SEVERALTY
CHAPTER 7
Cry by Cigarettes after Sex
CHOI SEUNGCHEOL X READER (Mafia x Doctor AU! Arranged Forced Marriage; Enemies to Lovers? Slow Burn!!)
Warnings: Strong language, manipulation, shitty parents, forced marriage, guns, and some wrist and chin holding ANGST!. They get married.
AN: Missed me?
CHAPTER 1 --- PREVIOUSLY
𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Seldom there comes a time in a man’s life when he has to relive his nightmare over and over again, making one realise how much more he has to give before he has nothing left to give at all. Maybe that’s what Min-Jaein is going through. Seeing his most precious being in this world walk into the dragon’s lair, guided by the most vicious of the devil’s spawn.
The office smelt faintly of old leather, strong alcohol, and cold—like the stone that never felt the sun. Everything was sharp-edged: the heavy desk carved from dark walnut, glass shelves lined with books, and worn and beloved books read and passed through generations. So many memories—Choi Si-won sat at the centre of it all like a man carved from the same wood as his desk. Expressionless and composed, fingers steepled as he looked across the room at the man sitting opposite him.
Your father.
And beside him, a curly-haired boy—young, no older than 24, his wide brown eyes bouncing between them, uncertain.
The air seemed to shift the moment your foot crossed the threshold. Your heart dropped as if someone had yanked it downward with a string. Cold swept over you, creeping across your skin, gathering like ice at the base of your neck.
Everything became muffled. Voices sounded distant. Like you were underwater.
The heartbeat in your ears was deafening, steady, and brutal.
Then—
“Y/N, Doll.”
Your eyes snapped to the source, your body jolting back into sensation as if someone had ripped the cord connecting you to reality.
“Y/N.”
Your eyes met his—and everything inside you shattered.
“No,” you whispered, your voice cracking at the edges. “No, no, no—this… this can’t be—”
You stumbled a step backward, vision blurring. “You were dead—they told me you were dead. They showed me pictures, the ring—you were wearing your ring—”
Panic bloomed like poison in your chest. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t breathe.
“I asked to see your face. I begged,” you choked out. “But they said it was too damaged. they told me it was you—how could they—how could you—”
You turned, your eyes darting, the room spinning too fast, too loud.
And then—
You backed into something solid.
A chest. Broad. Familiar. Unyielding.
Your father.
Alive.
He rose slowly from his chair, every movement deliberate. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt.
“Doll…” he said softly, voice husky, like glass ground into velvet. “I had to do it. I had to keep you away from all of this.”
His hand reached for yours, hesitating just before touching. His eyes—usually cold and calculative—were glassy.
You didn’t reach back.
You couldn’t.
Rayn stood just behind him now, unmoving, his gaze locked on the man before him. Disbelief warred with something softer. Recognition, maybe. Or betrayal.
Is that really him? Rayn thought. My father? Was he ever capable of anything akin to showing emotions?
“You’re not my father,” you hissed, the words slicing out of you like shards of glass. “My father is dead. I don’t want to be a part of this—I never did. I just want to go back.”
“Doll, hear me out. Just once—”
“Why?” you snapped. “Why should I? If you really wanted to keep me out of this, why bring me here? I don’t care what it’s for—I never asked for any of it!”
Your voice broke. A splintering sob fought its way up your throat, but you bit it down with shaking lips. Everything around you was suffocating—too much. The polished marble, the stifling scent of cigars and leather, the unreadable faces in the room. The weight of it all pressed against your chest like a concrete slab.
You didn’t notice him step closer. Not until warm, calloused hands suddenly landed on your shoulders, steadying your trembling frame.
“Steady, sweetheart,” came the deep, low voice from just behind you—smooth like velvet dragged over steel. “Breathe, will you?”
Your body jolted, your breath caught in your throat. You knew that voice. Heard it in nightmares and memories alike. The new heir. Choi Seungcheol.
But before you could even react—
“Take your hands off my daughter.”
The thunder in your father’s voice cracked through the air like a bullet. You’d never heard it that loud. That's cold. Gone was the man with glassy eyes and a hesitant touch. In his place stood something darker—older. A roar of a wounded tiger.
The room fell still. The tension wound tight, like a string pulled too far.
Seungcheol lifted his hands in the air, a lazy smirk stretching across his lips. He stepped back, slow and deliberate, two mocking paces.
“Too soon?” he drawled, his tone dancing with amusement, but his eyes never left your father’s.
Your father stepped forward.
“I said—” he growled, every word drenched in venom, “—don’t touch her.”
He didn’t speak. But you felt his presence behind you shift—like a wall of heat inching forward. He didn’t need to reply. The weight of his silence was louder than a gunshot.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch him in the corner of your eye.
Dressed all in black. Eyes colder than winter on the Tiber.
Watching you like he already owned you.
And for the first time…
You felt it.
The real reason you’d been brought here.
“Hey Han—” A slow, gravel-thick voice cut through the room like smoke curling from an expensive cigar. “If your little reunion is over… shall we get back to business?”
Your head turned instinctively toward the sound, eyes landing on the man behind the massive mahogany desk.
He sat like a monarch—reclined but commanding—one leg crossed over the other. The light caught the silver in his slicked-back hair, age-worn but powerful, dressed immaculately in a three-piece charcoal suit. His gold cufflinks gleamed like bloodstained medals of honor. A signet ring caught your eye—thick, old, and engraved with a Choi family crest.
Late sixties, maybe older. His skin bore the years, but his posture? Straight as a blade. And his eyes…
Cold. Calculating. Cruel.
You didn’t know his name. But your body recognized him.
“Wh-what business?” you asked slowly, voice cracking as you looked between your father and the stranger. “What the hell is going on?”
The older man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he laced his fingers together.
“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N,” he said, with mock warmth. “You’ve grown into a promising young woman. I’m not sure if you remember me—but once upon a time, you used to run through these halls. Little footsteps. Little braids. You always asked for those vanilla almond cookies my housekeeper used to bake.”
You didn’t remember. Or maybe you didn’t want to.
He sighed dramatically and continued. “Well, that’s the past, isn’t it? And from what I gather… the past hasn’t been particularly kind to you. Or to Mira.”
At that name—your mother’s name—your heart stopped.
“Oh yes,” he went on, lips curling into a mockery of sympathy. “My deepest condolences. Mira… she was a woman of God. One of a kind. May her soul rest in peace.”
“Keep her name out of your mouth, Choi.”
Your father’s voice had never sounded so sharp. So lethal.
Min Jaein had risen from his chair like a stormcloud. His hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides, and for a second, you thought he might leap across the desk.
Choi Siwon raised his eyebrows, that smirk never faltering.
“Well,” he chuckled, “looks like some things never change. Even after all these years, Han Min Jaein is still all fire and no finesse.”
Then his eyes slid toward someone else.
Toward Rayn.
Your half-brother stiffened—barely—but it was enough. Siwon caught it like a predator sensing weakness.
“Poor Cassandra, am I right?” he said, so casually it felt like a slap.
Rayn’s face twitched. His gaze dropped to the floor—first to his shoes, then to the rug beneath them. He didn’t respond. Didn’t look up.
Your eyes jumped between the three men. You didn’t know all their stories. Not yet.
But one thing was already crystal clear:
The Choi men—young and old—were sadistic bastards. The kind who fed off discomfort. Who toyed with people the way children pulled wings off flies.
Choi Siwon’s expression twisted, venom replacing amusement. His eyes—wolfish and cold—cut toward Jaein with quiet cruelty.
“And now,” he said, voice slicing through the silence like a blade, “it looks like your father’s gone and put your entire future in jeopardy.”
Your father shifted slightly, unease flickering across his face as his eyes met yours. He looked at you as if he wanted to explain—but there was no room to speak. Not here. Not anymore.
Siwon didn’t wait. He continued, savoring each word like poison on his tongue.
“Your daddy dearest signed a treaty with me,” he said, slowly circling his desk, swirling the amber liquor in his crystal tumbler. “A truce that clearly stated: If one violates it, the price would be paid on equal terms. Isn’t that right, Han?”
Jaein clenched his fists, but said nothing.
Siwon stopped in front of a large portrait mounted high on the wall—a gilded frame gleaming in the dim light. You followed his gaze.
The painting looked almost sacred, the kind of thing you saw in European churches or forgotten wings of palaces. In it stood Mincheol—tall, a proud, content smile, dressed in a dark tailored suit. He held a small baby wrapped in ivory christening silk, like something pulled from a royal baptism. Beside him stood his wife Veronica, a unique glimmer in her eyes, the man standing behind you with his hand resting on the shoulder of a seated woman. Her eyes—glassy, haunting—stared straight ahead. And sitting next to her, Choi Siwon, his hand gently placed on her knees . The image screamed of power. And control.
Maybe Nurse Hanna had been right. They really are like royalty here.
“But,” Siwon continued quietly, “your father took something from me… something that nothing can replace. Not even if I took everything from him in return. Not even if I carved him open with my own hands.”
He turned from the portrait. “Still. A deal is a deal.”
He took another sip of his drink, eyes burning as they landed on Rayn for a brief moment.
“Before you,” he said, “your brother was to pay the price. And your father… well, he didn’t seem all that heartbroken about it. Cold bastard, really.”
A dark chuckle escaped him.
“Then your new mother, I mean Stepmother—sweet Cassandra—told me something very interesting,” he said, dragging out the word like honey over a blade. “And when I looked at your father's face... saw his expression change that’s when it hit me.”
He stepped forward, deliberate and slow.
“My people,” he said, “need stability. A symbol. A promise.”
He stopped right in front of you. “And you, my dear,” he whispered, “will give me that.”
You felt your skin crawl before the meaning even registered. When it did, you froze.
“You,” he repeated, “Han Min Jaein’s daughter… will give me a grandson.”
Disgust twisted your face. You took a step back. “What makes you think I’ll give you anything?”
Siwon didn’t flinch. His voice was silk soaked in steel.
“Oh, you will,” he said. “Because I won’t leave you any room to negotiate.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Why me?”
He let out a long sigh and turned briefly to his son, Seungcheol, who hadn’t said a word. The younger man gave a low, bitter snicker under his breath.
“For a doctor,” Siwon said dryly, “isn’t she a bit slow?”
You stiffened.
“Well,” he went on, “if you weren’t around for the prologue, allow me to read you in. Our business doesn’t answer to the public. But our actions? They affect thousands. Every word, every move, causes ripples. Right now… those ripples are starting to look like waves.”
He paused, then stepped toward you again—closer this time. His voice lowered, not with tenderness, but with power.
“And I will not let my son’s death be used as an excuse for revenge. Or disrespect. For anyone’s personal vendetta”
You felt your throat tighten.
Siwon looked down into his glass as if it held answers. “As much as it sickens me,” he muttered, almost to himself, “you will marry my son. Quietly. No press, no announcement. What father buries his eldest son and then parades the wedding of the youngest a week later?” His voice broke on that sentence—just slightly. Barely noticeable.
You clenched your jaw. The rage was thick, humming in your bones. “What kind of father uses his own son like a stallion?”
A visible shiver ran down Seungcheol’s spine. He opened his mouth to speak—but Siwon beat him to it.
“The same one who’s lost one,” he snapped, eyes glittering with unshed fury. “And the same one who refuses to lose his legacy with him.”
The room dropped into silence. Even your heartbeat had the sense to quiet.
“Back off, Siwon.” Your father's voice rang clear across the room—controlled, but deadly. “I told you, there are other ways to settle this.”
Siwon turned his head slowly, a mocking smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He raised an eyebrow, the glint in his eye sharp and cruel. “Is there, Jaein?” he asked silkily. “But then... where’s the fun in that?”
“Siwon—” Jaein warned.
But Siwon was already moving. “You know what?” he said, stepping back a pace. “Fine.” He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, and for a second the room tensed. Fingers twitched. Muscles coiled. Then he pulled out a sleek black pistol and held it up by the barrel.
He walked toward Jaein, slow and theatrical, and pressed the cold metal into his palm. “Here,” he said, voice like venom. “You choose. A son... for a son.” With a sudden, violent grip, he seized Rayn by the nape and shoved him forward, right in front of his father. “Go on. Choose. Shoot your eldest, and I’ll be merciful. I’ll let your daughter walk out of here untouched.”
For a long moment, time collapsed into silence.
Jaein stared at the gun in his hand.
For a man like him—who had lived and bled by the bullet—this used to be second nature. But now, the weight felt foreign. Like holding the ghost of a past he’d buried in a shallow grave.
“You always find new ways to show how pathetic you are,” Jaein said finally, his voice low, deliberate. “Shortsighted. Impulsive. If only you’d seen through that meeting with Leon, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
A dark line of fury slithered across Siwon’s jaw. But behind him, Seungcheol—who had stayed silent till now—lowered his eyes. A storm of emotion brewed within him, quiet but violent. His jaw clenched. His teeth ground together. Born of a devil, he thought. There was no doubt now.
Siwon stepped back, arms folded smugly across his chest. “So?” he asked, almost cheerfully. “What’ll it be, Jaein? Your son... or your daughter?”
Jaein didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, the gun heavy in his hand—heavier than it had ever felt. He looked at Rayn. Then turned his gaze toward you. And finally, to Siwon.
“If it’s blood you want…” he murmured, stepping close to his son. He raised the gun—slowly, steadily—pressing the muzzle against Rayn’s temple.
Your breath caught in your throat. “F-Father?” Rayn’s voice broke, eyes wide, paralyzed.
Seungcheol stiffened beside Siwon, eyes narrowing. The tension in the room crackled like dry air before a storm.
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The scene in front of you shattered every illusion you ever had of the man you once called your father.
And then—just as his finger found the trigger—Jaein moved.
In a sharp motion, he turned the gun on himself, pressing the cold barrel to his own temple.
His eyes locked on Siwon.
“See you in hell, Siwon.” And pulled the trigger
“FATHER!!”
You stared in horror, hand clamped over your mouth, unable to comprehend what had just unfolded.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The gym smelled of sweat, leather, and disinfectant. Heavy bags swung lazily on chains, their rhythm matching the sharp, precise punches Jeonghan landed on the bag in front of him.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Shirt damp with sweat, gloves taped over his knuckles, he moved like a machine—tight footwork, quiet breath. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they were struggling to keep up.
From the corner, Dr. Aamer, arms crossed and dressed in scrubs still stained from the day’s work, watched with a raised brow. When he walked into the gym room their shared flat. His lab coat hung off the back of a chair like a ghost waiting for its body.
“You know,” Aamer started, grinning as Jeonghan paused to wipe the sweat from his jawline with his wrist, “you don’t punch like a man who’s keeping things casual.”
Jeonghan gave a breathy scoff, turning back to the bag.
THUMP. THUMP.
“What are you talking about?” he muttered, but his ears were already turning red.
“Y/N,” Aamer said simply, pulling a protein bar from his coat pocket and unwrapping it. “It’s pretty damn obvious you’re head over heels, brother. Might as well step up and ask her out straight up instead of your little hints, man”
Jeonghan stilled, hands on his hips, chest heaving as he caught his breath.
He looked at his roommate and shook his head, “You don’t get it, man, you don’t know her like I do.”
Amer rolled his eyes and waved his hand in the air in dismissal, “Yes, yes– you both have known each other all your life blah, blah. Wallahi dude I tell you, you would’nt know what hit you– if you dont make your move then pooof” he snapped his fingers, “she’ll be gone, you know i saw this new intern talking with her all giggly and shit”
Jeonghan smirked and tuned back to his hook.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP
Jeonghan was fifteen. Skinny. Bruised. Eyes were hollow with too many sleepless nights.
The building was a crumbling mess—flickering hallway lights, mildew in the corners, water-stained ceilings. The sound of glass breaking and a woman’s cry echoed from his flat. His father’s drunken rage was a daily routine.
Then, her door creaked open across the hallway. Y/N, hair wild and a little messy, stood barefoot in pyjamas too big for her. Her collarbone peeked out. She held a bandage box in one hand and a small flashlight in the other.
“You need ice,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer. Just stared.
“You’re bleeding, Jeonghan.”
She was the first one to say his name like it mattered.
It is unbeknownst to him when she became such an important, indispensable part of his life, despite his many efforts to push her away. Then one day, the night when he saw her lose everything
The doctor had just said it: "She didn’t make it. I’m sorry." Cordon knew it was inevitable that her mother’s illness had become too aggressive to bring her back. And upon her insistence, he didn’t make her undergo any treatment, in all honesty, for a first time in his career, he felt such helplessness for his patient, watching her wither away in pain, with the hospital and its strict rules and funding. Despite the attempt to help her enrol on the testing program. What made his heart screech was this girl, no more than skin and bones, so smart stare down her mother’s body without any tears in sight.
Y/N didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. She just turned and walked out of the hospital into the rain, the orange band that gave her a pass to come to the ward drenching was like a shackle breaking off.
Jeonghan ran after her.
Didn’t say a word. Just kept pace behind her as the rain soaked them both. They walked for nearly two hours. Not once did she look back.
He was there. That was enough.
Jeonghan snapped out of it, eyes narrowing.
“She’s been through enough,” he said quietly, tapping his glove twice against the heavy bag before leaning on it. “She deserves peace. And she’s finally got some control now.”
Aamer hummed, biting off a piece of his protein bar.
“Well,” he said between chews, “you might want to make your move before someone else gives her more than peace.”
Jeonghan shot him a look.
“I’m serious,” Aamer laughed, raising both hands. “She’s brilliant. Beautiful. Got fire and bite. I mean, I’ve met enough people in this city to know—that kind of woman doesn’t stay unclaimed for long.”
Jeonghan exhaled through his nose, picked up the towel hanging off the bench, and slung it over his shoulder.
“I’m not claiming anything,” he muttered, heading toward the locker room.
“Sure,” Aamer called after him, smirking, “keep telling yourself that. But I saw the way you looked at her when she fell asleep in the waiting room last week. Like you were afraid even time would steal her from you.”
Jeonghan didn’t respond.
But in the silence of the locker room, standing under the flickering light, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. His knuckles were red. His heart is louder.
And the truth whispered back to him.
He was already hers.
But was she his?
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
The only sound that echoed in the silence was the sharp click of the gun as the film rotated.
Empty.
The barrel never held a bullet.
There was a beat of stunned stillness—then the silence shattered with a hollow, mocking laugh from Siwon, and a sombre look dawned on Jaein’s face. The elder Choi’s shoulders shook with delight, like a man thoroughly entertained by his own cruelty.
“Always so emotional,” Siwon chuckled, shaking his head as if disappointed in an old friend.
You stood frozen. Disgust twisted inside your chest like a wire.
Your eyes darted between the men in the room—your so-called father, who played Russian roulette with lives and didn't blink, and the devil himself, Siwon, who puppeteered pain for sport.
You could feel the bile rising.
"You’re all sick." The words slipped out before you could stop them.
But no one answered you. Siwon’s attention was still on Jaein, his voice smug. “Did you really think I’d give you an easy way out?”
Something in Rayn’s chest swelled, eyes burning, jaw clenched. His father… hadn't pulled the trigger. Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as heartless as he’d thought.
But for you, it was too much.
Your stomach lurched. The heat behind your eyes blurred the walls. The stench of lies, power games, and betrayal felt suffocating.
You turned on your heel and ran.
Down the hall. Past the portraits. Away from the gun, the laughter, this blatant display of cruel cogency.
You barely made it to the door when a hand seized your wrist, yanking you backwards. The next thing you knew, you were shoved into a dim, cold room—the scent of cedarwood and iron clinging to the air.
The door slammed shut behind you.
“Where do you think you’re running off to, doctor?”
His voice slithered through the dark like a blade. You thrashed against his grip with every ounce of strength, your body twisting violently, sending both of you stumbling back.
“Let. Me. Go—”
“Enough!!” he barked, and before you could resist further, he slammed you against the nearest wall, the impact jolting through your spine.
You hissed, pain flaring through your shoulder. He loomed close, breath hot, expression merciless.
“You might be under some misconception about me… maybe no one’s told you what I do to people who cross me.”
Your eyes narrowed, the fury of a cornered animal gleaming through the haze of pain. “I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. And I don’t care if you kill me— But I will not let anyone decide for me. Or for my body.”
You took a breath, voice trembling yet sharp as glass.
“It’s tragic what happened to your family, truly. But I had nothing to do with it.”
He didn’t flinch. In fact, his grip on your wrist tightened, bone pressing on bone.
“Oh, I know that, sweetheart.” His tone dropped into something colder. “This isn’t about your guilt. It’s about leverage. You’re your father’s only weakness.”
His other hand reached up—fingers brushing your jawline. You jerked your head away, but his touch persisted, rough and deliberate.
“He was ready to sacrifice his son for a deal tonight. But you…” He smirked, pressing his thumb against your chin, tipping your face up.
“You are priceless. Every moment you spend in agony will carve a hole in him he can’t fill.”
Your heart thudded like a war drum. Rage surged. A scream built in your throat, but you swallowed it.
“Do you really want to father a child with your enemy’s daughter?” you spat.
He paused.
Then smirked. “Oh, sweetheart… even the thought of touching you makes my skin crawl.”
You almost smiled.
‘Likewise.’
Still, you pushed. “Then why the hell are you holding me like this?”
For a moment, he looked—confused. As if he just noticed how tightly he still held you.
His eyes trailed to his own hands: one clutching your wrist in a bruising grip, the other still on your chin.
His grip tightened further, fury flashing like lightning.
“Here’s the deal.” His voice was low, lethal. “We’ll marry. You’ll give me a son. And then— I’ll decide what becomes of you.”
You stared at him, voice quiet but ice-cold. “And if I don’t?”
A smirk. A shrug. A promise carved in cruelty.
“Then I will crush everything and everyone you hold dear. Starting with the people in that hospital.”
Your heart froze.
You closed your burning eyes, breath shallow, pain pulsing through your wrist. There was no escape—you opened your eyes—still burning, still defiant—but clearer now. Controlled. Calculated.
“Fine.” The word dropped from your lips like poison. “But I have some terms.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
If her math was right, this would be her third glass of the hard liquor—dark, peaty, and far too smooth for the bitterness she wanted to feel. It had been a gift from her predecessor, a relic left behind like the dusty files crowding her desk. Commissioner Susan Paul stared at the stack of reports, each one stamped, signed, and soaked in the rot of a name she could no longer read without fury: Choi Siwon.
Her fingers rubbed the bridge of her nose as her eyes skimmed through records—arrests that disappeared, evidence that changed hands mid-process, and testimonies that collapsed just before court dates. A low sigh escaped her lips as she threw her head back, the ceiling above spinning slightly.
The dull burn at the back of her eyes wasn’t just from the alcohol.
A whisper from memory slipped in, uninvited but firm, like her father’s voice had always been
“Even if it’s buried under a mountain, we dig it out. That’s what we do—we seek out the truth.”
Her jaw clenched. He had lived that code. An honest officer, dignified to a fault, respected across ranks—until one of his own men, a junior hungry for power, sold him out. A scapegoat. They let him fall. Then let him vanish.
Now that junior lived in a gated mansion, pension doubled through “consultancy,” children schooled abroad, vacations taken on bribes they never admitted to. And her father? A ghost. A man who couldn’t walk into a station without whispers trailing behind him.
Susan took another sip. The bastard had good taste in alcohol. She’d give him that.
The files in front of her blurred slightly, her vision swimming not with the drink but with a cold, steady rage. Every thread she pulled on led to one man—or more accurately, one legacy: the Choi empire and his previous lackey, Jae-in.
Then, in the silence of her office, her phone buzzed to life. A single message lit the screen:
Tonight. 3 AM. Same place. Don’t bring your car.
She stared at it. No name. No number. Just the weight of what it meant.
She set the glass down and leaned forward, her reflection faint in the dark screen.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The sound of the key twisting in the lock alerted Rocky. Your Doberman rose from his place near the kitchen, ears perked, head tilted—he knew something was wrong before he even saw you.
You stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind you. Darkness swallowed the room whole. You didn’t bother turning on the lights.
You couldn’t.
You didn’t make it more than two steps before your knees buckled under the crushing weight of everything. You collapsed onto the cold floor, your hands hitting the ground as the first sob tore through you loud, aching, from a place so deep it startled even you.
Your whole body trembled. The sobs came again and again, wracking through your chest, shaking you like a storm too big for your frame.
Rocky whined and padded closer, gently nudging your arm with his nose. He lifted a paw and rested it awkwardly on your slumped shoulder, then leaned down to lick the tears streaking down your cheeks. It only made you cry harder.
“Mama…”
The word spilt out of you like a wound reopening. A desperate, helpless cry. Your breath hitched and your body curled in on itself.
You didn’t even know why you were crying anymore.
Was it because you were stripped of your pride? Because someone had taken away the control—the most basic right—you had over your own body?
Or was it because of your father?
Because after all these years, he was alive. Breathing. Living. And yet he had done nothing. Nothing to save your mother. Nothing to stop her from dying a slow, quiet death, waiting—hoping—for a man who never came home.
Your cries grew louder. Uglier. You buried your face in your hands.
“How am I supposed to face you, Mama?”
The question echoed inside you, louder than the sobs still trembling through your chest. What would you even say to Dr. Cordon? That everything he built for you, every sacrifice he made, was undone in a single afternoon? That his belief in you, his endless faith, had been swallowed by something so vile you could hardly name it?
And Jeonghan—how could you ever look him in the eye again? How would he see you now? Not as the girl who fought tooth and nail to survive, not as the one who dared to hope in impossible futures—but as someone who had given up everything without a fight.
You rocked forward on your knees, choking on air that refused to fill your lungs. Rocky pressed close, his whines soft but insistent, his presence the only thing anchoring you to the present.
But even that couldn’t keep the truth from surfacing.
Within six hours, your life had been rewritten.
You hadn’t just lost control—you had been reshaped, rebranded. And not by choice.
The word wife clawed its way through your thoughts, unfamiliar and unbearable. It didn't feel like it belonged to you. And yet—it did. It was yours now, carved into your reality without permission.
You were married.
Married to Choi Seungcheol.
The name tasted bitter in your mouth, like poison you couldn’t spit out. The truth sat there, heavy and immovable. It didn’t matter that the thought of him repulsed you, that the touch of his name alone made your skin crawl.
The question echoed through the darkness. A fact written in ink, in law, in something far more binding than paper.
You felt hollow, like something had scooped you out from the inside. Like a vessel meant to carry someone else’s legacy, not your own. And worst of all, your mother wasn’t here. She wasn’t here to rage on your behalf, to hold you close, to whisper that this wasn’t your fault.
You were alone.
And somewhere in that darkness, with Rocky curled beside you and the night pressing in from every wall, a part of you wished she had never lived to see this.
Maybe it was better that she was gone.
END OF CHAPTER 7
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