#mysafehaneul

“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

AN: How are you guys liking the story so far?

“Whose dog is that?”

“I believe… the doctor’s, sir. Miss Y/N brought her.”

Of course she did. Because why wouldn’t she?

Seungcheol sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered under his breath, “So much for peace and clean linen.”

Before Seungcheol could say more, Chan—ever chirpy—came striding down the hallway, towel slung over one shoulder and a satisfied grin on his face.

“It wasn’t there when I dropped by her place this morning,” Seungcheol noted, narrowing his eyes. “So where was the dog?”

“Oh, Rocky was at daycare,” Chan responded cheerfully.

Seungcheol’s brow rose. “…Daycare?”

“Yes, boss,” Chan nodded, clearly thrilled to be talking about dogs. “They train them, groom them, play with them—it's like a luxury resort for pets. Best in the city. It's been around for about four years now. They’re even expanding soon—”

“Wait,” Seungcheol cut in, eyeing him suspiciously. “You seem to know an awful lot about this place.”

Chan didn’t even hesitate. “Of course! It’s actually on one of your properties. I take Layla there every time I’m in the city. Total lifesaver for busy dog parents. It's owned by this ex-FBI K9 vet, real stand-up guy—”

“Okay,” Seungcheol snapped, palm raised. “Got it. Where’s Y/N?”

“Oh, the Doc went to the hospital. She got an emergency call.”

Seungcheol’s expression darkened. “And you let her?”

Chan blinked. “I—I wasn’t supposed to?”

There was a long pause.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Did someone go with her?”

“Umm…” Chan glanced sideways, clearly caught. “No?”

Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that made the hallway temperature drop five degrees.

Chan winced. “She said it’d be quick...?”

“Of course she did,” Seungcheol muttered, already pulling out his phone, thumb hovering over his contacts. 

The Doberman barked behind him, as if agreeing.

It was his fault, really.

He hadn’t laid down any rules, hadn’t established protocol. Not for her. Not for himself. The last two weeks had been a blur—funeral rites, hostile boardrooms, restructuring logistics, and now this marriage... this arrangement. All of it gnawed at him.

He ran a hand down his face.

He hadn’t slept in two days.

Now with his brother gone, all the roles Mincheol used to handle had landed squarely on his shoulders. Seungcheol was doing damage control on every front—personally, professionally, and publicly. Thank God his father was back at the company for now. If he wasn’t, Seungcheol didn’t know what would’ve happened.

And now she had gone off to the hospital. Alone. No security. No warning.

He glanced at his watch. Three hours before the next meeting—shipment routes and deployment chains across the Mediterranean sector. Three hours. And he’d wanted, stupidly, to take a shower. Maybe even fall asleep for twenty minutes.

“Take it out,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward Rocky, still sitting like a royal in the middle of his pristine sheets.

Chan perked up immediately, more than happy to oblige. “Yes, boss.” He clicked his tongue gently at the Doberman. “Come on, Buddy.”

Rocky leapt down in a thud and trotted toward him.

“And,” Seungcheol added, tone firm again, “put Andrew on her. I want eyes on her at all times. No exceptions.”

Chan nodded crisply, but as he turned away, he couldn’t help but melt again, cooing as he walked. “Hello, Rocky! You’re Layla’s friend, right? I’ve seen you at the daycare. Do you both play well together? Bet you’re the bossy one…”

Seungcheol sighed and leaned against the doorframe for a second, watching Chan and the dog disappear down the hallway—soft voices trailing behind.

Maybe he'd catch that shower now.

But knowing her? He had the strange feeling rest wouldn’t come that easy.

Seungcheol let out a slow sigh as he stepped back into his room, the weight of the day pressing heavy on his shoulders. He made a mental note to ask the maids to change the sheets—Rocky’s muddy paw prints were still visible on the duvet, and a faint smell of dog shampoo lingered in the air.

He unbuttoned his cufflinks absently, his gaze drifting around the room until it landed on the suitcase resting against the wall. At first, he thought nothing of it—until his eyes swept toward the bathroom.

The door was slightly ajar, steam still ghosting from within.

He stepped closer.

The sight that greeted him made his brow twitch.

A towel was slumped carelessly on the floor, damp and clinging to the marble tile like a wilted flower. The oversized t-shirt you’d worn that morning was tossed near the sink, still slightly crumpled, smelling faintly of your perfume and mint toothpaste. Watermarks streaked the bathroom mirror, catching the low evening light and making the space look even more dishevelled.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, kicking the towel aside with the toe of his shoe, irritation building—not because of the mess itself, but because of how much space you were already starting to take up in his life.

In his house. In his routine.

In his mind.

Shrugging off his vest coat, he rolled his shoulders and dropped it into the laundry basket with unnecessary force. There wasn’t time for this. He had another meeting—one that could not be rescheduled.

He rolled up his sleeves and splashed cold water on his face, straightened, and caught his reflection in the mirror—wet-eyed, tired, and faintly aggravated.

He didn’t have the time to be annoyed.

But for some reason, he was.

Very.

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The hospital lobby was awash in the dim glow of overhead fluorescents. Polished tiles stretched ahead of you, their surface reflecting the occasional scurry of interns and the gentle squeak of rubber soles. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, layered faintly with coffee from the nurses' station and something metallic you’d rather not place.

Your steps echoed softly as you passed through the wide corridor, your laundry bag in hand, which held your scrubs,  your white shirt loose around your frame. You had just stabilised a patient—an older gentleman whose earlier minor cardiac episode had escalated into a full arrest. You’d warned them. You knew it would be recurring, but insurance complications had sent him out too soon. Thankfully, luck—or something close to it—was on your side tonight.

As you neared the glass-panelled front entrance, your eyes caught a sudden burst of motion. The pit interns were rushing through the lobby, their scrubs stained with fresh blood, voices raised in urgency.

“Female, 33, crash on the highway intersection—excessive bleeding,” one of the first responders called out, breathless. “Five months pregnant. The foetal heart rate is low. Mother's BP is crashing. Page Dr. Bay now—we don’t have much time!”

The woman on the stretcher was pale—far too pale—and barely conscious, crimson soaking the blankets beneath her. The wheels of the gurney screeched as they turned sharply into the emergency lift.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you stopped for a heartbeat, watching them disappear. The knot in your chest tightened—but there was nothing more you could do but feel sad for the mother. 

You resumed walking, nodding at familiar faces. A nurse from the PICU gave you a tired smile. A fellow attending passed you with a glance that said, Long night? You didn’t respond. Just dipped your head in acknowledgement and kept moving.

The automatic doors opened with a soft hiss as you stepped out into the cool night, the weight of the hospital slowly beginning to fall from your shoulders—even if only for a few hours.

The parking lot was half-lit, mostly quiet, save for the faint hum of distant traffic and the sharp tap of your shoes on pavement.

And then—you saw it.

Leaning casually against the sleek, black Mercedes you had ridden in that morning, stood a man in a fitted black suit. Hands folded neatly in front of him, posture rigid, expression unreadable. He wasn’t there for anyone else. He was waiting for you.

You walked past him, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot forming in your gut. But you barely made it a few steps before the sound of his shoes behind you made you turn sharply.

“Can I help you?” you asked, brows furrowed, exhaustion giving way to annoyance.

“Andrew,” he said crisply. “Your bodyguard.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For your security,” he replied. “Please—this way.”

Before you could argue, he was already guiding you toward the car with a practiced motion, pulling the back door open for you like this was all routine.

You paused. “What about my car?”

“That will be taken care of.”

“The keys—”

“We don’t need them, ma’am,” he said, nodding with quiet finality.

And just like that, he shut the door in your face with a soft thud—polite, impersonal, but firm.

You exhaled, jaw tightening.

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The grand hallway of the estate was dimly lit, silent except for the quiet padding of his shoes on the floor.  The meeting had dragged on longer than expected—his body was aching, and all he could think about was a hot shower and ten minutes of sleep.

Chan had mentioned, offhandedly, that you were home. Home.

He pushed open the bedroom door—and stopped in his tracks.

“Y/N!” he called out, already rubbing his temple. “Why is this dog here again—in my bed?”

From the walk-in closet came your voice, firm and annoyed. “Don’t call him a dog. That’s Rocky. My baby.”

Seungcheol stepped further in, eyes narrowing at the large Doberman sprawled confidently across the bed—like he owned the damn place.

“We’ve already met. This afternoon. When you weren’t here—again. Now send him out.”

“What do you mean, send him out?” you walked into view, drying your hair with a towel. “This is my room. You go to your room.”

He stared at you for a moment. “Did no one tell you?” He gave a dry chuckle. “This is also my room.”

You blinked. “No, it isn’t. The housekeeper said your room was the master bedroom, first door on the left…”

You looked around, the realization dawning as the deep-toned design and faint cologne in the air connected the dots. Your lips tightened into a scowl.

“Fine. I’ll leave.”

“You can’t.” His voice was calm but final. “We’re to occupy the same room. That’s the rule.”

“I will adhere to no such rule,” you snapped. “The arrangement is for a child. I’ll give you that child.”

A shadow of something darker crossed his face. He took a step toward you. Then another. And another. Until you instinctively began backing away, step by step, until your back brushed the edge of the dresser behind you.

“And how do you plan to do that… wife?” he asked, his voice dropping a register.

You stiffened.

“Children don’t appear out of thin air, do they?” he murmured, brushing the back of his fingers faintly across your exposed collarbone through the oversized T-shirt. “How will you give me a child when you’ve forbidden me to touch you?”

Your heart pounded in your chest—but your eyes held their fire.

He tilted his head, his voice curling with cruel suggestion. “Well,” he said, almost lazily, “you’re more than welcome to share my bed. In case you want things to go the traditional way. I’ll just close my eyes and imagine someone else.”

You let out a sharp, biting laugh. “I’d rather bite the cold earth than lie with you—or next to you.” Your tone sharpened like broken glass. “Or is it that you were taught harassment is the only way someone would ever sleep with you?”

His jaw twitched. The muscles along his neck tensed. He took another step closer—so close, you could feel his breath ghosting against your cheek.

“I’ll have you know,” he said, in a low, tight voice, “my women are very willing.”

You didn’t flinch. “Sure they are,” you said, voice calm and cold. “Willing… for the price they’re paid.”

There it was again—that silent, dangerous electricity sparking between you. Rage. Frustration. Something unspoken clawing beneath the surface.

The heat between your gazes was smothering.

Until—

A sharp, growling bark sliced through the air.

Rocky jumped off the bed, landing between you both in a protective stance, lips curled and ears alert. His growl rumbled low, warning.

You both stepped back instinctively.

Seungcheol muttered something in Italian under his breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Send the dog to the hunting grounds. Let him be with other dogs.”

You moved immediately, placing yourself between Rocky and him, chin raised. “Over. My. Dead. Body.”

He stared at you, chest rising slightly with contained fury, then turned on his heel with a grunt.

“Keep him out of the bedrooms,” he snapped over his shoulder. “And away from me.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

Rocky whimpered once and nudged your leg. You placed a gentle hand on his head, still burning from the nearness, the tension, and the awful weight of everything this life had become.

“Dare she bark at me.” Seungcheol hissed under his breath as he stormed out of the room, slamming the heavy door behind him with a satisfying thud.

He barely made it five steps down the hallway when Mingyu rounded the corner, holding a thick folder in his hand.

Seungcheol muttered to himself, voice just loud enough to carry, “What a bitch.”

Mingyu, unfortunately, had the ears of a fox and a grin to match. “Well, what can you do?” he said, walking alongside him with zero sympathy. “She is your wife.”

Seungcheol didn’t miss a beat. He stopped, turned, and stared him down cold. “I was talking about the dog.”

“Oh.” Mingyu blinked, pretending to stifle a cough. “But… Rocky’s a male.”

That earned him one of Seungcheol’s death glares—sharp, wordless, and boiling with restrained annoyance. Mingyu wisely chose not to add more and handed him the file in silence.

Without another word, Seungcheol turned and made his way down the long corridor toward the eastern wing—his side of the mansion. His footsteps echoed with clipped determination, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease.

The moment he stepped into his office, he tossed the folder onto the nearest table and let out a sharp breath.

With a practiced motion, he ran his hand through his hair—an old habit when frustration sank its claws in. His jaw clenched as he muttered under his breath, “Guess I’ll be settling for the goddamn couch tonight.”

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The music throbbed like a second heartbeat—heavy, slow, and pulsing through the dark-lit room with the rhythm of temptation. Crimson lights bathed everything in a velvet haze as shadows moved against chrome poles and private whispers slipped beneath the bass.

Mingyu stepped into the VIP zone like he owned the place—black shirt unbuttoned just enough, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, gold watch catching a glint of the strobe. His gaze swept through the room once, sharp and clinical, until it landed on her.

Monica.

Perched on the edge of the plush leather seat, legs crossed, dressed in a high-slit number that shimmered under the lights, Monica was a vision meant to disarm. And she tried—she really did.

She stood and moved toward him with that effortless grace, her hands sliding up his chest as she climbed into his lap, straddling him like muscle memory.

"Missed you," she purred near his ear, lips grazing the edge of his jaw. The music dropped low, bass kicking in again.

But Mingyu didn’t react the way she hoped. He let her dance, let her move for a moment—then placed one hand firmly on her hip, and with the other, gently but unmistakably, pushed her back just enough.

"Not tonight, sweetheart," he said, voice low, smooth, and unreadable.

Confusion flickered in her eyes. “You didn’t come for me?”

“Oh, I did,” he said with a smirk, then reached for her chin. His fingers curled just under it, tilting her face up to him. His thumb brushed her lower lip, then pinched it lightly between his fingers. Her breath hitched.

“I have something better for you.”

Monica blinked, the tease fading from her eyes for something sharper—curiosity. Obediently, she stayed still under his touch, her heart hammering under the surface.

“Better?” she echoed, lips still caught between his fingers.

Mingyu leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper just for her. “I need eyes. Discreet ones. On someone important.” His thumb let go of her mouth slowly. “Think you can do that for me, beautiful?”

A beat passed. Then she nodded.

Of course she would. After all, she'd been in love with Kim Mingyu long before he ever looked at her like this. And she’d take whatever scraps of attention he threw her way—especially if they came wrapped in danger.

He leaned back against the booth, spreading his arms lazily along the top, eyes glinting under the blood-red light.

“Good girl.”

End of Chapter 9 

A/N: I have came up with an interesting analysis that you guys like scenes with  seungcheol more than Jeonghan and I am kind of worried for you all as the story will proceed. 

Today was no exception. You were on your third round of the morning, clipboard in hand, eyes heavy with sleep you hadn't gotten, and patience worn thin like old thread.

You stepped into Room 302, where Mrs. Carsen, one of your trial patients, sat propped up in bed, her eyes tired but curious. She’d been responding to the new regimen slowly, and every small shift in her bloodwork was being closely monitored. There were four interns trailing behind you, all fresh-faced and eager to impress, but more green than useful.

You softened your tone as you glanced at the patient and gave her a small smile. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Carsen. How are you feeling today?"

“A little better than yesterday; I could barely keep my eyes open. it's been a while since I last slept like that.”

“That's good. Anything else, like are you feeling the same aversion towards food or nausea?”

Before the elderly woman could respond, one of the interns—Erica, if you recalled correctly—spoke over her.

"Trial Case Number 23’s vitals have stabilised overnight. Pulse rate holding, no further febrile spikes."

The words were cold and clinical. Erica didn’t even glance at the patient as she read them out.

Mrs. Carsen frowned. “Case number twenty-three?” she asked gently, her voice frail. "Is that me?"

Erica didn’t look up from her chart. “Yes, ma’am. That’s your ID within the study protocol. You’re being administered the third-tier chemo compound, variant A,” she said in a robotic tone, as if reciting from memory.

You had been flipping through Mrs. Carsen’s file—but that tone made you pause. Your fingers stilled.

You closed the file with a quiet but definitive snap.

Then you turned fully toward the woman in the bed, stepping closer. You crouched slightly to be eye-level with her, your voice warm and deliberate as you explained—clearly, humanly—what her numbers meant, what the next few weeks might look like, and what symptoms she should keep an eye on. You placed your hand gently over hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze, the way you would your own grandmother.

"We’re right here with you, every step of the way," you said quietly, just to her.

Mrs. Carsen’s eyes brimmed slightly with tears, and her lips trembled into a soft smile. 

“Thanks, love. i would just truly appreciate if you’d talk to me not just about me.” You gave her a small nod. “That will be taken care of, Mrs. Carsen; let me know if you have any difficulties.” Standing and walking out, the four interns scramble to keep up behind you.

You stopped in front of the staff elevator, and before pressing the button, turned to face them.

"The person in that room is more than just a case number or a study sample."

Your voice was calm but sharp. Stern, yet level. Although you didn't take names, your eyes were very level at the intern. 

"When interacting with a patient, don't ever talk over them. You’re not doing her a favour by treating her. You’re doing your job. That woman—any patient—entrusts you with their life. Do you understand the weight of that?"

A pause. You looked directly at Erica.

"Your duty is not just to medicate, but to communicate. To help them understand. To be present in a way textbooks never will be. They are not your test subjects; they are your patients. Talk to them, reassure them, and explain things in a way that they understand. They came to us. Learn about your patients beyond their lab results and bed numbers."

They all nodded, slightly stunned.

"Yes, Doctor Y/N," they echoed, almost in unison.

You turned and stepped into the elevator. Just before the doors closed, you added,

"Brian—bring me the full file for Mr. Dominic to my office. Now."

“YES, DOCTOR!” 

The doors slid shut.

Outside, Erica stood frozen for a beat, cheeks pink and jaw tight. She looked ready to cry or snap—maybe both.

Her boyfriend, another intern trailing behind, leaned over and whispered just loud enough:

"She’s been so prickly the last couple of weeks. What’s gotten into her?"

Erica shot him a sideways glance, her voice dry and cool.

"Nothing. Maybe that’s exactly the problem."

On cue, the two shared a low chuckle and walked off, as Erica’s boyfriend tried to lighten the mood. 

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Something was wrong with you; maybe something was bothering you. Therefore, you were in such a sour mood. Jeonghan couldn't exactly diagnose what it was—but one of the signs was visible: you were trying to suppress it, and what's a better way to distract yourself than overworking? But  Jeonghan had been watching you closely for days now—closely enough to know something had shifted. It wasn’t just the way you skipped out on drinks two weeks ago. You’d vanished that night with a mumbled excuse, one even your closest friends hadn’t bought, and since then, you hadn’t quite returned.

There was a tension to you now, not loud but present—like a thread pulled taut beneath your skin. You moved with more purpose, spoke less, and your kindness—once as gentle as gauze—had taken on a clipped edge, especially with the interns. Everyone chalked it up to burnout, maybe too many shifts back-to-back. But Jeonghan knew you. Knew the rhythm of your moods, the silences between your sentences, and the way your smile used to reach your eyes.

And it hadn't, not for a while now.

So today, with something like determination humming under his skin, he found you alone in the break room, poking at your food more than eating it. You looked tired—tired in that deep, unspeakable way that sleep couldn’t fix.

He cleared his throat with a hopeful grin. “Guess what?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking up.

“I got us tickets to the match. You know—the one you’ve been talking about for months?”

A soft, amused scoff escaped you. “You mean the one you were talking about while I pretended to listen?”

“Don’t be like that,” he huffed dramatically. “You love the Eagles.”

“Right. Which ones are they again?” you deadpanned, barely hiding a smirk.

He narrowed his eyes, feigning offence. “Funny. Real funny.”

But something in him lightened at the hint of your old self peeking through.

“On Saturday, Be ready by 3. I’m picking you up.”

“Nooooo,” you whined into your salad. “It’s my first off-day in two weeks!”

“Oh come on… You have Sunday too. Let’s not pretend you were going to rest. You’ll end up answering emails or reorganising the medicine cabinet alphabetically.”

He leaned down a little, voice softening.

“Come on, honey girl. You can give one day to this very patient, very charming best friend of yours.”

You looked up slowly, catching those stupidly hopeful eyes twinkling at you like a guilty golden retriever. You sighed, heavy and dramatic.

“Huuu… fine. But don’t call me that.”

His grin stretched wide. “Perfect. It’s a date then, honey girl.”

And before you could throw a spoon at him, he was gone—slipping out of the room with a bounce in his step, walking so fast he didn’t have to show you how red his ears were or how loud his heart was thudding in his chest.

He was still smiling when the elevator dinged open and he stepped inside, only to jump at the quiet voice behind him.

“You alright there, Dr. Yoon?”

He turned to find Nurse Martha standing beside him, arms folded, brows raised.

“Oh! Nurse Martha. Didn’t see you there.”

She gave him a knowing once-over. “You look a little flushed.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting. “Ah… just the heat, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The elevator dinged again, and as he stepped out onto his floor, he called back, “See you around, Nurse Martha.”

The doors slid shut behind him.

She chuckled to herself.

“It’s October.”

A sigh escaped you—long, tired, and a little hollow.

The hunger you'd felt just minutes ago had vanished after barely two bites. The food sat heavy in your hands, untouched and somehow offensive in its presence. You stood there for a beat, unsure what to do next, before placing the container back in the staff fridge. You grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled on a sticky note:

“Eat me.”

You stuck it on the lid with more force than necessary and turned, walking out into the dim hallway.

The hospital's fluorescent lights hummed softly above you, cold and pale like always. But your eyes had already drifted further down the corridor—to the heavy double doors of the mortuary, sitting like a mouth waiting to swallow.

It had been a while since you last saw Isayah. Days? Weeks? Everything felt blurred now, folded in on itself from the moment your life was signed over to a name you didn’t want to say aloud. You tried to remember what he'd been trying to tell you—something about missing bodies. You hadn’t followed up. You hadn’t had the time. Or maybe you just hadn’t had the energy.

Still, your feet had started carrying you toward that door, the quiet dread curling beneath your ribs… when a familiar voice pulled you back.

“Y/N.”

You turned, blinking out of your thoughts.

Dr. Cordon approached with his usual composed gait, his silver hair combed neatly back and his sharp features slightly softened by age. He wore a navy waistcoat beneath his lab coat, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a Rolex that had probably seen more emergency surgeries than most residents. His accent was clipped, clean. British

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said, glancing between you and the direction you were headed. “Are you busy?”

You shook your head faintly. “Not really. I was just… Do you know an Isayah Noyago?”

His brows furrowed. “Isayah…?” he repeated, like testing the name on his tongue. “Doesn’t ring a bell…”

“He worked in the morgue,” you added quietly, almost regretting it.

“Oh!” His eyes lit slightly in recognition. “Yes, yes. Noyago. Young fellow. Odd hours. Haven’t seen him in some time, now that you mention it.”

You nodded, eyes flicking back toward the morgue. Something tugged at your gut.

“Well, you can always ask the floor manager. They’ll know better who’s on shift down there,” he suggested.

He paused, studying you. “But why are you looking for him?”

You opened your mouth, then hesitated.

“He told me—” You stopped. The words faltered before they could land. What exactly had he told you? Did it even matter now?

“…You know what, never mind,” you said, brushing it off. “You said you wanted to talk?”

As if suddenly remembering, he snapped his fingers lightly. “Ah yes. Alberta mentioned something to me this morning. Said you haven’t been going home. And, more worryingly, that you’ve barely touched your meals.”

Your mouth opened in instinctive protest, but he raised a gentle hand to quiet it—fatherly, not commanding.

“Y/N, I’ve known you long enough to see when you’re treading water. And right now, you look like you’re about to go under.”

“I was going through the case,” Dr. Cordon continued, adjusting the file under his arm, his tone shifting into something more clinical—comfortably familiar. “It seems like the trial is moving in a rather positive direction.”

That caught your attention, even if only slightly.

“If you have the time,” he offered, “perhaps we could go over the updated charts together. I’d like us to present it at the Stanley Organisation Conference next month.”

Your eyes lifted to his, a faint crease forming on your brow. “You’re going with that?”

He smiled, small but assured. “Of course. It’s your work as much as it is mine, and frankly, you’ve been the heart of it.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t care—but because caring right now felt like dragging a half-broken limb across a finish line.

Still, a quiet part of you appreciated the recognition.

“…Yeah,” you finally murmured. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“Good,” he said, with a slight nod. “I have a sandwich with your name written on it, your favourite.” 

“Cordon—”

“Ah-ah,” he held his hand up. “Come on, or else I will call Alberta here,” and started pushing you towards the direction of his office. 

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You’d been standing outside your apartment building for five minutes now, arms crossed, leather jacket slung over one hand. The night air was cooler than expected, but not enough to make you reach for it yet. Your black tube top clung neatly to your skin, wide-legged pants swaying every time the breeze shifted, and your hair—slicked back into a tight bun—was already starting to feel a headache coming up. You hated waiting.

Your thumb hovered over Jeonghan’s name on your phone, ready to call and ask if he’d forgotten—

And then you heard it.

The low, unmistakable roar of an engine.

You turned toward the sound, squinting just in time to catch the flash of headlights and a sleek red Porsche rolling up like it belonged in a commercial. The passenger window slid down, revealing that smile the one that always landed somewhere between smug and stupidly charming.

“What took you so long?” You called out as you approached.

Jeonghan leaned an arm casually against the wheel. “It’s been a while since I took my baby out for a spin. We were bonding.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small twitch of a smile as you slid into the passenger seat. The interior still smelt like polish and some kind of citrus cologne he definitely overused.

“Tell me again,” you said, buckling in. “How the hell can you afford this car?”

He shifted the gear and shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My mother had a rich father and a shitty taste in men. When my grandfather died, he left her a little something. That’s all.”

And with that, he pressed the gas, and the engine growled like it had something to prove. The streetlights blurred into lines as the Porsche peeled away from the curb. 

The arena was alive.

Floodlights cast a clinical sheen over the glossy hardwood court, where tension danced with every bounce of the ball. The air crackled with anticipation and the roar of a full house—popcorn salt, stadium grease, and sweat clinging to every breath. This wasn’t just a game. This was ritual. Noise. Escape.

You and Jeonghan were seated just three rows behind courtside, close enough to hear the players’ shouts and the slap of the ball against the hardwood. The chairs were cushioned but firm.  From here, you could feel the tremor in the floor every time a player’s sneakers hit the ground. And Jeonghan? He was buzzing. Practically vibrating in his seat like a kid on sugar.

“Let’s go, Eagles!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

You smirked, leaning back slightly, letting him have his moment. The Eagles were his team—he’d been talking about this match against the Tigers for weeks now, like it was the event of the year.

On the court, the Tigers’ defence tightened up. Number 14 from the Eagles—a tall, lean forward with arms like steel cables—dodged a block, dribbled once, twice, then launched into the air with startling grace.

Slam. A perfect two-handed dunk.

The crowd exploded, and Jeonghan jumped up like he’d been launched from a cannon, both fists in the air. “Did you see that?! That’s what I’m talking about!”

You glanced at him, laughing under your breath as you stayed seated, sipping from your bottle of water. “You act like you trained him yourself.”

He beamed, flushed with joy, the lights of the arena dancing in his eyes. “I could’ve, in another life.”

You watched the players high-five, the scoreboard flash, and the cameras swing toward the bench. The cheers were loud and overpowering, but your mind had begun to drift—just slightly.

Jeonghan didn’t notice. He was clapping, yelling something about a missed call, completely in his element.

And honestly, you were glad. For a moment, his joy made the world feel normal. Like the last two weeks hadn't happened. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you could just be... here.

And even if your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, it was real enough to hold onto—for now.

By the time halftime rolled around, the roar of the arena had faded into white noise. You sat back in your seat, phone in hand, replying to an email from hospital administration about pending supplies for your department’s research wing. The blue light of the screen cast a faint glow on your face as your fingers danced across the glass.

You barely noticed Jeonghan sipping his soda beside you, his legs bouncing from leftover adrenaline.

What you did notice was the shift in energy.

A ripple through the crowd.

Eyes—not one or two, but many—fixing in your direction.

You frowned slightly, lifting your eyes from the screen… and that’s when you saw it.

The Kiss Cam.

Your face filled the massive stadium screen, outlined with floating cartoon hearts, the bright text underneath flashing:

“Kiss Cam” Row 3 – Seats 12 & 13

Your head snapped toward Jeonghan, who blinked in delayed realisation as the camera panned wide enough to catch him too—mid-sip.

“No,” you mouthed quickly, subtly shaking your head. A small wave of laughter rippled through your section.

Thankfully, the camera seemed to get the hint. It panned away.

You let out a sigh, returning your gaze to your phone, only for Jeonghan to nudge you lightly. “You want something to eat?” he asked, ever casual.

You barely had time to answer when the crowd cheered again.

You looked up.

The Kiss Cam was back.

Zoomed in. Closer. Persistent.

“Are you serious right now?” you muttered under your breath, more to the universe than anyone else.

Jeonghan turned to look at you then, eyebrows raised, lips parted—like he was trying to gauge something in your expression he couldn’t quite name. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Or hesitation.

The crowd started chanting. Lightly at first. Then louder.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You felt your cheeks burn—not from embarrassment, but from the absurdity of it all. Of being seen. Pinned under the gaze of strangers. Like you were in a spotlight you hadn’t asked for.

Jeonghan leaned slightly closer, his voice low, barely audible beneath the noise

“Let it be,” Jeonghan said softly, barely glancing at the screen. “They’ll just move away on their—”

Before he could finish, you turned to him.

Your hand came up suddenly, cradling his jaw with a quiet urgency that startled him. The heat of the crowd pressed in, a thousand eyes watching, but your movements were precise—controlled. You angled your face just enough to block your profile from the camera, your body shielding the truth from the lens.

The crowd erupted in cheers behind you.

To anyone watching, it looked like a kiss.

But it wasn’t.

Your thumb hovered over his lips. Then, gently—without trembling—you pressed your lips to it. A soft, deliberate touch.

For a moment, Jeonghan didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, and for the briefest flicker of a second, a shadow passed through them—quiet and aching.

Disappointment.

It came uninvited, sharp in his chest, curling under his ribs.

You turned your attention back to the court as the game resumed, face calm, focus sharp. You didn’t see the way Jeonghan kept looking at you. Not with frustration or offence—but with something deeper.

A knowing.

A silent wonder, repressing it to focus on the game. At least he tried to. 

The cool night breeze trailed behind you as you both stepped out of the stadium, the city alive with horns, headlights, and the hum of late-night traffic. Jeonghan walked a step ahead and opened the car door for you, the gesture casual—automatic—but his silence lingered heavier than usual.

You slid in without a word. The ride started the same way.

Quiet.

A little too quiet.

You shifted in your seat, glancing out the window at the blur of taillights and neon signs. “I don’t know why they put people on the spot like that,” you said with a small, awkward chuckle. “The Kiss Cam. It’s... unnecessary.”

“Right,” Jeonghan murmured, his eyes never leaving the road. The tone in his voice didn’t match yours. It sat somewhere between a shrug and something unsaid.

Silence again.

You could feel him trying to push past it when he asked, “What do you want for dinner?”

You didn’t answer.

The city rolled past you in soft streaks of light.

“Y/N,” he said, voice sharper this time.

You blinked out of your thoughts and turned to him. “Sorry. You were saying something?”

“I asked what you’d like for dinner,” he repeated, more carefully this time. “It’s like you’re always… gone. Either buried in work or stuck in your own head. Is something wrong?”

You hesitated, then gave a quick shake of your head. “No. It’s nothing.”

He glanced at you briefly, frowning. “It can’t be nothing if it has you making that face.”

You looked over, eyebrows raised. “What face?”

“The face kids make when they’re about to pass a tight stool,” he said, completely deadpan.

“Jesus Christ—” you smacked his arm, laughing despite yourself.

He grinned, pleased with himself. “No, seriously. Are you constipated? Blink twice if you need laxatives.”

“Jeonghan, I swear,” you said, unable to hide your smile, your voice lighter now.

“Smack me again and I’ll crash into the median.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Let’s go to Chow’s Palace?”

“Chow’s it is,” he said, his hands smooth on the wheel as he took the left at the roundabout. “Been a while since I had proper Chinese.”

As the street lights flickered over your faces, the tension from earlier melted slightly—slightly. And though neither of you said it, you both felt the shift. That familiar safety. That ache of almost.

But neither of you reached for it.

As the car slipped into a quieter lane, the rush of the night muted behind the closed windows, you leaned your forehead gently against the glass. Outside, life went on—people crossing streets with grocery bags, neon signs flickering over late-night diners, and a couple laughing at a bus stop, their world untouched by yours.

For a moment, you let your eyes fall shut. 

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting pale strips of light across the room. A dull, relentless headache throbbed at your temples—probably a souvenir from last night’s beer at Chow’s. You blinked against the sting, willing yourself back into the comfort of sleep.

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

Persistent. Unrelenting.

Groaning, you kicked the quilt aside with more irritation than grace. You really needed to give the milkman a sterner warning.

Rolling out of bed, you shuffled toward the door, extending your hand for the milk carton, expecting the usual morning ritual.

But no carton was pressed into your palm.

Instead, when you opened the door wider, there he was.

The face you wanted to see least of all: your husband.

His dark eyes lifted with a crooked brow, calm and almost amused.

Behind him, two towering figures stood silently—his bodyguards, unwavering shadows.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice sharp, breath uneven.

He smirked, stepping forward. “Aren’t you going to let me in, wife?”

The word hit you like ice.

You shuddered, a cringe crawling along your spine.

“No.” You tried to close the door swiftly—but he was faster.

His foot slid against the wood, halting it mid-swing.

“Why have someone inside?” he muttered, nodding toward the door as he motioned his men to stay outside.

Before you could protest, he pushed past you, stepping into the apartment. His gaze swept the room with cold precision, moving toward the veranda as if expecting someone to leap out at him.

After a moment, he turned, striding to the bathroom, eyes scanning every corner, measuring your space.

You cleared your throat, voice firm despite the knot tightening in your chest. “Please don’t call me that.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure.”

Turning back, he folded his arms, studying you. “So, tell me, wife—what have you been up to?”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, making the loose shirt ride up slightly. You caught the flicker in his eyes as they traced you up and down—the oversized men’s T-shirt, the tired slump in your shoulders.

“The usual,” you said evenly. “Saving lives and studying.”

He nodded slowly, as if weighing your words. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s about it,” you replied coolly. “Why do you ask?”

His lips curled in a ghost of a smile. “I see. The Eagles play well, don’t they? That last touchdown—the Balkan’s throw—I must admit, it was impressive.”

You pursed your lips into a thin line, irritation bubbling beneath your calm exterior.

He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Most interesting of them all—the halftime shows they pull off.”

You met his gaze evenly, feeling the weight of unspoken words swirling between you.

“What are you trying to do?” you asked, voice steady but edged with frustration.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous. “Just here to remind you things have changed. It’s time you change your ways. And your clothes. And pack your bags. I gave you a week—two weeks have passed. Father’s asking about you.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Does your father always take this much initiative?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Only when it involves his eldest son’s killer’s daughter.”

Your pulse quickened at the words. “Why do I have to go to your house?”

“Not this dance again,” he groaned, rubbing his temple like it was a bother.

You crossed your arms, stepping closer, voice sharp. “Why don’t you expect me to commute to work every day? It’s like a forty-five-minute drive from your place to Liberty. From here, it’s just two blocks.”

His eyes glinted with a cold amusement. “You sure talk a lot for a collateral.”

“Bastard,” you spat, stomping toward your room, fury blazing. Way to ruin a day off.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzed just as he saw you disappear into the bedroom, the door shutting hard behind you with a sharp slam.

Fifteen minutes slipped by. He ended his call, still hearing no sound from your side of the apartment.

Did she slip in the bathroom or something? He wondered, tension creeping into his chest.

He made his way down the hallway and spotted a door left slightly ajar. Assuming it was your bedroom, he paused—Not going to peek. Maybe she’s just changing.

He knocked softly, voice tight. “Y/N, are you done? We need to leave. I don’t have all day—”

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

A sudden, wild thought flared: What if she jumped out the window? Ran off through the fire escape?

Without hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

There you were—laying on your stomach, fast asleep, a soft snore escaping your parted lips, buried beneath the quilt.

His gaze flicked over the room and cringed a little at the mess—dog toys scattered haphazardly, clothes strewn across the floor.

“Hey, get up.” His voice was low at first, but then he shut his eyes and shouted, “Y/N!!”

You jolted awake, heart hammering. Your hand flew to your temple, clutching at the relentless pounding inside your skull.

“What the fuck?” You groaned, disoriented and irritated, the harshness of waking crashing over you like a wave.

“Pack your things,” he said briskly, voice sharp but controlled. “Just the essentials—you can come back for the rest later or whatever. I’m waiting downstairs. So, chop chop.”

He muttered under his breath, “What a fucking mess.”

You flung yourself back onto the pillow, crushing the breath out of your chest, the weight of him, your father, and everything else pressing down on you like a storm.

A long, ragged groan escaped your lips, a mix of  frustration, exhaustion, and the raw ache of being caught in a life you never asked for.

You came down the stairs slowly, dragging a small suitcase behind you—just the essentials, like he said. The building’s quiet was broken only by the scuff of your shoes on the steps and the low hum of the idling car outside.

One of his guards was already waiting at the bottom. At Seungcheol’s simple gesture, the man stepped forward, took your suitcase without a word, and moved to open the car door.

“Get in,” Seungcheol said, his voice as casual as if he were sending off dry cleaning. “They’ll take you to the mansion.”

You paused, hand on the car door, your fingers curling tightly around the handle. Your mouth opened—maybe to ask, to argue, to demand—but nothing came out.

“And what about you?” you finally managed, the words stiff with suspicion.

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Aww… you’re leaning into the title’s responsibilities, wife?”

The word landed like ash on your tongue. Your expression soured immediately.

“I have a meeting,” he continued with a shrug, already glancing at his phone. “Don’t worry. I lead a very busy life. We won’t cross paths much.”

“I hope not,” you muttered, climbing into the car.

And before he could respond, you slammed the door shut behind you. The sound echoed down the street, final and sharp, like a line drawn in sand as the car's engine roared to life and drove off. 

Seungcheol watched silently as the car carrying you turned the corner and disappeared from view. His jaw tightened. He didn’t say a word.

Just then, another car rolled up in front of him—sleek, identical in build to the one you'd just left in. A black Mercedes S-Class. Tinted windows. Armored. Quiet like a predator in a suit.

He slipped into the backseat, nodding once at the driver without bothering to speak. The door shut with a heavy click, sealing him off from everything.

He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, eyes falling shut for a moment.

But peace didn’t come.

Instead, the silence was pierced by a memory—two weeks ago. Blunt. Loud. Unshakeable.

“Who said you’re in a position to negotiate?” he pressed, voice low, sharp enough to cut.

You drew in a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as you gathered what was left of your composure. “If I’m to accept this barbaric barter,” you said, voice taut, “I have my terms.”

His silence was invitation enough.

“You will not interfere with my work,” you said, opening your eyes to meet his. “And no one—absolutely no one—will know that you are my husband.”

He cocked a brow. “What? Is someone secretly holding out for that title?”

Your jaw clenched, nose flaring. “You will not touch me.”

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “Well, do you expect me to air-drop my sperm, Doctor?”

You didn’t blink. “Given your limited understanding of medical advancement, I don’t expect much. But I’ll figure that part out. What I need is your cooperation. Even during the pregnancy, you will not control what I do. My work, my decisions—none of it concerns you.”

“No can do,” he replied smoothly. “It’s my heir you’ll be carrying.”

“And it’s my body that will carry it.”

A pause.

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, noncommittal. “Go on.”

You pushed forward. “When this whole… child thing is fulfilled—”

“A son,” he corrected.

You ignored the interruption. “—you will grant me a divorce.”

“Gladly,” he replied without hesitation.

“One last thing.”

He rolled his eyes. “You sure don’t run out of demands.”

But you pressed on. “You will not touch a single soul at Liberty Hospital. You will leave everyone out of whatever mess you and Han Jaein have dragged each other into.”

A pause. His expression shifted, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

“Min,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s Min Jaein. Your father took your new mother’s surname. Thought you’d know.”

You hesitated, your gaze slipping past him toward the door, somewhere far beyond this room. Why should I mourn someone who didn’t even share a name with me anymore? You had changed your name too—when Dr. Cordon took you in.

“Right. Whatever,” you said quietly, brushing the thought off.

“So,” you met his eyes again, “do you accept?”

He stepped back, letting go of you entirely, his expression unreadable. “I’ll think about it,” he said, mocking you with a smile as sharp as the steel behind his tone.

That was it. The flicker of restraint inside you snapped. You surged forward and grabbed the lapel of his coat, yanking him back before he could walk away.

“Listen here, Daddy’s puppet,” you hissed. “I don’t care what you or your father do to me. But if you don’t accept my terms, I would rather die than follow through with anything that man wants. Do you understand me?”

His grin returned, this time with amusement dancing behind it. “Easy there, tigress,” he said, pulling his coat free from your grip.

“When I said I’d think about it,” he added as he stepped toward the door, “then I’ll think about it.”

And then he was gone. Leaving behind the bitter taste of powerlessness and the weight of your own defiance clinging to the air like smoke.And yet, moments later, with hands that barely stopped trembling, you signed your name beside his—Choi Seungcheol—the man Dr. Cordon once warned you about with a heaviness in his eyes that only hindsight could explain. In that quiet, irreversible gesture, you bound yourself to him, not in love but in necessity. Two names inked together, sealing a future neither of you could truly predict—unfolding not in vows, but in the quiet dread of what comes next. A bond rising on legacy, betrayal, and revenge.

END OF CHAPTER 8

AN: Poor Jeonghan UwU!

The room reeked of damp cement and dried sweat. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, its dim light casting flickering shadows across the cracked walls. The man in the chair flinched every time the bulb creaked with motion. Blood crusted along his temple, and his lip was split open, swollen from the last round of interrogation. His wrists were bound tightly to the arms of the metal chair, the rope biting into raw skin.

He was shivering, whether from fear or the cold, no one could tell.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Steady. Heavy. Calculated.

Seungcheol entered the room, his coat still dusted with the city’s grime, sleeves rolled up as though he meant to do the dirty work himself this time. Behind him followed Mingyu, silent, looming like a second shadow.

The man’s head shot up, wide eyes blinking past the blood and sweat. “I already told you—I don’t know anything else!”

Seungcheol ignored the plea. He stood just far enough that the man couldn’t kick out. He didn’t need to.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low and calm, laced with menace. “You were the driver on Route 47 the night my brother died.”

“N-no… I wasn’t—” the man stammered. “That wasn’t me, I swear—”

Seungcheol’s hand lashed out and backhanded the chair across the concrete floor with a screech. The man yelped.

“I don’t care what you swear,” Seungcheol said, his voice dropping into a dangerous quiet. “I care what you did.”

He crouched now, eye-level with the man.

“That truck was meant to look like an accident. But you weren’t moving any regular cargo, were you?”

The man’s lips trembled. “I just— I just drive what they tell me. I don’t ask questions. I’m a transporter, that’s it.”

Mingyu stepped forward, folding his arms. “Then let’s start with who ‘they’ are.”

The driver hesitated.

“Listen,” he muttered, “you think I was carrying something for a hit? I wasn’t. I didn’t even know the guy who crashed. That wasn’t my shipment.”

Mingyu and Seungcheol exchanged a glance. Seungcheol narrowed his eyes.

“Then what were you transporting that night?” he asked.

The driver shook his head furiously. “I can’t— you don’t understand, they’ll kill me if I talk—”

“And what makes you think we won’t?” Mingyu said flatly.

The silence was suffocating.

“I-it wasn’t even my route,” the man finally said, breaking. “I was filling in. It was supposed to be a routine pickup— from Liberty University Hospital.”

Seungcheol’s face froze. “What kind of pickup?”

The man shifted in his chair, eyes darting to the shadows behind them.

“Bodies,” he whispered. “Four of them. From the hospital morgue.”

Mingyu’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, bodies?”

The driver licked his cracked lips. “Dead bodies. No names. Just tags. I was told to deliver them to a remote crematorium downstate, no questions asked. But I’ve done jobs like that before. Too many, honestly. They’re always from the same place—Liberty. But the logs? The logs say the bodies were released to families.”

Seungcheol stepped back, exhaling slowly as the room seemed to shrink.

“So you’re saying someone is sneaking bodies out of a hospital morgue,” he said coldly, “off the books.”

“I’m not the only one who’s done runs like this,” the driver said quickly. “Some of them aren’t even in bags. Just… just covered in sheets. Like trash. Sometimes they’re still bleeding.”

Mingyu’s eyes darkened. “Why?”

“I don’t know!” the man insisted. “I just drive.”

Seungcheol turned away for a moment, jaw clenching. His mind spun back to your words—something about missing bodies… Isa… something he hadn’t taken seriously.

Until now.

He turned back, face cold. “Who gives the orders for these pickups?”

“I swear I don’t know,” the driver begged. “It’s always someone different. They call, give a time and place, sometimes use aliases—”

“Give us a number,” Mingyu interrupted. “Or we’ll carve one into your skin.”

The man flinched and spat out a burner contact.

Seungcheol handed it off to Mingyu. “Trace it. Now.”

As Mingyu exited the room, Seungcheol leaned closer to the trembling man in the chair, voice like ice.

“If I find out you’re lying, you’ll wish you were delivered with one of those bodies.”

He stood tall again, gaze steel.

“And if you're right…” he muttered, more to himself than anyone, “then someone  is going to answer for it.”

꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂

Some days, she would stare blankly out the window for hours, unmoving, barely blinking, as if watching something only she could see. Other days, she wandered the halls barefoot, hair tangled, pretending she was thirty-five again—playing hide and seek with children who only existed in memory. The staff didn’t stop her anymore. They’d learned there was no point.

Today, she had a good day.

Siwon sat beside her on the patio, a warm shawl draped across Anita’s shoulders. Her eyes were bright in that distant sort of way. Looking at the sun setting in the horizon. She was back in time—back when Seungcheol had just turned five and she had hosted his birthday party in this very garden. Her words flowed easily, full of affection and nostalgia.

“The little ones loved the magician… and those balloons, oh, you should’ve seen the mess they made near the fountain. I told the chef, no more chocolate cake—Cheolie  got it all over his face.” She laughed softly, patting her lap.

Siwon smiled faintly, nodding, his fingers folded neatly in his lap. He was used to this—used to her swimming between past and present.

That was when Y/N came into view.

She was walking briskly through the garden path, her coat barely brushing the flowering rosemary hedge. She had to pass through to get to  Seungcheol’s side of the estate, her steps focused, her face unreadable.

“Excuse me!” Anita’s voice rang out suddenly, surprising both Siwon and Y/N.

“You—nurse!”

Y/N halted mid-step and turned, blinking.

“Yes?” she answered cautiously, stepping toward the older woman.

Anita leaned forward, inspecting her face like she was studying a painting she had seen before, long ago.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Anita asked with a sweet, curious tone. “Have we met?”

Y/N hesitated, her mouth parting as if to speak—but she didn’t know what to say. Siwon quickly intervened.

You looked down at yourself—your scrubs still slightly crumpled from the shift, your ID badge hastily tucked into your pocket. You barely had time to change before slipping out of the hospital gates alongside the nurses and interns, blending in to avoid suspicion. It was supposed to be a quick walk back—just two blocks. Maintaining the facade. 

“Yes, sweetheart. She just joined yesterday. Riwona is still training her.”

Anita looked you over with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I see… What is your name, miss?”

“Y/N, ma’am.”

Anita tilted her head. “Y/N… What a pretty name.” She turned to her husband, “Darling, doesn’t that name sound familiar?”

Siwon chuckled tightly. “Does it? I wouldn’t know.”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I should get back to my duties.”

Anita raised a hand. “Oh, no, I’m sorry if I startled you. It’s just—my two boys drive me mad with their mischief.” She gave a fond laugh. “Y/N. That name takes me back. My old friend Mira named her daughter Y/N, too. Such a sweet little thing—just three months old when I last saw her. Like a little bundle, always smiling…”

Something in her face changed. It was sudden—like a gust of wind had blown through her memories and scattered them into the present. Her eyes sharpened. “Wait… what did you say your name was?”

You hesitated. Too long.

“Y/N,” you finally answered, slower this time.

Her mouth twitched. The glimmer in her eyes turned to fire.

“Are you Jaein’s daughter?”

Silence.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t deny it either.

She got up from her seat, “I could recognise those eyes anywhere, you sure have your father’s eyes.”

The slap came so fast you didn’t see it coming. Your face snapped to the side, stinging from her palm.

“How dare you?!”

The shriek pierced the stillness of the garden. Servants appeared in the doorways like ghosts, watching, wide-eyed, but no one moved.

“Siwon!” she screamed, thrashing toward you. “You let the daughter of my son’s murderer walk freely in my home?!”

“Anita, stop—” Siwon caught her arm, but she was wild, unhinged. She lunged, fingers clawing for your hair.

You stumbled back, heart hammering, trying to keep balance as she kicked and screamed.

The world blurred for a second—her voice, the tight grip of Siwon’s hands around her wrists, the still eyes of the staff.

You tried to hold her hands, voice trembling, “Mrs. Choi—please…”

Anita’s eyes burned, her nails digging into your wrists. “My little grandchild,” she hissed, “what was his fault?”

Before you could answer, she shoved you hard—your back hitting the table with a sickening thud. The fruit knife that had been resting near the edge clattered to the floor, but not before it grazed your arm. You gasped. Blood began to trail down your forearm in slow, glistening rivulets.

“Mrs. Choi, please, let go—” you tried again, grabbing her hand, your training on the verge of kicking in—if she didn’t stop, you’d have to use the dismantling technique to break her grip—

“Mama!” A familiar voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

You barely registered Seungcheol before he was beside you, prying his mother’s hands off your arm and stepping in front of you like a shield. “What are you doing?” His tone wasn’t angry. It was heartbreak.

Anita's fury remained undeterred, her arm still reaching toward you over Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Get away, Cheolie! This bitch—she’s with my son’s murderer. Her father killed our Jiwoo!”

“I know, Mama,” Seungcheol said quietly, a bitter truth he carried in his chest every day. “I know.”

She still tried to claw past him, still wanted to hurt you, until you took three silent steps backward—your blood dripping softly onto the marble table. 

“ANITA!” Siwon’s voice boomed like thunder from the patio door.

Anita turned to face her husband. Her tear-glazed eyes locked with his and in a moment all the rage vanished, dissolving into something heartbreakingly fragile. “How could you, Siwon?” she whimpered. “How could you do this…? Collude with the enemy like this?”

Her voice cracked into sobs as she collapsed against Seungcheol’s chest. He caught her. Held her.

Then her body slackened.

“Mama?” his voice trembled. “Mama!”

She had fainted.

“Call the doctor, right now!” Siwon bellowed. Servants scrambled. The hallway filled with the rush of footsteps and tension.

They carried her away. Seungcheol with her. Siwon, following closely behind.

You were left standing there. Alone. Blood still trailing down your arm.

Your body ached—not from the wound, but from the weight of what had just happened.

You took a breath. Then another.

With silent resolve, you closed your eyes for a beat, picked up your bag and file from the mowed lawn, and walked to your room.

꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂

The warm water from the shower cascaded down your skin, washing away the dried blood, the sweat, the echo of Anita’s words.

But not the sting.

When you emerged, wrapped in a bathrobe, your hair damp against your back, you looked at your arm. The cut had stopped bleeding. The skin was angry and red—

“Are you a pig?”

You flinched at the sudden voice.

There he stood in the doorway, shirt rumpled, sleeves haphazardly rolled up, and blazer long discarded. His eyes swept across your room with visible disdain.

“Do you enjoy living in your own mess?”

“I didn’t get the time to clean,” you replied flatly, not turning around.

“What do you mean you didn’t get the time? There are maids. They’ll take care of it. Didn’t Mrs. Kang tell you?”

“Who?”

“The head maid.”

Your face scrunched in confusion. You walked over to the dresser, uncapping your leave-in conditioner like the conversation didn’t need your full attention.

“They’re here for you, not me.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You let out a soft, exhausted sigh, eyes locking with his through the mirror. “It means they’re not obligated to serve me. I’m not the one they work under.”

He stepped further into the room. “Y/N… you’re my wife. Even if they don’t want to, they have to.”

“In name only,” you shot back, voice cold.

There was a beat of silence. His gaze lingered in the mirror, meeting yours.

“So, they’re supposed to clean after me, but you’re fine when your meals arrive just how you like them?”

You scoffed. “My dude, I haven’t had a single kernel of cereal in this house since I moved in. It’s been a month.”

His brows drew together. “Wait, what? No one’s been giving you food?”

“Not that I asked. Look, I don’t care. I eat at the hospital canteen. I have to be back there in nine hours. And for your information, I booked us for the IUI procedure tomorrow.”

He blinked. “And I’m supposed to know what this ‘IU’ thing is?”

You moved to the bed, pulled the comforter back and rested your knees on it. Your bathrobe shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of your thigh under the warm light. His eyes flicked down instinctively.

“IUI,” you said evenly, “is a process where they wash the sperm and inject it. Plain and simple.”

You stood and turned your back to him, plugging your phone into the charger.

“I’ll text you the hospital name and time.”

“I know the hospital,” his voice came quietly behind you. “If you were keeping up with the current affairs, then you’d know we are the biggest shareholders, wife.”

You jumped slightly at how close he’d gotten.

“Well, Sherlock,” you muttered, not turning to face him, “I don’t know about you, but I have a professional reputation to maintain. Your non-existence in my orbit is preferred. That was the deal. So, no—we’re not going to your hospital. We’re going to one of my colleagues. She’s agreed to help me.”

You turned toward the bed again when he reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Is that the real reason?” he asked. “Or are you just scared you’ll break your little boyfriend’s heart, wife?”

“Fuck!” You yelped, snatching your hand from his grip. The sudden motion reopened the cut on your arm. Blood seeped through the gauze.

“Shit—”

You immediately grabbed a tissue and pressed it against the wound.

“Did my mother do this?” he asked, his voice lower, but not without concern.

You didn’t answer. You were too focused on stopping the blood.

“It’s alright,” you murmured, dabbing the tissue against the bleeding wound. “I used to work in the ER. This is level 101—I’ve dealt with much worse.”

Seungcheol stood stiff. “My mother’s not a patient,” he said quietly. “She’s just… grieving her son. And her grandson.”

You paused, catching the weight behind his words. For a moment, your eyes found his, and something passed between you—something tired, unsaid, and suspended in grief.

“I see,” you said simply.

He cleared his throat, awkward now. “You should wrap it up. Do you want me to bring something?”

You shook your head without looking at him. “It’s fine. I’ll have one of the interns bandage it up. Now if you may…”

“Right,” he murmured, lingering for half a second too long. Then he turned for the door.

“And can you close the door on your way out?”

No sarcasm. Just exhaustion.

The curtains were drawn. The room is dark. You pulled the covers over your head, shutting out the light, the voices, the noise of this new life. You let sleep take you like the sun fading beneath the moon.

With a soft click, the door closed behind him.

꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂

Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair as he entered his room. The lights were dim. His blazer landed in a crumpled heap on the leather armchair. He peeled off the rest of his clothes, the weight of the day sinking deep into his bones.

The bathroom lights cast a golden hue over the marble walls. He stepped under the stream of hot water.

Steam curled around the broad planes of his shoulders, trailing down his muscled back. Water glided along the strong lines of his chest, down the tight ridges of his abdomen. His jaw clenched as he tilted his head back, water streaming through his hair. A vein in his neck pulsed from fatigue.

He rested his palms against the cold tiles, letting the heat work into the knots of his spine, his breath slow and deliberate. As if he could steam away the memory of your bleeding arm… your voice, steady even in pain. As if the water could drown the guilt pooling in his gut.

By the time he stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist, his expression was unreadable again—mask firmly back on.

He sat on the edge of his bed, hair still dripping, and picked up his phone.

“Chan,” he said, voice gruff.

“Yes, boss?” came the voice through the line.

“I want a report on everything that’s been happening in the house. Every detail. Every maid, every guard. Especially around her.”

“It’s almost a month since she moved in, sir,” Chan said cautiously. “She mostly keeps to herself. The maids… well, they don't really take to her.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t act like she’s one of us. Doesn’t ask for anything. Comes home late. Doesn’t ask for food, or sometimes she’ll bring her food from the outside and eat alone through a container. Doesn’t talk unless it’s work.”

“And the staff?”

“They follow your lead.”

Seungcheol said nothing for a while.

“What about you,” he said finally.

“Yes, boss.”

“How is she with you?”

“Well, get along well. at first it was a little awkward, then I told her I am Layla’s father so we talk from time to time. She asks me to pick her food or recommend good dog treats and pick and drop rocky so most of the time I get him from the day—”

He ended the call.

While Chan was still talking. 

The mansion was quiet, almost painfully so. Outside, the wind brushed against the windows like a whisper.

Inside his chest, something had begun to stir—and he wasn’t sure if it was anger… or something else entirely. But all he wanted was to close his eyes and sleep this exhaustion away.

꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂

 If decades of service had taught Susan Paul anything, it was this: to catch the devil, you must first learn to walk through hell. Maybe that’s why she now found herself in the sterile, too-quiet corridor of Leonard Amertes Jr.’s private pharmaceutical lab, tucked away on the bleak outskirts of the city. The building stood like a monument to power acquired through charm, cunning, and a trail of chemical patents no one really looked too closely into.

If this meeting turned out to be a waste of time, she was ready to slap him with enough charges to drag him back to central just for making her drive this far. She didn’t like owing people, and she liked being summoned even less.

The name Amertes had long since been carved into the Choi family history — and not as a pleasant footnote. They were sworn enemies. Yet, in one matter, Leonard had triumphed. He’d succeeded where no other rival had: breaking Siwon Choi’s most valuable alliance. It was Leonard who drove the wedge between Siwon and Han Jaein — once brothers in arms, now strangers in suits. No one could hurt you like the people who once fought beside you.

Susan’s boots echoed along the polished concrete floor — steady, heavy, measured. That was until a voice, playful and reckless, cut through the air like a paper plane dipped in poison.

“Hands up, police!”

She stopped in her tracks, spine stiffening. Slowly, she turned.

There he stood — Leonard Amertes Jr. in all his smug glory, leaning against a doorframe, dressed too casually for someone with so much power. A white lab coat was draped over a grey turtleneck, and his hand formed the shape of a gun, pointed right at her. His fingers cocked back with a smirk.

“Bang,” he said, amused.

Susan stared at him, expression unreadable — that special kind of impassivity only seasoned officers and long-suffering mothers could master. The silence that followed was heavier than the steel beneath their feet.

“You always this charming,” she deadpanned, “or am I just the lucky one?”

Leonard straightened up, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves. “Only for you, Commissioner. After all, it’s not every day a woman like you graces my laboratory.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” Leonard said, his voice low, edged with satisfaction. “But where there’s hope, there’s always a way.”

 Walking toward him without breaking eye contact, “I thought I’d check in on the city’s most morally flexible chemist.” She brushed past him, eyes scanning the sterile room behind him. Shelves of locked samples. Computers humming. A tension in the air like the place itself held its breath.

Susan Paul stood tall beneath the humming fluorescent lights, her coat still dusted from the road. “Unlike you, Mr. Amertes, I don’t have the luxury of time to waste. So tell me—why did you ask me to come all the way out here? And how did you know my father?”

Leonard stepped forward, his shoes clicking softly against the concrete floor. “Your father was a good man. Too good, in fact. Honest to his boots. That’s what got him killed.”

Susan didn’t flinch, but the shift in her jaw betrayed her.

Leonard tilted his head. “Officer Paul was close—so close—to dragging Siwon Choi and his hound Han Jaein to the dirt. He had everything but time. And fate? She never plays fair.”

She clicked her tongue and folded her arms. “Mr. Amertes, if I wanted a recap of the night my father died, I’d read the damn report myself. Thanks for the melodrama. I’ll be going.”

She turned on her heel, footsteps echoing behind her—until his voice followed.

“Speaking of reports… you might want to look into Salerno’s archive of cases. A year after your father’s death.”

She froze. Turned. Met his eyes. “I won’t be your bait.”

“Bait?” Leonard let out a sharp laugh, echoing off the cold metal walls. “Oh, Sweetheart. You misunderstand. You’re not bait. You’re the butterfly.”

Her brow furrowed.

“The one that flaps its wings in the wrong place… and starts a storm where it was never expected,” he said with a soft smile, something both amused and unsettling. “And trust me—it’s coming.”

She swallowed, keeping her voice level. “What about you? You’re no saint, Amertes.”

“Did I say I was?” He stepped closer. “But I’m not the one who made a child bury her father in disgrace while her mother was left to fend for a life they were never meant to carry alone.”

He leaned in. “Kim Rowan. 1998.”

Their eyes locked.

Then he turned and walked away.

Susan exited the hallway with a clipped pace, her jaw tight and eyes stormy. The overhead lights caught the sharp edges of her face, but even they couldn't hide the troubled expression that had settled there. Whatever she came hoping to find, it clearly wasn't what she left with.

As she neared the glass doors of the main exit, she slowed just a fraction—her gaze caught on a figure stepping in.

A man.

Young, poised, He walked with unhurried ease, like he belonged here, like the world owed him a few answers.

Susan's eyes narrowed.

Sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw softened by full lips. Jet-black hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. His presence was quiet but commanding.

He didn’t notice her—or if he did, he gave no sign.

Her eyes lingered, troubled, then she turned and got inside her car. 

꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂

The door clicked shut behind Jeonghan as he moved further in, hands in the pockets of his long coat. The sterile lighting cast pale shadows against the floor, but Jeonghan’s gaze remained straight ahead—unbothered, unreadable.

From the far end of the corridor, a slow clap echoed.

Leonard Amertes Jr. stepped into view, wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew.”

Jeonghan stopped, cocking a brow. “You mean your only nephew.”

Leonard let out a chuckle and approached, arms open like he was greeting royalty. “Still sharp with the tongue. Just like your mother.”

Jeonghan's face tensed at the mention, but he didn’t flinch as Leonard pulled him into a quick embrace. It lasted just long enough to make it uncomfortable.

“You’re a striking image of her,” Leonard murmured near his ear, then leaned back. “What a wretched thing destiny is, don’t you think?”

Jeonghan’s smile was faint—more muscle than warmth. A beat passed between them. Jeonghan’s posture never faltered, but the discomfort didn’t go unnoticed. Leonard, on the other hand, soaked in the moment like a spider watching its prey hesitate on a thread.

Outside, the wind rustled faintly against the tall lab windows. Inside, the silence tightened. Something unspoken passed between uncle and nephew—something that would take more than words to unravel. 

꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂

The roads were littered with dried leaves, scattered like brittle confessions left behind by a weary October. The chill in the air whispered of November’s slow approach. People bustled past in heavy coats and scarves, some on their way to work, others ushering yawning children toward school gates.

You sat in the backseat of the black Mercedes, the leather warm beneath you. The windows fogged slightly with each breath as you stared at the blur of trees and passing cars. Your fingers instinctively drifted to your left hand, tracing the bandages you’d woken up with that morning. The ache was dull now—physical pain, at least, made sense. It was the other kind that always twisted deeper.

“Andrew,” you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window, “take a quick detour to the hospital. I need to meet a friend.”

There was a beat of silence before the driver replied, “Apologies, ma’am. I can’t do that.”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”

“I was instructed to bring you straight from the hospital to the mansion. No stops.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And who gave you that instruction?”

“Boss,” he said flatly. “Mr. Choi Seungcheol.”

Of course.

You inhaled through your nose. Of course it was him.

“Andrew, I’m not asking. I am telling you.”

He didn’t respond. You caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror—unapologetic and firm.

“I just need ten minutes,” you pressed. “A left turn and a few floors up. That’s all.”

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s against the order. I can’t.”

You sat back, a bitter laugh escaping under your breath. “Against the order,” you repeated. “Like I’m a fucking courier package.”

He said nothing.

You clenched your jaw. “Fine. Then I’ll get there myself.”

“I can’t let you do that either.”

The words hung in the air like a slap.

You leaned forward again, voice low and sharp now. “Listen carefully, Andrew. You’re not my warden. You don’t get to let me do anything.”

A tense pause.

Then, he quietly pulled the car over near the hospital gates and killed the engine.

You stepped out without another word, slamming the door harder than you meant to. The echo of it bounced off the concrete, jarring and final.

Inside, the hospital smelt like it always did,cold steel, antiseptic, and exhaustion. You moved through the halls with robotic ease. White coat on. ID badge clipped. Hair tied back. You passed the nurses’ station.

“Morning, doctor,” one of them greeted.

You nodded. “Morning. Any new cases?”

“Nope. Just the regular rounds.”

“Good.”

You moved from room to room, checking charts, murmuring reassurances, and offering smiles that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

But inside?

Inside, you were still in that car. Still hearing Seungcheol’s name like a chain tugging at your ankle.

He doesn’t trust me. That’s what this is. Not concerned. Not care. Just control—dressed up like protection.

You paused in front of the next room, staring blankly at the patient chart in your hand. Your fingers pressed against the bandage again, not for comfort. You took a slow breath and opened the door with steady hands. The storm inside could wait. For now, you still had things to do. As you calculated your en route in your mind.  

The day passed with a graceful monotony, the first time in a while; after submitting your case analysis in Cordon’s office, the time was nearing for your shift to be over. You paused by the corner window, pretending to check your phone as your eyes flicked to the hospital parking lot. The black Mercedes was still there, parked at a diagonal under a tree, with Andrew still seated inside waiting. Watching You knew how this worked. Every move was being watched not just by Andrew, but likely by whoever Seungcheol had trailing in plain clothes. You’d seen them before: pretending to read newspapers, lurking in hospital cafeterias with empty coffee cups and too many glances your way.

You tapped your fingers against your thigh. The back stairwell. It was rarely used, mostly by interns sneaking out to cry or smoke. It connected to the lower wing—where the outpatient block emptied out to the far side of the grounds. That exit had no cameras.

The thought rolled over your mind like a calm wave: This is still my life. My body. He doesn’t own either.

You walked with casual ease past the nurses’ station again.

“Doctor? Need anything?” one asked.

“Just heading to radiology,” you lied easily. “Tell Dr. Mina I’ll drop by her patient in 15.”

“Got it.”

From there, you turned down the west wing corridor, then another left—until the hum of foot traffic faded behind you. You slipped through the door to the back stairwell and exhaled as it closed behind you with a soft click.

The air here was cooler and dustier. The hum of fluorescent lighting above buzzed faintly as you descended, careful not to make a sound. With every step down, your heartbeat steadied. You reached the lower exit, pushed the rusted door open, and slipped out into the crisp air. The path ahead was quiet—a narrow service lane that wrapped around the outer boundary wall.

And there it was.

Parked exactly where you’d told the dispatcher, your cab waited at the edge of the old outpatient wing  engine purring softly, windows slightly fogged. A silver Hyundai, unremarkable, anonymous. Just the way you needed it to be. The driver leaned against the side, scrolling on his phone, oblivious to the tug-of-war you’d just waged upstairs.

You stepped out into the open, coat tucked tight, head low just another tired doctor catching a ride, nothing more. The wind pulled at your hair, but you didn’t slow.

As you approached, the driver looked up, recognising you from the booking.

“Y/N, right?” he asked casually, holding the door open for you.

You buckled your seatbelt and sat back, letting the warmth of the car heater brush over your frozen hands. The driver glanced at you in the mirror, waiting for instruction.

“St. Mary’s Hospital, please,” you said evenly, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. Then, after a beat, “Take the back road.”

There was a pause. Maybe he sensed something in your tone—not fear, not urgency, but a kind of deliberate silence.

“The back road’s longer,” he offered, cautious.

“I know,” you replied, voice quiet but certain. “Take it anyway.”

He gave a small nod, shifted gears, and pulled out without further question.

You leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city shift around you. He doesn’t know where I am right now, you thought, almost stunned by the fact. For the first time in weeks, Seungcheol wouldn’t know where I am.

It should’ve scared you. Maybe it did. But beneath the hum of adrenaline, something else stirred—something stubborn, something dangerous.

Freedom.

You traced the curve of the bandage on your hand again, this time not out of pain, but remembrance. A choice was coming. One that couldn’t be made from inside golden cages or chauffeured traps.

The cab took a sharp turn, entering the quieter street—cracked pavement, old trees lining both sides like sentinels. 

An accomplished smile playing on your lips.

꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂

The meeting room inside the main Choi estate was nothing short of regal—high ceilings with coffered panels, warm mahogany walls lined with old oil paintings and gold-trimmed ledgers, and a polished black marble table that ran nearly the length of the room. The chandeliers above glowed softly, casting a quiet authority over everything.

Seungcheol sat near the middle of the table, pen idle between his fingers, suit crisp, and hair combed back with the kind of precision that betrayed how tightly he kept everything in his orbit controlled. At the head of the table sat his father, stern and commanding even in silence, his cane leaning against the chair leg beside him.

Across from them, two men, a naval architect and a marine engineer, presented the newest renderings on a sleek digital monitor mounted to the wall.

“We’re calling her the Orion-Class,” the engineer explained, tapping the screen to rotate the 3D model. “This is a next-generation cargo vessel designed for long-haul efficiency. Dual-engine propulsion, with hybrid capabilities. Diesel offshore, electric within port zones. Solar grid installed across the upper deck feeds directly into auxiliary power.”

The architect chimed in. “It’s optimised for low-noise navigation and minimal environmental disruption. The bow design cuts through crosscurrents and reduces resistance. We’re estimating a 16 percent fuel savings compared to current leading vessels.”

Seungcheol’s father nodded slowly, hands folded in front of him. “And how much revenue will it generate once operational?”

The engineer didn’t hesitate. “Initial projections suggest an average of 2.3 billion in net cargo value per voyage, assuming Mediterranean-Asia routes. Annualised, with six ships active? North of 120 billion won in clean profit, sir.”

The room went silent for a moment. Seungcheol finally looked up, tapping his pen once against the table.

“Fastest container processing?”

“Fully automated. Port-to-port turnaround in under twenty hours,” the architect said. “She’s designed to outrun delays. No idle time.”

Seungcheol gave a curt nod, about to speak again when the heavy double doors creaked open.

Mingyu stepped in.

He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, dark tie, and polished shoes. He looked like any other corporate executive, except for the tension in his jaw and the quiet urgency in his eyes.

He walked around the table in silence, bent slightly at Seungcheol’s side, and whispered low in his ear.

Seungcheol froze.

Only for a second. But the shift was enough.

His hand stopped moving. His expression didn’t change, but something sharp settled behind his eyes.

He looked at his father. “Excuse me,” he said calmly. “I need to step out for a moment.”

His father barely turned his head. “Keep it brief.”

Seungcheol rose from his chair and exited the room in long, controlled strides. As soon as the door shut behind him, the calm cracked.

He spun toward Mingyu in the corridor.

“What do you mean you can’t find the woman?”

Mingyu straightened. “She didn’t leave for over two hours from her set exit time.” 

“And Andrew?”

“He’s outside; after going inside and checking in everywhere himself, he saw the footage of her entering a room after radiology but there are no cameras in that corridor.”

“I told him to bring her straight to the house,” Seungcheol snapped.

“You didn’t say watch her like a hawk. You just said, Don’t let her go anywhere else.”

Seungcheol inhaled sharply, then looked away, eyes scanning the hallway like he could piece together her steps from here.

“She planned this.”

“Looks like it, but where can she go? I sent the boys to her apartment, but no one’s there, nor at her father’s place.”

Seungcheol looked back at him.

“What do you think? Is Jaein behind this? I can’t say for sure; no one has heard from him in the last two weeks. His eldest is managing everything.”

“Find the cab; there is no way she would’ve walked. Trace the dispatch company. Pull camera footage if you have to. I want the exact location. Who she met. What she’s doing.”

“What if she ran away?”

Seungcheol’s voice dropped.

“Then she made one of the most regrettable decisions of her life, and I will make sure she knows that…”

END OF CHAPTER 10

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