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South and North Hwang In-ho x F!Reader

summary: Each year, a VIP event is held at the Palace Hotel, organized by an anonymous mastermind. Invitations are strictly for those aged eighteen and over. You had waited your whole life to receive one, watching your family attend without you, but when it finally arrived, it came two weeks too late, without apology. To get revenge, you made the mastermind wait five years before attending, determined to make him pay. But you walked into a trap — because no one makes the frontman wait. And he’s very eager to meet the insolent girl who did.

warnings: age gap (23 and 54 yo), heated kiss, sexual tension, implied sexual content (nothing explicit). rich ppl's problems (reader makes that invitation the most important thing ever).

word count: 7.5k+

a/n: a silly one-shot, really. a bit dramatic but who cares.

Coming from one of Korea’s most influential families always comes at a price. Whether physical, material, or even psychological – wealth demands its dues. One must earn it. And one must be seen enjoying it. Indeed, the privileges parading before your eyes and across your eyelids were well worth the (albeit meager) sacrifices required by such affluence.

Yet a single misstep by your father had nearly brought your family's entire fortune crashing down. You may have been the youngest, the one overlooked entirely, but you understood money and its stakes. You understood the danger of squandering everything overnight in reckless investments or into the hands of the wrong men. You had learned it the hard way: the weight of a coin balanced in the palm of a foolish player. And your father, for all his hauteur, was naïve – frankly, a fool. Your mother, on the other hand, preferred painting her lips and playing the part of the haughty doll rather than intervening. But you knew, oh, you had seen it, that she understood far more than he did. You had witnessed the force of her persuasion. She could have salvaged your family from ruin if only she had not chosen to play the disenchanted bimbo in the presence of your sly–eyed father.

Fortunately, fate had dealt you a favorable hand. Yet your father remained careless. Only God knew what he might still be capable of.

Still, every year, an exclusive “VIP” event was held at the Palace Hotel, gathering all the elite families – from lawyers to architects, from physicians to financiers – for a lavish banquet around a table gilded in imperious gold. The figure behind these gatherings remained a ghost, an invisible puppeteer who sent out invitations sealed in golden envelopes, marked with a crimson wax stamp bearing three symbols: a circle, a triangle, a square. The seal made you scoff. You always discarded the papers left atop the bureau after your sisters had already begun parading about, selecting their gowns – you were never invited, not yet eighteen. The invitation always came at eighteen. Before then, you were but a child, an unwelcome disturbance in such affairs.

Year after year, you watched your sisters, a decade older, primping themselves in hopes of catching the eye of some desperate millionaire. And year after year, a part of you longed to dive into that gilded pool. After all, when life had paraded its riches before your eyes since the cradle, those opulent trappings came to define your very existence.

You wanted an invitation. But then, there was a mistake, someone had forgotten your name. An oversight, they said. Your parents swiftly dispatched a letter of complaint, and two weeks later, your envelope arrived, along with a theater ticket at that very hotel, meant as a pitiful apology. From that day on, you loathed the hand orchestrating such nonsense. Whoever it was, self–important, arrogant, had the audacity to offer theater seats in velvet–lined grandeur as consolation. Disgustingly full of themselves.

So you made a statement. For five consecutive years, you refused every invitation. Much to your parents’ chagrin.

But tonight, for the first time, you were going. And you were determined to be noticed. To take your revenge on whoever hid behind that mask – the one who had ruined your eighteenth year.

Your parents, desperate to keep up appearances, dressed in the finest attire they owned, only to scream at you moments later when they found you still lounging in curlers on the long velvet couch by the fireplace, flipping lazily through a magazine. You sighed heavily – as though speaking directly to some invisible camera, declaring your utter hatred for this entire charade, and your total indifference toward their wretched hotel.

You finally slipped off the sofa, guided by your pitiful maid, who trailed after you with puppy eyes, clinging no matter how many times you dismissed her. You ascended the grand staircase and collapsed onto your canopy bed with theatrical exhaustion.

Your sisters had managed to secure their futures, if one could call it that. One had married a grotesque man with tanned skin and a hooked nose, both widower and divorcé, whose wallet could repaint half the earth in green bills. Ironically, he treated her like royalty, loving her with a depth that almost made you pity him. The other sister, less fortunate, had landed a man her own age, with blond hair and a noble Spanish lineage, which meant, of course, that he spent all his time in Spain.

This year, despite your resistance, your parents had set their sights on finding you a husband. You were the youngest, after all. The easiest to marry off to some decrepit old billionaire whose money they could exploit. Yes, that was their plan for you.

But you? You had a different agenda. You wanted vengeance. To show that pompous mastermind who you truly were.

For the thousandth time, you dismissed the maid, then marched over to the armoire and flung it open with dramatic flair, sending a gust through the room.

The golden dress. Perfect.

You seized it, fingers gliding over the sequins, feeling the weight of the fabric, the texture both resistant and rich. The dress struck a balance, modest yet revealing. It was ideal. You stripped off your satin stockings and top, then slid your arms through the sleeves. The gown slipped over your bare skin like molten gold, pooling at your feet with a soft hush.

Woah.

It hugged your body with precision. The back was cut just low enough to hint, but not expose. A secret kept. So long as no one tugged at the thread resting at your nape, the one tether that stood between your skin and the world.

“Move!” your father’s voice bellowed from downstairs. “We’re going to be late!”

You exhaled – again. The curlers would have to wait.

Grabbing your toiletry bag, you stuffed it with your makeup brushes, lipsticks, and, at the last second, a box of perfumes. Then, without thinking, you retrieved the theater invitation – the one that had lingered for five years in the drawer of your bedside table. Just in case.

And finally, you turned to Ji–woo, the poor maid.

“You can try the dresses when I’m not here,” you gestured toward your room as you descended the red staircase two steps at a time. “And what’s left of the makeup. Whatever. I don’t care.”

Ji–woo flushed, raising her arms in a gesture of helplessness, both to defend herself and to deny the accusation, but you frowned and cast her a long, unreadable look. “Hey, I’m not accusing you of anything,” you said, shaking your head as you pulled a strand of hair from your lips. “I’m making you an offer, okay?”

She observed you silently for a moment, her hands hanging limply in front of her dress, and then her eyes began to glisten. You stared, uncomprehending, then offered a soft farewell as you descended the steps.

“Goodbye, Miss Baek,” said the doorman politely.

You glanced up at him, mildly intrigued, as he held the door open and fixed his gaze on your hand.

“Are you all right?” you asked, lifting a questioning brow.

He remained silent, though he gave a brief cough and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. You shook your head in weary exasperation, but he waved a hand in farewell. “Bye, Min–seok. Bye, Ji–woo. Bye Han—”

“THAT’S ENOUGH. Car. Now.”

Your father’s voice rose sharply. You flinched, casting one last glance behind you before diving into the backseat of the limousine with an audible sigh. The scent of cool leather and florals filled your nose, but your mood remained sour. You sank into the cushioned seat, resting your head against the corner, letting yourself drift into contemplation. Slowly, the vehicle began to move.

Then, your gaze dropped to your hand.

What the staff had meant, truly, was that they were going to miss you. Damn it. This might very well be the last time you returned as Miss Baek.

☆

The door was enormous. A vast, revolving structure of glass. Perfect.

The Palace Hotel sat atop the hills of Seoul like a crown. An immense façade of pristine white marble, towering Corinthian columns, and authentic gold leaf gilding along its balconies. Heavy crimson velvet flags fluttered languidly before the grand entrance, hoisted on aged bronze poles.

The main door, a double revolving one carved from genuine crystal, revealed a glimpse of the lobby within, where Baccarat chandeliers dangled at vertiginous heights. Everything gleamed, dusted to the second, symmetrically aligned. The air itself bore the natural perfume of Italian leather, beeswax polish, and a faint undercurrent of tuberose.

The floor, a checkerboard of black and ivory marble, shone beneath one’s steps as though lacquered mere moments before your arrival. The walls, soaring six meters high, were draped in blood–red velvet hangings, trimmed with gilded leaf moldings. White plaster busts stood vigil at regular intervals.

The staff did not smile. Clad in black uniforms, gloved in white.

A grand imperial staircase in wrought iron spiraled toward the upper floors, carpeted with a thick burgundy runner, vacuumed twice daily regardless of dust.

What was this place?

Instead of detesting it, you found yourself entrapped. The air was saturated with musk – woody, potent, unsettlingly tangible.

This place. The bane of your existence.

Without delay, a man emerged to receive you, short, sweating, his movements erratic. He snatched your coats with a breathless gasp, speaking either too quickly or in a dialect foreign to you. Then he beckoned you toward a door with a frantic gesture.

A golden door, sealed, framed by an endless corridor of gold.

Your father knew the protocol. He dismissed the man with a curt flick of his fingers, clearly displeased by the intrusion. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he motioned for you both to follow, and you obeyed, your hand still clutching your heels.

You had let your hair fall loose, but she, your mother, had pinned it into a dreadful, severe bun high on your head.

“Come,” your mother murmured, flashing an exaggerated smile at the married men loitering nearby. You wrinkled your nose in distaste at her performance.

At last, you were led to the final room. The door opened, revealing… a staircase.

You furrowed your brow and trailed behind your parents as they ascended the endless spiral. The climb made your temples throb. You mounted the steps two by two, your father seething with impatience.

At the second floor, he finally halted, holding his breath to mask his panting and tugging sharply at his tie, barking at your mother when she hesitated a moment too long. She rolled her eyes but raised her manicured fingers to adjust his collar. She pressed a perfunctory kiss to his cheek, leaving a faint brown trace he wiped away with a grimace, digging his fingers into her waist. You ignored them, grumbling under your breath about the state of your ruined hair, when suddenly–

The door swung open. A man dressed in an immaculate white suit bowed deeply. “Mister and Ma’am Baek…” he began. Then, abruptly, he saw you. “Is that… Da–in?” he asked, swallowing hard as he stared. Da–in was your oldest sister.

Your father sighed. “Open the door. Let us in.”

The man nodded stiffly, glancing down at his list, eyes lingering on your name.

“I simply need to verify something, that’s all.”

Your father gave a vague nod, glancing down at his watch. He leaned toward your mother and murmured something in her ear, prompting a subtle wince that she masked with the tip of her fingers.

“So, Joo–mi!”

Your father’s patience was wearing thin.

“No, this is the third one,” he muttered. “The one you forgot five years ago.”

The guard swallowed nervously, his gaze shifting from one of you to the next with visible unease.

“Oh. Very well,” he managed to articulate. “You may enter.”

What on earth was their problem?

As you stepped inside, you elbowed your way past, shooting a dark glare in his direction to signal your annoyance. But then – you froze.

A vast banquet table stretched out before you, easily five meters long. Lavishly set in crimson hues, adorned with gilded dishes, folded napkins, and an overabundance of cutlery. Candles flickered amidst a dizzying array of forks. The room was lined with towering windows draped in silk curtains. The walls shimmered with gold leaf and eternal canvas – rare paintings, curated collections, and silent servants posted at every corner.

Wow.

Your heart began to beat in spite of yourself. You hadn’t come here to admire the décor. Damn it. You were here to project anger , not appreciation. But somehow, that secretive architect had read your mind. He had anticipated your tastes. He had even arranged for magnolias.

Your favorite flowers.

Ah. This was going terribly wrong.

About ten people lounged on velvet windowsills, champagne flutes in hand, conversing, laughing, concealing their mouths as they nibbled on hors d’oeuvres.

Oh. Oh no.

They all turned to stare as you entered, as if they could read the ploy. Your father pinched your arm.

“You’ll put on a pleasant face, and not a word about our finances,” he whispered, positioning himself so that his back concealed his expression from the guests. “Understood?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

At last, he released your arm, chuckling softly, then instructed you to take his arm while your mother held the other. Gracefully, the three of you approached a family whose son had just turned fifty, and still resided with his parents. Yes. That’s what your parents were envisioning for you . And he hadn’t even shown up. They spoke just loudly enough for the family to overhear and just softly enough to intrigue the others, offering elaborate praise for your supposed talents in sewing and culinary arts.

Utter fabrications. You didn’t even know where the kitchen was . The fridge, perhaps.

The family raised their eyebrows, eyeing you from head to toe, assessing your posture, your figure. You maintained your composure. Ten minutes passed. More guests arrived, the number swelling to at least forty. The groups mingled and began to converse, and you spotted a boy of medium height, looking visibly bored. Casually, you found an opening and slipped toward him.

Suddenly, a man dressed entirely in black cleared his throat.

“If you would kindly take your seats.”

His voice interrupted you mid–step. You groaned inwardly, searching the room for your assigned seat. Your name shimmered before your eyes in golden script, and you noticed the boy heading slowly toward his place. Seizing the opportunity, you bumped the plump woman beside you, prompting a scandalized yelp – then murmured an apology while slyly swapping the name card with yours.

The moment you stepped away, she widened her eyes in confusion, but you gestured toward the reflective windows, insisting she had confused her spot.

There. Done.

You weren’t remotely interested in the boy, nor was he in you, but this would suffice. It would silence your parents for the evening and give the impression that you were, at the very least, desirable . A useful illusion.

You collapsed into your chair with a satisfied little hum, just as servers began bringing in enormous platters. Your eyes lit up with hunger. They started placing dishes at the far end of the table, gradually moving toward your section. You could already smell the rich aromas, though still hidden beneath the polished lids.

The boy beside you slumped into his seat, gazing at his cup with listless resignation – until a particular dish arrived. His eyes gleamed, and he sat up abruptly. It made sense: it was lobster.

“This must be exquisite,” you noted.

He turned to you, visibly taken aback, then furrowed his brows.

“Unquestionably refined,” he replied.

Your nose crinkled slightly. What a manner of speech. But well – if that’s what the setting required. You both sat in silence, awaiting the end of the service.

Then you noticed something. The seat beside yours was empty. A cold realization dawned.

You had just seated yourself at the head of the table. You had displaced someone of considerable importance. And rearranged the entire seating order.

Oh no.

And as though he could read your thoughts, a shadow loomed behind you. Your throat went dry. Your palms dampened with sweat, and your heart began to race. You didn’t dare lift your gaze. The seat you had taken, stolen, perhaps, should have belonged to this person. And yet, it did not. He simply allowed himself to sink into the corner seat.

“The food has arrived,” the man in black repeated. “You may now begin your meal. Bon appétit. A word from the host will follow shortly to welcome you all. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your dinner. Don’t hesitate to call us if you need anything.”

He bowed, then exited through the back door.

But your mind remained consumed by the warmth brushing against your thigh. That second source of heat – his leg – pressed lightly against yours.

You raised your head.

A man, likely in his fifties, was gazing at you with a faint smile, his head resting on the back of his hand. His dark brown hair was neatly arranged, though a few unruly strands had fallen into his eyes – eyes creased at the corners with faint crow’s feet from smiling. His lips were soft, pink, and slightly amused.

“Ah,” he said as you finally met his gaze. “Finally here.”

You furrowed your brows in surprise, glancing toward the dish and lifting your utensils.

“Pardon?”

The man watched as your hands reached for the dish trying to place a chicken thigh upon your plate.

“Oh,” he shook his head, withdrawing his elbow from the table while tucking a napkin into his collar. “The food,” he clarified, eyes fixed intently on you. “Finally arrived.”

You nodded, but your hand shook and the thigh almost fell. The man noticed your hesitation and raised his own fork toward yours. His shoulder brushed against you, his bicep flexing beneath the tailored fabric of his suit, and he retrieved the chicken, placing it delicately onto your plate.

“Careful, darling,” he murmured. “We wouldn’t want to stir trouble on such a beautiful evening, would we?”

You shook your head, slightly flustered, while he let out a soft laugh.

“So easily unsettled,” he mused, reclining into his chair, seemingly uninterested in the food itself. Conversations had begun to swell around the room – people eating, laughing, mingling – but you felt as though the man’s eyes never left you. What did he want from you?

“What’s your name?”

Gently, you took the main knife to the chicken thigh and slid the blade along the bone. The meat yielded smoothly – like a silk gown slipping to the floor. Perfectly cooked. Salivating, you speared a piece of tender meat and brought it to your lips.

“You must know,” you said at last, after swallowing. With a finger, you pushed your name card forward.

He examined it, eyes drifting toward your index finger in a way that felt both warm and unnervingly intimate.

“Oh,” he said, chin tilting slightly toward your father. “The daughter of Monsieur Lee—the Cattle Chief.”

You nodded as you took another bite and sipped the wine.

“Yes.”

The man seemed to recall the presence of food, glancing toward a dish of jasmine–infused rice. He called out someone, and a server appeared almost instantly behind him, scooping a perfect dome into the center of his plate. Startled, you looked at him, then back to his face.

“Why would they serve you ?” you asked.

The man raised an eyebrow.

“You could ask them to help you too.” He brought a fork to his lips with elegant precision. “It’s not me specifically they decided to help.”

Then he smiled, chewing slowly. His jaw tensed rhythmically with each bite. His long, broad fingers, bronzed and strong, gripped the fork as it glided between his knuckles. Beneath the cuff of his shirt, you could see the veins running beneath his skin.

Who was he?

“Who are you?” you finally asked.

He kept his head bent over his plate.

“Who am I?”

A quiet laugh.

“In–ho,” he murmured. “Hwang In–ho.”

A heat bloomed in your stomach. You found yourself silently testing the name on your tongue.

“Mr. Hwang.”

It rolled off effortlessly. The man looked at you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine, his thigh still pressed against your knee, searing through the fabric. His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, lingering there before slowly rising again to meet your eyes.

“It sounds better from your mouth,” he murmured softly.

Then he gave a small smile, as if to suggest it was a joke. But you knew – whatever had just flared in your chest, that electric beat – that was no joke.

The man excused himself after a little awkward silence to use the restroom. You followed his silhouette as it disappeared around the corner.

A few minutes later, a voice crackled through the loudspeakers.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen gathered here tonight,” a guttural voice rang out. “I am the Frontman. I thank you for joining me at my table for this thirty–first private evening, and I hope you’ve delighted in the dishes delicately prepared just for you.”

The voice gradually faded away.

“Have a wonderful evening!”

Applause followed, and the guests returned to their plates.

“Hypocrite,” you muttered under your breath.

You hadn’t noticed that Mr. Hwang had returned to your side. As soon as you looked up, you saw him watching you intently, arms crossed over his chest. Flushing, you mumbled an apology for your insult, then took another bite.

“Oh, I’m curious,” he said. “Why do you call him a hypocrite?”

Keeping your gaze lowered, you feigned indifference – until he leaned in closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

“I won’t judge you,” he whispered softly. “You see, I don’t like that man either. So… full of himself.”

That made you lift your head. Your eyes sought his, searching for the flicker of deceit or insincerity. But he seemed genuine. You abandoned all the formal constraints of etiquette and began speaking, words tumbling freely.

“You see,” you began, gesturing animatedly, “I’ve always dreamed of coming to this dinner. My eldest sister and the middle one have been attending nearly every year since I was born. I’d watch them get ready, running through the house, putting on makeup, talking about it like it was the event of the century. I’ve always longed for that,” you finished quietly.

The man listened attentively, occasionally uttering small ohs and ahs , his expression serious, eyes distant yet present.

“For marriage?” he asked.

You widened your eyes, wrinkling your nose. Before you had the chance to retort, the man murmured a quick apology.

“I didn’t mean to imply that’s all you want, of course. I suppose I was thinking in terms of an ideal–”

“No, I’m not here for marriage,” you interrupted.

The words burned in your throat. No, you weren’t here for marriage. Nor for love. You were here to see, to explore a world. Why exactly? You weren’t entirely sure. But this man unsettled you. He made you uncomfortable.

Then you became acutely aware of his thigh pressing insistently against your knee. The slit of your dress had shifted, revealing bare skin, and the fabric of his trousers was brushing directly against it. He was nearly sprawled in his chair, one elbow propped against the armrest.

He was staring at you with intensity. His eyes were a warm caramel–brown, framed by strands of hair that curled delicately around a face touched by age. Your heart skipped a beat.

He was devouring you with his gaze. Your mouth—his eyes flicked to it, then back to your eyes, a dazed smile tugging at his lips, his eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Sir?” you finally asked.

He continued watching you for a moment before offering an apology.

“Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head lightly and withdrawing his elbow from the chair, leaning back toward the table. “I passed judgment on you too quickly.”

An apology? You weren’t used to apologies. Ducking your head into your plate, you decided it was safer to ignore him.

“But don’t you find these festivities… absurd?” he eventually asked.

The question struck like an arrow.

“Sir, I haven’t finished my story,” you said, lifting your gaze once more. He seemed momentarily lost in your eyes before straightening, clearing his throat awkwardly. “My eighteenth birthday invitation arrived two weeks late.”

The man nodded.

“But it did arrive, didn’t it?”

His eyes sparkled.

“Two weeks – two weeks for a dream. Isn’t that two weeks too many?”

He appeared pensive. Then he made a quiet hm and reached out to take another bite.

“Yes… yes, I suppose so,” he said finally after swallowing.

A brief, awkward silence followed as you turned toward your neighbor. You decided to ignore Mr. Hwang. Shifting your attention to the dark–haired man beside you, you soon found yourself caught in an animated conversation about his four royal–blooded dogs and his fascination with fossils. He turned out to be quite talkative, and you nodded along passively, only half–listening. He was absurdly wealthy. You liked wealth, but not its excess. It bored you. Of the three in your family, you were the one who understood best how to use it.

A faint clinking sound echoed beside you. The man remained utterly unbothered, not even glancing back – but you turned your head.

“Ah, apologies!” Mr. Hwang said brightly, flashing a full, toothy smile. “My fork slipped.”

Startled, you watched as he reached down, hesitated, and eventually bent over. All you could now see was his back – broad, you noticed – followed by a soft rustling sound.

Then, something brushed lightly against your calf. Hair?

It tickled, and you stifled a small gasp. But the man didn’t move. You heard another faint swish of fabric before he stood upright again, casually brushing off his jacket as he retook his seat. You’d been staring the whole time. He glanced at you, and seeing your stunned expression, offered a smile – one that did not reach his eyes.

“All well, miss?”

You didn’t dare nod. Your breath had caught, and you watched as he feigned disinterest, turning instead to converse with the woman on his other side. She blushed and dabbed at her lips. Shaking your head, you threw yourself back into conversation with the dark–haired man – perhaps a touch too eagerly – and in your excitement, your elbow struck your glass. A few gasps followed in rapid succession. You turned, horrified.

Mr. Hwang was soaked. His off–white shirt clung to his torso.

He offered a courteous nod to the curious stares, then turned his gaze onto you.

“Will you take accountability?”

When you failed to respond, he burst into silent laughter, his shoulders shaking, while the room’s attention lingered briefly on you both.

“It was a silly joke. These things happen, darling.” Then, pushing back his chair with a scrape, he rose. “I’ll be back. Watch my seat, will you?” His eyes widened slightly, fixing you with a stare that was far too penetrating – as if he were seeing directly through you.

Uh oh. Had he realized you’d swapped places?

The dark–haired man resumed talking, but you felt compelled to excuse yourself. Moreover, your father was eyeing you with bulging eyes, clearly fuming, so you deemed it safest to flee to the restroom. Following the shadow that had just vanished, you stepped into a long golden corridor.

You passed down red–carpeted aisles until you spotted a door marked with a small masculine figure, next to one bearing a lady in a dress. You pushed open the handleless door; it swung wide.

Oh…

Empty. Looking left, then right, then left again, you exhaled in relief. Good. Deciding to take a moment to wash your hands, you approached the sink. Letting the water run over your knuckles, you suddenly heard a throat clear and a door open.

Your mouth parted in panic, but there was no time to hide.

Mr. Hwang emerged from a stall – his shirt unbuttoned. Golden champagne clung to his skin like syrup, trailing across abs and pectorals that rose and fell with every breath. He paused. So did you. In one hand, he held his soaked jacket, which had taken the brunt of the spill. His hair was plastered to his jawline, as though from oppressive heat, his cheeks tinged pink.

“Miss Baek?”

You barely managed a nod, eyes locked on his forearms – tanned and muscular, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He followed your gaze, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. The distance between you was vanishing by the second. Soon, you were pinned between the counter and the intensity of his presence – not touching, yet so close you could inhale his musk and the sweet–sharp scent of champagne saturating him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.

His arms crossed, head tilted ever so slightly. His pink lips were set in a straight line; he didn’t smile, but you swore his eyes gleamed.

“I… I came to help,” you managed to say. “To clean up,” you added, gesturing helplessly with your chin.

You bit your lower lip in stress – his presence made you feel uncomfortably submissive. He was just… too attractive.

Even from a distance, you saw his eyes scanning your figure. The dress, your exposed thigh from the slit he’d brushed earlier, the slight roll of your stomach after the meal, the flushed swell of your cheeks, the disheveled strands of hair. You were a mess – and it frustrated you to feel him assessing you.

“So mean!” you blurted. “I came to help, and you are judging me.”

You were done with pretense. Just for one night, you were letting it go.

The man uncrossed his arms and rested a hand on his hip, leaning in slightly. He lowered his head with a soft, low chuckle.

“Ahh, lady,” he muttered. “You are driving me mad.”

When he looked up, there was hunger in his eyes. His flushed cheeks, tousled hair, chest rising more rapidly now, and the rawness in his deep, gravelly voice. Shit. Your breath hitched; your chest pounded wildly. Your gaze dropped to his pink lips – and his fell to yours.

Almost unconsciously, you gravitated toward each other. You nearly slipped on the marble floor, ending up beneath him, while he towered over you, lips ghosting above yours, noses brushing. His hands didn’t touch you – not a single part of his body did – and yet, you were burning from the heat of the current that surged from him and enveloped you entirely.

“Be honest,” he intoned, his voice barely above a whisper. “What. Were. You. Doing. Here.” He repeated each word with deliberate emphasis. “Do not lie.”

Swallowing hard, you found yourself lost in his deep brown eyes. Raising one hand to his chest in a futile attempt to push him away, he instead seized your wrist with a grip so forceful it might have bruised, twisting your arm behind your back. The movement allowed him to draw closer, his torso now pressed firmly against yours. His body touched yours, and the dampness of his clothing seeped through to yours. His strong arm held your twisted limb captive. You could smell honey on his skin. His arm pressed painfully against your hip, and a wandering finger suddenly traced along your bare thigh, pressing against the soft flesh.

“I came to… to run away from my father and–”

Abruptly, he released your arm.

“Thank you, Miss Baek. I can manage from here.”

Startled, you caught your breath just as one of the men from earlier appeared in the doorway, eyes wide as saucers, fixated on you both. Reassured by Mr. Hwang’s words, he muttered an apology for the intrusion and retreated toward a stall.

No sooner had he disappeared, Mr. Hwang turned to you. Seizing the moment, you bolted from the restroom, heart hammering wildly. What was that?

Darting through the endless corridors, you reentered the dining hall, spotting your mother in a corner, nearly flirting with a twenty–year–old waiter.

“Mom! The key to our room.”

She blinked, eyes wide and confused, like a startled goldfish, but you raised your voice slightly.

“Don’t play dumb with me! I know you understand.”

She rolled her eyes and opened her petite handbag, producing a brown hotel key card adorned with the same trio of symbols—circle, triangle, and square. You grabbed your purse and light jacket, rushing out of the corridor in search of the room: 317. But how was one to navigate this cursed hotel?

You sprinted down winding hallways until you found yourself back at the immense, gilded main hall. Lost amid the chandeliers, you felt like mere decoration – until you finally spotted the reception desk, procured directions, and located a staircase.

Climbing two steps at a time, you reached the third floor. 340… 337… 322…

317.

There. A door bearing a small golden insignia. So much gold in this damned palace.

At last. The suite seemed to consist of multiple rooms; you picked any chamber with a bed. The rooms were less opulent but equally spacious, with windows so large you felt as if you might fall through them.

You removed your dress, but feeling eyes upon you, deemed it wiser to disrobe in the bathroom. There, you shed every article of clothing and settled onto the tiled floor, letting the scalding water cascade over your skin. You discarded your mother’s brooch and washed your hair thoroughly, scrubbing your skin until you felt cleansed of every trace.

Troubled – by a man possibly twice your age? With honeyed eyes and scent? You were not here for a dalliance but to seek retribution against this creator. Yet this stranger disturbed your fragile calm.

Still, a fire kindled between your thighs, growing with each passing second. The ache was almost painful, prompting you to clamp your legs shut, but your agitation prevailed, and you soon tended to yourself.

Mr. Hwang.

Out of the shower and somewhat sated, you felt renewed, a hint embarrassed by your own actions, but it hardly mattered.

You donned a silk pajama set – green trousers paired with a matching top – and slipped onto the mattress, surrendering to drowsiness and letting your troubles fade. You were to depart the following afternoon; rest was imperative.

☆

Near midnight, the snap of a door and muffled voices stirred you awake. Then the unmistakable rustle of clothing, belts unfastening.

Damn.

Your father and mother – or your father and another woman, or your mother with a man – appeared caught in flagrante delicto. The sound of lips moving, then moans, made your stomach churn. You fled down the corridor, slamming the door behind you, deliberately avoiding the room that had just closed.

In the hall, you passed a guard who appraised your attire; you ignored him and resolved to find some distraction within the vast manor.

The rooms were soundproof, but surely there was a party somewhere. Barefoot, you felt unsettled. Remembering Mr. Hwang’s advice, you stopped a guard and asked for slippers.

He complied swiftly, returning moments later with a pristine white pair. Wonderful.

Slipping them on, you wandered the corridors before descending to the reception area, which was eerily deserted. The red–and–gold sofas sat forlorn, chandeliers dark, grand doors sealed shut. Not a murmur stirred save the wind’s whisper against the windows.

Strange.

Utterly deserted.

You sank into one of the abandoned couches, resting your head against the cushion, inhaling the room’s rich air. It smelled intoxicating – musky, faintly cigar–like. Opulence.

It was heady, addictive.

How were you to locate the control room? You had to find the mastermind.

The frontman.

You rose and brushed the dust from your trousers before setting off in search. The corridors stretched interminably. You opened an innumerable number of doors, each more spacious and gilded than the last, each time ensnared by their grandeur. Yet you would compose yourself anew.

At last, you reached the topmost floor. There remained but a single door. What were you doing here? The place had grown ominous. The walls were dark, nearly black. The door stood as the sole ornament; a solitary chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a golden glow that bathed the space.

Hesitant, you approached the door, footsteps muffled by your slippers. You held your breath as you pushed it open, when a voice resonated through your entire being.

“Miss Baek,” the voice intoned.

You stifled your breath. The frontman. The same guttural, profound voice, which even seemed oddly familiar.

“Sir,” you gulped.

The door swung open abruptly, revealing a long, shadowy corridor illuminated by lanterns. Unsure of what to do, you stood frozen.

“Well, aren’t you going to move forward?”

You nodded, before realizing the folly of hesitation, and obeyed. Your feet carried you swiftly, propelled by a supernatural force. The walls were etched with abstract motifs – three–dimensional cubes – and you felt a pressing weight upon your chest.

Then, at the far end, a door flung wide open, blinding you with light.

Finally, you entered, and all the doors shut behind you.

You found yourself alone in a dimly lit office.

Books were scattered everywhere. A desk, immaculate, stood at the center. A small table lamp cast a soft glow, and sofas rested against the back wall.

And there, a large screen. You held your breath.

There. Was that… you?

You spun around, terrified, and let out a scream when you found yourself face to face with a man clad in a long black coat, his face concealed beneath a mask and hood.

Your blood turned to ice. You stepped back, seeking to flee, but he remained motionless – not even bothering to pursue you – which was far worse.

You could not escape. You were trapped.

“Sir!” you finally surrendered, stopping before the screen that seemed to track your face. The man and you were positioned opposite each other, separated by the screen that relayed your exchange.

He did not reply. Instead of killing you, he merely observed you like a statue, and you weren’t certain you ever saw him move.

“Sir.”

Rage surged within your chest – utterly searing amid the somber, tempestuous surroundings. The bitter disappointment at the empty mailbox. The hollow heart. The bleak world depicted.

“You stole my birthday. You gave me nothing. I waited,” you emphasized, “every year of my life for this invitation. And what? It arrives late?”

Your heart burned fiercely. If he was indeed a statue – as he appeared – you let yourself go.

“And on top of that, you ruin my life! Because of you, my parents hate me, since I refused to come for five years. So, are you going to take responsibility for that? Hm?”

You pointed at him, approaching, incandescent with fury, and placed an accusing finger at the center of his chest. The statue deserved a measure of vengeance.

“So? Are you going to–”

Suddenly, you were seized roughly by the waist and seated upon a sofa. The man stood before you, back to the screen, centered fully, and you could do nothing but stare.

“You dare refuse five invitations,” the guttural voice issued. It still seemed devoid of emotion, yet a trace of irritation escaped, vengeful. “And then you appear at the fifth, usurp the place of one of our dearest guests, only to withdraw before the final toast?”

Your throat constricted. So he knew everything?

The screen went dark.

The room was nearly shrouded in darkness, yet bathed in golden light.

“You are an ungrateful little girl,” he said, letting the words fall. “Like all the others.”

He did not move from his place, yet his head was inclined toward you and the black sofa that seemed to pull you downward. He wore a black mask as his visage – textured like the corridors, embossed with abstract squares and shapes in relief.

“Mothers come to pawn off their children. Fathers come to settle debts. Everyone uses me. They come for their connections – and that is my purpose.”

Then he paused, compelling you to lift your gaze.

“But you… For what reason have you come? If not to ruin my life,” he spat, and abruptly removed the black mask that concealed his face, tossing it onto the table. His hood fell back, and you held your breath, emitting a startled cry.

“Miss Baek.”

Screw it all!

Your blood ran cold. Mr. Hwang. His face was contorted by something indecipherable – a sort of silent rage – he was too reasonable to be angry, mixed with the frustration of someone who had been dared to disobey.

But also another gleam. Something hungry, dark, overcome by desire. A man who wanted you. Your heart leapt. The bathroom. His name.

He smirked faintly, as if he had heard. As if he knew the power he held over you.

You swallowed again, but the man shook his head, placing his palms flat on the table with a sharp motion, leaning toward you.

“Did you think you could escape by being this insolent, Miss Baek? Hmm?”

Your eyes slid over his lips – rosy, soft to the touch, moist as if he had just sipped something. Beneath his long brown lashes, which cast shadows over his cheeks, you saw that expression which had unsettled you all night.

“I didn’t…”

“Don’t lie to me,” he cut you off, his voice hoarse.

Your breath came in broken gasps.

“I didn’t lie! I really came to take revenge!”

He withdrew his palms, shaking his head, stepping back, and suddenly you felt a chill beside you.

“Oh, is that so?” he murmured. “Then do so.”

He stepped back and began unbuttoning his jacket, soon standing before you in a black suit as it dropped to his feet.

“Not like this!”

He let out a low chuckle.

“I know, darling. It’s just too hot in here, don’t you think?”

He rolled up his sleeves, revealing his forearms once more, and your patience shattered.

“You are atrocious, sir,” you spat. “The worst scoundrel on earth. I bet you refused to send a letter to get revenge on something – probably my father.”

You stood, on the other side of the table, pointing your finger again.

“That’s it! And what better way to take revenge than on an innocent girl, huh?”

The man smiled slyly, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes.

“And you, an insolent girl, incapable of respecting the rules–”

“Fuck you!”

Your voice rose, his even louder, and suddenly you grabbed his collar and pulled him toward you; he caught your waist, grimaced against the table, and slammed you onto the sofa, pinning your wrists – burning – while his lips crushed yours, without gentleness, without softness, brutal and hungry.

“You’re such an insolent brat,” he muttered, pulling away momentarily, his hand sliding from your wrist to the top of your pajama, fingers slipping and tugging at the silk. “You need to be taught a lesson. God, more than one. A lifetime of lessons–”

You seized his neck and pressed your lips against his once more. The position, uncomfortable as he stood nearly upright with bent knees to kiss you, shifted when he gripped your waist before letting himself fall onto the sofa, holding you against him, thighs on either side of his lap, hovering above him. His hand found a place on your back, the other in your hair, as he murmured insults. His lips tasted bitterly of whiskey, taking all of you yet leaving you indifferent; your noses crumpled and your bodies pressed so tightly together – as if the world ceased to exist beyond this moment. Just the two of you. Your greatest enemy and yourself.

He held you so firmly in that dark room – like no one ever had – and you let him, tilting your head to grant him deeper access as his fingers slipped through your loose hair and then over the buttons of your shirt. Fever consumed you both; he suddenly rose and advanced like a man starved, holding you to him as he pushed open a door with his ankle, then roughly and primitively tossed you onto the bed, eyes blazing, unbuttoning your shirt as you struggled with your own, breath ragged, eyes fixed on his broad frame and hands enveloping you completely.

You could no longer bear it, your legs pressed tightly around him while he sat there, nestled between your thighs, kneading the soft flesh.

The kiss was abruptly broken.

He studied you long and hard, taking in every curve, every softness, your tangled hair.

“Insolent brat,” he spat, giving your thigh a sharp slap, forcing you to spread your legs and arch your back to meet his body. “An invitation is never to be refused.”

You tugged at his unbuttoned shirt and locked your lips with his once more. Then you pulled away, breathless.

“Liar and manipulator,” you exhaled. “Installing cameras in your guests’ bedrooms – that’s unethical.”

He chuckled low, then leaned in again, feeling your bodies. A mere fine line, really, separated love and hate.

i can't he's so fine

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