The Boy Who Disappeared | Junhoe Chaebol AU
Pairing: Koo Junhoe x Reader
Genre: Chaebol AU, Dark Romance
Count: 11k+
Warnings: 18+ (Mature Readers Only). Part One of a three-part story featuring explicit sexual content, possessive and obsessive behavior, jealousy, emotional manipulation, physical abuse, and dubious consent.
Arranged to marry Junhoe, heir to Korea’s most powerful family, you knew the depths of his consuming love. But after a terrible event that nearly shattered your lives, he vanished without a trace—leaving you under suspicion and haunted by one question: was he ever truly gone?
Author's Note: I cannot, for the life of me, move on from Junhoe's undercover look in his drama No Mercy as Eric Choi, so why not write something inspired by it but make it dark romance so here it is. Also this fic's plot is loosely inspired by the 2014 film Gone Girl.
Part One: Boston Isn't Where It Started
To your family and the Koos, the engagement was a strategic triumph—a high-stakes deal sealed to secure their empire. Two dynasties, formidable and wealthy, merging into one. Soon, they wouldn’t just reach the top—they’d claim it. And the rest would fall in line. No rivals would remain.
But for Junhoe, this was something else entirely. This was the moment he’d longed for. You—his bride, his soon-to-be wife. And him—your groom, your future husband.
He kept returning to that night. Maybe it was his favorite memory of you—your head on his shoulder as the quartet played a slower piece, your feet moving in sync across the glinting floor, dancing like the rest of the world had fallen away.
It felt perfect. Untouchable. Why did it all have to fall apart?
Junhoe’s face was the last thing you saw before darkness took you. You were eight.
You were in a sterile hospital room—white sheets, blinding light. Your mother stood near the bed, arms crossed, listening as the doctor said, “Food poisoning.”
You’d thrown up on the floor just as you woke, but she merely glanced down, composed as ever yet clearly annoyed. “Not on my Prada heels,” she muttered, as if you’d spilled juice on her favorite rug.
After a week, you came home to your bedroom blooming with color—balloons, bouquets, and cards from classmates and teachers. One read, Get well soon. It was from Yejin. Another, scrawled in messy handwriting, read, I thought you died.
It could only have come from no one but Yejin’s little brother, Junhoe.
You were too young to understand why you were arranged to marry someone like him. But despite your naivety, you could sense when someone disliked you—and he certainly did.
Yejin never visited you again after that incident.
At school, Junhoe ignored you—except on the days he chose not to. His shoulder brushed past you once, knocking your books loose without an apology. One time in the canteen, he made you trip. Your tray hit the floor, food splattering everywhere as laughter broke out. You’d never felt more humiliated.
You began eating alone after that, beneath a tree outside the school grounds—away from everyone, away from him.
You were afraid of him. Everyone was.
You’d seen it happen—Junhoe rising from his seat, pen in hand, and driving it into your classmate’s ear. The boy had been kicking his chair. That was all.
The room erupted in screams. No one moved. No one did anything to help. No one dared.
Junhoe was never expelled, no matter how many times the school called his parents. When your family name is etched into the building’s foundation, rules are for everyone else. Not for him. Not for someone like Junhoe.
It was your tenth birthday and no one came.
The balloons sagged. The food went cold. The decorations—meticulously arranged—meant nothing. Even the mascot, paid to stay, danced for no one.
Your parents were somewhere in Europe. Another business trip. Another absence.
Junhoe was your only guest.
He handed you a box covered in cartoon stickers and tied with a shiny ribbon. You opened it, expecting something kind. Inside lay a dead bird. Its feathers stiff. Its eyes glassy.
You ran to your room and locked yourself inside, sobbing. When your parents finally returned, you told your father you would never marry him.
You were twelve when a fire broke out at the Koo family’s mansion.
You pleaded with your parents not to send you to Junhoe’s house while they were away on another month-long business trip. You said you could take care of yourself. But they didn’t listen. They never did.
Your father kissed your cheek, told you to be a good girl, and to try to get close to him. Then he left with your mother.
You stayed in the guest room the whole time, avoiding Junhoe completely, careful not to cross paths. The maids brought meals to your door.
Like your parents, Junhoe’s were also away. Yejin had left for Singapore to begin university.
It was only the two of you in that big, hollow house.
You didn’t know what time it was when the smell of smoke woke you. Your throat burned. Your eyes were heavy-lidded as you tried to locate the source.
Smells like fire, was all you could think before the coughing started. The air grew thick and hot. You scrambled out of bed, still in your pajamas, and opened your bedroom door—only to find flames creeping along the first-floor hallway.
I need to get out of here, flashed through your mind, a primal instinct kicking in. You ran toward the staircase, but stopped at the doorway across from yours.
Junhoe’s room.
“Has he gotten out?” you whispered, just as chaos erupted downstairs—panicked voices, someone calling you and Junhoe’s name.
“They’re still upstairs!”
“How can we get through? The stairs are now on fire!”
“Someone save them!”
“The firefighters are coming!”
Without thinking twice, you ran straight into Junhoe’s room, where he sat on the bed—unmoving, staring into nothingness.
You grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the window. Flames were already licking the walls. He didn’t hesitate—he took your hand as you both climbed out onto the roof.
The firefighters arrived just in time, lowering you down with a ladder.
You didn’t say a word to each other afterward. Even as the medics treated you, only your eyes spoke—watching the mansion burn into the night.
That fire was the last time you saw Junhoe.
Your parents told you the Koos had moved elsewhere while the mansion underwent renovation. It hadn’t been completely destroyed, but the damage would keep them away for months—long enough for scaffolding to rise over the charred hallways and for workers to restore everything to its former glory.
You wondered why Junhoe stopped attending school altogether. Days blurred into weeks and weeks into months.
As life returned to normal, you tried not to dwell on his absence—and what you might have shared with him that night of the fire.
Or so you thought.
You didn’t notice how long the Koos had been gone, even though the mansion had been finished for months. It looked exactly as it had before the fire—as if nothing had ever happened.
With their return came Junhoe’s reappearance at school, much to everyone’s surprise.
What startled you most was how different he seemed—like he’d undergone some kind of transformation.
His eyes were brighter. He smiled often, laughed easily, and always seemed to find ways to be near you—watching, waiting, wanting your attention.
You weren’t sure what to make of this new Junhoe.
You used to be scared of him—used to stay out of his way. But he never stopped showing up.
The new seating arrangement made him your seatmate. He greeted you every morning at the lockers, waved in the hallways, and joined you for lunch. Since you lived close to each other, he’d carry your books and ride home with you after every class.
Slowly, without you even realizing it, the walls you’d built around him began to crumble.
By the time you reached high school, the two of you were inseparable.
One of you always saved a seat for the other whenever someone was late to class. Junhoe would tease you about your notes during lessons and steal your snacks during breaks. In P.E., he made a habit of turning every activity into a personal contest. He’d block your path during relay drills, toss the ball just out of reach, or lift you off the ground mid-play until you swatted at him to stop.
Weekends meant shopping trips in Apgujeong or flights with your families to Jeju, Tokyo, or Paris—always first class, at times private jets. Junhoe trailed behind you through boutiques, arms full of your bags, teasing you for taking too long to decide. But he never complained. He was always patient when it came to you.
You spent hours at the Koos’ mansion, studying side by side in the library or watching movies in their private theater—the screen glow soft against his face as he leaned in to whisper something that made you laugh.
Sometimes, you stayed the night. Sometimes, he did at yours. You slept in separate rooms, at least at first. But later, when you couldn’t sleep, you’d text him. He’d sneak in with earphones in, watching movies on his laptop while you lay next to him. Once you drifted off, he’d crash on the sofa to sleep.
There were days when neither of you wanted to go home. Junhoe would ask the chauffeur to drive with no destination in mind, the city rolling by unnoticed.
The car sometimes stopped by the deserted river, and the two of you would sneak out with cans of soda that weren’t always soda. One night, Junhoe handed you a cigarette, daring you to try it. You coughed on the first inhale, and he laughed so hard he nearly dropped his lighter.
Junhoe spoiled you without reason.
During late-night study sessions, he’d stand behind your chair, rubbing your shoulders whenever you complained about exams. He bought you things you didn’t need—perfume, jewelry, the newest gadgets—just to see you smile.
Both your parents couldn’t have been more pleased with the progress of your relationship. There was no label—could be friendship, could be something more. But in their world, labels were irrelevant. What mattered was the future. And in that future, marriage between their children wasn’t a choice—it was an expectation.
You were both still young, but you’d always known Junhoe’s reserved devotion was yours alone. Reliable, thoughtful—he could be the sweetest boy to you. Yet it was his protectiveness that made you ask if he’d only learned to hide that part of himself better—the part of him that once filled you with fear.
As an only child from the kind of family you had, you learned early how to stay out of trouble. You studied hard, treated your teachers and classmates with respect, and made sure never to bring shame to your parents’ name. You never really had the chance to form a circle of friends—Junhoe was the only one who ever came close. That was how your parents raised you.
“Never get attached to those beneath you,” your mother once said before your very first day of school. “Your destiny is different from theirs. They will never be part of your world.”
That was the day you learned to rely only on yourself.
There were times when students at school made fun of you or picked fights, but you always brushed it off. You knew they’d stop once they realized who you were—who your family was. You could’ve used that power if you wanted to: have someone expelled, blacklisted, fired, even evicted. But you never did. You didn’t want anyone thinking you were weak—or that you needed to hide behind your family’s wealth.
So when you heard someone was spreading a rumor about you, you dismissed it. You didn’t even bother to find out what it was about.
But when the rumor reached Junhoe, he didn’t let it slide.
You thought Junhoe was just late that day. It was math class. The teacher had just started his lesson when the class began to stir. Phones lit up. Everyone was distracted. You frowned. The teacher tried to get the class to settle, but the chatter continued—for a moment, all eyes seemed to land on you, until the classroom door swung open and Junhoe stepped in.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, sliding into the seat beside you, wearing his usual gummy smile.
Your classmates turned back to the board. The teacher carried on, pretending nothing had happened. But you knew better. He’d done something before walking in.
He looked perfect, as always—uniform neat, hair tidy—but his hands gave him away. Tense shoulders, knuckles slightly red.
“Did you hurt him?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Pen hovering over paper, Junhoe’s gaze met yours. He answered slowly, “Would it matter if I did?”
You said nothing. Maybe you were afraid of the answer. Or maybe, deep down, you didn’t want to stop him.
The rumor was gone by the next day. No one spoke of it again. Even the boy who started it was gone. He transferred schools the following week.
Junhoe didn’t just protect you anymore—after that, he controlled the air around you. And you let him.
It felt good, being the one he’d go that far for.
Everyone at school knew what happened to that boy. No one wanted to be next.
The teachers gave you both too much freedom. Whatever Junhoe wanted, Junhoe got. A seat. A grade changed. A schedule rearranged. A complaint that was never put on record.
He only had to ask—his name did most of the work.
But being the center of his world could also feel like being trapped in a cage.
Junhoe noticed everything—who talked to you, who stared too long. You were beautiful, so it was inevitable that someone would try to hit on you—whether it was a senior from another class, the barista at the café near campus, or a stranger on the street when you were out together. He’d handled them with polite hostility—an unspoken threat behind a glare that could pierce anyone.
Junhoe told you which parties to skip, which people to avoid. When you stayed late for group projects, you never asked him to go home first—you knew he wouldn’t.
He’d wait for you, every time, and make sure you got home safely. All the way to your doorstep.
People adjusted themselves around him.
Conversations dulled when he entered the room. Teachers paused before addressing him. Boys stopped messaging you. People didn’t look at you with envy anymore, but with caution. In their eyes, you were something both fragile and dangerous.
No matter where you went, Junhoe always had to come along. But there were times when you’d lie—just to be alone. You’d say you were with your father or mother. He never questioned it; your family was sacred ground, off-limits. You knew he wouldn’t ask them, not even to confirm a suspicion. So you escaped—to places Junhoe never touched: a small spa, a secluded park, a café where you could read and disappear.
It was the birthday celebration of Junhoe’s close friend, Joowan, held in Gangnam—at one of those high-end spots where upper-class sons and daughters liked to hang out: Club Echelon. Joowan had rented out the entire venue for the night. Loud, thumping techno pulsed from the center floor, spun by a famous DJ flown in from Berlin, surrounded by dancers and flashing lights.
The place was swarming with youth, all having a good time. Waitresses glided between tables, serving endless rounds of drinks and lavish food. The air reeked of smoke, perfume, and expensive liquor. It didn’t matter that most of them were underage—as long as they had money. The staff knew better than to look too closely.
In the VIP lounge, Joowan had his arm around his girlfriend, laughing at something only they understood. The group was loud—snapping selfies, shouting over the music, clinking glasses. A few were smoking. You and Junhoe sat with them. He was in it—raising his glass, tossing jokes across the table. You stayed close, sipping your drink, nodding along, laughing when he did.
But after a while, the noise became too much. It made your head hurt. You set your glass down.
“I’ll be right back,” you said, your voice barely audible over the bass.
Junhoe looked at you—the kind of look that always asked where.
You smiled, reassuring. “Just need a minute,” you mouthed.
He didn’t reply, only nodded once before turning his attention back to the conversation at the table.
You slipped out of the lounge, past the velvet ropes, into the hallway. The bass softened behind you, replaced by the muffled thud of music. You followed the pale light seeping from the balcony exit and pushed the door open.
The city stretched wide below you—Gangnam’s skyline glittered under the night.
The air was cool, cleaner than the smoke-filled lounge you’d left behind. You exhaled, finally able to breathe again. For a while, you just stood there, fingers brushing the glass railing, watching headlights snake along the streets.
Back at the lounge, Junhoe was half-listening to Joowan talk. His gaze kept returning to your empty seat.
Minutes passed. Then a few more.
Joowan nudged him. “She ditched you already?”
Junhoe said nothing, checking his watch.
“Where are you going?” Joowan asked as Junhoe stood up.
“Outside,” was all he said, walking away before Joowan could ask again.
You were still alone on the balcony, arms folded against the cold. Somewhere below, laughter rose from the crowd spilling onto the street. You were content with the silence—until the door creaked open behind you.
You didn’t turn right away.
You heard the faint flick of a lighter. Smoke drifted through the air.
From the corner of your eye, you saw a boy—probably your age. Dark hair fell messily over his forehead, his designer jacket half unzipped, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked drunk, his movements slow and careless.
He exhaled toward the sky before glancing sideways, his eyes meeting yours for the first time. He seemed to search his memory, trying to place you—someone he might have known, someone he ought to greet. It didn’t come to him right away, but then it hit him. You noticed it too—the way his gaze lingered a little too long.
“You’re her,” he said finally, almost to himself.
You frowned. “Sorry?”
He smirked. The world was indeed small. He had only seen you in photos, heard about you from relatives and schoolmates—the only daughter from the _____ family, arranged to marry the Koos’ second son since you were seven.
“The Koo girl… so you’re the real thing, huh?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Do I know you?”
He shrugged, taking another drag. “Not really. I’m Choi San. Hanyoung Academy. Heard stories.”
“What stories?” you asked, not really expecting an answer worth hearing.
“About you and your boyfriend.”
You didn’t react. He laughed quietly to himself, flicking ash into the night. “Don’t worry, nothing scary.”
“I’m not worried,” you told him.
“You two are kind of famous, you know? Perfect pair, everyone says.” There was mockery in his tone, thinly veiled. “Always together. Always been that way.”
“You’re drunk,” you said flatly.
He grinned, not denying it. “Why are you here by yourself anyway?”
You turned away, ready to leave, when the balcony door opened again.
Junhoe.
He stopped at the threshold, scanning the space. His eyes went from you to the stranger beside you. His jaw tightened immediately.
“You’ve been gone a while,” he said, voice low.
You opened your mouth, but San spoke first. “The boyfriend?” he asked, though the question was rhetorical. He already knew.
Junhoe didn’t respond. He just stared coldly.
San was nothing but amused. He wasn’t threatened. “Relax. We were just talking.”
You could feel the tension constricting the space on the balcony.
“Let’s go,” Junhoe said to you quietly, not breaking eye contact with him.
San tipped his cigarette toward you in a half-salute. “Nice meeting you.”
Junhoe tried to mask his displeasure as he turned you toward the door, his hand clutching yours, squeezing tighter the farther you went inside.
The noise of the party faded into a dull throb behind you as Junhoe walked fast, his hand clamped firmly around your wrist. You stumbled to match his long strides, your heels scraping against the marble as he dragged you past the VIP lounge without looking back.
“Junhoe, stop,” you hissed under your breath, glancing at the people you passed. Some of them looked away quickly, others whispered—but Junhoe didn’t seem to care.
“Junhoe, you’re hurting me.”
Still nothing. The veins in his forearm stood out beneath his sleeve, his hold unrelenting.
“I need to use the restroom,” you blurted, trying to twist your wrist free. He didn’t react. “Junhoe, please—I said I need to use the restroom!”
Junhoe stopped in his tracks, causing you to bump into him. He turned toward the corridor leading to the restrooms, breathing sharply through his nose, and without a word, pulled you along again.
When you reached the door marked Ladies, you froze. “Junhoe—”
He shoved the door open. The soft chatter inside died instantly. A few girls near the mirrors blinked in confusion before realizing who it was. Koo Junhoe.
Every inch of his posture radiated authority.
“Out,” he said, calm but cutting.
They hesitated only for a second before obeying, mumbling excuses as they brushed past you. One of the staff tried to follow, but Junhoe’s voice came again, firm. “No one comes in. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The door shut behind you both. Only silence remained in the restroom.
You stepped back slowly, moving toward the sinks, your back nearly grazing the counter. Your heart hammered so hard it felt like it might echo. Junhoe reached behind him and turned the lock. The click sounded final.
“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice brittle, almost a whisper.
He said nothing at first, hand still on the lock, shoulders rigid beneath the dark fabric of his suit. When he turned, you braced for fury. But it didn’t come—at least, not yet. The muscles in his face were drawn tight. You felt it—one wrong move, and he might snap.
“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he said, voice strained. “You disappear for ten minutes, and I find you with some guy I don’t even know.”
You started to protest, but it came out jagged. “I wasn’t—he just—”
Junhoe stepped closer, his cologne mixing with the sterile scent of the restroom. “Do you have any idea what that looks like?”
Your throat tightened. “It’s not what you think.”
He laughed once under his breath—humorless. “Then tell me what I’m supposed to think.”
“You’re being crazy, Junhoe,” you said, voice breaking.
“Crazy?” he repeated. “You think I’m crazy? You… you make me crazy.”
His gaze bore into you. “I bet you like the attention,” he continued, the words almost accusing.
Without thinking, the answer came out of your throat. “What if I do?”
He grabbed your wrist, yanking you close, his breath sharp against your skin. “Say that again.”
Adrenaline flared. You tore your arm free. Your palm struck his face once. Twice. Harder. Then your fists pounded his chest, again and again, each blow raw and clumsy with the sobs tearing out of you.
Junhoe didn’t shove you back or grab your hands. He stayed right there as the hits kept coming—until your arms quivered and you finally stopped.
Junhoe took the chance to pull you in by the shoulders, easing you down and letting your forehead rest against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his hands settling lightly on your back. He felt your sobs shake your body against his. Slowly, he lifted a hand, sliding it under your chin to tilt your face toward him. His fingers brushed the damp strands of hair from your cheeks, catching the streaks of mascara left by your tears.
You avoided his gaze, but his words drew you in.
“You’re the only one who can do this to me.”
You couldn’t tell if it was his lips or yours that moved first. What began soft and searching quickly became urgent, hungry. The tension between you igniting in every touch. You let him lift you, setting you swiftly on the edge of the cold sink. You gasped when his tongue traced the edges of your mouth before colliding with yours. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as he let out a low groan. His kisses grew rougher, trailing from your lips down to your neck. A moan escaped you as your fingers tangled in his hair, holding on like it was the only thing keeping you steady.
The air in the restroom felt stifling—heavy with heat.
His mouth was inches from your chest when you moved—reaching for his belt. But he caught your hands before you could.
“You’re all I care about right now,” he said, breath ragged. You watched his hands disappear beneath your dress, his fingers subtly shaking as he pulled your lingerie down, careful not to rush. He drank in the sight of you before sliding the fabric into his pocket. He couldn’t afford to look away.
Junhoe dropped to his knees and lifted the hem of your dress. A soft gust of air brushed along your legs, rising toward your cunt. He started with your thighs, kissing his way down before burying his face between them. You felt exposed, yet strangely safe—your heartbeat loud in your ears, your pulse quickening. You covered your mouth as he began to lick your clit, but he could still hear every hitch of your breath. One of your hands gripped the porcelain sink, grounding yourself as Junhoe’s mouth switched from licking to sucking. Your body shivered, almost tipping off the edge, but he kept you pressed close in his arms. You could feel your pussy drenched as Junhoe inserted a finger with careful precision, adjusting to your every little reaction. It stung at first, but your body adjusted naturally, responding without thought. The intensity built as he increased his pace inside you, his finger and tongue moving in harmony until your body gave in completely, trembling hard against him as you climaxed.
Junhoe cleaned your juices from his finger, licking his lips as you tried to catch your breath.
“I’m gonna buy you the most beautiful ring. Let’s get engaged,” he said, his fervent look melting into excitement, sweat beading on his forehead.
You couldn’t help the small, messy smile tugging at your lips, your hair tousled, cheeks pink.
“I’d love that,” you murmured, reaching up to thread your hands behind his neck, drawing him closer.
Junhoe held back the urge to kiss you once more.
Your engagement with Junhoe was held at a private estate turned event hall, reserved only for Seoul’s elite. You’d heard that even foreign dignitaries had to wait months to book it. The hall had floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Han River and chandeliers that glittered like falling stars, while a string quartet played classical pieces—not just for the two of you, but for the exclusive guests: chaebol families, CEOs, heirs, and heiresses.
You wore Dior—silk white and custom. Junhoe stood beside you in Armani, black on black, his hand resting lightly on your waist as both of you smiled for the flashing cameras. You flaunted the diamond on your ring finger at the photographers’ request—an oval-cut, flawless stone set in platinum, encircled by a halo of smaller diamonds that drew gasps and envious stares from the crowd. Even the Koos’ matriarch had leaned in to whisper, “He chose well.”
Across the hall, you could hear bursts of laughter. Families mingled. The Koos’ executives tapped glasses with your father, while your mother accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and nodded as Yejin and Junhoe’s mother spoke. To anyone watching, it looked like happiness—like everyone was thrilled their children were getting married. But really, it was all for show. A business contract.
Not for Junhoe—or you. It was never about business, especially not for him.
Later, when the flashes faded and the crowd dispersed, both families gathered around you both.
“You’ll start living together after graduation,” Junhoe’s mother said smoothly, as if discussing business logistics. “The penthouse in Seocho is ready. You’ll find it comfortable.”
“I actually thought we’d do that right after the engagement,” Junhoe said, trying not to sound too excited.
The parents exchanged knowing looks, a few chuckles slipping out.
“There’s no need to rush,” your mother said. “The wedding will follow once you’re both of age.”
The others nodded in agreement.
Junhoe’s father smiled, a practiced thing. “Junhoe will spend the summer in London for a preparatory program. He’s been accepted into King’s College—Business Management. As the next heir, he needs to understand global markets.”
You glanced at Junhoe. He didn’t look surprised. His parents had planned it years ago. Every step of his future was mapped out.
His father added, “Even if he leaves for London, the penthouse will stay under your care.”
“And you?” Yejin asked, her gaze shifting to you. “Have you decided where to study?”
You only smiled, unsure what to say. Your father spoke for you.
“She’s still deciding,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “But she’s been looking into programs abroad—communications, literature, things like that.”
Junhoe’s hand held yours, his thumb brushing against your ring. You knew what he wanted you to say. He wanted you near him. And that meant going to London.
But you stayed silent.
“While Junhoe’s in London, she’ll start scouting universities—maybe in the States first,” your mother said.
Junhoe smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“That’s good,” his mother nodded. “There’s plenty of time, darling. I’m sure you two will find ways to see each other.”
Junhoe didn’t let go of your hand, but he didn’t look at you either. You could feel his frustration, held in check. You knew he couldn’t do anything about it. Not this time
Junhoe brushed his lips against yours the moment his boarding was announced. You stood together by the gate, suitcases ready. His flight to London would leave first—yours to Boston a few hours later.
“Text me when you land,” he reminded you. “And every day after that. Don’t make me worry.”
You laughed under your breath. “You sound like my father.”
“I’m worse,” he said with a grin. “I’ll come see you as soon as I get a break. Promise.”
He took your hand and kissed the back of it, like he didn’t want to leave you yet.
“Why can’t you just come to London with me?” he said softly. “I need to see you every day.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, offering him a reassuring smile.
It didn’t surprise you when you saw the bouquet of ivory roses waiting on the bedside table. Junhoe had planned it—of course he had.
You checked in at the Fairmont a little past four. It would be your home for the next six weeks, just enough time to tour the universities on your list and attend short programs arranged by your school. The schedule matched Junhoe’s prep course in London, something your parents had clearly coordinated, though his stay would be longer—eight weeks.
Your room was on the twelfth floor. Bright and spacious, with cream-colored walls and gold accents. A velvet armchair sat near the tall windows, beside a writing desk stocked with stationery you’d never use. Outside, the city was bathed in golden sun.
The roses were elegant—long-stemmed, fresh, and arranged in a crystal vase. A small card rested beside them.
For your first night in Boston. Eight weeks is too long, so don’t forget me. — J
You read his note once more before leaning in to smell the roses, when a quick wave of dizziness passed through you. Jet lag hit you all at once. The flight had been long, and your body felt heavy. You debated whether to order dinner or just crawl into bed and sleep—until you remembered you hadn’t updated Junhoe since landing.
You reached for your phone and saw one missed call, along with three texts from Junhoe—each sent at different times, each carrying his voice in your head.
I’m here. I miss you already.
I’ve checked the flight status, looks like you arrived on time. Tell me you’re safe.
Call me when you get to the hotel.
You dialed Junhoe’s number after reading his texts, half-lying on the bed—your back against the mattress, legs dangling off the edge. The phone rang in your hand, the screen glowing on your cheek.
No answer.
You peeked at the ceiling, waiting. The roses sat on the bedside table, their scent barely reaching you.
The ringing continued, but you didn’t notice when your eyes began to close. You started to doze off, still holding the phone as you waited for him to pick up.
Boston air in summer was warm and breezy, carrying the scent of brick, fresh coffee, and engine smoke. The streets were lined with brownstones and trees thick with green leaves, as students, tourists, and locals moved through the city that morning.
All of it passed through your view from the car window. You liked how it felt—lively, but not overwhelming.
As the car made its way to your first campus stop, Junhoe came to mind. You’d spoken to him earlier that morning, just after waking from a long sleep and seeing his text:
Sorry I couldn’t pick up. Got held up at a dinner with some of the faculty and other guests. You should’ve eaten something before falling asleep. Hope you’re resting well.
Junhoe answered your call during his London campus tour, with footsteps and distant voices reverberating around him. It was only his first day, and his schedule was already packed—orientation, lectures, dinners. He told you how summer there felt colder than back home. He’d expected a roommate, but his parents had arranged a single room for him, with a clear view of the Thames.
He hadn’t forgotten to ask about you, of course—your flight, your hotel, and what your first day in Boston would look like.
“I know you like tea more than coffee,” he said, breath slightly uneven as he walked. “Near the campus you’re checking out, there’s a place called Tatte Bakery. They have great tea and macarons—you’d love it. Grab a bite there between tours. But don’t just snack on sweets. Make sure you eat something more filling too.”
You could picture him saying it, half-distracted by the guide ahead of him, still making time to worry about you. Typical Junhoe. Always watching, even from across the world.
It felt like some kind of normalcy in your relationship with Junhoe. For once, you didn’t need to use your parents as an excuse to be on your own. You liked this side of him—caring for you without being overbearing.
But this could only be temporary. If it weren’t for the distance, for the time apart while preparing for college, you might never have had this space.
So you decided to just enjoy it—six weeks in Boston, all for yourself. Six weeks without Junhoe.
In the weeks that followed, you spent most of your time moving from one campus to another—Harvard, MIT, Boston University. The tours all blended together: ivy walls, quiet libraries, the hum of summer classes. You pictured yourself in each school—wandering hallways, studying, reading—though none of it felt entirely real yet. You asked questions, gathered brochures, and took photos.
Between stops, you scrolled through Junhoe’s messages—quick check-ins, simple updates. The two of you were still adjusting to the time difference, but you still managed to keep each other in the loop.
By late afternoon, you were walking through the busy streets near Cambridge, drawn by the smell of food from a corner stall. You bought a paper cup of clam chowder and a grilled chicken skewer. For someone who grew up with a personal chef and fine dining, the street food tasted surprisingly good.
After eating, you went into a thrift store just around the corner, where the smell of old fabric and wood polish clung to everything. You browsed through faded coats, silk scarves, and chipped ceramics—until a blush-pink jewelry box caught your eye. Its edges were worn, but it felt perfect for your earrings and rings. You bought it.
Then you started craving something sweet—macarons. Junhoe’s suggestion came to mind. Tatte Bakery was nearby. When you arrived, it was bustling with students and tourists, the chatter mixing with the hiss of coffee machines. You were only planning to grab something to go.
Just as you reached the entrance, someone bumped into you—coffee spilling across your dress.
“Shit—sorry!”
You both looked up and froze.
He spoke first. “The Koo girl?” he asked, blinking as he tilted his head.
You recognized him instantly—the guy from the balcony at Club Echelon. You remembered the face, but not the name.
You exhaled sharply and reached into your bag, searching for something to clean the mess. He offered you the napkins in his hand.
“Didn’t see you,” he said, voice casual.
You ignored the gesture, pulling out your own handkerchief and dabbing at the coffee stain. Thankfully, your dress was dark.
“I didn’t expect to run into you here. You checking out schools too?”
“Leave me alone,” was all you said before walking inside, not bothering to glance back.
Behind you, he only smirked and walked off.
Junhoe’s days in London were measured, mechanical—almost. Weekdays began with lectures at the university, followed by strategy workshops and business simulations that ran into the afternoon. Evenings were usually spent in study groups, huddled over laptops and case analyses in the dorm lounge or the nearby café. Some nights, the discussions stretched so late he would skip dinner entirely and settle for black coffee or a granola bar from the vending machine.
Junhoe kept up—for the most part. Prep school was nothing like high school. He couldn’t bend the rules, couldn’t talk his way into better grades or rely on teachers to look the other way. Everything here ran on order and merit. It frustrated him at first, but he adapted. He was still sharp, still capable, and he studied harder than anyone else—if only to maintain appearances. The future heir couldn’t afford to falter.
He got along with people easily, almost effortlessly, but he never let his guard down. There was no need for dominance here, no one to impress with power or reputation.
Still, his focus was divided. Half of him sat in that classroom. The other half was with you, somewhere across the Atlantic.
When his classmates went out for drinks to escape the grind, he would join them occasionally—but even then, his mind was elsewhere. He’d check his phone between talks, between sips—reading your texts, looking at the photos you’d sent, and stepping out just to listen to your voice notes. You two spoke on the phone every day—usually short calls, but on certain days, the conversations ran longer, and even if Junhoe was exhausted or running on little sleep, he still wanted to hear your voice.
Weekends weren’t much different for Junhoe either. He spent most of them reviewing case studies, attending guest lectures, and showing up at networking events his father arranged—trading polite smiles with people he couldn’t care less about. Sometimes he went for brunch with classmates at The Black Penny near Covent Garden, but afterward, he’d walk along the Thames to be alone and have a moment of quiet. Calls from home were brief, nothing like yours. You were his only true breather, and the gym was the other place where he could fully let go.
And yet, despite it all—your regular check-ins and his packed calendar—Junhoe was restless. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t know for certain what you were doing or where you were. So he found another way.
Through someone else. Someone he hired.
The distance left too much room for uncertainty. And Junhoe never did well with uncertainty.
It was one evening during your second week in Boston. Junhoe sat at his desk, textbooks open, notes spread across the table, preparing for his first test the next day—a short assessment on the week’s lectures. His pen moved methodically across the page when his phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a familiar name: “M. Lee.”
“Report,” he said, answering without hesitation.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply. “She left the hotel in the morning and continued visiting campuses around the city.”
Junhoe nodded. “And after that?”
“She had lunch at a street food stall near Cambridge, then stopped by a thrift store. She went to Tatte Bakery after to order takeout—nothing unusual. No one interacted with her in a concerning way.”
“Anything else?”
There was a pause. The reporter considered mentioning the boy who’d bumped into you at the bakery but decided it seemed inconsequential. “No, sir. Nothing else.”
Junhoe ended the call and returned to his studies, forcing his attention back to the page.
It was your fourth week in Boston. Two more to go.
Time dragged during campus visits and program sessions, but flew when you were out exploring—dining, shopping, chasing views. You’d grown used to it—the updates, the routine calls, being apart from Junhoe. The way you both fell into the cadence of a long-distance relationship.
But all these wouldn’t last.
The program’s second phase began that Monday—a joint workshop bringing together students from different tracks. You arrived early, a paper cup of tea in hand, scanning the room for a seat near the back. Every face was new—until one wasn’t.
He sauntered in, looking completely unbothered, dressed in black from head to toe—slacks, shirt, and rimmed eyeglasses.
You blinked, unsure if it was really him—the balcony guy who had spilled coffee on your dress weeks ago. He didn’t notice you at first, but as the instructor began assigning seats, he stepped through the rows, taking in each tag and face before stopping where you sat.
He didn’t approach. He just snickered, as if he’d clocked your presence and was saving it for later.
The workshop began: icebreakers, group tasks, a few awkward laughs. You stayed fixed on the worksheet in front of you, refusing to glance his way. But during the break, he made his move.
“Well, hello there,” he greeted, leaning against the table beside you. “Koo girl’s in Boston. Have you decided what you’re majoring in?”
You looked up, unimpressed. “Stop calling me that. I have a name.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Yeah, I know. Just thought I’d say hi.”
You didn’t respond—just took a sip of your tea.
“I might take Political Science at Tufts,” he said, like you’d asked. He leaned forward a fraction, watching you with keen interest. “Congrats, by the way.”
“On what?”
“Your engagement,” he remarked, glancing at your diamond ring. “Word travels fast.”
Your grip tightened around the cup. “Right.”
He let it drop with a quiet smile, the mischief gone from his face. “Well… see you around, _____.”
He called you by your name for the first time before leaving. And suddenly, his name surfaced in your mind: San. Choi San.
Turned out, he was right. You would be seeing him around.
The joint workshop ran daily, and San was always there—always arriving just before the session began.
You tried to steer clear of him.
His presence grated more than you cared to admit. He didn’t hover or push, but he’d always turn up beside you during breaks—dropping sly comments about the lecture, asking questions he clearly didn’t need answers to. Sometimes, he’d tease you about how serious you looked during one of the discussions, and you could tell he was only trying to gauge your reaction.
You kept your responses short. Curt. Neutral. You were cautious—not just because of who San was, but because of who might be watching. So far, Junhoe hadn’t said anything during your check-ins that might make you uneasy, and you made sure it stayed that way.
You started seeing San in places beyond the workshop: by the admin building, at Tatte Bakery, even at optional lectures you hadn’t expected him to attend. It was becoming harder to avoid him.
One afternoon, you spotted him again—outside Tatte, at a table near the edge of the patio. He was smoking, coffee cooling beside him, eyes on the laptop screen propped in front of him. He didn’t look surprised to see you when you took the vacant table across from him. If anything, he barely looked up.
“Are you following me?” you asked, straight to the point.
San glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Me?” he said, laughing. “I’m not the type.”
“You’ve been here every time I come.”
“Or maybe it’s just a good café,” he said dryly.
You were about to leave your seat, already thinking of ordering food back at the hotel, when San commented.
“You need to lose a little, you know? I don’t bite,” he muttered, smiling—but not kindly. “Doesn’t hurt to talk to someone who isn’t your fiancé.”
He didn’t wait for your reply. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and left his coffee untouched before heading off.
San didn’t pester you after that. No joking around, no glances your way, no offhand comments during workshops. He showed up, did the work, and left. It was almost clinical. And somehow, that made it worse.
You hadn’t expected to feel bad. But you did. It was the way he left you at Tatte—like he’d already decided something about you. That you were someone uptight. Someone who let herself be steered by her fiancé. And maybe he wasn’t wrong.
You were leaving the studio late that day, arms full of prints and notes, when the door swung open ahead of you. San stood there, holding it without a word.
“T-thanks,” you managed, stepping through.
He was supposed to head in the opposite direction, but you called out, stopping him mid-step.
“I’m sorry about the other day—I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just… I wasn’t sure.”
He paused. “No, you’re cool.”
“Honestly, I get it,” San said, turning fully toward you. “It must be exhausting for you.”
As the days passed, you started talking to him more freely. San made the space feel lighter—he didn’t pry, didn’t ask about Junhoe or your families. Instead, he talked about Boston, the program, and his chosen college major.
During the break after a group presentation, you found yourselves walking out of the building together. The hallway still buzzed with leftover chatter as you headed toward the glass doors.
“I wanted to go straight into law,” San admitted. “But my parents thought political science might open doors to politics.”
“Public service?” you asked.
“And that,” he said with a shrug, like it was a compromise he’d already made peace with.
San paused at the echo of footsteps on your heels, followed by a small group of students laughing as they exited the building.
“What about you?” he asked. “Still undecided?”
You hesitated. “I’m thinking—journalism.”
He glanced at you, his expression only curious. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not,” you sighed. “It’s just… I don’t know. I wanted to go out there and explore. But I don’t know if that’s enough.”
San didn’t answer right away. He pushed the glass doors open, letting the afternoon light spill in. “Sometimes it’s not about being sure,” he stated. “It’s about seeing what sticks.”
You nodded, unsure if he was talking about careers or something else entirely.
You couldn’t quite say you could call San a friend, but in your last few days in Boston, he somehow became one. Someone you could talk to—someone you’d grown comfortable with in a place far from home, far from Junhoe.
You hadn’t gotten this close or spoken to anyone this way in your entire life. Only Junhoe. And that thought alone made you pause.
San didn’t taunt you anymore. He spoke differently now—mindful and kinder. He still had moments of playfulness, pointing out tweaks in your notes or explaining how to shape an essay, but he never crossed the line.
You listened, took mental notes, even though you never filled out a single form. San built his own kind of boundary, one that neither of you ever talked about, focusing on the program, the research deadlines, and the mock interviews.
But in the middle of it all, you felt it—that knot in your stomach. Every time you laughed at something San said or replied with more than a sentence, you thought about Junhoe—no matter how many miles away he was. You couldn’t shake the feeling he’d somehow know, and that the next call would sound different. Colder.
You weren’t doing anything wrong—but the feeling of guilt stayed with you regardless.
Junhoe hadn’t changed much—at least not on the surface. His texts were still warm, and his tone on calls sounded just like it did when you first arrived in Boston. He didn’t ask much about you anymore, though. He mentioned how tired he was, how prep school was eating up his days now that the final weeks were closing in. You told yourself he was probably just busy. If something was wrong—if he knew about San—he’d be on the next flight to Boston already. You couldn’t imagine what he would say or do if he found out.
One evening, just to be sure, you video called him. It was early dawn in London, but he still picked up. His hair was messy, eyes heavy with sleep on the other screen.
“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you lied. “Sorry I called so late, just wanted to see you.”
Junhoe rubbed his eyes, before leaning back against the headboard. “You working on your applications?”
You nodded. “The instructor’s been giving me tips. I’m still figuring things out.”
“I can have someone help you,” he offered. “Just to make sure everything’s solid.”
“No, it’s okay,” you said quickly. “I’ve got it.”
He was silent for a beat—long enough to make your stomach twist.
You felt relieved once you saw him smile.
“I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me too,” you replied, smiling back.
The first time Junhoe heard San’s name, he was deep in another study group, surrounded by spreadsheets, pitch decks, and half-empty coffee cups. His team was preparing for a mock consultancy pitch—tight deadlines and rotating team leads had him running on adrenaline and little sleep.
His phone buzzed, M. Lee’s name lighting up on the caller ID. Junhoe paused briefly, glancing at the screen—it was an odd hour for his reporter to call. He excused himself without a word, picked up the phone, and stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.
The call connected before the second ring.
“Sir,” M. Lee said, voice clipped. “There’s someone you should be aware of.”
Junhoe’s posture straightened. “Go on.”
“My contact from the workshop sent a report. He saw her interacting with someone today—a boy. Name’s San.”
Junhoe let him continue.
“He approached her after the breakout session. He tried to make a conversation. Nothing inappropriate. She kept it short, no prolonged eye contact.”
Junhoe’s jaw clenched. “Send me everything.”
“I already have. Photos are in your inbox. I’ll start pulling his background—school records, family, affiliations. Full report will be ready by tomorrow.”
Junhoe lowered his voice, stepping further down the dimly lit empty hallway. “I want to know who he is. What he wants. And why he’s near her.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as Junhoe ended the call, he went straight to his inbox. The email from M. Lee was marked with a discreet symbol—encrypted, as always. He tapped the link, entered the passcode only he and M. Lee knew, and waited as the files decrypted.
Three photos loaded: you frowning, San leaning on the table next to you.
Junhoe’s grip on his phone tightened. He zoomed in on San’s face, dragging two fingers across the screen until the image sharpened. Something about him tugged at Junhoe’s memory—something familiar, off.
He inspected it more intently.
The balcony. Club Echelon. Gangnam.
The night came back clearly—you stepping out of the VIP lounge for some air, the boy smoking, the one who had approached you.
It was him.
San.
Junhoe’s pulse thudded in his ears, and for a long moment, he didn’t move, eyes still locked on the screen.
He dragged his feet back to the room, everything around him barely registering.
His teammates were still discussing market entry strategies when he returned. Someone gestured toward him.
“Junhoe, thoughts on the pricing model?”
He blinked. “Sorry?”
They repeated the question. He nodded, feigning attention, but his thoughts were already elsewhere—Boston, San, and you.
Choi San. Seventeen. Senior at Hanyoung Academy. Parents: Choi Jong Cheol and Kim Nam Ji. One older sister, Choi Haneul.
Family operates under the mid-tier chaebol umbrella, controlling stake in Jungmin Holdings (logistics, retail, real estate); discreet, low public profile.
San was currently in Boston, scouting universities. Tufts University was his preferred choice, aiming for political science. He was attending preparatory programs and staying alone at the Boston Marriott Copley.
Single; no known romantic involvement.
No criminal record.
One flagged incident: a bullying case in middle school. San had been the victim. The matter was settled privately between families. No disciplinary action recorded on permanent file.
“It looks like a coincidence,” M. Lee said on the other end of the line, as Junhoe read through the file on San displayed on his laptop.
He was sitting alone at a corner table in The Black Penny. A half-eaten sandwich lay beside an untouched glass of orange juice and a nearly finished black coffee. The afternoon crowd was slow, the clatter of cutlery and low conversation fading into the background as he listened to his reporter on the phone.
“The program pulls students from different schools. San’s just one of them. Nothing unusual.” M. Lee continued.
Junhoe rubbed his chin slowly, studying the name on the screen—Jungmin Holdings. He was certain he’d heard it before. And as if M. Lee could read his thoughts, he spoke.
“I also found something else,” M. Lee added. “You and your fiancée’s families both hold minor stakes in Jungmin Holdings—San’s family owns the group.”
“Could be nothing,” M. Lee said. “But I’ll keep watching. If anything shifts, you’ll know first.”
The call ended, and Junhoe drank the last of his coffee. His eyes remained on the screen—on San’s file, on the student photo. A sneer tugged at his lips.
Junhoe couldn’t name the feeling exactly—but he knew it was raw anger the moment he saw the photos: you and San, standing close, laughing together, walking side by side.
This was exactly why he’d wanted you in London—to keep you close.
He’d trusted you too much—believed you could handle the distance, believed you’d stay away from people like San.
He was wrong.
His first instinct was to call and arrange a private flight to Boston that very night—to go to you, to see San’s face in person.
But just as he was about to dial, he stopped.
This wasn’t the moment to act on impulse.
So instead of leaving London and abandoning everything, he went to the gym. Staying in his dorm felt unbearable—like he might explode if he didn’t move.
The weights felt heavier than usual, but Junhoe didn’t stop. He welcomed the burn in his arms, the ache in his shoulders—anything to drown out the thoughts clawing at him.
You’d kept San a secret. Like he was some fool.
He gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply as he pushed through another rep. You should hide it well. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of knowing he’d seen the photos—not yet. He was waiting. Planning. He wanted to catch you in the act, to see it with his own eyes. Let you think he was still in the dark. Let you believe you were careful.
What he couldn’t understand—what made his chest tighten—was why you couldn’t just ask him for help. Why you’d choose to do it with someone you barely knew? Someone whose family doesn’t even come close to yours. Someone who didn’t know you the way he did.
He hated how much he loved you.
Loved you too much to stay rational. Too much to let go. You’d been with him since you were kids, and still, you couldn’t love him the same way.
He would do anything for you.
Even if it meant ruining everything. Even if it meant tearing it all down just to have you for himself.
He dropped the weights, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his back. He might’ve been alone in the gym, but his head was anything but silent.
You blow-dried your hair until it fell smooth, the scent of your shower still clinging to your skin. On the vanity of your hotel room, the ticket caught your eye again—The Lehman Trilogy, Citizens Bank Opera House.
San had invited you earlier that week, saying you deserved a night off after all the scouting and programs. He’d already bought the tickets.
You’d almost declined, but this was your last night in Boston. Tomorrow, you’d fly back to Seoul.
You slipped into your black Chanel dress, added a touch of gloss and a spritz of perfume, then grabbed your coat and purse before stepping out of the hotel that evening—hoping to enjoy the night, even if a part of you knew you shouldn’t.
You’d told Junhoe a while ago that you were going to see a play. You didn’t say with whom—only that you planned to watch alone. He hadn’t asked questions, just told you to have fun and to let him know once it was over, or when you were back at the hotel.
You said you would.
You arrived fifteen minutes early. Most of the crowd had already gone in, leaving only a few stragglers outside the Opera House—couples checking their tickets, a group of friends taking photos beneath the marquee, a handful of latecomers hurrying toward the entrance.
San stood near the steps, wearing a cream-colored knit polo and charcoal dress pants, his hands in his pockets.
“Have you been waiting long?” you asked as you approached. “We still have time, don’t we?”
“I’ve been here for over an hour,” he said, deadpan.
“Really?”
He laughed. “I’m kidding. I just got here too—and yes, we still have time before the show starts.”
You rolled your eyes. San joined you in the flow of people heading inside. You sat close to the stage, where the orchestra played beneath the looming velvet curtains.
A few minutes later, the lights dimmed. The audience hushed. The show began.
Halfway through the play, Junhoe lowered the binoculars from the stage and turned them toward the audience below.
There you were.
Seated beside San.
He didn’t need to see your face to know it was you.
He’d landed in Boston that afternoon, stepping off a private jet with barely two hours of sleep and a fury that hadn’t cooled. The play was the last straw. He couldn’t stomach your lies anymore.
M. Lee had sent him the confirmation—San had bought two tickets. One for himself. One for you.
So Junhoe bought one too. Balcony seat. Last-minute. Didn’t matter.
You’d texted him earlier, saying you were going to see a play alone. He’d replied casually, told you to have fun and to message him once it was over.
He was lying.
He already knew.
He was already in Boston.
He left everything behind—deadlines, exams, the final stretch of prep school—because of you.
Because you needed to be reminded who you belonged to.
He adjusted the focus, watching as San bent close to whisper something. You tilted your head, lips parting in awe.
Junhoe’s knuckles whitened around the binoculars.
You thought he wouldn’t know.
You thought you could lie to his face and get away with it.
But he was here now.
And you wouldn’t see him coming.
The applause was still echoing in your chest as the curtain fell. You stood with the rest of the audience, clapping until your palms tingled, heart still racing from the final monologue.
“That was insane,” you gushed as you and San made your way down the aisle.
San chuckled, holding the door open for you. “Told you it was good. You looked like you forgot to breathe half the time.”
“I did,” you laughed. “I think I actually forgot I was in a theater.”
Outside, the night air was cool. You kept talking, still riding the high of what you’d just watched.
“Thank you,” you said, turning to him. “For bringing me. I really needed this.”
San threw you a wink. “You’re welcome. Knew you’d like it.”
Before your foot hit the pavement, a black car came into view, idling at the curb.
A cold prickle crept down your back.
Two men flanked the car—one Korean, one American—both in dark suits and earpieces, broad and stoic. Between them stood Junhoe, arms folded, leaning against the car—a grimace crossing his face as he took in the sight of you with San, the kind that said: I knew it. I saw everything.
Your breath caught.
“Junhoe…”
The smile on San’s face faded.
You opened your mouth to speak, but Junhoe cut you off.
“Get in the car.”
You tried again. “Junhoe—”
“It’s not a request.”
You shot San a final look, heart pounding with worry.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, smiling faintly as if to soothe you.
Junhoe swallowed hard at that.
You did what he said. The Korean bodyguard stepped forward and opened the car door for you. You slid inside, pulse hammering.
Junhoe turned to San, voice sharp. “Let’s talk.”
He jerked his head toward an empty side street tucked between two buildings.
Junhoe walked first.
San didn’t move.
The American bodyguard closed in on him, his posture stiff, eyes locked with warning.
San let out a dry chuckle. “Well, isn’t this dramatic?”
Then he followed, the American trailing behind.
The alley was quiet. A flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the pavement, and trash bins lined the wall. Words could turn cutting here—and no one would hear.
When they came face to face, Junhoe still wore the same grimace. He skipped the small talk and wasted no time.
“I don’t know what your intentions are,” he started. “But I don’t want you near her. You won’t talk to her. You won’t look at her. You won’t even breathe near her.”
San held his ground. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
Junhoe stepped in, close enough to erase space. San didn’t flinch.
“Keep pushing,” Junhoe dared, “and one call is all it takes. Your family’s grip on Jungmin Holdings? Gone. Every deal you’ve been circling, every ounce of leverage—wiped clean.”
San’s jaw tensed, the threat hit, but he refused to give Junhoe the satisfaction.
Junhoe turned to go, but San wasn’t done. “One day, she’ll realize she has to leave you.”
Junhoe halted. The look he gave San said everything—speak again, and I’ll end you.
“Don’t test me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” His tone made it clear—this was final.
Then he walked away, leaving San alone in the alley.
The car moved in silence, the engine’s low rumble filling the void between you.
Junhoe sat beside you, elbow on the door, palm pressed to his cheek, staring out the window. He hadn’t said a word since you left. Neither had you.
Your hands were clasped together, unease gnawing at you. Your thoughts kept circling on San—what Junhoe might’ve done. The silence only made it worse.
You swallowed hard and gathered yourself. “What did you do to him?”
Junhoe raised a finger without facing you.
“Don’t,” he hissed. The single gesture was enough to keep your mouth shut.
Your throat tightened, eyes stinging as you forced back the tears.
You burst into the hotel room and went straight for your suitcase. Clothes, toiletries, chargers—everything was thrown in one by one, your hands shaking. Junhoe followed behind, tracing your every move as you packed like he had all the time in the world.
You were already crying, but quietly—just the sound of sniffling and the zip of fabric. Then your frustration cracked. You started slamming things into the suitcase, fists clenched, movements erratic.
“Stop.”
You ignored him.
His tone dropped. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
That made you freeze. You dropped the shirt in your hand and sat on the edge of the bed, sobbing now. Your things lay scattered across the floor, half-packed, half-forgotten.
Junhoe dragged a chair in front of you and sat down. He reached for your hand and brushed the back of your palm—gentle, though his expression wasn’t. He placed a kiss on your engagement ring, his words cutting through your sobs.
“What were you thinking?” he said evenly. “You thought I wouldn’t know what you’ve been doing behind my back?”
You gaped at him, stunned. “How can you do this to me, Junhoe?”
“Do what?”
You pulled his hand away. “This! Following my every move!”
“Why?” he snapped. “So you can flirt and sneak around with another guy?”
“He’s just a friend.”
“A friend? I am your friend!” His laugh was bitter. He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Your fiancé!”
You ran your fingers through your hair. “You’re suffocating me.”
Junhoe gritted his teeth. “And you’re hurting me.”
You stood from the bed and began to pace. The pressure in your chest was unbearable. You spun back toward him.
“You’re not right in the head!” you spat.
Junhoe’s expression twisted into something lethal, cruel—as he pushed himself to his feet. “Maybe if you weren’t such a slut, I wouldn’t have left London for this.”
That did it.
You scanned the room and grabbed the nearest thing—a heavy glass paperweight, throwing it into the air without thinking.
It hit him just below the left eye.
The paperweight hit the floor with a sickening crack, shards scattering across the room. Neither of you moved.
Junhoe’s hand flew to his face. A bruise was already blooming beneath the skin.
You clasped your hands over your mouth, stunned by what you’d done. The bruise beneath Junhoe’s eye was already darkening, a thin line of blood tracing the edge.
You drew closer, reaching out instinctively. “Let me see—”
Junhoe caught your wrist mid-motion.
“No.”
His grip on you was iron-tight.
Without warning, Junhoe shoved you backward. You fell onto the bed, stomach-first, the air leaving your lungs. You didn’t fight it. You lay there, heart racing fast, dress rumpled.
Junhoe moved behind you. You felt the fabric of your dress being pulled up, your lace underwear stripped away.
Something in him snapped. His palm came down hard against your ass, again and again.
You cried out, every breath caught between resistance and surrender. Your body flinched with each strike, oddly stimulated as you let him take over.
Junhoe’s hand froze mid-strike, like he’d just woken from a trance.
His gaze swept over the aftermath of what he’d done—your skin, red and swollen.
You twisted around fast, wincing, and slapped him—hard.
The sound rang out. His head whipped to the side. Blood welled at the corner of his mouth.
Junhoe touched it—two fingers to the split skin.
You grabbed him by the collar, fists gripping tightly, the movement abrupt. You kissed him hard, tasting the blood on his lips. He grunted as your tongues met, breath tangled and hot between you.
He pinned you down, devouring your mouth. But before he could strip you, you acted—quick and forceful, flipping him despite the strength difference.
He let you.
You straddled him with your dress still on.
Junhoe let you take control. His hands held your waist, groaning as you reached for his belt. You did it swiftly. The sound of the buckle unfastening nearly sent him over the edge. You didn’t remove it off completely—only what you needed.
Junhoe let out a low growl as you guided his dick toward your entrance. You were already wet from his spanking earlier, and the kissing had only made you want more. A croak escaped your throat as you felt the hardness of his tip. It always hurt like the first time, whenever it had been a while. But despite the ache, you began rolling your hips deliberately. Junhoe placed his hands on your knees, trying not to stray anywhere else. He knew exactly what you needed—to feel something by feeling him. To pour all your pent-up emotion onto him. He matched your rhythm, savoring the way your pussy throbbed around him.
The pain dissolved into pleasure. You quickened the motion, hips grinding, chasing the feeling while you fondled yourself, your nipples erect from inside your dress.
Junhoe lay beneath you, panting, his hands fisting the sheets. You writhed above him, the room echoed with moans and the slick sound of skin meeting skin.
Each thrust sunk deeper. Each whine louder.
You wanted to feel everything—and you did.
You felt it building—your body arching as you convulsed. Junhoe’s stuttered breaths told you he was close.
He withdrew his hardened length from your dripping cunt just in time, before he could spill his seed inside you. Rising to his knees, he stroked himself with urgency, eyes fixed on you, still aching for the lost contact. You leaned back on one elbow, one leg raised, spreading yourself to him. You mirrored his motion, two digits working in and out of your folds as you watched him—disheveled, mouth agape. His face and lips down to his chin still bore traces of dried blood. You kept pace, tracking each twitch of his body—watching until you both reached orgasm, spilling cum onto the silk sheets.
Junhoe lay half-upright against the headboard, chest heaving, eyelids shut.
You stayed where you were—head dangling off the foot of the bed, catching air in shallow bursts. Once he’d composed himself, he reached for the tissues on the bedside table, tending to himself and then to you with quiet care before tossing them in the trash.
Junhoe coaxed you closer, hands on your ankles, his body folding toward yours. You cupped his face. The anger had vanished from his features, leaving only the bruises you’d left. Your thumb traced each mark slowly, reverently.
“I’m sorry, Junhoe,” you whispered, voice cracking as the sob rose again.
Junhoe slid his arms under you, lifting you gently from where you lay. He held you close, your trembling body folding into his chest.
Between the embrace, his thumb found your cheek, wiping away the tears as they came.
“I deserve it, so stop crying now.” he cooed.
Junhoe’s split lip brushed your forehead, your nose, then your mouth. Each kiss softer than the last, like he was afraid to break you further.
“I’m sorry for what I said too,” he murmured. “I won’t say it again.”
A faint smile broke through you despite the tears—your heart ached for him, not just for the marks on his skin, but for everything you’d said and done.
Junhoe shifted, easing both of you down onto the bed. His arm wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into the curve of his body, breath warm against your neck.
He was tired—bone-deep, and you felt it in the way he held you. Sleepless, restless nights had caught up to him, along with every fight, every argument, and every moment of longing that had passed between you.
You’d stopped crying—just the occasional sniffle now.
Junhoe’s voice was fading, thick with sleep.
“You should’ve told me you liked plays. I’d take you to any of them, anywhere in the world.”
“I’ll come with you next time,” you beamed, nuzzling into his warmth and slipping into slumber.