Lethal Attraction
Masterlist
Genre: Dark Romance/Enemies to Lovers
Pairing: Gangster Seungmin x Rival Y/n
TW: 18+, MDNI, Mention of Violence, Sexual Tension, Power Dynamics, Manipulation
WC:6,053
Synopsis: What happens when Seungmin, a lethal enforcer for the Bang crime family, is forced to partner with the one woman who makes his blood run hot in every dangerous way—Y/n of the Genovese family, his rival, his equal, and the only person who can unravel him with a single look.
This takes place in the same universe as all the other members stories.
AN: A special thank you to @atetheluck for helping me choose a song! I was struggling! Another HUGE thank you to my official editor and assistant brainstormer @snow-flake-writes I hope everyone enjoys sexually tense Seungmin in this one! I’m so excited for the next two parts to come out already!
Seungmin’s POV
"You're fucking kidding me." I mumble in complete disbelief at what Chris, my boss and big brother, has just told me. My eyes carefully track his movements as he stands up from his organized desk, too organized if I'm being honest, and he walks over to stand in front of it to lean against it casually. "I don't mind going, I actually love going back home. The food, the girls." I smirk a bit at the thought of it all, the memories flooding back, then she pops into my head and my stomach turns. "But why in the hell do I have to go with Y/n? Of all people in this organization. I can do it alone. I've done it before." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I sit on the edge of his couch in his spacious office.
Chris just stood there in silence, head nodding occasionally, listening to me ramble, and I could tell by his body language that he was patiently waiting for my whining to be over with. When I was finally done talking, he looked up from his focused point on the floor, his lips pressed together in thought. "Pack your bags. You have a job to do. So does she. If you two can successfully transfer these goods to Korea and secure the money that will also secure an alliance between us and the Genovese family, then we'll be set to expand and grow our operations significantly." He crosses his arms over his chest firmly, his expression stern and final, leaving no room for further argument.
I groan loudly as I push off my knees and stand up, walking towards the door with heavy steps. I stop with my hand on the doorknob and turn back towards him one last time. "Chris, if she fucks up even once, I'm killing her and you will have to deal with the fallout. Not me. I'm not taking responsibility for her mistakes." I don't even wait for a response, turning quickly to let myself out, a frustrated "fucking hell" slipping out of me as I leave to get ready for this unwanted assignment.
———————————————————————
Twenty hours later and one annoying layover that seemed to drag on forever, I was finally setting foot on South Korean soil once again. As I stepped out of the bustling airport terminal after collecting my bags and carefully retrieving the concealed goods we were transporting, I took in a deep, satisfying breath of the familiar air. I had missed this place more than I cared to admit, and it was always such a welcome relief to get back here every now and then, even if the circumstances weren't always ideal.
The sounds of Korea washed over me in familiar waves—the rapid-fire Korean conversations happening all around me, some heated and animated, others soft and casual; the rhythmic beeping of car horns from the constant stream of taxis jockeying for position at the curb; the melodic chime of the crosswalk signals that brought back childhood memories I hadn't thought about in years. Even the way people moved here was different—purposeful, efficient, a controlled chaos that somehow just worked in a way that made sense to me on an instinctive level.
The smells hit me next, a complex mixture that was uniquely and unmistakably Seoul. There was the faint scent of street food drifting from somewhere nearby—maybe tteokbokki or hotteok from a vendor I couldn't see—mixed with the sharp, clean smell of the city itself, that particular combination of exhaust fumes, cologne, and the underlying scent of kimchi that seemed to permeate everything in the best possible way. It was intoxicating in its familiarity, like coming home after being away for far too long.
I watched a group of teenagers laugh and push each other playfully as they passed by, speaking in rapid Korean peppered with English words, their fashion a mix of streetwear brands I recognized. An elderly woman in traditional hanbok walked past them in the opposite direction, the contrast striking but somehow perfectly natural here. This was Korea—old and new existing side by side, tradition and modernity woven together seamlessly.
For just a moment, I allowed myself to forget about the job, about Y/n, about all of it. I was home, even if temporarily, and despite the circumstances that brought me here, that feeling settled something restless inside my chest that I hadn't even realized was there.
I moved over to find a spot well out of the way of the constant flow of people coming in and out of the busy airport entrance so I could pull out my phone and call for a car to take me to the hotel.
But just as I was doing so, a sleek black convertible mustang pulled up with Y/n sitting in the drivers seat. She smirked over at me, slipping her dark sunglasses down her nose a bit, "Are you going to get in or just stand there looking stupid all day?" That grating voice called out to me over the ambient noise and commotion around me. My eyes narrowed with irritation when they locked onto hers. Of fucking course she'd already be here waiting for me, in a sports car no less.
I grabbed up my bags with more force than necessary and reluctantly began the tedious process of loading my luggage into the trunk of the car before opening the car door and sliding into the passenger seat. Glancing over at her once again she was bare faced but Y/n still looked very pretty. The thought being pushed out as soon as it passed through my mind, "I see you haven't changed much at all, still as insufferable and annoying as ever," I said, my tone making it clear I wasn't in the mood for whatever games she wanted to play. I didn't have time or patience for her immature antics and power plays, especially not now. By tomorrow night we would be headed back to America with our money secured and an alliance established. after that I would never have to see her smug, self-satisfied face again for as long as I lived.
Y/n turned in her seat, causing me to catch a whiff of her perfume. It was subtle and sweet, nothing like her. Those intense eyes of hers looked at me with an expression of pure, undisguised contempt written across her features. "Trust me, the feeling is mutual, Kim. If Chris and Matteo hadn't personally forced this arrangement and made it a direct order, I would rather eat broken glass than work with you on anything," she said with restrained venom dripping from every word before facing forward again and pulling away from the curb, taking us to the hotel.
I have known Y/n for far too many years at this point, our paths crossing in the worst possible ways. Her being the cousin to our rival gang's leader—Matteo Genovese—and having the same role and responsibilities as I do within our respective organizations made her direct competition for me in every conceivable way.
We both served the same function in our respective families—the enforcers, the deal-makers, the ones who got our hands dirty when things needed to get done. I handled weapons trafficking and drug distribution for the Bang family, negotiating with suppliers, coordinating shipments, making sure everything ran smoothly and that anyone who threatened our operations understood the consequences of crossing us. Y/n did the exact same thing for the Genovese family, and she was frustratingly good at it, maybe even better than I wanted to admit.
That was the root of the problem, really. We operated in the same circles, dealt with the same contacts, competed for the same territory and resources. Every deal I closed, she'd somehow manage to close a bigger one. Every supplier I courted, she'd already have wrapped around her finger with that sharp tongue and those calculated smiles that promised things I didn't want to think about. Every time I thought I had the upper hand, she'd find a way to remind me that she was just as capable, just as ruthless, just as indispensable to her family as I was to mine.
The hatred between us had built over years of this constant competition, this endless back-and-forth where neither of us would yield an inch. But there was something else there too, something that made it worse. Something that twisted in my gut every time I saw her walk into a room like she owned it, every time her eyes met mine with that knowing look that said she could read every thought in my head.
It was the way my pulse would quicken when we'd end up in close quarters during a meeting, the way I'd notice the curve of her neck when she'd tilt her head back to laugh at something someone else said. The way her lips would curl into that smirk when she knew she'd gotten under my skin, and how I'd find myself watching them move when she spoke, wondering if they'd taste as venomous as her words.
I hated that I noticed these things. Hated that sometimes during our confrontations, when we'd get in each other's faces, voices raised and tempers flaring, I'd catch the scent of her perfume and feel something other than pure anger. Hated that more than once, I'd caught her eyes flickering down to my lips during our arguments, just for a split second, before that mask of contempt slammed back into place.
The tension between us was explosive, dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with our business and everything to do with the fact that we were both too proud, too competitive, too attracted to each other in the worst possible way to ever acknowledge what simmered beneath the surface of our mutual hatred.
So we channeled it into rivalry instead, into making each other's lives as difficult as possible, into proving over and over that we didn't need or want anything from the other except their failure. It was easier that way. Safer. Because the alternative—acknowledging that the line between hate and desire was razor-thin and we were both teetering on it—was something neither of us could afford.
The drive through the city to the hotel was suffocating with tension, the atmosphere in the vehicle crackling with an electricity that had nothing to do with our animosity towards one another. Neither of us was willing to break the charged silence, both too proud to acknowledge the heat building between us in the confined space. I could feel her presence like a physical touch—the way she shifted in her seat, the subtle movement of her thigh just inches from mine, the knowing satisfaction radiating off her that made my blood run hot for reasons I refused to examine. It took everything in me not to say something that would shatter this precarious balance, not to reach over and—no.
I forced my eyes to the vibrant city lights of Seoul blurring past, trying desperately to focus my mind on the job ahead, but my treacherous body kept betraying me. Every time our arms brushed against one another in the small car, every accidental touch sent electricity shooting through me. My ears burned, my jaw clenched, and I could feel my pulse quickening in ways that had nothing to do with anger. I caught her scent again—that subtle, sweet perfume—and felt my body respond against my will. This was business, I reminded myself. Nothing more. Get in, make the exchange, secure the alliance, and get the hell away from her before I did something we'd both regret.
When we finally pulled up to the hotel, a high-end establishment in the heart of Gangnam that oozed luxury and discretion, I practically threw myself out of the vehicle, needing distance, needing air, needing to escape the suffocating proximity that was doing things to me I couldn't afford to acknowledge. I retrieved my bags from the trunk with jerky, frustrated movements, my body still thrumming with unwanted awareness, and headed for the entrance without looking back—because if I looked back at her, if I saw that knowing smirk on her lips, I wasn't sure I could trust myself. Y/n followed behind me, and I could hear the deliberate click of her heels against the pavement. That measured, purposeful rhythm that seemed designed to torment me, each step a reminder of her presence, of the sway of her hips, of everything I was trying so hard not to think about.
Inside the hotel, the expansive lobby was all gleaming marble floors and elaborate crystal chandeliers hanging from high ceilings—the kind of luxurious place that screamed old money and discretion, making it perfect for our particular line of work and the sensitive nature of our transaction. As we approached the polished front desk where impeccably dressed staff waited, Y/n stepped forward first with deliberate purpose, cutting in front of me in a move that was intentional, her body brushing against mine for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Her Korean flowed naturally as she checked us in and handled all the arrangements, and I found myself watching the way her lips moved around the unfamiliar syllables, the confident tilt of her chin as she spoke. I had to admit, and against my better judgment, that she was professional and competent when it actually mattered and the situation called for it. That didn't mean I respected her as a person or valued her contributions in any way. In fact, watching her command the space, her presence filling the lobby as she conversed with the staff, only made the knot in my stomach tighten—a confusing mixture of emotions.
"We have adjoining rooms," she announced with a knowing smirk that told me she was enjoying my visible discomfort at this arrangement, handing me a key card. Her fingers lingered against mine for a beat too long during the exchange, the brief contact sending an unwanted spark of heat through my hand that traveled up my arm. "The exchange is scheduled for tomorrow at eight PM. We'll meet the local contact at a warehouse location in Itaewon. Until then, stay out of my way and try your absolute best not to fuck anything up with your usual incompetence." Her eyes locked with mine as she spoke, and I saw something flicker there—a challenge, yes, but also an awareness that matched the tension coiling in my gut.
My jaw clenched tight with barely controlled anger, "Likewise. And if you screw this up in any way, shape, or form, I won't hesitate even for a second to leave you behind." The words came out lower, rougher than I intended. I watched with simmering resentment as she turned on her heel and walked away with that infuriating, unshakeable confidence that seemed to radiate from her very being. My eyes slipped down to take in the curve of her ass in those fitted pants, the sway of her hips, the way the fabric moved with each deliberate step she took. She knew I was watching. She always knew. And that made it so much worse—the fact that she was aware of the effect she had on me, that this was part of her game, part of the twisted dynamic between us.
Fucking hell.
I hated myself for the fact that I even noticed something like that. Hated even more that my body was responding, that the anger burning through me was tangled up with desire.
I ran a hand over my tired, strained eyes in frustration before following her general direction up to my assigned room, making sure to keep several feet of careful distance between us at all times—though part of me wondered if the distance was to protect her from my anger or to protect myself from the way my body had responded to her proximity in the car.
The elevator ride up to the upper floors of the hotel felt like an absolute eternity, stretching out, the oppressive silence between us thick with mutual loathing and something else that neither of us would acknowledge. Y/n stood rigidly on the opposite side of the elevator car, her posture perfect and controlled, eyes fixed on the ascending numbers displayed above the door with a studied look of bored disdain. But I could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers flexed slightly at her sides like she was restraining herself from something. I kept my gaze directed anywhere but on her, still disgusted at myself for that brief momentary lapse in judgment downstairs—and for the fact that even now, in this confined space, I was hyperaware of her presence, of the way the air seemed to crackle between us. Of how badly part of me wanted to cross that distance and—
No. I clenched my jaw, forcing the thought away.
When the elevator finally dinged its arrival and opened on our designated floor, she led the way down the long carpeted hallway without so much as a single word or backward glance in my direction, as if I didn't even exist in the slightest to her. But I noticed the deliberate sway of her hips, the way she moved with that infuriating confidence, and I hated that I noticed, hated that my eyes followed the line of her body even as resentment burned in my chest. Our rooms were located at the very end of the quiet corridor—rooms 1847 and 1849, positioned side by side with the dreaded adjoining door between them that I knew would only cause problems. Just my fucking luck to be stuck in this situation, close enough to hear her through the walls, close enough that the temptation to do something stupid and reckless would be gnawing at me all night.
I slid my key card into the electronic lock and pushed open the heavy door to my assigned room with my shoulder. It was spacious and decorated in a sleek modern style, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking panoramic view of the glittering Seoul skyline spread out below, the city lights twinkling like stars. Under different circumstances and in another context, I might have actually taken the time to appreciate the luxury and the view. Right now, in this moment, all I wanted was a hot shower to wash away the grime of travel and some much-needed sleep before tomorrow's crucial exchange, and to put as much physical and mental distance between myself and Y/n as was possible within the constraints of our situation.
I tossed my bags onto the pristine bed and began to get out the essentials so I could take that much needed shower. I could hear distinct movement from her room next door through the walls—the sound of her heels being kicked off and dropped on the floor, a suitcase being unzipped and opened. Even the mundane sounds she made managed to irritate me on a fundamental level. I found myself picturing her in there. Imagining her fingers working the zipper of her luggage, wondering if she was still wearing those fitted pants or if she'd already started to undress. The thought made my jaw clench. I hated that my mind went there, hated that I could envision her peeling off her clothes, the fabric sliding down her thighs. I could hear what sounded like hangers scraping against a closet rod, the rustle of fabric, and my treacherous imagination filled in the gaps—her slender fingers unbuttoning her shirt, the curve of her shoulders as she shrugged it off. Fuck. I pressed my palms against the edge of the bed, trying to ground myself. This was exactly the kind of distraction I couldn't afford. But then I heard water running in her bathroom, and my mind conjured up the image of her stepping into the shower, water cascading down her body, her head tilted back. I wondered if she was thinking about me too, if she felt this same twisted pull that made me want to simultaneously strangle her and—no. I shook my head sharply. This hatred between us was supposed to be simple, clean. But there was nothing simple about the way my body responded to even the sound of her presence through the wall.
Shaking my head, trying to get rid of those god forsaken images, I stripped off my rumpled travel clothes that I'd been wearing for far too many hours and headed for the bathroom. Tomorrow would require intense focus and execution if we were going to pull this off. Whatever deep personal hatred and animosity existed between Y/n and me would have to be set aside and suppressed, at least long enough to get this important job done without incident. This deal was far too important to our organization's future to let our petty rivalry fuck it up, no matter how much a part of me wanted to watch her fail and have to face the consequences.
The bathroom was all sleek marble and chrome, steam quickly filling the space as I turned the water as hot as I could stand it. I stepped under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders, my neck, trying to force my muscles to relax. But even here, alone, I couldn't escape her.
My mind kept circling back to the way she'd looked in the car—that knowing smirk, the deliberate way she'd shifted in her seat, how her thigh had been just inches from mine. I pressed my palms flat against the tile wall, water streaming down my back, and cursed under my breath. This was exactly what I didn't need. What I couldn't afford.
I thought about the moment at the front desk, the way her body had brushed against mine, that fraction of a second that had lasted far too long. The way her fingers had lingered when she handed me the key card. Was she doing it on purpose? Of course she was. Everything Y/n did was calculated, designed to throw me off balance, to get under my skin.
And it was working. That was the worst part.
I ran my hands through my wet hair, water cascading over my face, and tried to focus on the mission. Tomorrow. Eight PM. The business building in Itaewon. The exchange. That's what mattered. Not the curve of her hips in those fitted pants. Not the way her perfume had filled the car. Not the challenge in her eyes every time she looked at me.
But my body had other ideas. I could still feel the phantom touch of her fingers against mine, that spark of heat that had shot through me. I remembered the way she'd moved through the lobby with such confidence, commanding the space, her Korean flawless. I hated that I'd noticed. Hated that some traitorous part of me had been impressed.
I turned the water hotter, as if I could scorch these unwanted thoughts from my mind. The spray beat against my skin, but it did nothing to stop the question that crept in: What was she doing right now? Was she naked in her shower as well?
I squeezed my eyes shut, tilting my face into the stream, water plastering my hair to my forehead as I reached for the soap. But closing my eyes was a mistake. Immediately, her silhouette materialized in the darkness behind my eyelids—Y/n, water streaming over bare skin, hands gliding over curves I had no business imagining.
Heat pooled low in my stomach. My cock stirred, responding to the vivid image I couldn't seem to banish.
My eyes snapped open. Without hesitation, I cranked the cold water to full blast, gasping as the icy shock hit my overheated skin.
This was insane. This hatred between us was supposed to be pure, uncomplicated. But nothing about what I was feeling right now was simple. It was twisted, confusing, and I was losing my fucking mind.
Whatever was wrong with me needed to be pushed aside. This deal was far too important to our organization's future to let petty feelings fuck it up.
On my way back to my bed, a towel wrapped around my shivering body and still tense from all of my warring thoughts but desperately wanting to sleep, my phone begins to ring. I grab my phone from the nightstand, seeing Chris's name flash across the screen.
“Perfect timing.” I answer with a grunt.
"How's Seoul?" Chris's voice comes through, steady and authoritative as always.
"The city's fine. The company, not so much," I mutter, running a hand through my still-damp hair.
"Let me guess—Y/n."
"Who else?" I say flatly. "We've barely been here a few hours and she's already driving me insane. This was a mistake, Chris. I could've handled this solo."
There's a pause on the other end, and I can practically hear him weighing his words. "Listen, Seungmin. I need you to hear me out on this. If tomorrow goes well—and I mean really well—you two are going to be working together a lot more often. This partnership, as much as you hate it, could be crucial for the organization."
I clench my jaw. "You're not seriously suggesting—"
"I'm suggesting you try to get along with her. Just try." His tone softens slightly. "Look, I know there's history between you two. But you're both professionals. I wouldn't have put you together if I didn't think you could make it work."
"Oh fuck—"
"Have dinner with her tonight. Talk. Try to squash whatever this thing is between you two before tomorrow's exchange. That's an order."
"Absolutely not," I snap immediately. "I'm not having dinner with her. I'd rather throw myself off the roof of this hotel."
"Seungmin."
"No. Not happening."
Silence stretches between us, heavy and expectant. He's waiting me out, and we both know I'm going to cave eventually. Damn him.
I exhale sharply through my nose. "Fine. Fine. But I'm only ordering room service. I'm not going anywhere public with her."
"That's all I'm asking," Chris says, and I can hear the hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Just talk to her. Find some common ground. For the job."
"For the job," I repeat bitterly.
"Good man. I'll check in tomorrow after the exchange. And Seungmin? Don't fuck this up."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I fall back on my bed and let out a long breath. I honestly wanted to order room service for myself and just say I ate with her. But Chris's words echo in my head. Have dinner with her. That's an order.
With an exaggerated sigh I drag myself up and grab some sweats and a t-shirt to throw on. I don’t bother fixing my half dried hair. I don’t care how I look. I just want this entire situation to be over.
I pull on the clothes with aggressive movements, each motion fueled by frustration. The sweatpants hang low on my hips, and the t-shirt stretches across my chest and shoulders. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and run a hand through my still-damp hair, making it stick up in places. Good enough. I'm not trying to impress anyone, least of all her.
I take a steadying breath and walk to the adjoining door between our rooms, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. For a moment, I just stand there, my hand raised to knock, questioning every decision that led me to this point.
I knock three times, sharp and purposeful.
The door swings open almost immediately, and whatever sardonic comment I had prepared dies on my lips.
Y/n stands there in a deep blue silk nightgown that skims her body like water, the fabric clinging to every curve before stopping mid-thigh. The neckline dips just low enough to be devastating, and thin straps rest delicately on her shoulders. Her hair is still damp, falling in dark waves around her face, and a few droplets of water cling to her collarbone, catching the light.
I realize I'm staring. My mouth has gone dry.
"Did you—" I start, then have to clear my throat. "Did you want—" The words tangle in my mouth like I've forgotten how language works.
She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed under her chest in a way that only emphasizes the curves barely contained by that sinful silk. That infuriating smirk is back on her lips. "Cat got your tongue, Kim?"
"Room service," I finally manage to force out, my voice rougher than I intended. "Did you want to order room service?"
"Oh, how romantic," she purrs, tilting her head. "You're asking me to dinner. I'm touched."
"Don't flatter yourself. Chris ordered me to." I cross my arms over my own chest, trying to regain some semblance of control. "So are you hungry or not?"
She taps a finger against her lips, pretending to consider. "Hmm. Depends. Are you paying?"
"It's going on the organization's tab."
"Then I'm absolutely starving." She steps back from the doorway, gesturing for me to enter. "Come on in. Unless you're scared to be alone in a room with me."
"Scared?" I scoff, but my feet hesitate for just a fraction of a second before I step through the threshold into her room. "Of you? Please."
Her room is a mirror image of mine, though somehow it already feels distinctly hers. Her leather jacket is draped over a chair, her heels kicked off near the bed.
She moves past me to grab the room service menu from the desk, and I catch a hint of her body wash, still fresh from her shower. The silk of her nightgown shifts with her movements, and I force myself to look literally anywhere else. The window. The ceiling. The abstract art on the wall. Anything but the way that fabric clings to her.
"So what are you in the mood for?" she asks, flipping through the menu. "Something expensive? Because I'm thinking the lobster."
"Of course you are," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Order whatever you want. I don't care."
She glances up at me through her lashes, and there's something almost playful in her expression. "You're not going to eat?"
"I'll order something." I grab the menu from her hand, my fingers brushing against hers for a brief moment. That same spark shoots through me, and I pull back like I've been burned. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" She's enjoying this far too much.
"Like you're planning my murder." I retort.
"Oh please." She laughs, a sound that's both melodic and maddening. "If I wanted to murder you, Seungmin, you'd already be dead. I'm much more efficient than that."
"Comforting," I say dryly, scanning the menu without really reading it. "Really comforting."
"Besides," she continues, moving to sit on the edge of her bed, crossing one leg over the other in a way that makes the nightgown ride up slightly on her thigh, "where would be the fun in that? I much prefer keeping you alive and miserable."
I refuse to look at her legs. Refuse to acknowledge the way my pulse has kicked up. "The feeling is entirely mutual."
"Good." She smiles, sweet and poisonous. "I'd hate to think this animosity was one-sided."
I walk over to the phone in her room that rests on the night stand by her queen sized bed to call room service, desperately needing something to do with my hands. "What do you want?"
"The lobster. With the truffle butter. And a bottle of their most expensive white wine."
"Of course," I mutter again, before dialing and then speaking into the phone as someone picks up. I order her lobster, adding a steak for myself, and yes, the expensive wine because why the hell not. When I hang up, I realize I'm still standing awkwardly in the middle of her room.
"You can sit down, you know," Y/n says, patting the space on the bed next to her. "I don't bite. Much."
"I'll stand." My words short.
"Suit yourself." She leans back on her hands, and the movement makes the silk stretch across her chest in a way that should be illegal. "But you're going to look pretty stupid standing there for the next thirty minutes while we wait for the food."
She has a point, damn her. I move to the armchair near the window, as far from the bed as possible, and drop into it. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You know, for someone who claims to hate me so much, you sure do spend a lot of time looking at me."
"I'm making sure you don't try anything."
"Right. That's definitely why your eyes keep drifting to my legs." She smirks.
My jaw clenches. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" She uncrosses and recrosses her legs slowly, deliberately, and I force myself to keep my eyes locked on her face. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you're having a very hard time deciding whether you want to strangle me or fuck me."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Heat floods my face, anger and lust mixing together in my chest. "You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She stands, and suddenly she's moving toward me, each step measured and predatory. "Because I think you do want to strangle me. But I also think there's a part of you—a part you hate—that wonders what it would be like to—"
"Stop," I cut her off, my voice harsh. I stand abruptly, needing to reclaim some kind of power in this situation. We're almost chest to chest now, and I can feel the heat radiating off her body. "Whatever game you think you're playing, it's not going to work."
She tilts her head up to look at me, and for a moment, something flickers in her eyes—something that isn't mocking or cruel. "Who says I'm playing a game?"
"You're always playing a game." I take a step back, needing distance. "It's what you do. Manipulate. Deceive. Use people."
"And you're so different?" she challenges, following me. "You think you're better than me because what—you have some moral high ground? We work for the same organization, Seungmin. We do the same job. We've both got blood on our hands."
"That's not—" I start, but she cuts me off.
"Don't pretend you're some kind of saint. You're just as ruthless as I am. Just as willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. The only difference is you lie to yourself about it."
The words sting because there's truth in them, and I hate her for voicing it. "At least I don't enjoy it the way you do."
"Oh, I enjoy it," she admits without hesitation, her smile sharp. "I enjoy being good at what I do. I enjoy winning. And I especially enjoy beating you."
"You haven't beaten me."
"Not yet." She's close again, too close, and I can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes. "But tomorrow's exchange? That's going to change."
"Like hell it is." My hands curl into fists at my sides. "Chris paired us together because he thinks we work well as a team. Not because he wants us competing against each other."
"Then maybe you should stop seeing me as competition," she says quietly, and for just a second, the hostility seems to fade. "Maybe we could actually try to make this work."
I stare at her, searching her face for any sign of deception, but all I see is something raw and almost vulnerable. It throws me completely off balance.
Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door. "Room service."
The moment shatters. Y/n steps back, that familiar smirk sliding back into place like armor. "Saved by the bell," she murmurs, then calls out, "Coming!"
She moves to the door, and I'm left standing there, my heart pounding, wondering what the hell just happened and whether I imagined that brief glimpse of something real beneath all her layers of attitude and spite.
This was going to be the longest dinner of my life.
Tags: OPEN
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