her quickly, his hand reaching out to her, but she flinched, pulling away from him.
“Don’t.” Her voice was small, almost inaudible. “Please don’t touch me. You don’t even know how to love me. Not really.”
He stood there, frozen, the air thick with tension. Then, in a sudden motion, he stepped forward, his arms wrapping around her. She resisted at first, but then her body trembled, and the walls she’d built around herself crumbled as the sobs she’d been holding back finally came rushing out.
Mincheol ’s arms tightened around her, pulling her into his chest. He didn’t speak. He just held her, as if trying to prove that he could be there, in this moment, for her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured softly against her hair, his voice raw, filled with an emotion he didn’t fully understand. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
Veronica’s voice cracked as she pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore, Mincheol . I feel so lost. Like... like we’ve been going through the motions, but we’re not even alive in this anymore.”
She stepped back from him, taking a shaky breath as she wiped her tear-streaked face. “I just need one night,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “One night where it’s just us. Where we pretend—just for a little while—that we are in love. For each other, not for the cameras, not for the politics. Just us. Do you think we can do that?”
Mincheol ’s eyes softened, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through them. He reached for her hand, his touch gentle. “Veronica... I don’t know if I can give you that. But if it’s what you need... if it’s what we need, then I’ll try.”
She searched his eyes, looking for any trace of sincerity, any sign that he meant it. And for the first time in so long, she thought she saw something there. Something real. Something she could hold onto.
With a shaky breath, she nodded. “Just one night. Let’s forget everything and just be... us.”
Mincheol stepped closer, cupping her face gently in his hands. “One night,” he agreed softly. “I’ll give you that. Just one night.”
For a brief moment, there was silence between them—an unspoken understanding, a tentative hope. Then, he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was slow, tentative, but filled with a longing neither of them had been willing to admit until now.
As the kiss deepened, Veronica allowed herself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, they could still find their way back to each other.
Slowly he backed both of them to the couch, his lips nipping and claiming hers with calculated pressure and equal sensuality; the warmth that coursed through Veronica’s body was something new. She had been familiar with his kiss briefly on their first night; his tongue traced her lower lips, giving it a small nip as if seeking permission. “open your mouth,” his voice heavy, demanding. Veronica's knees bumped the edge of the couch, and she sat, flushed, her heart drumming wildly. Mincheol remained standing, looking down at her—not with cold dominance, but with an intensity that unsettled her in ways she didn’t expect.
He reached out and cradled her face, his thumb wiping away the remnants of a tear she hadn’t realised had fallen. “Don’t think,” he said quietly. “Just be here.”
She couldn’t look away from him. Something in his gaze made the room feel still—like time itself had agreed to pause. “With me.”
His knees parted her legs as he stood between them. Taking his hands away from her person, he shrugged off his coat, the fabric falling to the floor in a silent heap. Then the metallic sound of cufflinks hitting the glass table punctuated the silence. He rolled up his sleeves, slow and careful, while his gaze trained on hers.
“The things you make me do, Veronica.” He reached for his dress shirt. “If you wanted me to do this, you should’ve told me sooner,” Veronica felt throbbing in her most sensitive nerves, “and what would happen? Would you drop your prim and proper act—” when he cut her off “and fucked you like the desperate whore you are?” Bending the three buttons undone, he leaned his hands, giving her thighs a squeeze and dropping a slap on her covered self; a gasp turned to moan, leaving her, making her throw her head back at the sting.
The plop on the couch made her dress ride up; a haze was clouding her vision, her mind consumed solely and only by the man in front of her. He knelt down between her legs. “Here’s what’s going to happen, princess: I want you to focus on my hand and tongue and I am going to make you come so fucking hard that you will be left all soaked and wet and adjustable for me—you’ll be so loose that when I slide in—” His words will be her undoing. How can one ever forget how good he is when it comes to talking? “You will say, ‘Thank you.”
‘You kiss your mother with that mouth? ” He rose to the level of her face. “Don’t bring my mother when I am about to devour your cunt, princess.” her hands reached for the collar of his shirt and clashing his mouth against her’s in a kiss messy with tongue exploring every curve Veronica tugged and broke the buttons of his shirt, leaving his sculpted body on display. “Someone’s desperate,” he chuckled against her lips. “Don’t worry, princess; we have all night.” He rose to his full height and reached out his hand for her. Veronica rose to her feet following his lead when he bent down and picked her up bridal style. A yelp left her mouth “Now where is the bedroom?” Veronica smiled and pointed towards the guest bedroom and giggled when Mincheol nestled his face below her ears as they made their way to the room.
True to his words, Veronica lost count after the third orgasm, the man taking over her mind, body and soul, the air reeking of both her and Mincheol 's smell and his perfume still lingering, her throat hoarse, neck marred with various shades of red and some purple– putting her on her side and one leg perched on his shoulder and he drove in a ruthless rhythm on his knees. “Fuck, princess, again– just liket, he panted. “You squeeze me so well. Fuck, Veronica, fuck – fuck, say, baby, what will happen if someone sees you like this, panting on her husband’s cock, like a cock-hungry slut?”
Her clench made his hip buckle and made him brace himself on his hand and he fell forward. “Fuck, you like that? Maybe there is a man with a camera looking through the lens, forgetting to click the picture because he is busy rubbing himself out one or two at us.”
Veronica trashed her head, putting her leg down his shoulder; Mincheol folded her legs her knees almost next to her ears, he hit the spot, making one see stars “What will Daddy Dearest think? That the pure, dutiful daughter he wants to put as the first lady of the nation likes to be fucked stupid. By her husband.”
“Mincheol — ah, min—mindont stop, dont stop—yes, yes.”
Her eyes rolled on the back of her skull, mouth agape and drool escaping. “Fuck, vero, dont you fucking show this sight, to anyone else—” he warned his eyes dilated to the point that his irises hidden; he was really close. “I will kill that bastard, and tie you up and show who you truly belong to, you understand?”
He panted in her ears, “Tell me you understand.” She nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, yes, I understand. His moans, her name, “Ah, Vero, ah, AH VERONICA”, his warmth coating her womb, his hips still stuttering in their own accord as he drops on top of her, neither of them aware when they fell asleep, with him sheathed inside her, sucking on her while fingers and nails traced the back of his head and back and slow kissing.
Veronica woke before Mincheol . She lay still, watching the filtered sunlight spill across the sheets. His arm, loose across her waist, felt unfamiliar yet not unwelcome. There was no awkwardness. No breath held in anticipation of retreat. But there also wasn't safety.
Just silence—and questions she wasn’t ready to ask herself.
Mincheol stirred, eyes opening slowly. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her. And in that pause, something unfamiliar passed between them—softness, maybe. Or regret.
But reality was impatient. “Morning,” she whispered.
“Morning” voiced a few more octaves deep. “ His phone rang from the bedside table; he removed his hand from her waist and left for the bathroom.
They dressed in separate corners of the room. No words. No eye contact.
By mid-evening, they were strangers again, or maybe that's what Veronica thought, because nothing was the same after yesterday. In silk and custom tailoring, standing shoulder to shoulder at the reopening of a gallery they helped fund.
Their names are engraved on the marble plaque at the entrance. Their wedding photo is still used on the donation banners.
Veronica stood beside Mincheol , her hand looped loosely through the crook of his arm. She was immaculate—sleek bun, crimson lips, a silk gown that caught the light every time she turned her head. She was every inch the perfect politician’s wife.
Except for the blush that refused to leave her cheeks.
It wasn’t makeup.
It was memory.
Mincheol hadn’t said much that morning. But he didn’t need to. His gaze followed her like a second skin, trailing down her spine when she wasn’t looking, tightening every time she laughed too easily or brushed against someone in passing.
But now Veronica didn’t know what she’d expected. She only knew that whatever that night had been—whatever they'd said or done—he had already put it behind him.
And maybe that should’ve made it easier.
It didn’t.
"You're glowing tonight."
The voice came from her left. Soft. Unhurried. Confident.
Julian.
He held two glasses of champagne, offering her one with a small bow of the head. “Was it the art? Or just a good night’s sleep?”
Veronica smiled, slow and practiced. “I don’t sleep much.”
“Ah,” Julian said, leaning in just slightly. “So it was the art.”
Mincheol was a few feet away, still deep in conversation with a city councilman, but his posture stiffened. Barely. Just enough for her to notice.
Julian, meanwhile, took his time letting his eyes linger—her neckline, her earrings, and the smooth sweep of her collarbone.
“You should come by the gallery sometime,” he added, his voice lower now. “I’ve been saving something I think you’d really like. Private viewing.”
“I’m married, Julian.”
He gave a small shrug. “Married women are allowed to like art.”
Her lips twitched. “Some people might say your interest borders on inappropriate.”
“And what do you say?”
She paused, letting the question settle between them.
“I say the art better be worth the trouble.”
Julian’s smile widened, slow and full of implication. “Oh, it is.”
From across the room, Mincheol finally turned his head. Their eyes met. His expression was unreadable—impassive, even—but something in his jaw had gone tight.
He looked at her like he was studying a stranger.
She looked back like she didn’t care.
But her heart beat a little faster. And her champagne glass trembled ever so slightly between her fingers.
Because whether or not he’d admit it, last night had shifted something between them.
And today, they were both pretending not to feel the aftershock.
Veronica sat by the window, the city passing in streaks of gold and red. Mincheol drove with both hands on the wheel, his jaw sharp in the shadows.
When they reached the house, he opened the door for her. Mechanical. Polite. Like nothing had changed.
She stepped inside first. Clicked off her heels. Dropped her clutch on the console by the mirror.
He was halfway up the stairs when she said it.
“Why are you pretending it didn’t happen?”
Mincheol paused. One step above her. Not turning.
“Pretending what didn’t happen?” His voice was cool. Careful.
Veronica stared at the back of his head, the way his shoulders squared like he’d braced for a storm.
“Last night.”
Still, he didn’t move.
She folded her arms, the soft rustle of her dress the only sound. “You touched me like you remembered everything. Like you’d been starving for it.”
Silence.
“And then today, nothing. Not a glance. Not a word. Like it was some… lapse in judgement.”
He finally turned, slowly. His expression was unreadable. “What do you want me to say, Veronica? You wanted one night; I gave you one night.”
“I want you to stop hiding behind this... this shell you crawl into whenever things get real.”
His mouth twitched, barely. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’re punishing,” she said flatly. “You’re punishing me for something you wanted just as much as I did.”
Mincheol stepped down one stair. His eyes found hers, dark and intense. “You think I’m the one punishing you?”
She held his stare. “Aren’t you?”
“No.” His voice was low now, tight. “I’m protecting myself.”
That caught her off guard. Her arms dropped to her sides. “From what?”
He didn’t answer right away then "From wanting something that doesn’t exist anymore.”
The air between them thickened.
Veronica’s voice came out softer, the edge stripped away. “You think I don’t feel the same?”
He looked at her then—not cold, not distant. But tired. Exposed.
“Then why do you let other men look at you like that?”
Her mouth parted slightly, in disbelief. “You think Julian matters?”
“He looked at you like he could offer you something I never could.”
She took a breath and stepped closer until they were face to face at the base of the stairs. “And you looked at me today like I didn’t matter at all.”
Mincheol's jaw worked. He didn’t speak.
Veronica shook her head, eyes glinting. “You don’t get to reach for me one night and ice me out the next. If you want me, say it. If you don’t—stop pretending we’re trying.”
He looked like he wanted to speak. Then stopped himself.
Instead, he turned and walked up the stairs.
Not out of anger.
But because he didn’t trust what would happen if he stayed.
Veronica stood at the foot of the stairs long after he was gone. Her fingers brushed the side of her arm, suddenly cold. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move.
She just stood there. Looking at his back.
He turned halfway up the stairs.
Stopped.
One breath.
Then another.
He came back down.
Not rushed. Not storming.
Measured. Intentional.
Veronica hadn’t moved. Her arms had just started to wrap around herself, not in defense—but in resignation. That soft, terrible armor of people who expect disappointment.
When she saw him return, something flickered in her eyes. Confusion. Hope. No—she masked it too quickly.
Mincheol stopped just in front of her. Close. But not touching.
“I stayed,” he said quietly. “You asked if I wanted you.”
A pause.
“I never stopped.”
Veronica’s eyes shone—not with tears, but something weightier. She didn’t answer with words.
Mincheol reached up, cupped her face—gently, as if afraid she’d flinch. She didn’t. She leaned into it.
His thumb traced the corner of her mouth.
Then he kissed her.
Not with hunger, not yet.
With certainty.
Like something he hadn’t allowed himself to want aloud, but had always been there.
Her hands slid to his chest, anchoring herself—not to stop him, but to steady herself.
Because there was a weight to this kiss. One born of too many silences. Of years curled around things left unsaid.
He deepened it.
Not possessively, but with a quiet ache. Like he needed to relearn every shape of her mouth. Every breath.
When he finally pulled back, her lips were parted, her breath short.
Mincheol rested his forehead on hers.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “For pretending I didn’t feel it.”
She closed her eyes, whispering against him, “Took you 2 and a half years, but never say never.”
They stood there a moment longer, breathing the same air. Their hands finding each other’s—cautious at first, then clasping like something old and familiar.
This time, when they moved—when they walked back upstairs together—there were no slammed doors, no bitten tongues, and no unfinished sentences.
The garden shimmered under a soft, early sun, the kind of morning that asked nothing more than to be noticed. A breeze teased the edges of the white linen curtains on the veranda. Mincheol stood there quietly, holding two mugs of coffee, pausing for a moment to take in the view below.
Veronica was seated on a picnic blanket spread out on the grass, her sundress draped loosely over her frame, a subtle curve to her abdomen just beginning to show. She rested one hand over it, unconsciously, as she smiled at the chaos unfolding in front of her.
Jiwoo—now two and louder than ever—buzzed in circles around her with arms flapping. “Bzzzz! I’m a fly!” he declared proudly, half-tripping on the lawn but refusing to stop.
Seungcheol leaned against the stone railing of the veranda, arms crossed, watching the family from a distance. He didn’t speak until Mincheol stepped up beside him with a tray of coffee.
“What’s wrong with your face” taking in his busted lips and bandaged hand.
“Just some disagreement” Mincheol just nodded at his words, changing the subject
“She’s good for you,” Seungcheol asked.
Mincheol smiled faintly, eyes still on them. “She’s not always easy.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Mincheol ’s gaze softened as he watched Veronica stretch out a hand, calling their son to her. Jiwoo skidded to a stop and tumbled into her lap, laughing. She held him close, whispering something that made him giggle harder.
“I’m happy,” Mincheol said after a beat. “Even when we’re difficult. Even when she’s too sharp and I’m too proud. I’m still happy.”
Seungcheol tilted his head, considering. “Do you ever wonder if marriage is worth it?”
“All the time,” Mincheol answered with a quiet laugh.
“And?”
He glanced sideways at his brother. “Then I hear her laugh... or I watch Jiwoo mimic the way she scolds me. And I remember. It’s not about it being easy. It’s about it being real.”
Seungcheol gave a low hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing—just understanding.
“You ever think about how different it all looks from up here?” he asked after a pause, motioning toward the garden. “The politics, the ambition… all that noise feels far away when you see her teaching your kid how to speak.”
Mincheol gave a low chuckle. “Except when he starts calling her by my nickname.”
Seungcheol clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to need that anchor. Running for Senate isn’t exactly forgiving.”
“I know,” Mincheol said. “But neither is marriage. And I’ve made that work.”
As Mincheol made his way down the garden steps, Seungcheol stayed back, watching him walk toward the woman who had both unravelled and steadied him and the child who somehow carried the best—and the most stubborn—parts of both.
For a rare moment, Seungcheol believed him.
Veronica was mid-sentence when Mincheol arrived, placing the decaf coffee beside her.
“Jiwoo”, she said gently, “come here, love. Let’s practise. What do we call me?”
Jiwoo puffed out his cheeks. “Mama.”
“Yes,” she encouraged, brushing his hair back. “Again?”
“Mama.”
Then, a wicked little grin. “Vero!”
Mincheol raised a brow. “You know you’ve taught him that.”
Veronica looked up at him, eyes bright with mischief. “I didn’t. I have no idea how this happened.”
He settled beside her, one arm behind her back. “He hears it when I say it. It’s stuck.”
Jiwoo took the opportunity to wriggle free and dart away, chanting “Vero! Vero!” at full volume.
Veronica sipped her coffee, laughing. “You’ve corrupted him.”
Mincheol smiled, resting a hand lightly on her knee. “I’m going to announce my Senate run.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
“I know,” she said softly.
Of course she did. This was always his dream. Just as her father’s campaign for vice president had always been his.
Mincheol studied her, the quiet conviction in her posture, the steadiness in her voice. “It’ll mean scrutiny. And sacrifice.”
She looked up at him, the breeze tugging at her hair. “You’ve already earned this,” she added, glancing toward their son chasing butterflies in the distance.
He nodded slowly, exhaling.
Then: “Thank you.”
She looked at him fully then, eyes warm but sharp. “Just win. And don’t forget to come home.”
Mincheol leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Jiwoo’s distant voice rang out again. “Verooooo!”
Veronica groaned with a smile. “You’re fixing that.”
He chuckled. “I’ll try. But I think we’re outnumbered.”
The room was empty, and the only noise was from the TV tuned to a news channel when the anchor touched his earpiece, urgency and shock taking over his face. The headlines changed:
BREAKING NEWS
“Next in news, In a devastating turn of events, Senate candidate Choi Mincheol , his wife Veronica Rhys, and their two-year-old son Choi Jiwoo were killed in a fatal car crash late last evening, shortly after returning from a campaign event.
Choi Mincheol , 37, was the eldest son of the influential Choi Enterprises family and had recently announced his bid for the national Senate. His wife, Veronica Rhys, 33, was the youngest daughter of senior statesman and current vice presidential candidate Senator James Rhys and had remained largely private in the public eye—except when standing by her husband’s side at recent events. Their young son, Jiwoo, had become a quiet symbol of the campaign’s family-forward image.
Authorities report that the crash occurred near the intersection of XX and Harbour, a known blind curve notorious for poor visibility. Initial investigations suggest the vehicle veered off the road at high speed before colliding with a divider and overturning. The family’s security detail, following in a second vehicle, was unharmed but unable to intervene in time.
While early statements suggest mechanical failure, officials remain cautious.
“At this stage, we are not ruling anything out,” said lead investigator Elena Park at a midnight press briefing. “We are examining all footage, vehicle records, and road surveillance to determine whether this was, in fact, a tragic accident—or something more.”
Political circles have reacted with shock and silence. Senator James Rhys has yet to make a statement. The Rhys and Choi families have both requested privacy, though sources close to the Rhys campaign say today’s scheduled events have been indefinitely suspended.
The sudden deaths have sent ripples through both the business and political communities, where whispers have already begun to rise—not only in mourning, but in suspicion. For some, the question is no longer just how the accident happened... but why.
As the nation reels, many are left wondering if this is simply the abrupt end of a rising political family—or the opening line of something far more ominous.
Stay tuned for more updates.”
END OF CHAPTER FIVE.
Tag list: @seonghwaexile, @asyre, @xyzzzs-things, @kohielatte , @scuzmunkie , @blueskyandream-blog
A/N: I never said the surprise will be happy.
Thank you for your likes and silent support. Although it's quite late in here, I though why not upload the chapter and right now I am really sleepy so any editing required I will do that when I get time.
