𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 | 𝘗𝘚𝘏
𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘖𝘕𝘌 | 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳
✂︎ 𝘚𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: You hated blind dates. Desperate times called for desperate measures—your parents insisted you give this one a shot. Then, to your surprise, he was perfect. Charming, attentive, and almost too good to be true, the chemistry crackled like static between you. Jokes flowed, and your walls melted away. Just like that, he asked, “Meet my parents at our villa this weekend?” Was it excitement or dread? This fairytale was moving fast, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 9.3𝘬
𝘗𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘚&𝘔 | 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘌𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 | 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦
✂︎ 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳, 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵
✂︎ 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵
[𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 2] | [𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛] | [𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 3]
The sharp knock at your door didn’t give you a chance to answer before it burst open.
“Get up. You’re meeting him tonight.”
your mother’s voice cut through the haze of sleep like a blade, her words brisk, different–already dressed in perfume and pearls and whatever else made up her illusion of control.
You groaned into your pillow. “Meeting who?”
She sighed, like she couldn't believe she had to remind you. “The man your father and I arranged. Park Seonghwa. Wealthy. Charming. Excellent family. Don't make that face, you agreed last week.”
You cracked one eye open, “I said I'd consider it.”
“You said ‘fine’ and that's a yes in my language.” She strode into your room like it belonged to her–which, technically, it did. The scent of her signature gardenia filled the air, suffocating. “He’s expecting you at seven. Wear something feminine. No black. You always wear black. It’s depressing.”
You flopped onto your back and stared at the ceiling, already regretting every life choice that led you here. “Isn’t that what blind dates are for? Depressing people dressing up to disappoint each other?”
“You’re pushing thirty,” she snapped. “This is not the time to be picky.”
There it was–the ultimatum wrapped in silk gloves. Your mother never shouted, never threatened. She didn't need to. Her disappointment was an institution. Her silence was a weapon. And when that didn’t work, she’d pull the ultimate card: your future.
You closed your eyes again. “Can’t wait to be emotionally manipulated into marriage.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” you muttered. “Just thrilled.”
She turned to leave but paused in the doorway, giving you one last sweeping glance. “Be presentable, and try not sound cynical. You have the tendency to ruin first impressions.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the morning light casting sharp angles across your room. It was too early for wine, too late for hope, and apparently the perfect day to sell your soul over salad and small talk.
“Yippie,” you groaned.
You dragged yourself out of bed, limbs heavy, heart heavier.
You stood in front of your open closet like a woman being asked to choose her own noose.
Silks, satins, neutrals. Your mother had trained you well. Nothing too loud, nothing that screamed for attention–just whispered, I'm tasteful , I'm available, I bleed pedigree.
You reached for a slip dress in dark burgundy, paused and then snatched your hand back. ‘No black’, she said. You’d never figured out if she meant it symbolically or literally.
After twenty minutes of internal war, you settled on a muted sage green wrap dress. It clung enough to suggest curves, but not enough to be accused of trying. You pulled your hair into a soft updo, letting a few strands fall around your jaw–effortless but strategic, like everything else in your life.
Makeup: minimal, flesh coloured gloss that tinted with pink glitter.
In the bathroom mirror, your reflection stared back, calm but skeptical.
This wasn’t your first parental set-up. There had been others–men who were overly polite, well educated, and wildly uninteresting. One called you “opinionated” like it was a threat. Another had asked if you’d be comfortable leaving your career “after children.”
You’d mastered the art of soft rejection over salmon tartare.
Still, something about tonight itched beneath your skin. The way your mother said his name–Park seonghwa–like it carried weight. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t take no for an answer.
You hated how curious that made you.
By the time 6:30 rolled around, you were dressed, masked, and quietly resigned. The scent of your perfume clung to your collarbones, floral and sharp, the kind that lingered long after you left a room. And of course, the final cherry on top, your mom’s diamond bvlgari earrings.
You slipped on your heels, checked your phone.
1 New text–mom
Don't embarrass us. Be polite. Smile. He’s not like others.
You rolled your eyes.
Sure. Because that’s not ominous at all.
At exactly 6:45, a sleek black car pulled up to your building. No uber logo. Tinted windows. You stepped inside, half-expecting to be offered champagne or chloroform.
The driver didn’t speak, didn’t look at you. Just nodded once and started toward the restaurant.
You watched the city blur past your window, light bleeding into glass, everything too quiet inside the car. A fairytale carriage wrapped in shadow. You weren’t afraid.
Not really. Just…aware.
There was something about the night that felt pre-written.Like you’d already said yes to something you didn’t understand.
The car pulled up to a place that didn’t need a sign. Glass and stone. Subtle lighting. A doorman in an earpiece who opened your door like he knew your name.
inside, everything gleamed. Tables dressed in white linen, gold-rimmed crystal, the kind of ambient music you didn’t notice until it stopped. Wealth whispered in this place–it didn’t scream.
The hostess greeted you with a tight smile. “Right this way. He’s already waiting.”
Of course he was.
She led you to a private table in the back corner, near a glass wall overlooking the city. One man sat alone, wine glass untouched, posture relaxed–like he owned the view. Like he’d been carved into the room.
Park Seonghwa stood when he saw you. And for a moment, your breath caught.
Tall. Immaculate. A black suit, no tie, collar open just enough to hint at collarbones. His features were sharp, symmetrical–the kind of beauty that made you want to look twice just to confirm you weren’t imagining things.
He smiled. Not too wide. Not too eager.
Measured.
“It's good to finally meet you y/n,” he said, voice smooth as silk over stone. “You look–”
A beat. A ficker of approval in his gaze. “Even better than your mother described.”
You offered your hand. He took it gently–but there was nothing weak in his grip. His palm was warm, controlled.
“And you must be Park Seonghwa,” you said, tone neutral. “My blind date with the ominously perfect reputation.”
He chuckled. “Is that what they told you?”
Before you could reach for your chair, he stepped forward smoothly and pulled it for you. The gesture was precise, elegant–like he’d done it a thousand times–but the way he held the chair until you were fully seated felt deliberate. Intentional.
You murmured a soft thanks, smoothing your dress with a calm you didn’t feel as he moved to sit opposite you.
“Only every day this week,” you added, lips curling into a faint smile.
The waiter appeared like smoke, pouring wine without asking. You noticed that the bottle was already open. Chilled just right.
You took a sip. Dry. Aged. Expensive.
“Do you make a habit of arriving early?” you asked.
“I Like to observe.”
Something in the way he said it made you still for half a second. He didn't elaborate.
Dinner unfolded like a well-rehearsed play.
Seonghwa asked questions—not the shallow kind, but ones that cut straight to your edges and tested their sharpness.
“What’s something you’d never told your parents?” he asked, eyes fixed on yours over the rim of his wineglass.
You blinked. “Is that your idea of a first-date ice breaker?”
He smiled, "I find the surface boring.”
You hesitated, then deflected. “Probably that I like chardonnay. But I drink it around them because they think it’s classy.”
“I suppose,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But most people aren’t aware they’re doing it.”
A beat passed.
Then: “do you like what you do? Or are you good at it?”
That one made you pause, “architecture? I'm good at it.”
“But?”
“But that doesn’t mean I sleep well.”
He didn’t laugh this time. Just nodded, slowly. As if filling your answer away under something important. When he leaned in, it was never too close–just enough to make you feel like you were sharing something dangerous. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and smoked amber, a scent that curled around your senses like a promise you didn’t understand yet.
He kept going.
“What would you change about your life if no one was watching?”
“What’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever thought and never said?”
“Have you ever loved someone you couldn’t trust?”
Each question was velvet gloved and razor-edged. You threw some back, trying to test him the same way.
“What about you? Ever been in love?”
“Yes,” he answered easily.
“What happened?”
“She loved who I showed her,” he said, swirling his wine. ”Not who I am.”
You arched a brow. “And who are you?”
He smiled, “still figuring that out. You're helping.”
The chemistry was real. But so was the tension.
His eyes didn’t just look at you—they read you. Like he could see the fear buried beneath your humor. The control you mistook for confidence. The calculation behind every smile you gave him.
You told yourself you were being paranoid.
And yet.
You leaned back in your seat, swirling your wine like it could distract you from the way his words lingered long after they were spoken.
“Do you always ask such invasive questions on a first date?” you said lightly.
He gave a soft chuckle, not at all ashamed. “Only when I'm interested.”
“And you’re…interested?”
Seonghwa rested his chin on one hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re composed, intelligent. You deflect like a professional. But you’re not hiding because you’re afraid. You’re hiding because you’re testing me.”
That startled something in you–not fear, exactly. More like a jolt of recognition. As if he were naming things you hadn’t admitted to yourself.
You gave a slow smile. “Or maybe I'm just not easily impressed.”
His expression didn’t shift. "Then I'm enjoying the challenge.”
You reached for your water, trying to ground yourself. The air between you had grown thicker–weighted with things unspoken, things implied.
“so ,” you said, voice steady. “If I'm being studied, can I ask a question or two of my own?”
He nodded “of course.”
You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done?”
There was no hesitation, whatsoever. Like he’d been waiting for a question of this sort.
“I loved someone who didn't know what I was capable of.”
Your breath caught. You weren’t sure if it was the words themselves or the way he said them–quiet, calm, almost poetic. As if it was a memory, not a warning.
“And what are you capable of, Seonghwa?”
He smiled then, slow and deliberate, "exactly what's needed.”
A pause. Just long enough for you to realise he was watching your reaction as much as he was enjoying the game.
You looked away first. He seemed satisfied.
Then, with the same smoothness that he carried every moment so far, he shifted gears.
“I’d like you to meet my parents,” he said casually, as though it were the natural next step after dessert. “This weekend. We'll drive up to our villa.”
Your head snapped back toward him. “That’s…direct.”
“I prefer not to waste time.”
You searched his face for a hint of irony, a smirk, something to suggest this was a joke.
He gave you nothing.
“I don't even know you,” you said slowly, eyes digging into him with an amused smirk.
“Then get to know me,” he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Let them get to know you, too.”
“You meet one woman and already want to bring her home to Mom and Dad?”
“I’ve met more than one woman,” he corrected. “Only one has me curious.”
You were quiet for a moment, fighting the urge to full on blush at his implications.
“And if I say no?” You asked, teasingly sipping at your wine.
He didn’t blink. “Then I'd respect that.” Another beat, “but I'd still think about you.”
The silence settled thick between you, like the air before a thunderclap. Somewhere outside the window, the city lights flickered against the night like tiny signals–warning, or invitation.
You didn’t say yes. But you didn't say no either. And when he reached out–two fingers brushing yours across the table–you didn’t pull away. They were warm and soft, just like his palms.
Seonghwa’s fingers didn’t linger long. Just the lightest brush–two fingertips grazing the back of your hand. Enough to pull your focus to the space between you. Enough to feel the warmth even after it was gone.
You withdrew your hand gently, more out of instinct than discomfort. “You’re very sure of yourself,” you said.
“I'm sure of what I want.”
“And what is that exactly?” His gaze softened, but it didn't lose its sharpness.
“Someone I don't have to pretend with.”
You raised a brow. “So you pretend with everyone else?”
“I pretend with people who expect perfection,” he said, tone even. “Who want surface-level safety. Predictable affection. You're different.”
You gave a dry laugh. “How would you know?”
“Because you’re not trying to impress me. You’re trying to figure out what I’m not telling you.”
That disarmed you. Mostly because it was true.
You didn’t like being read so easily. Especially not by a man who wore his mystery like a custom suit.
Still, there was something about him—dangerously composed, disarmingly honest. You couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or if sincerity was just another performance.
Maybe that was what intrigued you.
Or maybe it was the fact that, even now, part of you didn’t care.
The check was handled without discussion—already paid, apparently. You weren’t surprised.
As you both stood, Seonghwa stepped behind you again, pulling your chair back with quiet grace. His fingers brushed the back of your shoulder as he helped you up, and for the briefest second, you thought you felt him exhale.
Not sighing. Not tired.
Just…watching.
You adjusted your dress, cleared your throat. “So what happens now?”
He offered you his arm, as he lightly bit his lip.
“I walk you to the car. And if you’ll let me, I’ll see you again.”
You smiled. Only slightly so.
The valet pulled up in a near silence. Not your original driver. A different car–smoother, sleeker. You hesitated, but he opened the door for you, hand extended in silent invitation.
You climbed in. Before the door shut, he leaned in–close enough for his breath to warm your cheek.
“I’ll pick you up Friday morning," he said. “Nine o clock.”
You tilted your head, amused at how he’d already made the decision that you’d go. “No driver?”
“I prefer to handle important things myself.” He didn't smile this smile. He didn’t need to.
Then, almost as an afterthought–though nothing he did felt accidental–he leaned in.
“...and bring something red.”
The door clicked shut behind you. The car eased into motion like a whisper, and he was gone.
The rest of the city blurred past your window in gold and glass. But your mind stayed fixed on him—on that quiet certainty in his voice, the weight behind his gaze. The way he said red like it meant something only he understood.
Your phone buzzed.
1 New Message–Unknown number
“Thank you for tonight. You were…radiant.” “Friday. 9AM” “I’ll be waiting.”
You didn’t reply. Not because you didn’t want to.
But because something in your bones whispered: he already knows what you’ll say.
꧁─𐮛─꧂ ꧁─𐮛─꧂ ⚤ ꧁─𐮛─꧂ ꧁─𐮛─꧂
The smell of fresh coffee hit you before you even opened your bedroom door. Your mother was already in the kitchen, moving with her usual precision–robed cinched at her waist, hair pinned just so. She didn’t look like someone who’d been waiting by the phone all night for an update, but you knew better.
She glanced up the second she heard your footsteps. “Well?”
You moved to the counter, grabbed a mug, and stalled. “Well what?”
Her lips pursed, the tiniest glimmer of impatience breaking through the façade. “Seonghwa. Don’t act like I didn’t see the way your father was practically glowing when the driver called to say he’d picked you up from Velare.”
You took a long sip of coffee. Bitter. Unsettling. Fitting.
“He was… something.”
“Something?” she repeated, amused. “That’s a very noncommittal answer.”
You shrugged. “Charming. Smart. Intense.”
“Oh?” Her brow lifted. “Intense how?”
You leaned against the counter. “He invited me to meet his parents this weekend.”
That got her full attention. “Already?” Her expression turned curious, amused. “Well, someone’s not wasting time.”
You hesitated. “He said to pack light… and—”
You met her gaze carefully.
“—to bring something red.”
There was a pause.
Then, to your surprise, your mother laughed. A low, knowing sound. Like you’d just told her a juicy secret.
“My, my,” she murmured, setting her cup down. “So he has a little spice in him after all.”
You frowned. “That’s what you took from that?”
She gave you a conspiratorial smile, eyes glinting. “Darling, any man worth his salt knows how to play with intrigue. It’s been so long since I’ve heard a line like that. Refreshing.”
You stared at her, uncertain if she was being serious or just enjoying the moment too much.
She waved a hand. “Don’t overthink it. Red is sexy. Red is bold. He probably wants to see if you can command a room in it.”
Or bleed in it, your mind supplied.
You didn’t say that out loud.
You stood in front of your closet again, the same way you had just days ago–except now, the silence felt different. Sharper.
Your fingers brushed over soft neutrals, your usual go-to pieces. Then slowly, you reached into the back.
Velvet. Silk. lace.
And there it was. The red one.
You didn’t even remember buying it. A draped slip dress–low in the back, high on suggestion. It looked like something made for candlelight and consequences. You laid it in your suitcase carefully, as if it might shatter.
Your phone buzzed.
1 New Message–Park Seonghwa
“Outside.”
You checked the time again, 8:45. Not 9:00.
Not fashionably early. Not conveniently on time. Deliberately–precisely–early.
Your stomach turned, “shit.”
You darted back into your room, heart racing as you zipped up your overnight bag with one hand and tried to shove your phone charger and makeup pouch inside with the other. Your toothbrush was still by the sink. You hadn't even thrown on shoes.
He hadn’t said he’d come in.
But somehow, you knew he might.
You sprinted to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, quickly patting down the faint edges of your under-eye concealer. You barely recognized your own reflection—flushed cheeks, chest tight, a strange pressure at the base of your spine that hadn’t been there before.
Too fast. Too soon. Too much.
Your hands trembled slightly as you jammed your toiletries into the front zipper of your suitcase and dragged it toward the door.
And then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You froze.
Three slow, calm raps.
You turned toward the sound like prey toward a predator—instinctively, silently.
Another knock.
Your heart galloped. You glanced around your room as if expecting something to tell you what to do. Did he really come to the door? You hadn’t even told him your unit number. The front gate didn’t buzz.
Of course he didn’t need to.
Of course Seonghwa knew.
You smoothed your blouse with damp hands and moved to the door, bag half-zipped, shoes forgotten. You hesitated with your fingers on the handle. Inhaled once, deeply.
Then you opened it.
There he was. Still in that same immaculate coat—black, cashmere, tailored to the angles of his frame. His hair was wind-swept just enough to look natural. He held out the coffee tray, one brow lifted.
“Morning,” he said. “I figured you might be a little behind.”
There was no judgment in his voice. Only certainty.
You blinked. “I thought—nine?”
He smiled. “I wanted to give us a head start.”
You couldn’t tell if us meant you and him, or him and the schedule he had in his head.
Still, you took the coffee from him and stepped back.
“I just need… two minutes.”
He didn’t enter. He didn’t offer to help. But he didn’t leave the threshold either.
“Of course,” he said. “Take your time.”
You moved quickly—grabbed your heels, zipped your bag completely, slipped your coat on. Every motion felt watched, even though he wasn’t looking directly at you anymore.
Still, you could feel his presence like a shadow pressing against the edge of your space.
Exactly 120 seconds later, you emerged, suitcase in hand, breath tight in your chest.
He took it from you wordlessly.
Opened the car door.
Waited.
And just before you climbed in, he leaned in close, so close his breath brushed the shell of your ear.
“I like the shade of red you picked,” he murmured.
You hadn’t told him what you’d packed.
The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality. The interior of the car smelled expensive—leather, faint bergamot, something else underneath that lingered like the memory of smoke. The seats cradled your body as you settled in, warm and too comfortable.
Seonghwa slid in beside you and closed his own door. He didn’t start the car immediately. Instead, he took a sip from his coffee cup, then glanced at you over the rim.
“Everything alright?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Just… rushing.”
He turned the engine on. The car hummed to life—silent, smooth. You barely felt it pull away from the curb.
“I didn’t mean to throw off your routine,” he said after a beat, gaze still forward. “I assumed you’d appreciate a head start. I hate lateness. It chips away at… things.”
You didn’t ask what things. You just looked out the window.
City blurred into suburban hills. You passed rows of manicured hedges and stone walls that got taller the farther you drove.
A few minutes passed in silence before he spoke again.
“So,” he said lightly, “tell me something you didn’t say last night.”
You turned to him slowly. “About what?”
“Anything. Something unedited. Unpolished. No parent-approved answers this time.”
You hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup.
He glanced at you, his smile soft but expectant.
You looked ahead. “I don’t like mornings.”
His chuckle was low, appreciative. “Neither do I. But they reveal people.”
You arched a brow. “Reveal them how?”
“Most people aren’t pretending at 8 a.m.,” he replied. “That’s when the masks slip. That’s when the decisions we make aren’t curated—they’re instinctual.”
You looked at him for a long second. “Is that why you showed up early?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just kept driving, eyes on the road, lips curving into a knowing smile.
“I like to see what’s real.”
You turned back to the window, heart kicking harder in your chest.
The road narrowed. Trees thickened. The city had disappeared behind you, swallowed by green and gold and mist.
He reached over and adjusted the heat slightly, the soft brush of his fingers near your knee drawing your attention.
“So,” he said again, his voice deceptively casual, “what did you pack?”
You hesitated. “Clothes. Basics. The red dress.”
He smiled wider. “Good girl.”
The words were said without malice—low and warm, like praise.
But they wrapped around your ribs too tightly. You didn’t reply. You couldn’t help but to hide the way you bit your lip, damn.
The car rolled smoothly along the winding road, trees passing like a metronome, each one a beat in the slow build of tension.
You sipped your coffee to keep your hands busy, your gaze flitting to Seonghwa. He was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. But there was something… still about him. A kind of quiet that felt curated, like a painting hung just slightly off-center to make you stare longer.
“Do you always like control this much?” you asked suddenly, surprising even yourself.
He didn’t flinch. In fact, he looked amused.
“Would it scare you if I said yes?”
You held his gaze. “I guess it depends what you’re trying to control.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face. Then he smiled—slow and clean.
“Everything,” he said. “But not for the reason you think.”
He glanced out the window, then back to the road.
“I grew up in chaos,” he continued. “You’d never guess that now, would you?”
You didn’t answer. He didn’t need you to.
“There were times when I didn’t know if the lights would come on. If I’d find my mother where I left her. If someone I trusted would still be there the next day.” He paused. “It teaches you to anticipate everything. To keep one hand on the pulse of the room, and the other on the door.”
You studied him, unsure whether he was telling you this to connect—or to test.
“I’m not afraid of mess,” he added after a moment. “I just don’t let it live in my house.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but the car began to slow.
And that’s when you saw it.
The trees parted like theater curtains, revealing a long gravel drive framed by low lanterns and lush, unbroken greenery. At the end of it stood the villa—tall, white stone, lined with glass and vines. Elegant. Immaculate.
Dead quiet.
No staff in sight. No cars. No voices.
Just the rhythmic crunch of the tires as Seonghwa pulled into the drive.
“Wow,” you whispered. It slipped out without permission.
He smiled faintly. “It’s peaceful.”
It was more than that. It was pristine. The kind of untouched that made you nervous to breathe too loudly.
He parked, stepped out, and came around to open your door before you could even reach for the handle.
You stepped out slowly, the chill of the morning sinking through your clothes. The breeze carried faint traces of lavender and lemon—but there was something metallic underneath it.
You couldn’t place it.
“Come on,” Seonghwa said, gently placing his hand on the small of your back. “They’re waiting.”
You blinked. “Your parents?”
He smiled. “In a way.”
That didn’t make sense.
But before you could ask, the massive front doors swung open.
A woman stood in the doorway, perfectly composed in a dark emerald dress. Her features were delicate, her gaze sharp.
She didn’t smile.
Seonghwa gave her a polite nod.
“This is Eunji,” he said. “She runs the house.”
Not our housekeeper. Not assistant. Just… runs it.
“Welcome,” Eunji said to you, voice smooth as velvet. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The phrasing made your pulse spike.
We.
The doors closed behind you with a low thud. The sound echoed too far for a place that was supposed to be warm and lived in.
Eunji stepped forward, hands folded in front of her.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”
Your room.
Not guest room. Not Seonghwa’s room.
Your heels clicked softly against the marble floors as you followed her through the main hall. Everything was polished to perfection—gleaming stone, neutral tones, antique lighting fixtures that flickered slightly as you passed.
Too perfect.
There were no fingerprints on any surface. No shoes near the door. No idle coffee cups. The house looked prepared, not inhabited.
“This wing is private,” Eunji said. “You’ll find everything you need in the suite. Fresh towels, a wardrobe, toiletries.”
You stopped to admire the space. It was much to your liking, a little too much though.
Eunji turned back, that same unreadable expression fixed on her face. “Mr. Park requested it be rearranged to your specifications”
Your mouth was dry. “How did he—”
“Mr. Park is… attentive.”
Before you could respond, she pushed open a door to a guest suite. Bigger than your entire apartment. Cream and grey, accented in dark wood. The scent of rosewater clung faintly to the air.
The bed was the staple. Satin sheets, similar to the ones in your room. Delicate but commanding.
It looked like temptation woven into fabric and a succulent mattress.
“We dine at seven,” Eunji said, already backing out. “You’ll be called when it’s time.”
And with that, she left. No footsteps. No closing door.
Just silence.
You wandered the halls afterward, pretending to admire the architecture while your mind scrambled for grounding.
You found Seonghwa seated in what looked like a study—dim lighting, bookshelves, and a large window overlooking the garden. He didn’t look surprised to see you.
“Getting acquainted with the house?” he asked without looking up from the book in his hands.
You lingered in the doorway. “Trying to figure out if it’s a house or a museum.”
That drew a soft laugh. “It’s both, in a way.”
You stepped inside slowly. “Eunji said something about my room being rearranged to my specifications. Which is… ”
He set the book down carefully and looked at you.
“weird?,” he said. “I told you that I like to observe. So I had the room prepped from my observations.”
“That’s thoughtful,” you said. “And a little unsettling.”
“Why unsettling?”
“You somehow replicated my bedroom, in a way.”
“I observe.”
There was no apology in his tone. Just that same infuriating calm.
“You don’t think it’s invasive?” you asked.
He stood and moved toward you—not fast, but deliberate. Stopping a foot away.
“I think most people spend their lives begging to be seen,” he murmured. “And when someone actually sees them, they get scared.”
You swallowed. The room felt warmer now.
He tilted his head. “Are you scared?”
You didn’t answer.
His hand reached up—not touching—just hovering near your jaw. Like he was daring you to lean in. To close the distance.
You didn’t move. But your heart did. Loudly.
Then he stepped back.
“Seven o’clock,” he said, voice returning to velvet. “I’ll have something ready for you to wear.”
You stood in front of the full-length mirror, holding the hanger in both hands. It was black. Simple, elegant. However the cut was barely your style.
It had been left on your bed while you were in the shower, with a single note looping in cursive:
Wear this today. I’d like to see you in black.
–Hwa.
You weren’t sure why the request made your chest tighten. It wasn’t the dress itself. It was beautiful, a little too perfect though. A little too…picked. Like a costume for a part you weren’t sure you agreed to play.
The room was beautiful—of course it was. Tastefully lavish. But something about it felt… prepped. Like a stage set waiting for the first scene. Not a wrinkle on the comforter. Not a single personal item in sight. Even the orchids on the dresser looked like they’d been chilled before being placed.
You walked toward the tall windows, parting the sheer curtains.
The view stretched out into what felt like nowhere. Acres of manicured garden, symmetrical hedges, and beyond that, a wall of trees that looked too dense to explore. No roads. No city skyline. Just… removed.
You picked up your phone.
No signal. You furrowed your brows.
You checked the Wi-Fi. Connected, but everything felt monitored—too fast, too filtered. You could Google the weather, but couldn’t open your texts. Couldn’t send anything out.
A quiet panic stirred in your chest.
You paced. Opened the wardrobe. All high-end designer clothes… not all yours.
Two of the dresses still had the tags on, and neither were familiar. One of the blouses bore the faint scent of perfume you didn’t wear.
You pulled open a drawer. Silk lingerie—red, black, delicate.
They’d prepared for you.
Expected you.
You sat at the vanity. Your reflection stared back, quiet and still. For a second, you didn’t recognize her. Your eyes looked bigger in this lighting, almost too bright. The fear behind them didn’t belong to someone who’d gone on a simple date.
Your mother’s voice rang faintly in your mind—“Mysterious is sexy. Don’t overthink it.”
You looked at the dress again.
It lay there like a dare.
And she said no black, what are the odds.
Still, you slipped into it.
The fabric whispered across your skin, cool and unfamiliar. It clung to your curves like it knew them already. When you tried to reach the zipper in the back, your fingers fumbled once. Twice.
Then, you heard him behind you. You didn’t even hear him enter your room which was…weird.
“Let me.” he said.
You stiffened. Seonghwa’s hand touched your shoulder slightly, gently. The other found the zipper, slow and smooth, dragging it up your spine like a whisper. You felt the what of his breath at your neck. His cologne brushing past your nostrils like a secret, intoxicating…
“You look breathtaking in black,” he murmured, the zipper locking into place with a soft click.
You met his gaze in the mirror expression still but thankful his hands still on your shoulders.
He was smiling–but his eyes told another story. Not hunger. No pride.
possession.
You turned to face him, arms crossed. “What’s the occasion?”
He stepped closer, touching a loose curl behind your ear. “No occasion. I just like the way it contrasts against your skin.”
“That’s kind of intense,” you said softly, attempting to make it sound like a joke. His head tilted, smile never faltering.
“You have no idea.”
With that, a soft chuckle left your lips. It was all too odd really, you just couldn’t put a finger on it. But that smile, those gentle pearly whites, subtly hypnotized you.
Dinner was served in a smaller, more intimate room than the sprawling dining hall you’d seen during the villa tour. This one was quieter. Tucked away behind a velvet-draped arch, with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened into a darkened courtyard bathed in moonlight.
A single table. Two chairs. A candlelit centerpiece that flickered like your heartbeat.
Seonghwa pulled your chair out for you again, his fingertips brushing the curve of your shoulder before retreating.
“Red wine tonight?” he asked. You nodded, sitting carefully in the black dress that still felt more like wrapping than clothing. He poured for you. Not a drop spilled.
You watched the wine bloom into your glass like ink.
The food came–an aromatic truffle risotto, grilled white asparagus, some kind of pear salad that looked more like artwork than something edible. He watched you take your first bite. Watching the way your lips settled onto the fork, before lifting his own.
It took a few tender bites for him to start speaking. It's not that he was nervous or scared, it was a calculative tactic. You know, waiting for the perfect moment.
“I’m glad you’re still here," he said simply, eyes now fixed on yours. “Many would’ve run by now.”
“Should I have?” you asked, half-smiling. Curious as to what he might be hiding from you.
“You tell me.” There was the tension again–slippery, warm, and slow-burning. Like he enjoyed seeing how far he could push before you flinched. You picked up some wine, to buy time.
He leaned forward, voice low. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”
Your fingers tightened around the glass stem before you could stop them. You didn’t answer right away. Instead you smiled–small and sharp. “Should I be?”
He chuckled low and velvety. “No. Never. But I think you’re curious. I think you’re trying to figure out if I'm real.”
You exhaled through your nose, setting the wine down.
“Maybe I am.” His smile didn’t break. But his gaze dropped slightly—as if savoring the fact that you hadn’t denied it.
The risotto had long gone cold on your plate, but you barely noticed. Your glass was half empty. Or half full. You weren’t sure anymore.
Seonghwa was watching you with that quiet, unreadable expression again–chin resting on his hand, his elbow propped on the table like he had nowhere else in the world to be. His presence filled the room. Warm. Intoxicating. He hadn’t touched his phone once. Hadn’t looked away from you unless it was to refill your glass or cut your food.
“So…” you started.
He blinked, “mm?”
“You said I'd be meeting your parents this weekend,” you said carefully, keeping your tone light. “Will they be joining us anytime soon?”
There was a pause. A fractional pause. Not long enough to be obvious. But just long enough for your nerves to thread themselves together. Then came the smile. Yes, that smile.
"They're out of town,” he said smoothly, as if that explained everything. “Business in Vienna. Last minute. I didn't cancel just because of that.”
“Oh.” you nodded slowly, swallowing back the knot forming in your throat. “Right. That makes sense.”
“They’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” he added, lifting his glass. “You’ll meet them at brunch.”
“Okay,” you said, even though it wasn’t okay.
Because something didn’t add up.This entire trip—his invitation, your mother’s delight, the way he’d worded it—“Meet my parents at our villa this weekend.” Not “sometime.” Not “if they’re around.”
You shifted in your seat, feigning interest in your wine again.
Outside, the trees swayed gently under the moonlight. The air smelled like jasmine and something faintly metallic. Maybe iron.
Inside, your heart thudded against your ribs with each tick of the quiet wall clock.
“Do you trust me?” Seonghwa asked suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the table between you.
“I can tell you’re holding something in. Your eyes give it away.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your throat felt dry.
“I want you to be honest with me,” he said, voice lower now. More intimate. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s complicated. I’m not going to judge you.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
But you didn’t tell him what you were thinking.
You didn’t say: Your phone hasn’t buzzed once this entire time.
You didn’t say: None of the staff make eye contact with me.
You didn’t say: You knew my size. You chose my clothes. You knew I’d say yes.
Instead, you forced a smile.
“Well,” you said, trying to sound amused, “I did pack something red just in case.”
His eyes gleamed. Just for a second.
Then he stood, walked around the table, and offered his hand.
“Why don’t you show me,” he said, “after dessert?”
You held his gaze, lips parted in a soft, thoughtful breath. The suggestion hung between you like thick perfume–delicate, almost playful, yet unmistakably bold. It wasn’t a demand, not exactly. But it wasn’t a question either.
You glanced down at your wine glass, then up again, letting your lashes dip just enough to soften the edge of your smirk.
“Hmm,” you hummed, swirling the stem gently between your fingers. “I think I’ll let your imagination do the heavy lifting… for now.”
A flicker passed over his face—so fast you might have missed it.
Something sharp. Something hungry.
But then it was gone, replaced with his usual cool charm. He chuckled under his breath, and leaned in closer, voice low and molten. “Bratty.”
Your pulse jumped.
Heat bloomed just beneath your skin. But you stayed still–calm, composed, sipping your wine like you hadn’t just thrown a match into a pool of gasoline.
“I’m pacing myself,” you said smoothly. “You did say this weekend was long, didn’t you?”
Seonghwa tilted his head, appraising you like a riddle he hadn’t quite solved. His fingers tapped once on the table. Deliberate. Measured. Then he stood, slow and graceful, rounding the table again—not to press, not to push.
Just to linger close enough for your skin to recognize his presence like heat from a candle.
“You know,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek, “I like that you make me wait.”
Then he turned, glancing over his shoulder as he walked toward the hall.
“Come on,” he added lightly. “I’ll show you the gallery.”
You rose from your seat slowly, your gaze fixed on his back.
Because despite the teasing, despite the smirks—you knew something had shifted.
That one word—bratty—wasn’t just flirtation.
It was a thread. A test. And you’d just tugged on it.
You followed him down a quieter hall, this one narrower–less grand than the others. The walls were washed in a soft eggshell white, the lighting warmer, more intimate. It felt different here. More… personal.
At the end of the corridor, Seonghwa pushed open a door you hadn't noticed before. The hinges let out a soft creak. The muscles on his back tensed through his shirt as he opened the heavy door.
Inside was a long, private gallery. Quiet, almost reverent. Paintings lined the walls–neatly framed, evenly spaced. It wasn't flashy or curated for guests. This was something else. A sanctuary. A secret.
You stepped in slowly, your breath catching without warning.
They were beautiful.
Monochrome landscapes in graphite tones—stormy skies, blurred fields, skeletal trees in motion. Each canvas was haunting in its stillness, filled with ache and longing.
But every single one had the same strange detail:
A single, deliberate stripe of yellow—sometimes thick like a road, other times narrow like thread—cut through the canvas. Always vertical. Always off-center.
“What…” You trailed off, unable to stop staring. “You painted these?”
Seonghwa nodded, quiet pride glinting in his eyes. “In my free time. Therapy, I suppose.”
“They’re incredible.” You meant it.
He watched you, but didn’t speak. You moved closer to one of the pieces, fingers twitching not to touch. “The yellow…is it meant to be a path?”
He smiled softly. “Interpret it however you like.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. The color wasn’t a warm yellow. It was too sharp—like caution tape or the edge of a blade. It didn’t lead through the painting. It cut into it.
Still, something about the pattern tickled the back of your mind, like a song you couldn’t place. You reached for your phone—maybe to snap a picture, maybe to look up if his style reminded you of another artist. But—
No signal.
You frowned. Same as earlier. Still no service. The thought prickled at you, but you forced yourself to keep calm “do you sell them?”
Seonghwa stepped closer, his voice low near your ear. “Only to people who understand them.”
You turned slightly, startled at the nearness. But he didn’t push further—just let the silence sit between you like mist.
Your gaze wandered to the next canvas, and then the next. And then—
You paused.
There was a break in the gallery wall. Not obvious at first. Subtle, even clever. But the line that ran through the drywall behind one painting didn’t match the rest of the seamless gallery. It was vertical, about the width of a doorframe.
A seam.
A hidden door?
You stepped toward it unconsciously, blinking.
The painting above it—like all the others—featured that yellow stripe.
But this one?
It aligned perfectly with the line in the wall beneath it.
A coincidence?
You looked over your shoulder. “Seonghwa?”
He was watching you with unreadable eyes.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Instead, you smiled. “Your technique is… meticulous.”
He stepped forward, gently guiding you away from the painting, his hand warm on your back.
“Come,” he said instead, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Why don't we watch a movie? Something simple to end the night.”
You blinked, the image of the yellow-streaked canvas still fresh in your mind. The hidden seam behind it pulsed at the edges of your memory like a bruise you kept pressing. But Seonghwa’s voice was gentle, coaxing. Soft enough to make you follow.
You nodded. “Sure. A movie sounds good.”
By the time you returned from changing, the air in the room had shifted. The formal dining atmosphere was gone, replaced by dim lamplight and the soft hum of an old projector spinning to life in the corner. You curled into the plush side of a velvet couch in your comfiest black pajama shorts and a worn t-shirt. Seonghwa, oddly enough, hadn’t changed—still in that sleek black suit, not a wrinkle in sight.
He handed you a mug of hot chocolate. You blinked at the steam curling out, rich and velvety.
“This smells unreal,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around it.
“It’s my own recipe,” he said, smiling. “Dark chocolate. Chili. A dash of clove. It’s meant to… warm you from the inside out.”
You took a sip and blinked. He wasn’t lying. The flavor unfolded across your tongue, unexpected and addictive. Complex. Like him.
The movie flickered on—something foreign and slow-paced. Beautiful cinematography. A soundtrack that lulled rather than filled. It played more like a dream than a film.
But Seonghwa didn’t seem too interested in watching. His attention lingered sideways, eyes on you between sips of wine and your hot chocolate. He didn’t press too close. He didn’t need to.
“So…” he said, low and unhurried, “what makes a night unforgettable for you?”
You glanced at him. “Hmm?”
He smiled softly. “The little things that leave a mark. A sound. A scent. A... sensation.”
You shifted under the blanket. “That depends.”
“On?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Who I’m with.”
He hummed. “And if you’re with someone who listens closely... who pays attention... would that change what you’re willing to reveal?”
You stared into your mug for a moment, then looked back at him.
“Are we talking about favorite colors, or… something more intimate?”
He laughed under his breath, low and indulgent. “I suppose that depends too. Maybe I’m curious about both.”
Your pulse tapped behind your ribs.
“Alright,” you said slowly. “Favorite color first.”
“red,” he answered without hesitation. “And yours?”
You licked your bottom lip, letting your eyes drift back to the screen. “Grey. Lately.”
“Like fog?” he asked. “Or something heavier?”
You met his gaze again. “Like a sky that doesn’t know whether to break or hold itself together.”
His smile faltered—just slightly. “That’s beautiful.”
The air thickened between you.
He leaned back, letting the quiet stretch, letting you choose what to do with it. But even in his stillness, there was presence. A hum beneath the surface.
You took another sip, trying to focus on the movie—but your thoughts wandered.
Back to the gallery.
Back to the yellow slash through every painting.
And back to that one painting in particular—where the yellow aligned perfectly with a seam in the wall.
A door, maybe. You hadn’t imagined it. You were sure of it now. You swallowed hard and looked at Seonghwa again. He caught your stare, and this time he didn’t smile.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked gently.
You hesitated. And lied.
“Just the movie.”
You weren't sure when the movie ended.
The film blurred into a quiet hum, shadows dancing lazily across the walls. Your hot chocolate mug sat empty on the side table, the warmth from it now lingering only in your chest. Somewhere between the third stretch of silence and seonghwa adjusting the throw blanket over your bare legs, your eyes felt heavier.
You didn’t fall asleep, but the space between seconds began to bend.
“I should..” you started, voice low and slurred with exhaustion. “Probably go back to my room.” He didn't answer right away.
Instead, his finger brushed your ankle–just the barest contact, warm and deliberate. A feather-light trace up to the back of your knee, where the blanket slipped. Your breath caught.
“I could show you the way back,” he murmured. “or …you could stay here. Sleep beside me.”
He’d never done this. Ask for a woman to stay beside him, let all alone sleep. He was far more secluded to even think that. But why now park seonghwa? Why with you?
The way he said it–gentle, suggestive with no pressure at all–was worse than if he’d demanded it. It made you want to lean in. It made your skin tingle with anticipation.
You didn't move. He turned slightly toward you.
this felt…different. Less like a polite offer. More like a choice. A test. You looked up at him. His dark eyes like pools–but his expression soft. inviting . and somehow…patient.
Still, your mind kept circling back to the gallery. To that seam behind the painting.
You swallowed and gave a soft, coy smile. “Not tonight.”
A beat passed.
He leaned in just slightly—just close enough for his voice to skim the shell of your ear.
“alright,” he whispered with a faint exhale, not angry—almost amused. Almost proud.
The word sent heat crawling up your neck. Your thighs instinctively pressed together under the blanket.
You pulled away from his proximity with a weak laugh. “You’re still in your suit.” He glanced down, straightened his lapel. “Do you want me out of it?” You gave him a playful glare, even as your heart raced.
He stood then, slowly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your room.”
The hallway felt quieter than earlier—darker too, despite the golden sconces that lit the way. You walked side by side, your bare feet padded silently on the polished floors, and his dress shoes clicked a half-step behind you, always steady.
When he opened your bedroom door, he didn’t enter.
He leaned against the frame, head tilted.
“Goodnight,” he said, low and velvety.
You stepped inside and turned, catching the outline of him still in the doorway. The urge to say something else clawed at your throat—ask something, press for more—but instead, you said:
“Thank you for tonight.”
His smile this time was softer. Almost… disappointed. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”
The door closed.
And only then did you let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
You turned toward the lavish bed, the silk sheets, the marble fireplace flickering low—and yet your mind remained in that gallery.
That stripe of yellow.
That line in the wall.
That door.
You didn’t want to believe you were being watched.
But as you stood there in the silence of your room, you couldn’t help but glance toward the far corner… where no mirror hung, but something still felt like it reflected you.
Your sleep started off quiet, yet subtle interrupted. You awoke to a sound you couldn’t place. Not loud. Not obvious. Just…there.
A soft scrape. Like furniture shifting across marble. A hush of weight against weight.
The fire in the hearth had dimmed, but the embers still cast a dull, pulsing glow across the room. You blinked slowly, registering the shadows on the ceiling, the heavy weight of satin sheets, and the odd hollowness in your chest.
3:21 a.m.
You sat up. Waited. Nothing.
And then–again. Just barely. Like something being dragged…somewhere close. Your mouth was dry. You kicked the sheets off and slid your legs over the side of the bed. The floor, cool and grounding.
The door closed, and the hallway beyond it, silent. But that wasn't where the sound had come from. Your eyes shifted toward the far wall.
The gallery.
The paintings.
The door-shaped seam behind the one with the sharp yellow gash. You pulled one of seonghwa’s button downs off the back of the velvet chair and slipped it on over your camisole. As you crept through the hall and down the sweeping staircase, your bare feet whispered against the cold floor.
The mansion didn’t feel asleep. It felt like it was waiting.
You passed the entryway, then the darkened dining room. The soft glow of security lights caught edges of polished furniture and glass frames. No alarms. No staff.
Just you and your heartbeat.
The gallery doors weren't locked. You pushed open one gently, its heaviness threatening to louden and eventually crept inside through the small crevice.
Still. Silent. Cold. until–
There it was again. A faint rustle. You scanned the room, gaze sweeping the series of grey landscapes. Familiar now. Their melancholy palette interrupted only by that single, jarring yellow stroke in each canvas.
Your fingers hovered in the air as you moved toward the far wall. The one painting that had drawn you back. You stepped closer.
And there it was: the seam. A thin, imperfect line splitting the wall behind the frame, just slightly to the right.
You started at it, breath shallow. It wasn’t your imagination. This wasn't just an irregularity in the paneling. The paint was different around it–like something has been sealed.
You lifted your hand–
And then a voice, quiet and deliberate, behind you:
“You’re not supposed to be here.” you froze.
Seonghwa.
Standing a few feet behind you, still dressed in his dark suit, unbuttoned now. His hair slightly tousled and eyes unreadable.
“I heard something,” you said, turning to face him. “I couldn't sleep.”
Seonghwa stepped closer, unbothered, as if you’d merely commented on the weather. His voice was calm–light, even.
“Old houses,” he said with a soft smile. “The air conditioning pipes shift at night. Pressure builds up, especially when the temperature drops. It echoes through the walls.”
You hesitated. Something in you didn’t quite buy it–but he looked so sure. So at ease. His eyes scanned your face gently. “You’re curious. That’s natural,” he added, this time like consolation, not a confession.
Before you could ask more, his hand brushed a piece of lint from your sleeve. The gesture was oddly intimate. Disarming.
“Come back to bed,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
You watched him, letting the silence stretch, “the pipes,” you repeated, nodding slowly. “Right.”
Seonghwa smiled, just a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Of course. I had them replaced last winter, but this house likes to make itself known.”
You forced a light laugh, folding your arms. “Well, it certainly has personality.”
He stepped closer, his bare hand grazing your wrist as if by accident. “Don’t let it scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” you lied.
His eyes dropped to where your arms were crossed—like he was reading you in real time. Every blink, every breath, every thread of doubt in your voice.
“I believe you,” he said, but the words were honeyed and amused, like he didn’t believe you at all.
His gaze lingered just a second too long. Then he turned, hand resting briefly on the gallery door. “Come on. You shouldn’t be cold and barefoot at this hour.”
You nodded and followed, silently allowing him to guide you out.
Back in your room, he paused at the threshold once again, eyes sweeping over you like a question he hadn’t asked aloud.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, voice softer now.
“Sleep well,” you offered.
He nodded once and closed the door behind him without another word.
You stood there, heart hammering.
The pipes.
He hadn’t even asked which sound you meant. Or which painting you’d stood in front of. Or how you’d gotten in without setting off an alarm.
As if he already knew.
You sat on the edge of the bed, gaze drawn back to the corner of your room. The ceiling vent was silent. Not a single groan from the so-called shifting pipes.
Still, you didn’t go back to the gallery. Not tonight.
You lay back in bed and stared up at the ceiling, the image of that yellow stripe haunting your thoughts like a warning.
Not scared, you’d said.
But if that had been true… Why did it suddenly feel like every part of this villa had eyes?
@etherealcherrie @cromerstudios @velvetdolor