->.. Where Y/N lands a job at JYP Ent. and gets assigned to work with Stray Kids, a popular K-pop Boy Band and accidentally starts off on the wrong foot with Felix..
Warnings: cursing, angst, fluff, (idrk what more rn but I'll update it as I go)
Trope: Enemies to Lovers
Credits: my beloveds @jisunggy and @skyracha who helped me out with the title and the plot
A/n: This is my first time writing anything really, so please dont mind and spelling errors or even just the writing style.. All criticism is gonna be taken in a positive way so dw hehe :>
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓢𝓸𝓸𝓷...
Taglist: @jisunggy @skyracha @staytinyarmy @niki788 @ilovetocas1 @d3kstar @velvetmoonlght @hash2013 @hwangjoanna @st4rv3lly @angel-writes-skz-here @imagine-all-the-imagines @katsukis1wife (open) (just ask to be tagged in the notes or comments)
(Ones in bold are the ones which tumblr won't let me tag, check your privacy settings to see if your blog is set to hide from search or smth)
a/n: as promised, heres the (so far) poll winner's headcanons! happy reading ˃ᴗ˂
You grew up running around the hallways in secret of the other servants and guards, playing with Zuko when your mom would be working as firelord Ozai’s personal servant. You remember Ursa hushing both of your laughter when she'd notice other royal guards and servants around, protecting you from punishment with Zuko clasping his palm around your mouth, pressing your back into him, holding your laughter from bubbling out as he fights his own giggles.
…..............................…
When firelord Ozai was still on the throne, and you were still assigned to Azula, your life was closer to hell than anything. Azulas relentless picking and harassment, and the merciless physical reprimanding’s left marks on your body.
Zuko noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed the small details about you.
He humbly begged his father to reassign you to his wing of the royal palace, grasping for believable excuses to why that would be more 'fruitful' than you tending to his sister.
…..............................…
His hands disappear into the sleeves of his robes, eyes searching yours before he takes the lead into his private royal garden, not needing to look over his shoulder to know youre following behind. You’ve done this countless times before by now for him to know.
It’s always under the excuse of him ‘possibly needing to rearrange things in the garden’. After all, ‘a firelord is above dirtying his hands with soil’, or so he claims. Always when the starts are out to play in the night sky, never in daylight.
You end up walking down the stone path leading to his favorite willow tree. Flashes of images you recall of you and Zuko running around this same tree when his mom the firelady had newly planted it in place.
A pretty weeping willow, with fireflies fussing around its leaves like fairy lights hanging from the tree’s tips. There, you stand in silence, his eyes closed with his hands behind his back, standing a little too close by your side.
A firelord and his favorite servant watching the fireflies dance around the weeping willow tree, the night breeze raking through the draping leaves.
…..............................…
Firelord Zuko would request you to personally dress him up for all formal occasions, having grown used to your careful, contained, and modest touches. Every time your fingertips would brush against his shoulders, midriff, or especially his lower abdomen while you tied his robes in place with a belt, he’d feel his skin burn on fire from the simple small touches of yours.
Even a firelord who derives his powers from heat can’t handle the scalding kindling your touch ignites in him. It’s like a drug. Every day he looks forward to the nighttime when you’d change his clothes; every night he longs for the morning to come for you to dress him back up again.
…..............................…
He would only accept tea brewed under your supervision. “It tastes just like Uncle’s tea”, he’d say with a content look in his eyes. It was him – Uncle Iroh – that taught you how to make his infamous tea when he used to come for visits at the palace. You doubt Zuko has forgotten about those sweet, small moments shared between you two in childhood.
…..............................…
Stepping into his private chamber after getting a beating from the head servantlady, your eyes stay on the tiled floors. Holding out a tray in your hand, you hiss when you accidentally spill his cup of tea on your arm. Bowing down to fetch the clattering teacup, he stops you mid-reach, only to yank you back up by your wrist.
You’re quick to apologize for ‘ruining his morning tea’, the words falling onto deaf ears. His eyes are burning into yours, flickering down onto where the hot content scalded your skin.
Slowly his fingers slithered their way up your sleeve, pushing the fabric higher up, exposing more of your arm.
“My lord-!” you try yanking your arm, but to no vail. Heat burns in your face at his squinting eyes falling onto the burn mark just over your forearm.
“Did you burn yourself?” he asks, paying no mind to his spilled tea, or how its dirtying his otherwise pristine chambers, or even how he’s touching a commoner like you – a servant, at that.
“I apologize, I spilled your tea all over myself” he hums, skimming his fingertips tenderly over the burn mark.
His eyes flick back up to yours, dancing around your face. “This is no mere burn mark” his voice is low, eyes squinting ever so slightly at you – prompting you to speak.
“…”
“What’s this? How did you get this?” he questions further, his grip tightening around your wrist, stinging a little with its intensity “Who did this to you?”
After knowing the truth behind the burn mark on your arm, about how the head servantlady used a hot pan to ‘teach you a lesson’ after spilling milk on the kitchen floor, he immediately rushes out of his chambers to bark orders at the guards.
“Prepare a hot air balloon and send Katara here. Right this instant”
He still notices the small things about you, even now that you’re no longer kids, with him having bigger responsibilities and an entire kingdom to rule.
Katara won’t let him off the hook easily when she hears about why he brought her here on such short notice and for whom, but he has more important matters at hand more than protecting his pride and honor. You.
Pspsps i summon: @angeliure-0 @xhslvt @xiyizhouswife @hartistasinombre @melancholicreaper @goatkkotsu @nightmarenyxx @sleazysaltedcat @defenestratehumanity @shhhhiamreading @totallynotashieldagent @hartistasinombre let me know if you want to be tagged for jjk stuff only, its allll okiiii to me! ദ്ദി(◝ ⩊ ◜)
1) Vaping is confirmed to cause cancer. Vaping coats the lungs with toxic substances, such as heavy metals and benzene, which are known to cause cancer
2) Many vapes contain diacetyl, which, when inhaled causes popcorn lung, or scarring of the lung
3) Ultrafine particles, when being inhaled, can be lodged in the trachea (not good!)
4) Ultrafine particles can also constrict the arteries in the lungs potentially causing A HEART ATTACK
5) Vaping is relatively new. Not much studies have been done in comparison to tobacco. Plus, the vaping companies are powerful people. There is a large chance that they are purposely downplaying and even burying any evidence that vaping is harmful - just like the tobacco companies before them. They do not care about you, or your health, or the truth. They only care for money
Please I’m begging yall as an asthmatic, your fruit-flavored vapor will still give people around you who are smoke-sensitive attacks. So will weed. Don’t do it inside; if you’re at a bus stop or something try to not stand right next to people or move downwind of them if you can.
"Don't disobey me, kitten whiskers," Satoru growls down at you, giant hands caressing your trembling, atom sized, petite frame.
"Get on your knees like a good little cotton ball," he commands with his booming, authoritative voice.
You get on your knees, your back facing him as you hold yourself up on the bed, your fat voluptuous ass jiggling with every movement.
"Good girl," his large hands come down to yourdump truck, massaging and kneading the flesh between his thick, long, veiny fingers.
"Such a good little used q-tip," he moans, lining up his 13 inch schlong with your aching hole, dripping with wetness.
"Ready to be impaled by my giant pork sword?" His warm breath fans your neck as he brings a leg up by your head. He maneuvers your legs to bend backwards and around to rest by your head as well, your back twisting and arms snaking round his neck in a very comfortable and manageable position.
He roughly sinks his pussy-destroyer-1200 with four thousand horsepower, shooting the both of you through the wall and into the living room from the power of his 13 inch piping bag.
The sheer force of his cream filled log shaped doughnut alters the orbit of the earth, sending humanity into an ice age.
"SATORU," you moan out in the most angelic voice, your small, petite, microscopic, fragile, 3'2, curvaceous, voluptuous, flawless, figure shaking beneath your 10'11, muscular, white haired, big dick, thick necked boyfriend, Satoru Gojo.
His hips move at a pace faster than the speed of light, his oversized willy absolutely destroying your pussy, but you didnt break, no. Because your frail form could handle your boyfriends mating style.
"Okay my cute little dingle berry," Satoru growls low in his chest, sweat dripping sexily down his sculpted chest, "ready for my breeding juice?"
"YES MASTER SATORU," You scream (in an angelic tone).
"Such a sweet little Costco rotisserie chicken!" satoru cries.
"RAHAHAHAHAHHHHAAAAAAHHHHH," Satoru's sding-a-long erupts like a volcano all over you and you both moan and fall asleep.
The end
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ ⁺ . ✦
A/n: tried to tone down the freakiness a lil bit with this one, so it's more mellow and calm that my usual works 🙂 hope you like it
I might continue the series but only if y'all want me to, I have lost all my drafts and chapters I had prepped cause my phone decided to get hacked and I had to reset it which made my notes app betray me and delete everything I had in it..
Multi Fandom Fanfictions Requests Open!!! (Pls read)
Hi I’m Scar, a fanfic writer, I’m currently a university student in Denmark. I recently converted to tumblr to post fanfics of my interests, some include MHA, Twilight, Stranger Things, Genshin impact, and lots of anime + games
Currently my requests are open for any characters (and any outside of my main fandoms) I would love whatever you send me, since I’m just excited to get started. The following tags also include some other things I do
Please Send requests!! I will do any you send no matter what it is, If you have questions or requests you want to talk about just send me a message and I’ll respond asap
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 - izuku comes to terms that “us” can’t just mean classmates to him ಇ.
izuku’s charm rarely announces itself to anyone at first before you get the moment to know him personally, and oh, is he a yapper once he lets himself go.
with most people, conversations tend to simmer behind soft apologies and half-finished sentences, mostly of the kind that wander into nervous laughter, or whenever he runs out of conversation starters during awkward moments whilst being paired as sparring partners for combat training.
with his mumbling habit whenever he’s deep in thought making him seem quite timid and hyper-fanatical, somewhere between where he begins to passionately explain a page in his ever-growing hero book, or him drifting into debriefing yet another half-finished hero theory, he catches you in the middle of your act.
the way your attention isn’t on his words anymore, but on him. on the way his hair drapes the shape of his face, softening his already delicate features and instead of calling you out, the thought fizzles out just as quickly.
yet how could he not?
he can’t help but notice the way your eyes don’t dart around like everyone else’s do whenever he starts rambling, but instead, how they soften, lit with a soft happiness that mirrors his own, and how you just let him talk as much as he desires to, a gentle smile playing at your lips every time he gets a little too excited and starts talking faster than he can think.
yet he always brushes it off with the same, weak excuse of ‘i’m probably reading too much into it… she doesn’t mean it like that.’ he blatantly lies to himself, allowing the quiet weight of his feelings feel somewhat easier to carry.
meanwhile, you’re not even registering the notes he’s pointing at, or at the faded diagrams hastily labelled along the margins, because his alluring words blur together, with the rhythm of his voice swaying as it unravels. “..and if he adjusted his footing just slightly before the turn, he could probably redirect his momentum and-” he pauses.
long enough for you to notice.
his words don’t just trail off, they just vanish entirely, as if he’s lost his train of thought mid-conversation. “midoriya?” you tilt your head slightly, blinking at him, half with concern, half with confusion. “are you okay?” you blurt suddenly as you frantically wave your hands in his face. i—! y-yeah! I’m fine!” he eventually stammers back, flinching back ever so slightly as if your hands startled him more than it should have.
his flustered gaze drops immediately after, to literally anywhere but your eyes. even towards the scorch mark etched lopsidedly onto the pavement from bakugo’s earlier outburst, studying it with far too much intense focus, like it’s far easier to understand compared to anything but the moment he just fumbled through.
easier to understand than the way his words just tangled themselves up in front of you.
..what was he thinking?
and yet, something between you two shifts afterwards, imperceptibly at first, but beginning with the smallest of things.
it starts with a few exchanged words that linger just a second longer than before whenever the two of you get the chance to talk, with shy waves across the training field, and hesitant smiles softening into quiet, easy chatter whenever your paths cross, that seem to find you both at just the right moments, with nothing rushed or forced.
ofcourse, he starts to notice way too much about you, far more than he should for someone he’s supposed to just call a ‘friend’.
right. a friend.
so why is it that the tiniest of details getting to him the most?
not when the two of you barely even get to talk. half the time, you barely get a proper conversation in, let alone spend any real time together!
but somehow, without him really noticing when it started, moments began to stack, the littlest of things.
like the faint scar near your right cheek isn’t all that noticeable, easy to miss. most people probably wouldn’t even spare it a second glance.
so why does it always manage to leap out to him, like his sight lingers on it before anything else more significant?
the guise of it stands out to him, beyond ways words can even describe, as if his mind insists on tracing onto each curve and dip of your perfections.
he just doesn’t let himself dwell on it long enough to understand.
because if he does, then he has to start picking it apart, features that demand to be analyzed, dissected, cataloguing every thought, every reaction, trying to find a logical explanation for why his mind keeps circling back to something he can’t quite define.
even the way your voice softly dips into an faint ‘oh’ at the smallest disappointments settles somewhere in his mind, gentle and subtle, like something’s just fallen into place, as if he wants to mend everything in your way just to ease your heart.
he starts paying closer attention to you than usual, working harder, thinking ahead, just so next time, he can get there faster, just so you wouldn’t have to sound as disappointed as that.
and he doesn’t stop to wonder why.
and it’s in the way you gaze at him that undoes him, with your hands loosely clasped to your face, with eyes bright with genuine interest and awe whenever he begins to ramble about his newest page analysis, being the very thing that makes his heart skip a beat, with his thoughts tumbling out faster than he can grasp them.
the intention of your body shifting to follow his pacing, subtly falling into step with him, with soft, unintentional echoes of his gestures, not as a tease but gently, as with your every move. the slight tilt of your head and the small movements of your hands, and the way your attention never falters, even when your lips hint at words that never quite come.
his heart is tangled in thoughts he can’t control, too much for his own good.
he knows he’s swooned. in fact, he’s so disgustingly smitten for you that he doesn’t believe that denial has slipped from his grasp.
he starts to find himself in awe whenever you ask more inducing questions, not the generic kind, but thoughtful prompts that tug at loose threads he didn’t realize he’d left swinging.
yours are thoughtful, specific, and the kind that make him pause for half a second and that draw more out of him, giving him every reason to ramble on without restraint. you give him space to ramble, and to lose himself in his thoughts, on and on for you as he would admire to do for the rest of his life.
because the rambling never feels like too much with you. if anything, it makes him feel like a moment he never wants to end.
as the truth unfolds gently in his chest, that his heart has long since been yours, entirely, undeniably and definitely without question.
thank you for reading, please like and reblog (๑>◡<๑)ྀིྀི.
FOUR LETTERS, ONE RESPONSE, TWO CONFESSIONS AND ONE CONSPIRACY.
Pairing: Secret admirer x Reader, Bakugou Katsuki x Reader
Summary: A letter suddenly appeared on your table, claiming to be from your secret admirer, someone who is close to you yet so far away, you pull along your best friend Bakugou into figuring out the mystery man's identity, somehow discovering the underlying feelings for Bakugou himself.
cw: Bestfriend!Bakugou, slight bullying from Bakugou, reader is a hopeless romantic, Bakugou rationalising every letter, Todoroki loses his mind in the end but I make him unhinged in every fic I wrote, anyways enjoy please, this took months to write
09:35 am, Jan 04; The first letter.
There is an envelope on your desk, dusty pink, tucked under your keyboard mat, with an intention to be found, pretty little thing looking odd against the beige files littered on your desk.
You walk over skeptically, pulling it out, eyes scanning over your name, printed onto the cover, before gently tearing it open, unfolding the letter and reading it.
It's printed because you would've figured out my handwriting.
You scrunched your nose, slightly peeved by the prospective thinking, weird.
Don't over think it.
It's a confession letter, well at least that's what it was supposed to be before I thought of trying something different.
You whip your head around, trying to look for anything, anyone in your office, eyes lingering on the closed door as you waited for someone to jump in and scream 'it's a prank!'.
I am not a stranger, we've know each other for a long time, I have had these feelings for a while now, but I didn't know how to say it.
You deserve more than a simple confession, so this is my attempt to do try and give you that.
You read through the entire letter few times, hoping to find anything, any clue, still skeptical of it's intention, even if it clearly said it was a confession letter.
This is the first letter, expect more to come, maybe I'll ask you on a date or maybe you'll figure it out before I get a chance to.
────
"I got a sort of love letter." You mumbled, hand tucked in your pocket, fiddling with the folded edge of the said letter, "It was on my desk this morning."
"Did you check the cameras?" Bakugou queried, brow quirked as he leaned back against his chair, eyeing you with interest, "There are two of them in the hallway."
"I didn't." You pouted, pulling out the letter and passing it to him, running a hand through your hairs as you watched him read, "I kinda like the mystery."
"This mystery could very well be Mina trying to spice up your life." Bakugou snorted, reading through the letter, folding it back up and handing it to you, "I wouldn't be surprised if she showed up outside your house."
"Can you like, let me daydream for a bit?" You huffed, snatching the letter, caressing the edge, smoothening non existent creases, "I already over thought about this when I first found it."
He nodded his head in mock understanding, "So, now you've decided to delude yourself."
"Katsuki!" You whined, not wanting him to rationalize your yet to bloom love story.
"Just saying someone walked into your office and left you a letter." He started, eyes narrowing at you as his tone shifted to the one he used in mission briefings, "Whoever that was, didn't have the courage to confess to your face, not only is that cowardly but also creepy."
"Or a hopeless romantic, who is going to give me the fairytale love story." You chimed, resting your chin on your hands, batting your lashes at him, cheeky grin spreading on your lips at his deadpanned expression.
"I am going to check the cameras."
"I know you are, don't spoil it for me though."
"3000 yen it's Mina."
"6000 it's not."
────
"Did you check the cameras?" You eyed Bakugou, watching as he landed another hit on the punching bag, the metal chains clinking loudly in otherwise silent gym.
You force yourself to look at the equipments around the room, forcing your eyes away from his thick, sweaty, hefty─
"Yeah, I did." He turned around, sweat making his shirt stick to his skin, face glossy, "It was Mina."
His voice startled you, leaving you wide eyed, breath held in as you started at him, eyes locked with his, heart beating fast, you blamed it on the fact that your daydream of a lovestory tethered on the edge of breaking.
"Breath dumbass." He huffed, walking over as he pinched your cheek, huffing a laugh at your face scrunching up,"I am joking."
"You fucking asshole!!" You pushed him weakly, turning around to leave before he grabbed your wrist pulling you closer enough you felt his breath fanning on your cheek.
"It was someone, not telling you the name." He whispered, taking a step back, letting go of your wrist, "Live your fairytale, but if this secret admirer makes one mistake, I am cracking a skull open."
Your heart is pounding in your chest, light headed as you watched him go back to his workout, skin tingling as you repeated his words in your head.
────
"Did you check properly?" You shuffled the reports in your hand, watching as Bakugou sighed, gathering bunch of screws, "Was it even someone from our agency?"
"What are you talking about?" He grabbed his gauntlet, placing it on his tool table, before assessing the damage.
"Mr. Mystery, my lover," You groaned, placing your forehead against the table he was working on, "I didn't receive another letter yet, he said there would be more to come."
Bakugou gave you a nasty side-eye, mean and judgemental, "First of all, don't put your face on this table, it's dirty and inflammable," He tossed a packet of wipes at you, "And second of all, it's barely been 24 hours since the first letter."
"Yeah, but I need more."
"What you need, is to relax."
────────────────
05:45 pm, Jan 06; The second letter.
The second letter you find, is tucked away in your locker, placed on neatly folded towels, light yellow this time.
For a moment you wonder if it really is Mina, men aren't allowed in the women's locker room, but considering Mr. Letter guy is your friend, he might have access to the changing rooms as well.
I asked someone to place it in your locker.
The clarification as the introductory line makes you snicker, a giddy feeling blooming in your belly as you mentally noted involvement of another person in this little scheme.
I wanted to leave another letter but your office was too risky, I didn't want to be caught lingering idly.
A part of me hoped you anticipated the letter, looked forward to getting another one, I have few of them scattered in my office, randomly scribbled with things I want to say.
If you were sitting, you'd be on the edge of the seat, biting your lips to avoid grinning like a maniac, especially around semi nude, glistening with sweat ladies.
For now, I'd say you should really work on your defense, half the squad almost kicked your ass.
Your eyes widened, quickly running out of the locker room you looked at the heroes some in locker rooms, others on their way back home.
You spot Bakugou leaning against one of the walls, swiping through he phone as he waited for you to change.
"He was here." You huffed, slightly breathless, looking around as you tried to recall who was present during sparring, "I got another note, he said my defense is shit."
"Creepy but go on." He took the letter, eyes scanning the words before he turned around to look at people in the gym, "There is another person involved."
"That's what I noticed too." You look back at the women's locker room, watching as Mina and Jirou walk out, waving at your way before leaving.
"So, what are your thoughts?"
"I think it might be someone in the squad, I'll interrogate the girls later."
"I meant about your defense being roasted."
"Oh well, he is a hero if he knows about this, and he cares about me, Sukiii~" You throw yourself at him, wobbling slightly as he caught you last minute, "I have knight looking out for me."
"Great, I tell you, your defense is shit and you whine, some no name weirdo says the same thing and he is a knight."
"You don't tell me, you roast the fuck out of it."
"Have you seen yourself, you look like you're about to trip over nothing everytime."
────
The office is silent, sound of pen scribbling Bakugou's ears as he looked up from the magazine, amused as he watched you attempted to stick another sticky note on your whiteboard. "What are you working on Genius?"
"Assessing the situation," You stepped backwards, almost tripping over your chair, hands clasping together as you turned around to face him, "Points I have collected so far in relation to Mr. Mystery."
He nodded his head, wating for you to elaborate, magazine abandoned on the glass table, considering he found something way more interesting.
"So, he is in our friends group," You start, circling a random sticky note with a red marker, "or at least a friend of a friend, it would be impossible to access my office or the gym without that." You fold your arms, analyzing further, waiting for Bakugou's input.
Bakugou gives you an unimpressed look, almost bored, "That's it?"
"I have more," You pulled the second letter you had gotten and handed it to him, "He must be a pro-hero or in some sort of armed force, he knew about combat skills."
"So, you deduced that from 2 letters?" Bakugou queried.
Something in your gut screamed that this man in front of you is about to roast you to crisps, despite the feeling you nodded your head.
"First of all, I can't believe that I let you lead missions," He sassed, folding the letter and handing it back to you, "Second of all, when did the letters say anything about the gender of the sender."
Realisation dawned upon you, lips parting open as you stared at him, "Oh my god! There is a possibility it is Mina."
Any hopes of you having functioning braincells flew out of the window as Bakugou watched you have a rather emotional breakthrough.
"Are you done?" He hummed, too used to your unhinged behaviour, "I didn't say anything about Mina, all I said was you can't be certain of anything at the moment."
"This is like the only time I am accepting the rationality." You huffed, plopping down beside him, shoving your face onto his side, almost headbutting his armpit, "Wait, you checked the cameras, you know who it is!"
"I do, Genius." He grinned, proud that your brain managed to connect actual dots. "And I am not telling you."
────
"Can I ask you a question?" You batted your lashes at Bakugou, perched on his kitchen counter as you watched him make dinner for the both of you, "wait that defeats the purpose of the question, can I ask two questions, wait I just did─"
"Quit it!" He groaned, abandoning the spoon he came to stand between your legs, hands placed on either side of your thighs, "You can only ask not-dumb questions?"
"But everything is dumb to you." You grinned cheekily, leaning back to trace shapes on the counter, undeterred by his glare, before straightening up, "sorry, sorry, I'll ask away." You sighed, smile fading away slowly, "Do you think I have unreasonably high expectations from letter guy?"
────────────────
07:52 pm, Jan 10; The third letter.
It's later in the evening, sun setting behind the horizon, you wander aimlessly through the hallway, wanting to grab a cup of coffee before going back to your paperwork.
The third letter, was by the coffee machine, in the pantry, a cup of coffee already prepared, piping hot, waited for you on the counter, nearly snapping your neck as you looked around to catch a glimpse of someone, anyone.
Everytime I start, I feel a little stuck, not because I don't have anything to say, on the contrary I have too much to say.
Despite knowing each other for a long time, I feel like through these letters, you don't know me at all, perhaps for a little warm up, I should give you a hint.
There is a small restaurant in Hokkaido, 7th district, ran by an old lady, Arima, ask her for the house special dish, it's my favourite.
Go there this Saturday, I know you have the weekend off.
"We are going out this Saturday." You announced, walking over to the attached bathroom in Bakugou's office to wash your hands.
"I could be busy, you know." He sassed, placing your bento box on the table, grabbing a bottle of water and filling a glass for you.
"Could be, but you aren't, so we are going to Hokkaido."
"Hokkaido?" He questioned, passing you the apron, something he started keeping around when he learnt you were a messy eater, "What's in Hokkaido?"
"A restaurant, someone recommended it, so thought we should try it."
"Since when did your picky ass take recommendations?" He queried, eyeing as you settled beside him, immediately inhaling your home cooked meal.
"Since particularly romantic men started giving recommendations."
"Please don't tell me the letter guy is inviting you to eat." He groaned, taking bite out of his own bento, placing a bottle of water beside you, "You can go if you want, I don't have intentions of being kidnapped."
"You are like the least kidnap─able guy I know."
"I knew you'd sacrifice me one day."
────
"Do you think we are lost?" You eye the unfamiliar road ahead of you, craning your neck to read the signs, hoping to find the right directions, "You should have let me drive─"
"And risk ending up in a ditch." Bakugou swivelled the car onto a different lane, driving purely under the guidance of his memory, "I know my way through the city, so sit back and relax."
"I didn't even tell you the name of the restaurant," You groaned, switching on your phone and scanning the routes on maps, "It's pointing arrow in the other direction."
The car slows down, coming to stop at the red light, unfamiliar city bustling around you, he turns to you, "I know the way around here, put that phone down and chill." Reaching forward he grabbed your phone, plucking it out of your hands and tossing it on the back seats, albeit gently, "It's 20 minutes max from here."
"A second more and I am drivin─"
"We'll be there in lesser."
────
You reach the restaurant within given time, infact 3 minutes early, not giving him a moment to rub his victory in your face, you stepped out of the car, eyeing the restaurant, "Do you think we'll get a discount because of you?"
Bakugou hummed, locking the car as he followed you inside, "Why me? You are a Pro-hero too." He nudged your shoulder, taking in the interior of the place, eyes scanning the menu, "What do you plan on getting?"
"Cause you have a pretty face and I'll get the house special." You ring the bell at the counter, waiting to give your order, snickering when you spot the scowl on his face from the side of your eye.
"Their house special is spicy Mapo tofu," Bakugou tapped his fingers against the plastic stand, before eyeing you mischievously, "think you can handle that?"
"I'll be fine." You turn to greet the lady at the counter, who smiled at you sweetly, eyes crinkling along the corners, faint recognition passing through her features before she schooled them to neutrality.
"What would you two like, sweety?" She hummed, eyes focusing on you, veiny hands smoothening the tablecloth over the counter. "Two spicy mapo tofu please─"
"One spicy and one regular," Bakugou cut you off, already aware of the tantrum you'd throw later, "Please," He slid his card forward, ignoring your raged glare.
You didn't bother arguing with him at the counter, opting to follow him to the table instead, "You know I hate when you act like a mAN." You leaned forward, whispering across the table, "I can take decisions on my own."
"It's for me." Bakugou slid a glass of water towards you, pouring himself a glass, "Don't feel like eating spicy tonight." It took every ounce of control to not burst out laughing at your shocked expression, the physical manifestation of cringe on your face.
"My bad."
────────────────
01:46 pm, Jan 11; The fourth letter.
Hopefully the Mapo tofu wasn't too spicy for you,
I feel like with that specific hint I have dropped in the last letter, you should be able to figure out who I am.
Your grin faltered, hint─you were so focused on deciphering who this person was, that you hadn't really acknowledged the fact that it is someone you already knew, this wouldn't have been difficult if you thought about it.
Not that you needed one (or maybe you did, you can't put two and two together, no offense),
This is the last letter, I think I have beaten around the bush enough, it's time I finally do the task I initially set out to do so.
I want you to finally meet me, I'll come to your office tonight, bring take out and finally confess, hopefully you'll be ready by then.
It felt odd, usually at the end of each letter, you felt giddy, mind racking through possibilities of who it could be, excited to work through the mysteries of letter guy.
But, today felt off, deep down you know why you felt this way, the anticipations of who it could be tangling with the expectations of who you wanted it to be were nauseating.
You didn't wanted to be disappointed when you found out it wasn't who you were expecting, worse you didn't want to lead someone on because you couldn't be with them.
You had to do something before it could get worse.
────────────────
10:03 pm, Jan 11; The Response.
You've procrastinated enough, an entire day of mulling over how you'd essentially be writing a rejection letter, better half was spend on thinking if you should handwrite it or print it.
Not your finest moment.
Dear Secret Admirer,
I hope you are doing well, these past few days have been amazing, I really enjoyed your letters and your confession, but unfortunately I cannot accept it.
You bite your nail, pen hovering over the paper, the urge to scratch out sentences strong as you thought about your phrasing.
Looking over, you didn't have much time before Bakugou left for the day, you had to meet him before he did, you suppose ripping the bandage right off is the best option.
I have feelings for someone else, he is my best friend, Bakugou Katsuki, I am sure you know him too.
You cheeks warmed up at the mere thought of Bakugou, a different anticipation pooling in your belly as you went over last few days.
These past few days, we spend alot of time together, mostly because I was forcing him to play along these letters, which in hindsight is wrong but alas I feel like I would have figured out my feelings inevitably.
I hope you find someone who puts as much efforts as you do.
You slide the note under the container of Mapo tofu, nudging everything to the centre of the table to ensure nothing accidentally flew away with the wind, before turning around and leaving the office balcony.
Bakugou enters your office just as you started packing for the night, "Thought you were going to meet letter guy?" He queried, fiddling with trinkets scattered on your table, voice awfully small.
"There is a change of plans I suppose." You walked up to him, bag tugged under your arm, "Do you want to get dinner together? I don't feel like going home yet."
Despite his skepticism, he nodded his head, letting you lead the way out of the office, eyes never really leaving your frame as you walked away from the unlocked office.
────────────────
12:06 am, Jan 12; The confessions.
"What are you thinking about?" Bakugou asked, voice surprisingly soft, shoulder bumping into yours.
"Nothing." You mumbled, fiddling with the wrapper of your burger, taking another bite, "Just living in the moment, I suppose."
"You suppose," He hummed, eyes drifting from you to the vast sea, his own hands nursing a beer, fries forgotten on the picnic blanket, "did something happen?" He questioned, "back at the agency?"
You shook your head, the thought of letter guy eating mapo tofu alone lingered at the back of your mind, hopefully he'll find someone better.
"I didn't want to meet him." You sighed, watching as Bakugou nodded his head, waiting for you to continue, "I was curious initially but eventually I started hoping it would be someone specific."
Without elaborating further, you reached for the fries, fingers slick with ketchup and grease, you couldn't care any lesser though.
"So, you like-like someone?" His stated evenly, watching you nod with a mouth full of fries, reaching to wipe a smear of sauce off your chin, "Who is it?" It's delivered playfully but you can sense the emotions laced in his words.
"You know him." You teased, reaching for his beer, chuckling when he immediately handed it to you, "here are some clues, he's tall, blonde and handsome and won't let me eat anything spicy."
It's an easy guess, you watch him through the periphery of your vision, despite the confident confession, anticipation whirled in your belly.
"Sounds awfully familiar." He breathed out in utter relief, hand coming to cradle the back of your neck, maneuvering you to look at him, "can't believe you beat me to confessing." He peeked the corner of your mouth, "and for the record, I don't want to hear you complain about you asshole burning after eati─"
"You are supposed to say I love you after you confession, idiot." You huffed, throwing your head back to laugh at him, slightly embarassed mostly giddy.
By the time you finish eating, it's already late in the night, streets had slowed down, barely anyone at the beach apart from you two.
You pull Bakugou's jacket closer, waiting for him to find a parking spot and join you, his scent surrounding you, warmth seeping into your bones despite the chilly night.
He jogs up to you, hand instinctively reaching for yours, pulling you closer, "Here, realised I didn't give you this." He hummed, handing you 6000 yen.
"You don't have to, I knew you were joking." You huddle closer, cozying up by his side, "Is it weird that despite rejecting Mr. Secret Admirer, I am curious regarding who it was?"
"Not really, unless you plan on changing your mind once you find out."
"Nope, I am certain in my decision."
────────────────
06:55 pm, Jan 21; Last but not the least: The conspiracy.
You understand Todoroki's insanity when it came to connecting the dots, your office desk cleared of it's content, your poor monitor tossed on to the couch as you placed your evidence on the glass table, more than necessary red strings connecting everything to everything.
"And the letters were always placed whenever Katsuki had desk work." You scribbled another point onto a sticky note, watching as Todoroki nodded his head, hunched over the desk as he psychoanalyzed key word: psycho the situation. "And conveniently whenever I was busy."
"I know we are thinking the same exact thing." He placed a finger against his forehead, "Even though we didn't expect this from him, it is not out of character for him."
"I know right! He knew the way to that restaurant in Hokkaido without me mentioning the address," You hopped around the table, giddy as ever, hugging him tightly, "Or the recipe to Yakitori."
"Your hysteria is understandable," He shook his head, sympathetically patting your back, years spend with Bakugou flashing before his eyes, "I would go crazy too if he did something like this for me."
You stopped for a minute, looking up at him in confusion, "I didn't know you had feelings for him to—"
"What are you two idiots doing?" Bakugou entered the office, suspiciously glancing at the mess on your table, before looking back at you both.
You glance up at Todoroki, nodding your head in understanding as you turn back to Bakugou."We figured it out."
A cheeky grin spreading on his lips, watching you proudly, "What did you figure out, Genius?"
"YOU ARE MY SECRET ADMIRER!"
"YOU KILLED HER LOVER!"
"Shouto, the fuck?!" You jump back, looking at him in bewilderment and concern, before meeting Bakugou's confused gaze.
"Alright Icyhot, did you hit your head today?" Bakugou walked over, arm wrapping around your waist, pressing a quick kiss against your hairline, before going back to glaring at him.
"You can't hide forever." Todoroki glared back, pitifully glancing your way before snatching random papers of the desk and storming out.
"Was he your investigation partner?"
"Yeah, I don't think we were really thinking the same thing."
"Of course, you weren't."
────────────────
11:47 pm, Jan 24; The psychosis.
Todoroki sat through hours of footage, analysing activity around your office and floor for the past month, catching various folders multiple times.
He noticed some pieces were missing.
Considering only Bakugou had the access to agencies records and only he could view and manipulate the stored footage, his suspicions were right.
Meaning Bakugou had personally deleted footage of specific hours from the agencies records, not only that but he had cleared the back up data as well.
He had made sure that whoever this guy was, never truly reached you and laid out a plan that perfectly aligned with the guy, so you'd believe it was him all along.
Once upon a time… You pranked your boyfriend by calling him and saying that you signed up for a nude pilates class, no refunds!
K. Bakugou x Reader
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
A/N: inspired by the recent tiktok trend going on. This short fic’s setting and dialogue is specifically inspired by the video posted by @/tessuh1
Mina was already cackling giggling beside you, practically folded in half with silent laughter. She was the mastermind behind it all. The devil on your shoulder. After her ‘for you’ page showed a video of some girl pranking her boyfriend, she immediately pestered you to do the same with Katsuki, already excited to hear his reaction.
“PLEASEEEE do this to Bakugo,” she had begged, grabbing your arm. “I need to see his reaction.”
And somehow… You naively agreed.
Her phone was propped up against the dashboard, TikTok recording, the camera angled perfectly toward you. With your heart pounding in your chest, you opened your phone and tapped Katsuki’s contact.
The phone rang once before he picked up immediately.
“Kats? You busy?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
“Nah. On break right now,” he replied softly. His voice sounded relaxed, and you could practically hear the faint background noise of some part of the city he’s stuck patrolling. “What’s up? Thought yer’ meetin’ raccoon-eyes today.”
You glanced at Mina, who was already urging you to get to it already with a supportive thumbs-up. “Oh… haha, well… Yup, I’m with Mina right now. We’re in her car because something kinda crazy happened.”
Immediately, you heard movement on the other end. Some shuffling, as if he’d straightened his posture in alert. “You both safe?” he asked sharply, voice deepening with worry. “What happened? Shit, Were you attacked-”
“Kats! Babe, it’s okay, we’re fine,” you blurted quickly, throwing a nervous glance at Mina, before taking a silent breath and forcing yourself to focus back on your phone. You cleared your throat again. With the most sheepish voice you could muster, “But… Uhm… Well, we signed up for this pilates class we saw online.”
“Pilates class?” There was a beat of silence after you hummed in confirmation. “Sweets…” Katsuki said slowly, suspicion already creeping into his voice, “Don’t you have a whole damn gym in your agency?”
“Okay, fair, but hear us out!” You said defensively, even if it's part of the bit. Mina leaned closer to the loudspeaker, “It’s trending all over the internet, and we wanted to sign up before the slots were all filled! Plus, I got us some discount offers because this studio sent an email to my agency!”
“Of course you did,” he sighed at the voice of Mina, most definitely shaking his head at this point. “So, what’s the problem?”
Mina covered her mouth, leaning back to make sure Bakugo didn’t hear her laugh. You bit your lip, trying your best not to do so either. “So you see… We didn’t realize something about the class until after we paid. It’s like, a special kind of pilates.”
Katsuki didn’t respond immediately, and when he did, he sounded confused. As far as he knew, most pilates class' programs were similar though? “...What kind’a special are you talkin’ about?”
“The class had a name, Nude-lates- But! We didn’t really think much about it at the time!”
Mina let out a squeak of laughter, but Bakugo falsely assumed it was due to the stupid nickname because he snorted as soon as he heard what it was called. “Fuckin’ for real? That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard!” he cackled at the phone, “What dumbass comes up with ‘nude-lates’?! Watch their moves be called naked squats or some shit!” he laughed even more. Did you perhaps call him to laugh together due to the name?
That’s when you decided to drop the bomb, with the happiest voice you could muster, you chirped, “Hey, in their defense, it’s kinda accurate!”
The laughter stopped immediately.
“..What the fuck?” he blurted out, voice in disbelief. “Oi. The hell you mean it’s accurate?!”
“Turns out it was literally in the name…! After we paid, we found out it’s a nude pilates cla-”
“A WHAT?! FUCKIN’ NUDE PILATES?!”
Both you and Mina made eye contact, eyes watery in holding back your laughter. You moved the phone slightly away from your ear, just in time to avoid getting blasted by his screaming. “Yeah baby, we looked at the guidelines and-” you started, your voice trembling as Mina snickered beside you.
“CANCEL IT!”
“But it’s non-refundable! We already paid 8,000 yen!”
“FUCK THE MONEY! WHO EVEN DECIDED THAT'S APPROPRITATE?!”
Mina’s already biting her fist, shaking violently on the passenger seat. You lowered your voice to sound sad, “Isn’t that kind of rude? We met the people there, and they seemed so nice and excited to have new people join the class! These guys-”
“GUYS?!”
“-already welcomed us in!” You ignored his shouts of protests, “Kats- Baby- We really can’t cancel it! We already signed some contracts, and our instructor literally said that he’ll-”
“HE?! YOUR INSTRUCTOR IS A GUY?!”
Somehow, even through your little device, you can clearly hear the way his palms started crackling, “Sweets, send me the address right now.”
You sweatdropped, slowly looking back at Mina as a silent plea for help, “Uhm- what?” you nervously laughed.
“The address,” he repeated, voice similar to the tone he uses when fighting against villains, “Send it to me.”
“Katsuki-”
“Baby, pretty girl, sweets, Send me the address right now, I swear I’ll blow that fucking place up.”
You and Mina collectively choked on air “Bakugou?! Hey, think of the consequences of your actions!” she yelped.
“Yeah! Kats, you can’t just blow up a building-”
“The hell I can’t!” he snapped, “That’s fucking illegal! I’ll kill that bastard who decided to run a nude class with a bunch’a women! Then I’ll blast off the tiny dicks of the other perverts who decided to join!”
“Maybe he’s professional…?” You tried weakly. Damn, you really should’ve known that your boyfriend would do this…
“Professional, my ass! I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s got gold medals or some puny shit! I’ll make sure to turn him into ashes!”
You gulped, “H-how about our money?! We already finalized all the payments!”
Katsuki let out a few incoherent grumbles, and you hear him aggressively typing on his phone before coming back to talk “There! Just send me the address already!”
Confused at what he did, you opened your mouth to ask, but then, “Oh my God!” Mina gasped, looking at the notification on her phone, which was still recording the entire interaction. “Girl, look! Bakugo just sent me 16,000 yen!”
You blinked, “Oi. That covers yours and Pinkie Pie’s stupid class. Now tell me where that building is! 'm searchin' but I can’t see shit online!”
As soon as he said that, your own phone buzzed with a similar notification, showing 30,000 yen had just been sent to your bank account.
Your jaw dropped at the absurd amount. “Katsuki, did you just send us money?!”
“Some perverted loser is sitting around waiting for women to sign up so he can see them naked, and you’re focusin’ on me sending you both money?!”
You tried to explain, “You didn’t have to send us this amount! It’s like- way more than 8,000-”
“Don’t give me that crap! You know I don’t care about the money! Right now I care about that extra who thought he could force a friend and my girl into doing something she doesn’t want!”
Mina couldn’t contain herself anymore. Reaching over to you, she doubled over and started letting out the loudest cackles known to mankind. “Bakugo! It’s a prank!” she wheezed over the phone, letting her tears run freely as she fans her face with her hands.
A second of silence.
“HAAAAH?!” Katsuki’s voice dropped into a low, furious growl. The line practically buzzed with his outrage. Mina laughed even harder at the sheer volume, and despite yourself, you couldn’t stop, letting out small, helpless giggles.
“You’ve been raging at a fake name called Nude-lates! You seriously believed that?!” his shouting escalated instantly, a string of profanity-laden curses directed at Mina, his voice sharp enough to slice through glass.
“Oi! Pinkie, I know you dragged my girl into this!” He roared, but wait, why is his voice kinda choppy right now..?
Your friend doesn’t seem to notice, teasing him even more for falling for a prank and giving her free cash. Yet suddenly, both your laughter got cut off abruptly once a new shadow loomed over the car.
A loud, solid BANG reverberated against the car window right behind Mina.
It was at this moment that you both knew you fucked up.
Both of you froze, hearts dropping straight to your toes, and you made eye contact with your boyfriend. You offered him an awkward smile, knowing he’d never dare to hurt you. All he offered in return was a sharp glare directed at both of you, red eyes lowered angrily as one fist rested on the glass.
Mina, on the other hand…
She closed her eyes, a new tear sliding off her cheek in acceptance and fear. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
A/N: When I really need to finish all my due assignments, but my mind suddenly thought of yet another Bakugo fic idea... I keep on writing during class, and no im not talking about notes
I know this can be a sensitive topic for some STAY, but I want to say it anyway.
Stray Kids aren’t just idols on a stage — they’re human beings who deserve happiness and love just like anyone else. Before the fame, they were ordinary people with dreams, worries, and hearts, just like you and me.
So if JYP or Dispatch or even themself ever announces that one of them is in a relationship, the only questions I’ll have are:
Are they happy?
Are they treated with kindness?
Do they feel safe and loved with the person they’re with?
That’s all that matters.
Because nowadays, finding an honest, healthy relationship is rare. And if any of them manage to find someone who treats them the way they deserve, I’ll truly be happy for them too.
I’m just one fan among thousands — I don’t own them, and I don’t have the right to let jealousy or envy damage something that could bring them joy.
At the end of the day, their happiness will always matter more than my fantasies.
Okay but like my heart broken seeing him open that lock and it hurts me that I literally couldn't buy any of these things because all of they are so expensive 😭
✩ °｡⋆ ⸜ Christopher Bahng × Influencer!Reader
↪ Your perfect influencer life collapses overnight when your ex and stepfamily turn you into the nation’s biggest scandal. Desperate to survive, you fall into the hands of a wrong man--a cold, dangerous rumoured criminal who forces you into marriage. Now you’re trapped between the world that betrayed you and the monster who might be falling for you.
w/c: 11,209 words!!
trope: Enemies to lovers · Forced marriage · Dark romance · Power imbalance · Obsession · Slow burn
cw: Manipulation, gaslighting, emotional abuse, possessive behavior, moral corruption, mentions of drugs/alcohol, family betrayal, media harassment, violence (non-graphic), coercive control, toxic dynamics, and general dark romance themes. Reader discretion advised.
KIDS GET THE FUCK AWAY PLEASE.
๋࣭ ⭑ author’s note ♬
I’m so sorry this is coming late, loves! Tumblr hates me I fear, but thank you for being patient -- your support means everything. I hope the part 1 is worth the wait.
taglist:
Permanent: @dknbvdb @prettypeachprincesz @geni-627 @s1lverroses @nightmarenyxx @thequeenofdramaqueens @anyans-world
For this fic: @rozalax @changbinqueencard @maddy24207 @readr1221 @hanwood @sadgvddess
a/n:
most of the sentences in italics (at time italics + bold) and start with 'I' are y/n's thoughts.
The soft click of your camera fills the room as you adjust the ring light, angling it up just a little so the glow catches your cheekbones. The screen shows you smiling -- warm, confident, effortlessly put together -- the girl your audience believes you are.
A girl whose life looks perfect.
You start recording. "Hey loves," you say, voice honeyed with practiced comfort, "today has been crazy but I can’t wait for you to see everything coming up. Brand collabs, a little vlog, some night-time skincare... you know the drill."
Your smile is bright. Beautiful. Believable. But your chest feels tight, the way it always does after too many hours pretending. Smile. They love you smiling. You can't let them see the cracks.
You keep going, moving smoothly through the sponsorship lines, the product placements, the aesthetic angles of your vanity. You’ve done this so many times it's a muscle memory. A scripted happiness. A curated peace.
Your followers adore you for it. Brands trust you for it. People envy you for it.
If only they knew.
Your mother died when you were barely old enough to understand the world but old enough to remember her funeral, and your father remarried quickly -- too quickly, some whispered.
But Irene had been graceful, caring, patient, gentle. At least, that’s what you believed for years.
She had a daughter -- Mira, three years younger than you -- and you grew up together like sisters. Mira bright, bubbly, always clinging to you. Irene soft-spoken, acting as the glue to hold what little family you had. They were the only women in your life. The only “home” you thought you had left. The only ones who seemed to care.
So you trusted them. You trusted them so easily. You finish the vlog, turn off the camera, and your smile drops immediately. The silence of your room feels heavy, suffocating. You stare at your reflection, mascara perfect, lipstick undisturbed.
"Perfect," you whisper, voice hollow. You look perfect. You sound perfect. You live perfectly.
If only it were real.
You check your notifications -- messages from your manager, comments from your audience, and a simple heart from Daylan.
Daylan -- your boyfriend of two years. The man Irene and Mira introduced to you. The man who charmed your father. Who appeared so steady, so reliable, so sweet. Online, your relationship looks dreamy. Cute couple pictures, soft reels, silly vlogs together. You both look like a romance novel brought to life.
But offline? It’s quieter. Colder. More fragile than you want to admit.
Still -- you convince yourself it's love. You've been with him for so long. It should be love. You want it to be love. You check the time. 11:47 PM. You’re late getting home. Again.
Your father won’t notice -- he’s been drowning in work for the fashion empire he built, barely present, always overwhelmed.
Irene will say she was worried, but gently. Mira will tease you but hold your arm and drag you to eat something.
That’s what they do. That’s what you believed.
You grab your bag, slip into a light jacket, and slowly walk down the long hallway of the house. The marble floor is cold under your feet. You keep your steps soft, careful not to wake anyone.
You don’t want questions tonight. You don’t want explanations. You don’t want to talk about Daylan, the argument, the way things felt like they cracked.
You just want silence. But silence does not greet you. You freeze.
Voices float through the darkness. Soft, muffled, coming from the living room. Irene and Mira. Their tones low, intimate, conspiratorial.
You frown. They’re awake this late?
You step closer, quiet as a shadow, slipping behind the wall where you can hear without being seen. "...she's too naive," Mira scoffs, voice dripping with contempt you’ve never heard before. "It's actually pathetic at this point."
Your heart stops. Naive? Pathetic? Are they talking about me?
Irene hums, her voice cold in a way you don’t recognize. "She trusts too easily. It makes things simpler for us."
Your stomach twists. For us?
Mira sighs dramatically. "Did you give Daylan the drug? He better record everything properly. If he messes up, this whole plan goes to shit."
Your body goes numb. Drug? Record? Plan?
Your breath slips out in a tiny gasp, but you slap a hand over your mouth before sound escapes. You press your back to the wall, willing your heartbeat to stop hammering. Mira… gave Daylan… what?
Your mind swirls, but their voices keep cutting through the air, slicing you open with every sentence.
"I gave it to him," Mira continued casually, as if discussing makeup.
"He said he would get her drunk, slip it in her drink, and make sure she won’t remember anything. Then record everything."
Irene clicks her tongue. "He better. We need visual proof to break the marriage."
Marriage.
Your marriage.
To Alex Rhee -- the son of a company your father desperately wants to merge with. Ethical. Old money. Traditional. Their family believes intimacy before marriage is immoral. A sin. A fucking crime.
A video would ruin you.
Destroy your image. Destroy the engagement. Destroy your father's company. But Mira doesn’t sound guilty. She sounds excited.
Triumphant.
"Once the video gets out, Alex and his family will cut off the engagement instantly," Mira says, a smirk in her voice.
"And then they'll consider me instead. Which they should’ve done from the beginning." Irene chuckles softly.
"You'll be perfect for the Rhee family. Not her. They want purity, class, loyalty... not an influencer obsessed with cameras."
Your chest tightens so painfully you almost double over.
Influencer. Obsessed. Not enough. Never enough.
You clutch the wall.
They planned to drug me. To record me. To ruin me. My own step sister… my own stepmother… who i considered my own fucking family.
You feel sick, bile rising in your throat. "This was supposed to happen tonight," Mira huffs. "Everything was set. But she stormed off after that argument with Daylan. She ruined it."
So that’s why Daylan kept pushing tonight. Why he insisted you drink more. Why he kept touching you even when you pulled away.
Oh God. Oh God. You inhale sharply, but it feels like there’s no air.
Irene sighs. "Doesn't matter. The rumors will start soon anyway. Once they spread, the Rhees will hear about it. We can work from there."
Your blood goes cold. They want Alex Rhee to think you slept with Daylan. To think you’re unfaithful. Impure. Disposable.
You brace a hand against the wall because your knees suddenly feel too weak to hold you.
Mira laughs lightly. "Poor thing's probably crying somewhere, thinking we love her." Irene joins in, soft and cruel.
"She really is easy to fool." Your vision blurs. Not from tears.
From shock. From betrayal so sharp it steals the ground beneath your feet.
They never loved me. They never cared. I was just… something to use.
Something to replace. Something in the way.
Your breath shakes, quiet, controlled only by panic. You step back silently, hand over your mouth, refusing to let a sob escape. Your pulse is loud, too loud, but you force yourself to stay quiet.
You should scream. You should storm in. You should confront them.
But you can’t. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except feel everything burning inside you. You stumble backward, heart racing, and slip into the shadows of the hallway. You don’t stop until you reach the staircase, gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your legs tremble violently.
A drug. A recording. A plan. A ruined marriage. Mira replacing you. Irene orchestrating it.
Your sister. Your mother. Your boyfriend. The three people you trusted most…were the ones ready to destroy you.
You inhale shakily. Your chest aches. Your throat burns.
I was supposed to be violated tonight. Used. Trapped. Ruined.
Your hands tremble uncontrollably. You press your back to the wall, staring into the darkness. Everything inside you feels hollow. Cold. Shattered. You thought you had a perfect life. But tonight proves the truth:
You never had a perfect life. You never even had a family. All you had were masks.
And you never realized how fragile your world was until it started cracking beneath your feet. You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to collapse on the floor. This night will change everything. You just don’t know how much. Not yet.
Your legs barely carry you up the staircase. Each step feels like it’s sinking into water, heavy and trembling, your vision blurring as the words from downstairs echo like a curse you can’t shake off. You don’t even remember how you made it to your door. One moment you were pressed to the wall listening to your stepmother and stepsister plan your destruction, and the next… you’re here.
Inside your room. Safe, but not really.
You close the door quietly, turning the lock with a shaking thumb. The soft click feels like the only sound in the world, and the moment it happens, your knees finally give out. You slide down against the door, your back hitting the wood, chest collapsing as the adrenaline drains out of you. The silence is suffocating. For a moment, you can only hear your heartbeat--violent, uneven, refusing to slow down.
You curl your fingers into your hair as the memories start to replay. Tonight wasn’t supposed to go like this. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. It was supposed to be just you, Daylan, and your 2-year anniversary dinner, pretending you weren’t drowning and that he wasn’t growing distant every week. Everything had been perfectly curated for Instagram. A candlelit reservation at the rooftop restaurant he liked. A champagne glass he knew you couldn’t handle. A dress Mira picked out.
Mira picked it out.
Your stomach twists. Until the moment it all shattered. The argument. The way he snapped. The way you stormed out. The way he didn’t follow.
Your breath stutters. The weight in your chest expands painfully. This wasn’t just an argument. It was your miracle. Your escape. Because if you hadn’t left–if you hadn’t snapped, if you hadn’t broken up with him on the street, in the rain, with mascara streaking your cheeks and your heart feeling like it was splitting-- You would’ve been drugged. You would’ve been ruined.
You swallow, but it hurts. Your throat feels scraped raw, as though you’ve been screaming even though you haven’t said a word. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your face in them.
How long… how long had they been planning this?
Your hands grip your shins tighter as the truth settles heavily around you like dust. Mira’s voice echoes in your head, mocking and clear:
“Did you give Daylan the drug? He better record everything properly.”
A sharp, trembling breath leaves you. Record everything. They were going to destroy you physically, emotionally, publicly. They wanted the world to see a version of you that would erase every bit of credibility you had built. Every brand deal. Every image of strength and confidence you presented online.
For what? For a marriage you never wanted? For a man you barely know?
Alex Rhee.
You exhale shakily. Tomorrow, your father planned a dinner where the Rhee family would officially announce your engagement. You don’t even know Alex. You don’t know his face, his voice, his personality. You only know his name and the weight it carries. And yet Mira wants that life so badly she tried to break yours. You gently smack your head back against the door, frustration burning behind your eyes. The tears you’ve been holding in finally slip free, warm trails down your cheeks.
This chapter of your life was supposed to end with heartbreak, maybe even loneliness. Not... this. Not almost losing everything. Not almost losing yourself.
I almost got raped by the man I thought loved me.
The thought slices through you and you gasp, covering your mouth to choke back a sound that’s half sob, half disbelief. You trusted him. You defended him. You forgave him too quickly, apologized too often.
And he… He was going to hand you over. Like you were nothing. Like you were just a ticket into your family’s world. Your chest tightens unbearably. Your vision swims. You force yourself to breathe. Slowly, shakily, like a child learning how lungs work. You push your back harder against the door, as if physically trying to keep the world out. Your phone buzzes on the floor beside the bed. You stare at it without moving. You know who it is. It’s Mira. Two messages. The first:
“Did you reach home? Dad slept early. Don’t wake him up! Lets talk about your anniversary celebration tomorrow!”
The second:
“Send me the recording of your cake cutting when you get it from Daylan.”
Your stomach churns. A laugh escapes you, broken and humorless. They think you’re still part of the plan. They think you’re still their pawn. They think you’re naïve enough to not question anything. They don’t know that you heard everything. They don’t know you survived their trap. They don’t know you’re not the same girl who left the house earlier.
I need proof.
You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand and force your limbs to move. You crawl toward your nightstand and grab your phone. You don’t open her messages. You open your call logs. You scroll. Your finger hovers over Daylan’s name.
You want proof, but you don’t want to hear his voice. You don’t want to hear excuses. You don’t want to hear lies.You scroll again. Your mom’s name sits there. Unchanged. Untouched.... You had memorised her number as a child.
A fresh wave of tears stings your eyes.
I wish you were here. I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish you could tell me why people change like this. Why love turns into cruelty so easily.
You blink rapidly, forcing the tears back. You have no one to rely on now except yourself. You stand up, gripping the edge of the table to steady your legs. Your reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Mascara smudged, lipstick faded, eyes red and glossy.
You look like someone who’s been shattered and is still trying to piece herself together even as the edges cut her fingers. You take a shaky breath.
“I can’t tell Dad yet…” you whisper to your reflection. Not when he has so much riding on this marriage.
Not without evidence. Not without knowing exactly how deep the betrayal goes. He won’t believe you. He’ll think you misunderstood. He’ll think you’re overreacting.
But he can’t ignore proof. Your hands tremble as you walk to your bed and sit down slowly, every muscle aching with the weight of what almost happened to you. The room feels cold. The silence feels colder. Your mind drifts back to earlier in the night.
FLASHBACK -- A FEW HOURS AGO
“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, the rain pounding against the pavement behind you as you stood outside the restaurant.
Daylan rubbed his forehead. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“You forgot our anniversary. Again,” you choked out. “And you didn’t even apologize.”
He shrugged. Shrugged. “You influencers celebrate everything like it’s a milestone. I didn’t think it mattered.”
Something inside you cracked. “You think I don’t matter.”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then put some from your own,” you said quietly.
“Anything. Something that shows you care. Something that shows you still want us.”
He said nothing.
The silence stretched, suffocating, loud even in the rain. You stepped back. “I’m done, Daylan.” you said,
“You’re being dramatic.” he muttred, yeah... muttred.
“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I’m being honest.”
He didn’t stop you. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t even look hurt. He just watched as you walked away.
BACK IN THE PRESENT
You grip your arms, nails digging into your skin. His apathy saved you. Your breakup saved you. If you had stayed just ten minutes longer-- Just one more drink-- Just one more moment of trusting him-- Your entire life would’ve been destroyed. You lie back on your bed, staring at the ceiling through blurry eyes. The weight of reality finally crashes into you all at once. You cover your mouth as the sob finally escapes, messy and raw. But it’s quiet.
You learned long ago how to cry silently. After a few minutes, you roll onto your side, clutching your pillow, trying to ground yourself. Tomorrow… Tomorrow, you were supposed to stand next to Alex Rhee and smile for the cameras. Perfect daughter. Perfect fiancée. Perfect life. All built on a lie about to crumble.
You close your eyes tightly.
I need proof. I need to protect myself. I need… time.
Your breath hitches. You whisper into the fabric of your pillow:
“Why does everyone want something from me?” You curl into a tighter ball, exhaustion finally pulling you under. You don’t sleep peacefully. But you sleep. Because your body can’t cry anymore. And somewhere in the house, footsteps pass by your door--Irene, checking, listening. But you don’t hear her. You’re already slipping into darkness, clinging to the last coherent thought you have before sleep claims you:
I escaped tonight.
But tomorrow… my real battle starts.
Morning does not arrive softly. It crashes into your room like a storm you were never prepared for. You wake up to the vibration of your phone, a rapid, violent buzzing against your nightstand that feels like the universe trying to punch its way into your life. Your eyes burn from crying, your head throbbing from a night spent curled on the floor because you couldn't convince your body to move after everything that almost happened.
You reach out blindly, fingers trembling as you grab your phone. And then you see it. Your name. Everywhere. Every notification stacked with one headline repeated in different fonts, different colors, different levels of dramatized outrage:
“Influencer Y/n spotted leaving ex-boyfriend Daylan’s home late at night.”
“Reconciliation or more?”
“Exclusive: Y/n seen exiting in distress -- lovers’ quarrel?”
“Sources confirm they were together for hours.”
Your heart freezes. Your lungs forget air exists. No. No, no, no--
You scroll with shaking hands.
Comment sections blur.
“She went back to him. Typical.”
“Attention seeker.”
“Bet she cheated on the new fiancé already.”
“Sl*t.”
You feel the blood drain from your face. I didn’t even stay. I ran. I ran because he-- Your throat closes so hard you choke on your breath. You drop the phone, pressing a palm over your mouth to stop the sob that claws its way up. Your room feels too small.
The world feels too loud. And your phone lights up again. This time with something worse. Something intentionally worded to destroy.
“Alex Rhee’s family releases informal statement:
‘We are deeply disappointed.’”
You don’t even know them. You’ve never met Alex. Never spoken to him. Yet his world is collapsing onto yours with the force of a crashing plane. And then-- The final blow.
A live statement. Made by Daylan. Your breath stops. You open the clip. He looks tired, fake tired, the kind of exhaustion people imitate when they want sympathy. He’s standing outside his apartment, reporters crowding him, microphones shoved near his mouth.
“Daylan, did Y/n spend the night with you?”
He gives a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
Acting. Always acting.
“I don’t want to ruin her reputation,” he says.
Liar.
“I don’t want to talk about private moments,” he continues softly, like he’s being forced.
Liar.
“But... she doesn’t remember.”
A gasp ripples through the reporters. Your heart stops.
“And yes,” he says quietly, eyes lowered like he feels guilty, “we DID sleep together.”
The world silences. You feel your soul leave your body.
Your fingers go numb, your phone slipping from your grasp and falling onto your blanket. “He’s lying,” you whisper. The words crack. “He’s lying. He’s lying.” Your entire body trembles violently. Your breath comes out in shallow, panicked bursts.
I almost got raped by the man I thought loved me... and now he’s saying this? He’s turning it on me?
Your stomach twists. You lunge off the bed and barely make it to the bathroom before you throw up everything inside you. Your forehead hits the cool tile. Your entire body shakes. You don’t know how long you sit there. Minutes. Hours. The world outside keeps burning. When you finally walk back to your room... you hear voices. Your stepmother, Irene. Your stepsister, Mira. Whispering near your door. Mira speaks first, sugar coating her voice in fake concern.
“Do you think she’s awake?”
“She should be,” Irene murmurs. “Poor thing must be devastated.”
You open the door. Both women jump, plastering on expressions of worry. “Oh, sweetheart,” Irene sighs, coming toward you with open arms. “We saw the news. Come here. It must be so hard.” You stiffen when she hugs you. Her perfume suffocates you, thick and floral and cloying in your lungs.
She strokes your hair too gently, too rehearsed. Mira folds her arms, looking you up and down with a smirk she tries to hide as concern. “Guys like Daylan... they always come back,” she says with a small shrug. “But I guess he decided to go public before you could.” You blink at her. Shock slowly morphs into rage. Irene tuts softly. “Mira, that is not helpful.”
Mira tilts her head, biting her lip to keep the grin from slipping out. “I just mean... bad timing, right? The marriage announcement is tomorrow.” Your heart clenches. Right.
Alex Rhee.
A stranger. A name tied to your future like a death sentence.
Irene gives your arms a little squeeze. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll talk to your father. He might delay it.” You know she’s lying. She wants this marriage more than anyone.
You step out of her embrace, wiping your face, trying to breathe despite the panic crawling over your skin. “I didn’t sleep with him,” you say quietly. Your voice shakes. “But he’s lying. He-- something happened. I didn’t-- I didn’t stay. I left.”
Mira raises a brow. “So the reporters are lying too?” You stare at her. “No,” you whisper. “Daylan is.” Irene sighs sympathetically, but her eyes gleam. “Sweetheart... everyone saw you leaving his house late at night.” “It wasn’t like that!” They exchange glances. You feel the floor tilt. Irene rubs your arm again. “I know you’re overwhelmed. And I’m on your side.”
She’s not. She never has been. “But until you have proof, sweetheart,” she continues softly, “there’s nothing we can do.” Those words hit like a slap.
Nothing we can do. Nothing we will do. You swallow hard. There is only one truth now: You are alone in this. Your dad knocks on your door an hour later.
He looks exhausted. Older. More worried than you’ve seen him in years. He sits beside you on the bed. “Kiddo... please tell me the truth.”
You look down at your hands. “I didn’t sleep with him.” “I want to believe you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “But the world is watching. Alex’s family is furious. They’ve already called me twice this morning.” Your stomach sinks.
Alex. The man you're supposed to marry in a few months. A man whose face you’ve never seen. A man who probably thinks you’re a disgrace before he even knows your voice. Your father takes a slow breath.
“I just... I need to know if I should defend you.” That sentence breaks you. Your throat tightens painfully. Even you’re not sure? Tears blur your vision. “Dad... please believe me.”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, there’s love. But also fear.
“I do,” he murmurs. “But I don’t know how to prove it.” You wipe your face. You stand. “I’ll get proof,” you whisper. “I promise.”
Downstairs, Irene watches you pass with soft eyes. Too soft. Too gentle. “Take some rest, sweetheart,” she calls out. “You’ve had a long night.”
Mira stands behind her, lifting a mug of coffee to her lips. Her smirk is gone. She’s smiling now. Wide. Pleased. Exactly the way someone smiles when the fire they lit finally spreads.
Back in your room, you collapse on your bed.
Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a screenshot of a new headline. Sent by an anonymous number.
“Breaking: Fiancé Alex Rhee unfollows Y/n.”
Your breath catches. You stare at it. Frozen. Another buzz.
“Alex Rhee requests private meeting with fiancee.”
Your blood chills. You read the caption under the paparazzi post:
“Sources say the clean-cut heir is disgusted.”
You fall back on your pillow, staring at the ceiling. Your heart is cracking. Your reputation is burning. Your future is spiraling. And tomorrow-- You meet the man you’re supposed to marry. A man who already believes the worst of you. Rumors spread like wildfire. And you are standing in the center of the flames.
Night comes too fast.
You spent the entire day in a haze, moving like someone borrowed your body and forgot to return it. The rumors haven’t stopped. The hate hasn’t slowed down. Every few minutes, another notification lights up your phone like a spark thrown onto gasoline. But you’ve stopped reacting. Something colder has taken over. Something sharper. You can’t sit and let your reputation burn. You can’t let Alex Rhee’s family decide your worth before they’ve even met you. And you certainly can’t let Daylan’s lie become your reality. So you do the only thing left to do.
You dress up. Not in influencer glam. Not in brand-deal sparkles. You choose black. A simple, sleek gown that hugs your waist and falls like a whisper around your ankles. You tie your hair up, leaving two soft strands by your face. You put on minimal makeup--just enough to look like you belong in luxury but not enough to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. Because tonight isn’t about looking perfect. It’s about surviving.
Its The Rhee Charity Gala
You arrive through the side entrance because you can’t risk paparazzi. You study the guards, the cameras, the patterns of movement. Your heart pounds so loudly you think it might echo against the marble walls. You are not invited. You are not welcome. And yet you walk in like you own the place.
The gala is enormous--glass walls stretching into the night sky, chandeliers glittering like frozen rain, guests dressed in gowns that cost more than cars. Classical music floats through the room, elegant and haunting.
You hear whispers immediately.
“That’s her.”
“Alex’s fiancée.”
“Have you seen the news?”
“She has the nerve to show up?”
You keep your gaze forward. Let them talk. I didn’t come for them. You slip past waiters, past photographers, ducking your head every time a camera flashes too close. You only have one goal:
Find Alex Rhee. Explain. Clear your name. Beg, if you have to.
Except... You realize something horrifying. You’ve never seen him. Not in person. Not even in a clear recent photo. His face is a rumor, always half-covered by sunglasses or turned away from paparazzi. You have no idea what Alex Rhee looks like. Your pulse stutters.
Great. Perfect. Wonderful. I’m supposed to confront a man whose face I don’t even know. Panic tightens your chest. Then you spot the outside terrace. Quiet. Dark. Empty. Maybe he stepped away from the crowd. You move toward it, heels clicking against the marble until the noise disappears into the soft hum of the night air.
The terrace is breathtaking. A massive infinity pool reflects the moonlight in silver ripples. Lanterns line the edges, casting warm gold onto the water. Beyond it, the city stretches in glittering lights. And there-- at the far end-- sits a man.
Alone. Relaxed. Arms resting casually over the back of the lounge chair. He looks like he belongs to the night--sharp lines softened by moonlight, jaw carved with quiet arrogance, dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. Beautiful. But not gentle. There is something dangerous about him. Calm in a way that feels like still water hiding deep currents. You swallow.
That has to be him. Alex Rhee. The heir. The man who thinks I’m a scandal.
Your throat tightens. You step closer. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t react at all. You gather your courage, holding your dress so your hands stop trembling. “Alex?” you call out softly. His head turns slightly. And then fully. His eyes land on you.
Dark. Sharp. Intrigued. But not surprised. Slowly, he sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying you with a focus that makes heat rush up your spine. A faint smirk touches his lips.
“what do you want?” he asks, voice smooth like velvet dipped in danger. Your heart stops. You blink. “Can we talk...please?” His smirk deepens just a fraction. Not mocking. Curious.
Your breath catches as he stands--slow, deliberate--and walks toward you. Each step controlled. Confident. Predatory in the quietest way. He stops an arm’s length away. His cologne surrounds you--dark wood, cold smoke, something expensive and clean.
“Hm...You are?” he questions, more like daring you to not answer.
You stare at him.
Something feels wrong. Off. But your brain is too overwhelmed to process anything beyond survival instinct.
“I’m... Y/n.”
he hums
Your chest tightens. Your palms sweat.
“Relax,” he says softly. “I don’t bite.”
“I came to explain,” you say, voice cracking. “About the rumors.” He raises a brow. “The ones with your ex?”
You nod. The shame burns.
“I didn’t sleep with him,” you whisper. “He’s lying. I swear.”
He watches you. Silent. Unblinking. It unnerves you. Especially when a strange glint flickers in his eyes--something dark, something unreadable.
“And your reason for coming alone?” he asks.
Your breath trembles. “Because I had to tell you the truth myself before anyone else does.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re an interesting puzzle.
“Brave,” he murmurs. “Or stupid. Not sure which yet.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks. You look away, clutching your trembling hands.
“I just... I don’t want you thinking I’m someone I’m not.”
“And who are you?” he asks quietly.
Your lips part. Who am I?
A liar, according to the internet.
A scandal, according to the public.
A disgrace, according to Alex’s family.
But you lift your chin. “I’m someone who didn’t ask for this marriage but still tried to do my best. And I’m not the person the media says I am.”
Silence stretches. Then-- He steps closer. Too close. You inhale sharply. His hand lifts—fingers brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. Your breath catches. He shouldn’t touch you. He shouldn’t look at you like that. He shouldn’t make your heart race this hard. But he does.
“You’re interesting,” he says slowly. “Much more than I expected.”
Your chest tightens. His gaze lingers on your lips. Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Then-- He smiles. Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous.
“Follow me,” he says.
Before you can ask why, he turns and walks deeper into the terrace toward a shadowed corner. You hesitate. Something in your gut twists. This feels wrong. This feels... too easy. But if he’s Alex Rhee-- If this is your only chance-- You can’t afford to back away. So you follow. Even though every part of you whispers one thing:
Just so you know you’ve just stepped into the lion’s den with someone far more dangerous.
Christopher leads you deeper into the shadowed corner of the terrace, away from the laughter, the lights, the people who would recognize your face and tear you apart all over again. The air feels colder here. Sharper. You wrap your arms around yourself as he turns, leaning casually against a stone pillar, moonlight touching one side of his impossibly perfect face. His dark eyes gleam with something unreadable.
“Well?” he asks softly. “You said you wanted to explain.”
Your throat is dry. Your knees feel weak. But you force your voice to stay steady.
“I didn’t sleep with Daylan,” you stated again. “He’s lying. They’re all lying. I left early. I wasn’t drunk enough to not remember. The rumors are fake, and Mira and Irene planned everything. They wanted to ruin me so Mira could replace me.” His head tilts slightly, like he’s assessing a fragile creature he can’t decide whether to help or crush.
“And you expect me to believe all this?” he questiong, Your breath stutters. “Yes. I’m telling the truth.” you say. A slow smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
“You know,” he says, “most women try to impress me. You’re the first to arrive shaking.”
Heat burns your cheeks. You look away, embarrassed, fingers trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been carrying. He takes one step closer.
“Tell me the part you’re avoiding,” he murmurs. “Why does it matter so much what I think?”
Your chest tightens. Because your life depends on it. Because your father believes this marriage is your redemption arc. Because if Alex Rhee cancels the wedding, it will destroy any chance you have of clearing your name. But how do you say that? How do you tell a stranger he has the power to break you? You swallow.
“I don’t want the marriage canceled.”
He raises a brow. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The single word slams into you. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Heat floods your face, shame, fear, desperation mixing into something raw and humiliating. He doesn’t look away. He enjoys this. He likes watching you struggle.
“I--” your voice cracks, “--I just… don’t want you to think I’m someone I’m not.”
He smiles, slow and dangerous.
“That’s not an answer.”
You clench your hands. Just tell him. Please, just believe me.
“I’ve always…” you choke on your own desperation, “…liked you.”
His eyes flash with sharp amusement.
“Oh?” he drawls. “Always?”
“I mean--” your cheeks burn, “--from what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard. I know we’ve never met but… I’ve admired you.”
He lets the silence stretch. Then, with a low hum, he takes another step until he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Lies are dangerous.”
Your stomach drops. He knows you’re lying. But he’s not angry. He’s entertained. “Tell me another reason,” he presses. “Something better.”
The panic claws up your throat. He’s cornering you. Testing you. And you are breaking, piece by piece. “I’m innocent,” you whisper. “If you want proof, I’ll--I’ll do a virginity test. Right now. Tomorrow. Whenever. I don’t care. I’ll do anything to prove I’m telling the truth.”
The world goes silent. Even the pool’s soft ripples seem to pause. He stills completely--the playful curiosity melting away, replaced with something darker. Something territorial. Possessive. A hunter catching scent of prey he hadn’t expected. His gaze sweeps over you slowly. Not with lust-- With fascination.
“Anything?” he repeats softly.
Your breath shakes. “Yes.”
The faintest hint of obsession glints in his eyes. He steps forward, trapping you between him and the stone wall behind you. Not touching. Just close enough to steal all the oxygen from your lungs.
“You’re interesting,” he murmurs. “Most people come to me with fear. You come with desperation. Honesty. Sacrifice.” His hand lifts--two fingers brushing your chin--just barely. Your knees weaken.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll keep the marriage.”
Your heart leaps. Relief floods through your chest so fast you almost choke on it.
“T--thank you--”
“But,” he adds, voice dropping, “you’ll owe me.” Your breath stops.
“Owe you… what?” He smiles. “That’s for later.”
Fear curls low in your stomach. But before you can respond, a voice cuts through the terrace like a blade.
“here comes the man child.” he mumbles to someone who is walking in. his smile shifts--lazily amused. He steps back just as another figure approaches you both fully.
You recognize him instantly from the internet’s rare photos he matches perfectly. Your blood drains.
That’s Alex Rhee.
The real Alex Rhee.
Your stomach drops so violently you physically sway.
The guy you asumed was alex steps aside, almost proudly, as if revealing a piece of art he’s been hiding behind.
Actual Alex’s eyes land on you. Dark. Sharp. Disdainful.
“What are you doing here?” Alex asks, voice cool, clipped, utterly uninterested in your existence. Confusion crashes over you like a wave. You turn to the man who had tricked you. Your lips tremble. Your voice barely comes out.
“If… if you’re here… then… who…”
The man smiles. A beautiful, lethal smile. The kind that means trouble. The kind that means danger. The kind that means you’ve made a mistake you can never undo.
“That,” he says, spreading his hands casually, “would be because I never told you my name and you never asked.”
He steps closer again, but this time, Alex grabs his shoulder, stopping him.
“Chris,” Alex snaps, “enough.”
Christopher laughs softly. Then he looks at you. Right at you.
“Sweetheart,” he purrs, “I’m not Alex Rhee.”
Your heart stops. He leans in, close enough for you to feel his breath at your ear.
“I’m Christopher Bahng.”
Your entire body goes numb. Cold. Hollow.
Christopher Bahng.
The most feared man in the country.
The ghost in every crime rumor.
The nightmare whispered in elite circles.
The name no one says out loud.
Your legs nearly give out. You back away, shaking, horror crawling under your skin.
You trusted him. You begged him. You gave him everything. You told him the plan against you. You told him your innocence. You offered proof. You offered yourself.
To the wrong man.
Christopher watches you unravel, head tilted, eyes drinking in every flicker of panic on your face. Alex’s gaze sharpens.
“What did he tell you?” he demands. But you can’t speak. Words won’t come. Christopher steps forward again--slowly, deliberately--face a mask of wicked fascination. He smiles.
“You really shouldn’t have come here alone, sweetheart.”
Your blood turns to ice. Because you finally understand. Tonight wasn’t fate. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a trap. And you walked straight into it.
You don’t remember how you made it out of the Rhee estate. You don’t remember how your feet moved, how the night air seared your lungs, how the city lights blurred into streaks of nothing. You only remember the echo of his voice.
I’m Christopher Bahng.
Your stomach twists violently. You almost fall twice while rushing home, vision shaking, breath breaking in uneven gasps. Every step feels like walking through wet sand, heavy, resistant, suffocating. He played me. He watched me fall apart. He knew I thought he was Alex. He let me beg. He let me offer-- You gag, hand flying to your mouth.
I told him I’d do anything.
By the time you reach the gates of your home, your chest is burning so badly you can barely inhale. You fumble with the code, hands trembling, tears already stinging your eyes. You just need your room. Your bed. Silence. Somewhere, anywhere, to fall apart without an audience. The gate clicks open.
You step inside-- And freeze.
Someone is standing right in front of your house. Tall. Rigid. Expensive suit lined with moonlight.
Alex. The real Alex. Your breath stops.
He turns slowly, face carved from cold, polished stone. No warmth. No softness. No hesitation. Just ice.
“What,” he says, voice quiet and lethal, “were you doing with him?”
Your stomach drops so violently you almost stagger.
“I-- I can explain--”
“Good.” Alex steps closer, pulling a folder from under his arm. “Explain these.” He throws the photographs at you. They scatter across the marble steps like fallen leaves. You stare down. Your heartbeat detonates inside your chest. Pictures of you and Christopher by the pool. Christopher leaning close. You shaking. You crying. You begging. You standing alone on the terrace with him. Your fingers tremble as you gather the photos in your hands.
“This is not what it looks like--” Alex laughs.
“Really? Because it looks like you ran straight to another man the night before your engagement announcement.”
“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t know who he was--”
Alex’s brows lift sharply. “Are you saying you accidentally confessed to Christopher Bahng?” The name lands like a punch. Your throat tightens. Alex steps forward again, invading your space without even touching you.
“You humiliated me,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “You humiliated both our families. News outlets already have the photos. Articles are being drafted as we speak.” Your chest goes cold.
“They think you’re cheating with Bahng.” He steps closer. “They think you were with him last night after daylan.” Another step. “They think you slept with him.” Your breath breaks.
“No,” you choke out. “I swear on my life, nothing happened. I thought he was you-- I didn’t know--” Alex’s jaw clenches so hard you hear the grind of teeth. He looks at you like you’re a stranger who has personally insulted his bloodline.
“You should have stayed home,” he says.
You flinch. A light flicks on behind you. Irene’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife dipped in honey. “Y/n?” She places a trembling hand on her chest, face perfectly staged. “What is going on? Why is Alex here? Why are there pictures of you with-- with that man?” Mira appears behind her, hair messy from sleep, wearing false shock like it’s perfume. “Unnie…” she whispers, voice breaking with the perfect balance of pity and judgment. “How could you?”
The world spins. “I didn’t--” you gasp, “--I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear--” Alex cuts in sharply.
“Irene, Mr. Y/L/N has been informed.” His voice is ice toward you, silk toward them. “My family cannot associate with this kind of scandal. Due to the repeated issues involving your daughter, the Rhee family is formally withdrawing the marriage proposal.” Your heart stops. You feel the words physically. Like a blade slicing between your ribs. Mira covers her mouth, pretending to be shocked. Irene pretends to be devastated.
“No…” Irene whispers. “Y/n, what have you done?”
Your eyes burn. “I didn’t do anything!”
Alex ignores your voice completely. “My father will contact yours in the morning. The proposal will be transferred.”
You blink. Slowly. Painfully. “Transferred?” your voice cracks.
Alex meets your eyes with cold certainty. “To Mira.”
Your entire brain blanks out. Your knees buckle. Your breath slips out in a sound you don’t even recognize as human. Mira’s eyes shine with triumph she barely hides.
“Oh… wow,” she whispers. “I… I don’t know what to say…”
You planned all this. You and Irene planned everything. You wanted this. All along. And you won. Alex turns away. He’s leaving. He’s actually leaving. You lunge forward before you can stop yourself.
“Alex, please--” He doesn’t look back. “I don’t want to hear anything from you,” he says softly. “Not now. Not ever.”
Thunder cracks in your chest. Your legs finally give out, and you collapse onto the cold marble, photos slipping from your hands. Your world shatters. Your father rushes out from inside, confused by the noise. He freezes when he sees Alex halfway down the driveway.
“Alex? What’s going on?” Alex stops for only a second. “Ask your daughter,” he says. And then he’s gone. Your father rushes to you immediately.
“What happened?” he kneels, gathering you into his arms, voice shaking. “Y/n, angel, talk to me-- what happened?” “I didn’t do anything,” you sob, collapsing into him. “Dad, I didn’t do anything-- I swear-- I swear--” He holds you tighter.
“I believe you,” he whispers. “I believe you.” He looks up at Irene and Mira with confusion. “What is all this?” Irene folds her arms like a grieving widow.
“It… looks bad, hun. Pictures of her with Christopher Bahng. Alex is furious. Their family won’t deal with this humiliation.” irene said. Your father’s face breaks. He looks at you again, eyes full of helplessness. You’ve never seen him look this small.
“Come inside,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk in the morning. Let’s just get you to bed.” His hand cradles your head the entire walk upstairs. He doesn’t ask more. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t judge. He just holds you. That alone shatters you more. In your room, he helps you sit on the bed.
“Rest,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “We’ll fix this. I promise.”
You nod, but your vision is already blurred from tears. The moment the door closes, your composure cracks again. You fall onto the floor, pressing your hand to your mouth to muffle your sobs. Your body shakes. Your lungs collapse. Your heart feels like it’s been carved out.
I hate him. I hate Christopher Bahng for this. I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone.
You wrap your arms around your knees and curl into yourself. Everything hurts. Your reputation. Your future. Your father’s disappointment. Your own broken pieces scattered all around you. And the worst part? Christopher’s voice won’t leave your head.
You’ll owe me. That’s for later. Careful, sweetheart.
You grip your hair, trembling. “I hate you,” you whisper into the dark. “I hate you. I hate you.” But deep down, under the anger and humiliation, something else curls tightly inside you.
Fear.
Because deep, deep down-- You know he isn’t done with you yet.
-
Morning doesn’t arrive gently. You don’t wake to sunlight, or warmth, or anything that could be mistaken for hope. You wake to your phone exploding. Vibrating so violently on the nightstand that for a second you think it might crack the wood. Dozens of notifications stack up, one after another, faster than your vision can adjust. Your eyelids feel swollen, lashes stuck together from last night’s crying. Your throat burns. Your body feels like an empty vessel. Still, your hand reaches out. Still, you look. And the world ends all over again.
TRENDING #1: “Y/N THE FRAUD”
TRENDING #2: “THE VIRGINITY LIE”
TRENDING #3: “NATIONAL DISGRACE”
Your pulse spikes. You scroll with trembling fingers, each headline worse than the last.
“Influencer Y/n caught seducing Christopher Bahng.”
“Y/n cheats on arranged fiancé with a rumoured criminal.”
“Y/n’s ‘innocent image’ was all an act.”
“Virginity test fake-- sources claim she planned everything.”
Your jaw locks so tightly it aches. You whisper to no one, to nothing, “That’s not true… I never…” The screen glitches from all the alerts. Mira’s voice echoes from the hallway, sweet and poisoned: “Poor thing. She must be devastated.”
You grip the blanket, fists shaking. Even now, even after all this, they’re enjoying it. Of course they are. Your chest feels too tight. Too heavy. Too much.You nearly drop the phone when a new notification slides across the screen:
“Legal Notice from Bahng Corp.”
Your stomach collapses. You tap it open.
CHRISTOPHER BAHNG REQUESTS A PRIVATE MARRIAGE NEGOTIATION WITH YOU.
Your mouth goes dry. No. No, this isn’t real. You blink, but the words don’t disappear. The documents are cold, sharp, terrifying:
A written proposal. A request for your signature. A promise of ‘protection’ in exchange for marriage.
No warmth. No affection. No humanity. Just a deal. A threat dressed like a contract. The walls blur. Your heartbeat slams in your ears. You hear footsteps in the hallway-- your dad’s. You hear him calling your name, worried, broken. You hear Mira pretending to comfort him.
You shut your eyes. You can’t drag him deeper into this. Not yet. You need time to breathe. To think. To exist. But life doesn’t give you that. Not today. Not anymore.
Your phone rings.
Your heart stops. Not a message. Not a notification. A call. An unknown number. But you know. You know exactly who it is. Your hand shakes so violently you almost drop the device. Still, you swipe. Still, you answer.
“…hello?”
A low, controlled breath fills the line. Then a voice-- smooth, calm, deadly. “You’re ignoring the proposal.”
Christopher Bahng.
Your blood freezes. Your grip tightens around the phone. You whisper, “I’m not marrying you.” There’s a pause. Not the startled kind. Not the questioning kind. The kind that means he expected this answer. The kind that means he prepared for it. His tone drops lower, like velvet soaked in poison.
“Y/n.”
Just your name. But it feels like a verdict.
You struggle to keep your voice steady. “You don’t get to ruin my life and then demand I marry you.”
“How dramatic,” he murmurs. “I didn’t ruin your life. I corrected a narrative.”
You choke out a half laugh, half sob.
“You made everyone think I cheated. You let Alex humiliate me. You let the entire country call me a liar.”
“You walked into my world,” he answers simply. “I didn’t invite you in.”
Your throat tightens. He isn’t apologizing. He isn’t explaining. He’s stating facts. As if facts justify everything. As if you deserved it.
You whisper, “I won’t marry you. I’d rather die.”
Another pause. Then the single most terrifying sentence you’ve ever heard:
“If you don’t marry me, your father’s company collapses by sunrise.”
Your breath catches.
“What… what are you talking about?”
He sighs, sounding almost bored. “The banks backing his brand are mine. The private investors are mine. The real estate the factory sits on is mine. All it takes is one phone call.”
Your heart stops. “You’re lying.”
“Try me.”
You feel your soul split open. Your father. Your only remaining parent. Your last anchor in a world that keeps trying to drown you.
“He’ll… lose everything…”
“Not if you say yes.”
Tears blur your vision. “Why me?”
There’s a soft exhale-- almost like a laugh he refuses to let you hear fully.
“You interest me.”
Your skin crawls.
“I don’t want any part of your world,” you whisper.
“You’re already in it.”
“…please…”
“Say yes.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, tears spilling.
“If I say no?”
“I destroy him.”
Your breath trembles. Your heartbeat cracks. Your world tilts. Your father’s smile. Your mother’s memory. The empire he built from nothing. All of it hangs on your next words. Christopher speaks again, patient and lethal:
“Say it.”
Your lips tremble. You hate yourself when the word leaves you.
“…yes.” The approval in his voice is chilling.
“Good girl.”
You flinch.
“I’ll send final documents. You have one hour to sign.”
The call ends. The silence feels deafening, suffocating. You drop the phone on the bed and press your face into your hands. You don’t sob. Not at first. Your body just shakes silently, violently, uncontrollably. Then the dam breaks. And you cry for the future you lost. For the childhood you never had. For the father you must protect. For the mother who isn’t here to pull you into her arms. You cry for yourself. For the girl who just sold her freedom to a man who doesn’t understand the meaning of mercy.
And as the hour ticks forward, as your tears dry on your cheeks, as silence drowns your room-- You whisper the truth you’re terrified to believe:
“I just agreed to marry a monster.”
--
The world does not calm after your yes. It doesn’t forgive you. It doesn’t pause long enough to breathe. It hunts you. Because the very next morning, every news channel broadcasts the headline like a punch to the throat:
“CHRISTOPHER BAHNG ANNOUNCES HIS BRIDE: INFLUENCER Y/N.”
Your hands shake so badly you almost drop the remote. Your father stumbles into the living room, breathless-- but before he can ask anything, the reporter’s voice fills the screen.
“Sources confirm influencer Y/n agreed to marry the rumored criminal in a private arrangement.” The whispers online are merciless.
“So she cheated on Daylan.”
“Then she cheated on Alex.”
“Now she crawled to a criminal? This girl has no shame.”
“She’s desperate for any rich man. She must be good in bed.”
“Slut. Homewrecker.”
You cover your ears. It doesn’t stop. It never stops. Your father grabs the remote, turning off the TV, eyes wide with panic.
“Y/n… what did he make you do?”
You open your mouth-- but nothing comes out. How do you tell him? How do you destroy him with the truth? How do you tell him you sold your life to save his? You can’t. Not yet. So you whisper the only thing you can manage:
“I’m… fine.”
His eyes fill with tears. He knows you’re lying. And you hate that this is the life he fought to give you.
One Month Later
The world still hates you. Every post you upload gets flooded with:
“Whore.”
“Gold digger.”
“Bahng’s new toy.”
“Bet her body is all she offered him.”
Every morning you wake up wondering why Christopher hasn’t announced the wedding date. Every night you wonder why he hasn’t shown up again. Most days he doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t visit. But the fear stays.
Always.
Like a shadow cast over your life. And then-- The Rhee family makes a national announcement:
“ALEX RHEE AND MIRA’S WEDDING WILL BE LIVESTREAMED TO THE COUNTRY.”
Your chest tightens. You knew this was coming. You knew Alex would move on. You knew Mira would win. But it still carves something sharp into your ribs. Your father watches you silently, as if he’s preparing to catch you before you break. Irene and Mira walk around the mansion dressed like royalty, their smugness impossible to ignore.
Mira’s voice drips honey when she passes you: “Try not to cry when you watch it.”
Irene adds,
“You really should be happy, dear. At least someone wants her.”
You don’t reply. You’ve stopped giving them reactions. Stopped giving them power. Stopped giving yourself the illusion that any of them cared.
Wedding Day
You don’t attend. You aren’t allowed. You aren’t welcome.
At the mansion, the TV is already set on the Rhee family channel, livestreaming the wedding hall. The screen shows Mira glowing in a pearl gown, smiling like she owns the world. Alex stands beside her-- stiff, handsome, unreadable. Your throat tightens.
You remind yourself:
He is a stranger. He never knew you. He owes you nothing.
And yet the humiliation burns. Your father sits beside you, gripping your hand. “Don’t watch,” he whispers.
But you do. Maybe because you need closure. Or maybe you need proof that you’re truly alone now. Then--
The smooth livestream suddenly turns chaotic. People gasp. The doors of the Rhee chapel had opened. Gasps ripple through the hall. And then the camera shifts.
Your heart drops.
Christopher walks in.
His presence is a storm-- sharp suit, cold eyes, every step radiating danger. In his fist… he drags someone by the hair.
Daylan.
Beaten. Bruised. Barely standing. You jolt upright. Your blood turns to ice.
“What is he doing?!” you choke.
Your father gasps beside you. On-screen, chaos erupts. Irene stumbles out of her seat. Mira goes pale. Alex’s jaw clenches so hard the mic catches the sound. Christopher doesn’t stop. He throws Daylan onto the floor in front of the altar. Gasps. Screams. The priest drops the Bible. Christopher’s voice booms through the chapel:
“Tell them.”
Daylan cries out, coughing, trembling, trying to crawl away. Christopher presses a shoe to his back.
“Tell. Them.”
Your heart beats so loud you hear nothing else. Daylan sobs.
“Okay! Okay! I’ll say it-- stop--!”
Everyone holds their breath. You hold yours. Daylan’s voice breaks as he speaks:
“I lied! I lied about everything!”
Your father grips your arm. Daylan trembles uncontrollably as he continues:
“Irene paid me! Mira paid me! They told me to drug Y/n-- record her-- ruin her reputation-- make Alex break the engagement-- so Mira could replace her!”
“I never loved her! I cheated the whole time! I just needed the money-- I did everything they said-- I swear!”
Christopher lifts his hand, and your stomach flips when you see his phone screen. Airdropped into the livestream. Recordings. Screenshots. Bank transfers. Voice notes.
The truth. All of it.
The chapel explodes into shouts. Alex turns on Mira so violently that security rushes in.
“YOU USED ME? YOU MANIPULATED MY FAMILY?!” he roars.
Mira drops to her knees. Irene lunges forward, grabbing her daughter, screaming for the cameras to stop. christopher stands like a king in the center of devastation, unbothered. Unmoved. Unshaken. Your father lets out a sob, burying his face in his hands. You don’t move. You can’t. You feel like a ghost watching your own life burned to ashes and rebuilt in front of you. People online reverse their comments instantly.
“Y/n was innocent…”
“She was framed…”
“Oh my god, her own family did this…”
“Why did Christopher defend her?”
“Is he obsessed with her?”
Your throat tightens. There is no relief. Not really. Not fully. Because every truth that surfaces comes from him. From Christopher Bahng.
The man who ruined your life.
The man who saved it.
The man who cornered you into marrying him.
The man who terrifies you more than hell itself.
You stare at the TV, hands shaking uncontrollably. Because now the entire country knows one thing: Christopher didn’t expose the truth for justice. He did it because you are his. And he will destroy the world to protect what he believes he owns. You whisper, voice breaking into a thousand pieces:
“Why… why is he doing this to me?”
Your father looks at you helplessly. He doesn’t have the answer. No one does. Except maybe Christopher. And he’s the last man you ever want to ask.
The world felt different after what happened at the Rhee chapel. It felt quieter. Sharper. Like the air itself was holding its breath, unsure whether to collapse or erupt. You had spent an entire month being humiliated, torn apart, judged, mocked, and disgraced in ways you didn't even know a human heart could survive. And then--in one night--Christopher Bahng turned everything upside down.
You weren't sure whether to thank him or run from him.
Your body still shook from the way he dragged Daylan in front of the entire country like a broken offering.
The recordings. The texts. The way Daylan's voice cracked as he confessed that Mira and Irene had paid him to break you. To ruin you. To infiltrate your life. To shatter you slowly.
You had stood frozen in your room, too shocked to move, the broadcast playing on every TV and screen across the mansion. Alex had screamed at Mira. Irene had fainted. The scandal had ripped the Rhee family in half. And Chris-- Chris had walked away from the chaos with the calm of a man watching a chessboard he’d already solved. And now, thirty minutes after the disaster wedding, you and your father were rushing to the venue--because your father had insisted. He needed to thank Christopher Bahng. You, on the other hand… You weren’t sure why you came. You weren’t even sure you could look that man in the eye without feeling every emotion in existence collide inside you.
At the chapel
The reception hall still stank of panic. Guests whispered in clumps, shaken, gossip staining the air. Photographers had been kicked out. Security roamed every corner. Alex and Mira had been escorted away to continue a wedding none of them wanted. Your father pulled you through the marble hallway, his breath uneven. Your father--the strongest man you knew--had cried tonight. Broken down. Because he finally learned just how thoroughly you had been betrayed.
He spotted Chris before you did. Christopher was walking away from the main hall, hands tucked into his pockets, suit immaculate despite all the blood that had stained the night. Daylan’s blood. His lies. His downfall. Your father rushed forward.
"Mr. Bahng! Please... wait!"
Christopher stopped. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.
Dark eyes unreadable. Expression cool and terrifyingly collected. Your father bowed.
Actually bowed.
"Thank you," he choked. "Thank you for saving my daughter from a trap I never saw. Thank you for exposing them before they destroyed her forever." You froze.
Hearing your father thank that man... That man who had forced you into marriage with the threat of total financial destruction... It left a strange, painful knot in your chest. Your father bowed again, voice trembling.
"Please... I know my daughter is now tied to you legally. I know I owe you everything. But I beg you... keep her away from whatever world you belong to. She is innocent. She is gentle. She cannot survive the darkness I suspect surrounds you." You swallowed hard.
Christopher’s eyes flicked to you for a moment--brief, sharp--and you hated the way your breath caught. Then he looked back at your father. And what he said made the world stop.
"I give you my word."
Your father let out a broken, relieved sob. You... froze. You... stared at him. Christopher Bahng gave his word? The man who forced you into marriage? Who threatened to crush your father's empire? Who manipulated every step of your downfall and reconstruction? Christopher’s word was a dangerous thing--rare, sharp, final. He didn't lie often. He didn't need to.
And when he said something... he meant it. Your father squeezed your shoulder, whispered a soft apology for everything you'd been put through, and went back inside to check on the remaining chaos. Which left you and Christopher alone.
Silence.
Heavy, tense, electric. You watched him walk toward the entrance, hands in his pockets, steps slow and unhurried. You followed him without even thinking. Outside, the cold night air slapped your face awake. His car was parked under the grand driveway canopy--a sleek black benz, engine humming softly. His driver stood by the door, waiting. Christopher paused when he saw you there already. Right you must have walked by when he was checking his messages.
You stood directly beside the passenger door, blocking his path. He didn't speak first. He simply looked at you with that unreadable expression--that gaze that felt like it carved you open quietly. Like you were the only thing he saw.
"Why?" you snapped, breath uneven. "Why did you do all that?"
He didn't answer. "Why force me into marriage? Why ruin my reputation? Why trick me? Why drag Daylan in like... like some kind of warning? Why expose Mira and Irene like that? Why involve yourself at all?"
His eyes lowered to your trembling hands. You hated that he noticed.
"You destroyed everything," you whispered. "And then you fixed everything. And I still don't understand why."
Chris tilted his head slightly, watching you with eerie calm.
"So tell me," you pressed, stepping closer, "what do you get out of this? What do you gain by ruining me, then saving me? By forcing me into your world but promising my father to keep me out of it?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He wasn't annoyed. He wasn't angry. He was… listening. Really listening. Focusing on your every word like it mattered. That unsettled you more than anything.
"I hate what you did to me," you breathed. "I hate that you tricked me. I hate that you dragged me into your mess. And I hate that you--"
Your voice cracked. Damn it.
You hated that too.
"And I hate that I'm saying this but... thank you," you whispered. "For tonight. For the truth. For giving me back my dignity. Even if you were the one who tore it away first." The wind blew lightly, brushing hair across your face. Christopher slowly lifted his hand.
For a moment, you thought he was going to touch your cheek. But instead... He gently patted the top of your head.
A soft, controlled tap. Almost awkward. Almost tender. Like he wasn't used to comforting people. Like he didn't know how to express whatever he was feeling. And then he said it lightly, calmly, almost bored:
"I will make sure the internet and media apologize to you."
Your eyes widened. It wasn't a reassurance. It wasn't a promise. It was a statement of fact. Something inevitable.
Like rain. Or gravity. And then-- He stepped around you, opened his car door, and got inside without another word. Your mouth fell open slightly.
"That's it?" you blurted. "You're just going to leave after saying that?"
He looked at you from inside the car, one eyebrow lifting faintly. He didn’t answer. His driver closed the door. The car began to pull forward. You stepped back, watching the taillights glide away like a shadow slipping into the night. You stood there alone. Angry. Confused. Shaken. And even more furious at how your heart refused to steady itself.
You went home with your father.
Still trembling. Still unsure of anything. You collapsed on your bed, staring blankly at your wall when your phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again. And again. Notifications flooded in faster than you could open them.
News alerts.
Online articles.
Public apologies.
Statement after statement.
Breaking News: Daylan confesses to deliberate sabotage, cheating, and fraud.
Trending Topic: 'Y/n was framed'
Public Apology from Rhee Family Spokesperson: 'We regret misjudging the situation'
Major Fashion Magazine: 'Our previous article about Y/n was unfair and incorrect'
Influencer Pages: 'We owe Y/n an apology.'
Talk shows.
Brands.
Journalists.
Hate accounts.
Everyone.
Your phone couldn’t keep up.
Every apology looked rushed. Panicked. Forced.
As if someone had scared them into fixing everything immediately. Someone powerful. Someone feared.
Someone named Christopher Bahng.
You stared at your screen, heart pounding. He said it. And then he made the entire country kneel in apology overnight. You sat in silence, phone buzzing nonstop beside you. Your throat tightened. Because for the first time since all this began-- you felt something you never expected to feel toward him.
Safety.
And that terrified you most of all.
....To be continued.
a/n:
Before y'all come to choke me! I had no choice but split this fic into 2 parts 'causeeeee tumblr hates me. It keeps fucking giving me the STUPID ASS error of 'dAnG, 1000 bLoCkS AllOwEd PeR PoSt!' fuck ass. I AM CRASHING OUT. GENUINE. CRASHOUT. Anyways I hope y'all enjoyed this atleast, sorry for the delay my lovies!
Ahem. Part 2 will take time- HOPEFULLY BY TOMORROW I WILL BE ABLE TO POST!
