Chapter Text
Seoul city at night was a sea of fractured brilliance. It looked as though countless stars were plucked from the heavens and nailed themselves into the earth, until the skyline itself seemed to throb with light. But even Seoul's oceans of bright light could not thaw the stillness iced over Jo Woochan’s chest.
At just twenty years old, an age when others stumbled through rebellion and recklessness, Woochan was already seated in a throne he had been groomed all his life but had never asked for. The top floor of the Jo Corporation tower glittered like a crown, but within the glass walls, he sat hollow before a letter of appointment. The black-inked handwriting on it was now overly-dried, turning the writing a less-saturated shade of gray.
Chairman. CEO. The youngest corporate leader the country has seen in, oh, no big deal, the last fifty years. A title gilded in envy, with hundreds of employees under his father hungry to get their hands on. Yet to him, it was nothing more than shackles carved from steel. What a pity, really. Those poor employees who’d stayed loyal to the company and worked so hard for this title they so desperately wanted, ended up losing out to a barely-legal, hot-headed punk like him, all because of blood relations.
Senior Chairman Jo was stubborn, and Woochan liked to think that trait of his had passed down to him too. He’d taught Woochan everything he needed to know since he was a child, from resource allocation to negotiation techniques and making crucial decisions. He brought him to team meetings, intercompany meetings, and all his public appearances. So, really, it’s not to say Woochan’s appointment as the new CEO of Jo Corporation came to anyone as a surprise. Everyone knew Senior Chairman Jo was planning to leave the entire company to his only son after his 20th birthday, despite most of his employees’ strong opposition and his major shareholders threatening to pull all of their long years of investment out of the company.
What nobody, even Woochan himself, expected, was, in fact —
At that moment, his phone vibrated, the screen pulsing against the mahogany desk. His father’s name glared up at him, black text framed in sterile white, yet it might as well have been etched in stone. Woochan’s throat tightened before he even lifted it to his ear, as if his body already knew the words waiting to be delivered.
“The wedding proceeds tomorrow,” his father’s voice declared, clipped and immovable, “Lee Youngseo will be wed into our family. You’d better show up, son, and don’t make a fool out of us.”
Woochan’s grip locked around the device, knuckles bleaching white. His mind tripped over itself, clawing for air. The words — even though he had always known this was coming — still struck like a hammer blow, crushing what remained of his resistance.
“Father.” Woochan started, “Marriage is …” His voice cracked, betraying a desperation he rarely allowed to surface. Marriage should be my choice, he wanted to scream. Not another contract signed in blood. Not another role shoved into my hands before I can breathe.
“Enough.” The word cracked like a whip, sharp enough to leave scars, “The Jo–Lee alliance is the future of this conglomerate. You are not a boy. You are the heir. Remember that. This is your duty. Now, do me a favour and not speak of any more of your nonsense until tomorrow.”
The line went dead, severed as brutally as the words had punched him in his stomach. Silence descended, thick and merciless, pressing against his ribs until each breath scraped like glass.
The ink on the appointment letter was barely dry when his father summoned him to the private study. The room smelled of sandalwood and old paper, its shelves lined with the kind of books no one read anymore, trophies of intellect rather than substance. Chairman Jo sat behind a desk that could have swallowed a man whole, his gaze sharp enough to cleave steel.
“You’ve taken your seat as President,” the elder began, voice low, measured, heavy with expectation, “The board respects you. The public envies you. But that is only half of your duty.”
Woochan sat rigid in the leather chair opposite, hands folded so tightly the tendons strained. He already knew this tone. It was a prelude to commands disguised as … wisdom.
His father slid a folder across the polished wood. On the cover, embossed in discreet gold, was a single last name: Lee.
“The alliance with the Lee family will be sealed in marriage. You will marry their daughter, Youngseo.” His eyes gleamed, not with sentiment but with calculation, “She is the perfect match. Their family’s political influence paired with our corporate empire… We’ll soon be South Korea’s most feared and revered family.”
Woochan’s jaw tightened. The words struck him like cold iron. He had expected a few demands off the top of his head, but not this. At least not so soon, not when the weight of the company had only just settled on his shoulders.
“Father…” His voice came out low, restrained. “I’ve just inherited this position. Shouldn’t my focus be on proving myself to the board, and not—”
“Don’t be naïve,” The chairman’s interruption was swift, unforgiving, “Marriage is not a distraction. It is a consolidation. Every choice you make is for the survival of this empire. Including the woman you wed.”
For a moment, Woochan couldn’t breathe. His gaze dropped to the folder, to the name that might as well have been carved into his skin.
The Lees were not just any other powerful family. They were Korea’s political dynasty. Her grandfather holds the current presidency, his final year in office already setting the stage for his successor, his own son. Her father is meticulous, relentless, and his campaigns so far have a public approval rating of 97.8%. Naturally, he is the chosen candidate for the next election, with every poll and every whisper predicting his inevitable rise.
Lee Youngseo. A childhood ghost, now sharpened into inevitability. He had met her only in fragments — glimpses across banquet halls, fleeting conversations drowned beneath the clink of crystal and the drone of formalities.
Twenty years old, just like him. And already the youngest spokesperson the Blue House has ever had. She stood at podiums meant for seasoned diplomats, faced questions that would fluster ministers, and commanded attention with a calm so absolute it made others feel exposed. She was precision wrapped in silk. Every tilt of her chin, every measured smile, was calculated perfection — the kind of poise that came from being raised beneath the weight of a dynasty. At the Blue House press podium, she commanded attention with the ease of someone twice her age, her words sharp and her voice steady enough to make entire auditoriums lean forward.
When he looked back up, his father was already watching him with the weight of expectation that allowed no cracks, no rebellion, no room for him to argue.
The meeting was over before it began.
Woochan let the phone slip from his fingers, collapsing against the leather chair as if the weight of the call had hollowed him out. Beyond the glass walls, Seoul glimmered with vitality. Headlights weaving through Gangnam streets, skyscrapers blazing against the night sky. The world was infinite.
And yet, none of it was his. He could touch it, see it, breathe it, but it was never for him. His life had been mapped before he had learned to speak; his future reduced to a ledger of mergers and alliances. Even his bride was not a woman, but a strategy.
Two pawns, dressed as royalty. Two strangers, shackled together by empires who knew only power.
Woochan pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, fighting the wave of fury and exhaustion threatening to drown him. Tomorrow, they will call it a wedding. Tomorrow, they would dress it in flowers and vows.
But tonight, he sat in his tower, staring at a city that looked free, knowing he never would be.
Across the Han River, in a residence shadowing the Blue House, Youngseo stood before her mirror, drowning in white silk. The gown clung to her in all the wrong ways, heavy with the weight of expectation. Diamonds stitched into the fabric glittered along the bodice, refracting the chandelier light into a thousand fractured stars. The dress and the jewels may all scream luxury, but to her, it felt like a cell, gilded and suffocating.
“It fits beautifully,” her mother murmured from behind, voice thick with triumph, almost predatory in its satisfaction, “The Jo family is power itself. This is the best future for you — and for us.” Her eyes glimmered with something that was neither pride nor love.
Youngseo’s reflection stared back at her, flawless in its symmetry, perfect in its calm. The face in the mirror was everything her family had trained her to be: composed, untouchable even. And yet, behind those eyes, a pulse throbbed against the invisible bars of her life. Fragile yet furious, a quiet rebellion she could barely let herself feel. Her chest tightened, a hollow ache of knowing that she had been molded into a symbol of political perfection long before she had learned what desire or freedom felt like.
Her mind drifted to her father’s words from the previous night, still echoing with chilling clarity: As the daughter of the Lee family, this is your mission. Tomorrow, you will be both the Blue House’s voice and the mistress of the Jo empire. The phrase repeated in her head like a metronome, each beat marking another step in the life she had no say in.
And then, inevitably, her thoughts settled on him. Jo Woochan — the name had hovered in the back of her mind for years, ghostlike, attached to family dinners and corporate agreements. He was nothing more than a stranger to her. A boy shaped by commercialisation and finance, born into a family whose reach extended across South Korea’s corporate landscape like a shadow. She knew of the Jo family even as she barely knew him. Well, frankly, everyone knew of the Jo family. She could name at least five objects around her that were unmistakably produced by the subsidiary companies of the Jo family empire. Their impact was vast, stretching from the highest boardrooms to the glass towers that scraped the Gangnam sky. And now, she was to be bound to that empire, to him, in a union that neither heart nor mind had chosen.
From what she had glimpsed at gala dinners over the years, though the same age as her, he's already hardened. A boy whose youth had been claimed by duty, molded to inherit not only a conglomerate but also the legacy of a name that demanded obedience. He was no romantic figure. He was a force of inevitability, his world mapped before him, every step calculated, every expression guarded.
She let herself imagine him for a moment, alone in the glass towers of Gangnam, staring down the city he currently rules but can never truly claim. She imagined him burdened and restless, yet impossibly composed, and she felt a strange kinship. She, too, had been forged by expectation, taught to perform and to endure. And yet, while she carried her role as the Blue House’s voice with quiet discipline, he carried a kingdom. Their cages were different in scale, but identical in weight.
She had once dreamed of love. The kind whispered about in novels, the sort that arrived unbidden and lingered in the corners of the heart. But she had never dreamed of being sold like this, traded like a mere token between two scheming parties.
The wedding day rose with a cruelty that was almost deliberate, sunlight slicing through the morning haze, gilding a spectacle designed for the nation’s gaze. Outside the cathedral, reporters swarmed like hungry birds, cameras clicking and flashes detonating against the crimson carpet. Inside, the organ thundered, reverent and suffocating, each note a reminder of the ceremony’s weight, each chord pressing against both the bride and the groom’s chests.
At the altar, Woochan stood rigid, a sculpture carved from ambition and expectation. Sharp lines, immaculate posture, his expression a perfected mask. He was always known by the public as the perfect heir, most news outlets publishing articles about how he’s also South Korea’s most handsome one. Right now, every movement of his was calculated, and even his stillness radiated authority.
The organ swelled, low and relentless, each note striking like a hammer on glass. Youngseo stepped onto the petal-strewn aisle, her father’s arm rigid beneath hers, every measured step a negotiation with the invisible chains that bound her. The cathedral was a palace of light and shadow, polished marble reflecting flashes from the photographers outside, every glittering surface a reminder that the world was watching.
She kept her gaze forward, veil down, only a faint smile on her face. Every inch of her posture was trained. Perfect, almost. But inside, her chest tightened, her heartbeat erratic beneath the mask of calm. Each inch of her was screaming to just turn around and run, though even she knew at this point defiance would be meaningless. It’d mean she’d throw away years of her hard work and dedication to her currrent role as presidential spokesperson, and frankly, despite anything, she’d learned to love her job. Well, it’d be hard to hate it considering how she quite literally has been working her whole life towards her current position. It’s all she’d ever known.
From the altar, Woochan’s gaze found her. It was dissecting, as if he were evaluating a risk measure, rather than a bride. She felt the quiet weight of his scrutiny like a blade tracing the length of her spine, judging her very worth.
The guests murmured in admiration, a tide of soft exclamations swelling across the hall.
“Both of them … truly made for each other.”
“Finally, the union of two of South Korea’s greatest families...”
“They’re stunning together... Isn’t she radiant? And he’s… like a prince...”
The praise rolled over her, a wave that should have been comforting, but instead pressed like a weight against her ribs. Every whispered compliment, every approving glance, every captured photograph reminded her of the performance she had been trained to give. Her life was now a spectacle and what her heart was practically screaming at her was now irrelevant.
When her father laid her hand into Woochan’s, his palm engulfed hers, his touch cool, devoid of warmth. It was a grip forged in habit and authority, a silent declaration that her compliance was expected.
The platinum rings glimmered on the velvet cushions, both gleaming with an icy brilliance that caught the light of the chandeliers above, reflecting it back like a warning. A warning that they were mere instruments of ownership rather than symbols of love. Woochan lifted the band with deliberate care, his fingers brushing Youngseo’s for a brief moment. The platinum was icy against her skin, a weight that felt heavier than its size, cold enough to make her pulse quicken.
She kept her composure as he adjusted the ring on her finger, platinum sliding over bone with clinical precision. She felt the subtle press of his hand, and the shiver that ran up her arm was involuntary. The metal bit cold against her skin, a shock more profound than she had anticipated. She returned the gesture, sliding his ring onto his finger, noting the subtle tension in his knuckles even as his face remained untouched by emotion.
He had never known her, not truly, and she had never known him. They were strangers in a ceremonial bind, two lives tethered by duty alone.
The chapel roared with applause. But beneath the thunderous claps of thousands of people, their fingertips whispered resignation.
The Jo family villa that was gifted to Woochan the year he turned seventeen stood on the most expensive stretch along the Han River. Its floor-to-ceiling windows framing fireworks specially set off to celebrate the marriage, or union, as they’d privately prefer to call it. Golden and violet bursts exploded across the night sky, casting the suite in flickering light, like a grand, yet illusory dream. But against this breathtaking night view, the silence of the villa felt all the more suffocating.
Woochan stood with his back to her, fingers loosening the tie he had worn all day. He tossed it aside, the silk collapsing onto the Italian velvet sofa. His voice cut through the silence, lined with fatigue and restraint.
“Spokesperson Lee,” The title was deliberate, a wall between them, cold and purposeful. “The first act is over. You and I… we both know what this is.”
By the window, Youngseo’s figure glimmered in the fractured light of the fireworks. Her gown shimmered, diamonds catching fire from the explosions outside, yet even though she looked every inch the bride, her hand toyed with the platinum ring that clung too perfectly to her finger. A proof of a life preordained. Though initially taken aback, Youngseo’s low, sharp laugh cracked the stillness.
“Of course,” she said, voice laced with frost, “I know my place, Chairman Jo. I wouldn’t be foolish enough to do anything.”
Woochan pivoted, his expression unreadable.
“The master bedroom upstairs is yours. I’ll be taking the downstairs guest room. In public, we’ll play our part as a newly-wed couple. Beyond that—” His words were heavy and inescapable, “we stay out of each other’s lives.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked to the bar table and poured two glasses of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled in the crystal, catching the light and reflecting his dark, unreadable gaze. He didn’t hand one to Youngseo, instead downing his in a single gulp, as if he needed the burning sensation to brace himself for what he was about to say next. Then, he pulled a thin, unmarked black folder from his suit pocket and slammed it onto the marble countertop with a motion bordering on violence.
The sharp “thud” echoed in the overly silent halls.
“This is the agreement I drafted this morning,” he said, voice low, “Read it. If you have no objections, you can sign on the last page.”
Youngseo didn’t respond immediately. She simply stared at him, her gaze unfathomable.
“I know this agreement looks cold... insulting, even.” sensing her lack of a response, he continued, “But we both understand that this is no ordinary marriage. It’s an alliance between two families, a transaction watched by countless eyes. Acting on ... feelings would ruin us both.”
Youngseo’s fingers curled slightly around the folds of her gown. She stepped forward with steady, measured strides. She didn’t touch the whiskey and simply held up the folder to get a good read on the terms of the agreement. The pages were light, yet in her hands they felt impossibly heavy.
She opened the folder and was greeted with the first page. Clause after clause defined the boundaries of this marriage with careful precision:
- The marriage will last for only two (2) years. Starting from now, to the presidential registration, then until the critical period of the next presidential election. When the time comes, both parties will divorce amicably under the pretext of “irreconcilable differences.”
- In all public and necessary social settings, both parties must maintain the image of a loving couple. Detailed guidelines are attached (including but not limited to physical touch, social media interactions, and a unified public stance).
- Private life is completely off-limits. The second floor and above is the bride’s private space; the first and basement floors are the groom’s. No entry without permission.
- Assets acquired before and after the marriage remain independent. Any share swaps or political contributions related to this union are separately agreed upon by professionals and are unaffected by the marriage’s continuation or termination.
- The contents of the agreement and the true nature of this marriage must remain strictly confidential. Any leaks will incur full political and financial consequences.
This was... more than an agreement. It was basically a contract on Youngseo’s life for the next two years, until her father is able to run for president. The clauses even dictate in excruciating detail how often she must make eye contact and the exact curvature of her smile in front of the cameras. The absurdity of all of this almost made her laugh.
Her eyes lingered on the “two years,” imagining seven hundred nights passing in this suffocating cage of a mansion.
“It’s very thorough,” she finally said, raising her head. Her face remained expressionless, though a trace of exhaustion and irony flickered deep in her eyes. She drew a pen from the holder on the bar, the tip cold against her skin. Without hesitation, she signed the last page. Her handwriting was precise, just like the resolve in her heart at that moment.
Woochan watched her, a sudden, inexplicable agitation rising in him. He had expected struggle, resistance, maybe even tears — but none came. Her quiet, composed calm unsettled him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He snatched the folder, scribbled his name beside hers with a rough, decisive stroke, then snapped it shut as though discarding something foul.
“Rest assured, Chairman Jo,” she murmured, voice cool, tinged with amusement, “When it comes to performance, I won’t be any worse than you. We’ve both lived our lives in front of cameras.” She paused, eyes flicking to the agreement.
“Two years is just routine to me, and I will whole-heartedly cooperate. Thank you.”
She turned away, ascending the staircase with her gown whispering over the polished floor.
The sound of the second-floor master bedroom door closing left Woochan alone in the dead silence of his mansion. Outside, the city skyline glittered like a dazzling jewel, but inside, his world had shattered into a million tiny fragments.
He exhaled slowly, yet the breath brought no relief. Instead, a heavy, unnamable weight filled his chest. He had won, securing their future with a foolproof agreement that ensured her obedience — but why did it feel as though he had lost something far more important?
Notes:
hello! ty for reading! this chapter is abit short and so will chapter 2 be, as they're both kinda filler chapters/more for you guys to get to know their lives/personalities! but chapters after that will be much, much longer :)
Chapter Text
The Blue House’s media hall glittered under crystal chandeliers, the light so dazzling it was almost as if it was daylight. This was Youngseo’s first press conference since her lavish wedding — her debut as the Jo Corporation’s new Madam Chairman, but probably her millionth time as the Presidential spokesperson. She tried to convince herself this was like any other press conference, and that she was used to speaking in front of the general public and in front of a hall full of eager reporters with their cameras. Still, the significance of the moment was impossible to miss, emphasised by the overflowing presence of reporters that the hall could barely contain.
She wore a dove-gray skirt suit, her posture straight and unyielding against the backdrop of the Korean national emblem. Youngseo cleared her throat and scanned the room. A few of the country’s biggest entertainment outlets had slipped into the press pool, glossy microphones gleaming beneath the chandeliers. She quirked an eyebrow. They had never set foot in a Blue House briefing before. It was quite clear that the majority of cameras today didn’t see an agenda or any statistics. They only saw her.
Youngseo stepped to the right so had space to give a sincere bow before stepping back to the lectern and thanking everyone for coming. She then flipped open the file in hand before she began to deliver her agenda for today.
“To start off, the national employment rate was observed to have risen by 0.3% this quarter. Local manufacturing has created…”
Her voice was steady, practiced, every syllable a carefully polished stone. Her intuition told her that she had to very much try to keep the focus nailed to the agenda today, and she was really trying to do so discreetly.
But it was as if the journalists had something else planned entirely.
The first hand shot up before she even finished her sentence.
A reporter from Seoul Weekly, with rhinestones glittering on her manicured nails, smiled politely. “Miss Lee, first of all, congratulations on your marriage. Lately, there has been gossip that your courtship with Chairman Jo overlapped with his official duties. How do you address concerns about potential conflicts of interest?”
A hush swept the hall, sharp with anticipation. Whispered commentary buzzed across the rows like bees stirred from a hive. Camera flashes started going off while reporters with outstretched arms gripping onto their microphones squeezed themselves nearer to the front, eager to catch the smallest flicker across her face or a small waver in her voice.
Youngseo lifted her glass of water, buying herself a heartbeat. The cool rim steadied her pulse. When she smiled, it was with that flawless restraint she had perfected through years of training. “Thank you for the congratulations. But today’s conference is about the South Korean economy. I trust the nation is far more interested in their jobs and livelihoods than my marriage.”
It was the right answer. But the reporters were clearly out for blood.
Another reporter adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone sharp enough to cut glass, “Some insider sources have mentioned you failed to return to the Blue House to handle official duties on your wedding night. Does that mean this marriage is … say, incompatible with your role?”
A third leaned dangerously close with his microphone, voice oily and probing, “Mrs. Jo, the Chairman has yet to make any public acknowledgment of your marriage. No posts, and not even an official statement. Doesn’t that contradict the image of wedded bliss the public expects?”
Before she could respond, another reporter pressed forward, voice dripping with insinuation. “And regarding your ring — an exceptionally expensive piece, flown in from abroad, no less. In a time when the government is promoting frugality and patriotic consumption, how do you justify wearing something so extravagant?”
Every question was a blade, deceptively wrapped in velvet, slicing straight into her private life. She had to remind herself — again, again, and again — to say, “Please focus on the topic at hand today.” By her fifth repetition, her left hand drifted unconsciously to her wedding ring. The sharp edge of the diamond pressed into her fingertip, pulling her back to that moment at the altar. Woochan’s cold fingers brushing hers as they exchanged vows. The murmur of the guests. The weight of his eyes heavy with meaning.
“I will not be answering any questions unrelated to today’s press conference topic. Questions on economic policy will continue for ten more minutes,” she announced crisply, “I apologise if I have unintentionally offended any one of you, but this press conference is strictly official. There will be no room for anymore… unwarranted questions. You’re welcome to leave if this topic doesn’t interest you.”
For a breathless moment, the press hall was stunned into silence. The only sound came from the relentless whir of camera shutters, snapping as though to trap this moment in amber. Youngseo’s words lingered in the air, cutting sharper than any of the questions thrown at her. A few reporters exchanged uneasy glances; others looked almost thrilled, as if the drama itself was more valuable than the policy updates they had come for. From the back row, someone muttered, “That’s a first.”
The entertainment journalists, sensing the shift in the air, leaned in eagerly, hoping to catch even the faintest crack in her composure. But there was none. Youngseo stood exactly as she had at the beginning — straight-backed, composed, her hands folded neatly on the lacquered lectern. Yet beneath the surface, her heart drummed against her ribs as if it were begging to be let free. Her folded palms were damp from perspiration and they were leaving a mark on her papers. She made a mental note to place them in a file with plastic pocket folders the next time.
After a long pause, a seasoned political correspondent cleared his throat and raised his hand. “In that case, Madam Spokesperson, could you elaborate on the projected employment growth for the fourth quarter?”
The hall shifted. Order had reluctantly returned.
High above Seoul, on the top floor of the Jo family's office building, the city stretched glittering and endless beneath a sky of fading light. Woochan had just ended a transnational video call with a Bangkok branch manager and rubbed at his brow, exhaustion settling like smoke behind his eyes. He was reaching for the next stack of contracts when his gaze stopped on the muted television in the corner.
The live broadcast of the Blue House press conference filled the screen.
He grabbed the remote to turn up the volume so he could listen in on the nation’s current developments. And there she was — Youngseo, standing against the navy backdrop, microphones bristling toward her like spears. Her pearl earrings gleamed softly beneath the studio lights, but she herself looked like a reed caught in a storm. Fragile, yet unbending.
“…Does that mean this marriage is … say, incompatible with your role?”
Woochan’s hand froze on the remote. His eyes narrowed. On screen, the camera zoomed close, catching the faint flutter of her lashes, like the fleeting beat of a butterfly’s wings. It was barely there, the kind of subtle motion that could have passed for nothing at all. But he saw it. For some reason, he always did now. He never would have noticed it months ago — not when she was still a stranger wrapped in poise and protocol that he’d occasionally see during corporate functions. But after weeks of sharing the same house, the same air that hummed with unspoken tension, he’d learned the language of her silences. The slight curve of her mouth when she was amused but refused to show it. The way her gaze shifted downward when something — or someone — unsettled her. Now, watching her on the screen, he could tell that this wasn’t composure. It was restraint. The kind that came from holding too much inside. And though he told himself it wasn’t his place to care, the tightening in his chest said otherwise.
“Change the channel,” he muttered to his assistant. The lack of sleep these days from having to attend meetings at 3am was really getting to him, he thought. “Put on SBS Biz.”
The screen shifted to pulsing graphs, red and green bars climbing and falling in a steady rhythm. Numbers, projections, forecasts — things he were supposed to care about. But his mind stayed elsewhere, caught in the image of her face on that screen, the faint flutter of her lashes as she’d tried to hide her brief loss of composure. It lingered like static beneath his skin. The thought itself annoyed him greatly. He shouldn’t be wasting energy on her, not when she was supposed to be nothing more than a contract and a name. He’d built his life on control, precision, distance.
And yet, a single flicker of her lashes had somehow… dismantled all of that.
His jaw tensed.
“Actually…” The word came out a little choked. He didn’t look at his secretary when he spoke again, eyes still locked on the graphs as if they were the ones that had betrayed him. “Switch it back.”
His secretary blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden request. “Of course, sir,” she still murmured, quickly navigating back to the live feed channel. Still, a flicker of curiosity crossed her face as the news channel returned to the screen as she turned up the television volume.
The press conference reappeared, and this time they were drilling her about her ring — well, their ring. Woochan turned the pen in his hand, the cold metal heating against his palm. The diamond on her finger caught the light in a flash so bright it made him flinch. He remembered sliding it onto her hand, thinking it nothing more than a symbol to satisfy appearances.
But now, on screen, it looked like an accusation.
“S-should we prepare a PR statement, sir?” his assistant asked hesitantly, “It is your wife, after all.”
Woochan didn’t realize he had been standing the whole time until the broadcast cut to commercials. The silence of the room pressed in, filled only by the faint ticking of the wall clock.
“No,” His reply was too quick. “She can handle it.”
He turned to the window, watching the Han River shimmer beneath the sun. The questions clawing at her across that stage clung to him as well, sticky and suffocating. But what unsettled him most was the strange, unfamiliar weight in his chest. Why should he care this much? She wasn’t his real wife. They didn’t even love each other. They’ve never actually kissed, and, better yet, they’ve never even held hands.
Heck, they sleep in separate bedrooms on separate floors, for goodness sake. And they probably have met less than fifteen times over the past twenty years. Not even as friends. Mere acquaintances that went about their own ways at the annual dinners and barely ever talked to each other.
Simply put, the only thing they knew about each other were each others’ names.
And yet — when she smiled that practiced PR smile of hers at the very end, he found himself exhaling as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
That realization made him abruptly slam his pen onto the desk, a blot of ink bleeding like a wound across the page.
The newly wedded couple’s villa was swallowed by a heavy silence; the kind that pressed against the walls and seemed to absorb every sound. By the time the grandfather clock struck ten, the fingerprint lock at the front door chimed, sharp and crisp, breaking the oppressive stillness. Youngseo stepped inside, her shadow stretching long across the marble floors in the warm glow of the hallway lamps.
She slipped off her heels — those same shoes that had forced her spine straight through hours of relentless questioning — and placed them neatly in the cabinet. Her bare feet met the cold marble, the skin along her ankles faintly reddened from the strain. She lifted her head and her chest tightened.
Woochan sat on the sofa in the cavernous living room, a single lamp casting a golden glow over the sharp planes of his face. Papers were scattered across the coffee table, but it seemed his attention rested elsewhere.
The silence thickened, heavy and suffocating, until his voice cut through it.
“The press conference,” he started as he stood up. Youngseo halted mid-step, originally planning to start her ascent up the staircase that stood just a few feet from the front door. Her shoulders tensed.
“So… you watched it,” she replied, voice steady.
He snapped the folder shut, the sharp sound cracking across the room. “Since when did a presidential briefing become a tabloid circus?”
There was no hint of accusation in his tone, so Youngseo wondered what he was trying to achieve by asking her that question. It was not as if she was the one asking those stupid and irrelevant questions anyway. She, too, thought today's conference started off a bit circus-like.
Youngseo raised an eyebrow in confusion. She really didn’t know where this conversation was going.
“It’s my job, Chairman Jo. I can handle it. But thank you for your… concern.”
For a long moment, the room was silent again, the polished marble floor stretching between them like a frozen expanse.
Woochan opened his mouth as if he had more to say, but then abruptly closed it shut. He tugged at his tie with a rough jerk, loosening the tight knot around his neck. “Do as you please,” he said, voice taut, and turned toward his study. The door lock clicked sharply behind him.
Youngseo remained at the bottom of the staircase. Finally, she allowed herself to lean against the cold banister, her hands pressing into the wood as if anchoring herself. Her eyes fluttered closed. A thin, quiet breath escaped her lips, dissolving into the stillness of the mansion. The lights above the long counters towards the right of the living room cast a golden sheen across the polished surfaces.
She went ahead and poured herself a glass of water, the liquid catching the glow of the lamps, and drank slowly, letting the coolness trail down her throat. She set the glass down and leaned against the counter, the marble pressing cool against her palm. The day’s events replayed in fragments: the cameras, the microphones, the glare of reporters. And the sharp, unrelenting eyes of the world on her every movement.
Her phone buzzed quietly on the counter. The screen lit up as she registered that it was a single message from the Blue House aide.
“Next week’s briefing summary has been uploaded. Please review when convenient.”
She sighed internally at the thought of reading through her aide's infamously-wordy summary, and didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she let the silence stretch, letting the mansion swallow her exhaustion before the next wave of obligations swept in.
The soft shuffle of footsteps broke the quiet. Before she could tense, the familiar figure of their ahjumma housekeeper appeared in the hallway from the kitchen.
From what Youngseo gathered based on Ahjumma’s interactions with Woochan the past weeks since she moved in, Ahjumma had been with the Jo family for decades, watching over Woochan and his household with unwavering loyalty. Like everyone else working under the Jo’s roof, she knew better than to comment on the nature of the marriage that tied Youngseo and Woochan together. Other than their parents, the house staff — from the bodyguards stationed outside to the drivers waiting by the gates — all knew it was an arrangement, a partnership bound by duty rather than affection.
Youngseo was getting sick of hearing the word "duty" already.
Still, Ahjumma’s gaze held a softness that suggested she wished it could be otherwise. Something about her presence alone was grounding.
“Madame Jo,” the woman said gently, her voice warm and steady, “Come sit. You’ve been through too much today, as I’ve heard from our driver.” She gestured toward one of the bar stools at the counter, her eyes full of quiet concern, “Let me make you some soup. Something warm will do you good.”
“Ahjumma, don’t worry. I don’t want to trouble you so late at night.”
“Oh, jagi, don’t even start. I don’t take rejection very well, so you’re going to have to drink my soup tonight, whether you like it or not.” Ahjumma planted her hands on her hips, a mock glare lifting the corners of her eyes. The kitchen’s warm light caught the silver threads in her hair, glinting like mischief as she puffed out a little huff. Her apron was still dusted with kimchi stains, and her cheeks glowed pink from the steam rising off the pot behind her. There was no arguing with her — not when that blend of stubbornness and affection filled the air around her. She tilted her head, daring her to try and refuse again, the lines at the corners of her lips softening into a smile.
Youngseo hesitated, then slowly headed over and sat in one of the chairs at the bar counter. The weight of exhaustion pressed down in a way that made her knees tremble. The modern bar was tucked just beside the kitchen, divided by a small service window that opened the space wide enough to see inside. Through it, the clatter of dishes and the hum of Ahjumma’s cooking filled the quiet room. The housekeeper bustled about, pulling ingredients from the fridge in the kitchen with practiced ease, the rhythmic chopping and stirring filling the room with a comforting, domestic hum.
As the aroma of simmering broth began to spread, the woman’s eyes softened, and she leaned slightly closer to the service window. “You know…” she began, her tone casual but pointed, “In all my years here, I’ve seen the Chairman worry about many things. And, if I were to trust my instincts, I’d say today… he’s been worried about you.”
The words landed like a small, unexpected spark. Youngseo’s fingers clenched the arms of the chair. “Worried? About… me?” Her voice was low, careful, as if testing the truth in the statement.
Her mind raced. Worried? Him? But why? She had spent the entire day holding herself together, performing the perfect façade of composure. She reminded herself that his concern — if it existed — was irrelevant. She didn’t need it. She didn’t want it.
Yet, the housekeeper’s words gnawed at her, stirring something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in ages.
Her chest tightened.
The idea that someone — even him — might be worried for her unsettled her in ways she wasn’t prepared to confront. It was a warmth she didn’t know how to receive, and a vulnerability she had spent years fortifying herself against. Her lips parted as if to argue, but the words caught.
A quiet thrum lingered in her chest — something fragile, unwelcome. She pressed her nails against the fabric of the armrest until the sensation dulled it. “No,” she muttered finally, almost to herself. “He’s not worried. He doesn’t… do that.” Her tone sharpened as if by repetition she could cut through the unease coiling inside her. “He’s just —” She exhaled, the corner of her mouth twisting faintly.
“Perhaps he is just angry that I almost embarrassed his family name.”
The housekeeper shook her head, her expression unwavering. “Darling, I know you are his… ‘wife’, but you don’t know the Chairman like I do. Aigoooo, that boy… he rarely lets anyone see it. But his eyes, his posture. I’m this old! I’ve seen it all. Everything tells me he is thinking of you even when he does not speak. That is worry. Pure and unspoken.”
“Ahjumma, I really don’t think —” Youngseo started, but Ahjumma started shaking her head in disapproval already.
“Nuh-uh-uh! I am not saying this to ask for your opinion. What I am saying is a fact. Trust me, I’ve seen every side of this boy ever since he was in diapers. Just believe what I say. The poor boy has been through so much with his family. It is a shame that has molded him into the cold, indifferent young man that he is now.”
A flash of sadness appeared on the housekeeper's face, but she quickly shook it away as she opened the cupboard to retrieve a small porcelain soup bowl. It looked handpainted, Youngseo thought, and probably extremely expensive. Ahjumma ladled the soup into the bowl, setting it on a tray and carrying it over to the marble counter where Youngseo was seated. The steam rose in soft tendrils, curling around her like a whispered promise of comfort.
“Eat slowly,” Ahjumma said, settling into the chair opposite her, “And know this — at the very least, he respects you. Even if he does not say it outright, he respects you more than anyone else could imagine, Madame Jo.”
“You can just call me Youngseo,” Youngseo says instead, a warm smile creeping up her face.
Ahjumma smiled knowingly and turned back into the kitchen to clean up, her movements calm and steady. “If you say so. And don’t you worry about a thing! You handled yourself well today.”
Youngseo lifted the bowl, letting the warmth seep into her hands. She didn’t reply, at least, not yet. She simply drank, savoring the quiet, and the knowledge that someone — someone who had seen both sides of Woochan — knew the truth of his care.
The housekeeper hummed again. It was an old nursery rhyme Youngseo heard before at daycare. She was sent there for a few years as a child when there was no one to look after her at home, her parents and grandparents too busy with state matters.
This wave of nostalgia was comforting, as was this hint of maternal love.
Ahjumma’s movements were gentle, filling the room with quiet reassurance. Youngseo let herself linger in this fragile, unspoken safety, a rare moment of warmth in a day that had demanded every ounce of composure she could summon.
Notes:
hellooooo thank you for reading ~ i always wondered how i could insert woochan's tsundere-ness when it comes to youngseo in the form of writing and i think this chapter was a slow but good start ! ofc more to come in the future chaps but just a heads-up that this fic will be more slow-burn because ... idk i feel like it suits wooseo alot (esp in this setting) LOL
pls leave some kudos n comments if u enjoyed! i'd love to chat about the fic or even wooseo in general <3
Chapter Text
It had been a full day since that absolute mess of a press conference in the Blue House.
In this mere twenty-four hours, headlines had multiplied like wildfire. Political pundits debated her tone, body language, and the way her gaze flickered — once, just once —toward the ground, criticising her lack of professionalism. Her official email inbox was flooded, her phone an endless stream of unanswered calls from aides, reporters, and her father’s office.
Youngseo hadn’t meant to ignore them on purpose. Well, okay, maybe at first she did. But it started when she woke up with a headache — one of those faint, pulsing aches behind her eyes that she thought would fade after a few hours of rest. She’d slept too little the night before. After having that hearty bowl of soup by Ahjumma, she’d gone upstairs to draft a few damage control scripts she could use in case any unforeseen situations like yesterday happened again in the future. At least the next time, she’d be more prepared, and could answer more like a professional.
She’d skipped breakfast and didn’t think to inform any of the maids or housekeepers. They’d probably knock on her door eventually, wondering if she wanted her usual tea or toast, but today she’d decided that even if they did, she wouldn’t have the energy to answer.
And besides, it’s not like Woochan would notice her absence at the breakfast table anyway.
For the past few weeks, their mornings had followed the same script — a quiet, brittle routine that neither dared to break. He would already be seated when she came down, perfectly composed in his crisply ironed dress-shirt and a statement tie, eyes fixed on his phone or the morning news. The clinking of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound that ever filled the room.
At first, sometimes she’d glance up, hoping for a word, a look, something — not because she was hoping he’d break the ice and be her friend, but because she honestly couldn’t bear to bask in the awkward silence any longer. To think she’d have to dine and stay quiet like this everyday for the next two years filled her with more dread than when she found out she’d be getting married to him.
She missed her old penthouse — the one with the sunlight pouring in through wide glass windows and the faint hum of the city below. There, mornings used to feel alive. The elevator ride to the floor below meant warmth and chatter: her cousin Jiwoo already halfway through her cereal, music playing from a speaker, someone always burning toast. She could sit cross-legged on the counter, hair still messy, and laugh about the latest gossip before rushing off to work.
Breakfast used to be a comfort, a small, ordinary joy — a part of the day where she didn’t have to think about appearances or restraint. Now it was a performance in silence, where every movement felt watched, every sound too loud, every glance across the table too easily misread. Even the food tasted different here, like it belonged to someone else’s life.
However, Woochan never did more than offer a polite nod of acknowledgement after seeing her take her seat before returning to his meal. There was nothing overtly cold about it, just… distance. A practiced restraint that had slowly drawn a line between them, subtle, yet impossible to ignore.
Eventually, she stopped hoping for him to do anything to fill the silence. Breakfast became an obligation rather than a ritual, two people sharing the same table but existing in entirely separate worlds. And now, as she lay curled beneath her blankets, her stomach empty and her throat raw, the thought crossed her mind — not with bitterness, but with a quiet sort of resignation — that he probably wouldn’t even realize she wasn’t there.
He’d finish his meal, check the time, and head out like always. Maybe he’d think she had an early briefing.
Maybe he wouldn’t think of her at all.
Worried about me my ass, she cursed beneath her breath. Ahjumma was probably senile and imagining things, or she was just spewing complete lies just to make her feel better. Youngseo couldn’t decide which explanation was worse. All she knew now was not to be so foolish as to believe her words of comfort anymore. She was sure they came from a good place, but at the end of the day, they were just words, with no substance to back them up.
And they were probably only said out of pity, so she could feel a little better about herself.
How pathetic my life is, for even a measly housekeeper to take pity on me.
By midmorning, the ache had deepened into a dull throb that made it hard to focus on her screen. The briefing document she’d opened no more than five minutes ago started to blur at the edges, lines of text slipping into each other. She rubbed her temples, took a deep breath, and told herself it was nothing.
Just fatigue. Just another long week.
But then came the chill. A thin, creeping cold that started in her hands and settled in her spine, spreading until her whole body felt strangely weightless and heavy all at once. She wrapped her blazer tighter around her shoulders, pretending not to notice the way her fingers trembled when she typed on her keyboard.
One of her aides had texted her earlier that morning, asking if she’d be coming into the office for the briefing with the press secretary. Youngseo had stared at the message for a full minute before typing back a quick, “I’ll clock in a little after lunch. Need to review some materials first.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie — there were reports she needed to look through — but mostly, she just couldn’t bring herself to leave her room yet. The thought of facing the watchful eyes in the Blue House corridors made her stomach twist.
By an hour or so, her voice had gone hoarse. She excused herself halfway through an online meeting with the communications team she’d answered from the comfort of her own room, insisting she’d be back in an hour.
She never did.
The moment she stepped out into the hallway for a change of scenery, the world tilted slightly — just enough for her to grab the wall for balance.
She made it back to her room somehow, though she couldn’t quite remember the walk. Her indoor house slippers came off halfway through, abandoned somewhere near the couch. She locked her door, a habit since young that she did whenever she wanted an uninterrupted nap, and collapsed onto the bed. Though she was meaning to rest for only a few minutes, the weight in her limbs made it impossible to move again.
Her phone continued to buzz endlessly on the nightstand — messages, calls, reminders — but she couldn’t bring herself to reach for it. Her head burned while her skin felt cold to the touch. Even opening her eyes took effort. The sound of the traffic in Gangnam city outside dulled into a faint hum, and the rest of the day slipped away in fragments — distant birds chirping, the rustle of the leaves from the maple tree outside, the slow, uneven rhythm of her breathing.
By afternoon, Youngseo was completely bedridden, her energy drained to nothing. The world beyond her sheets blurred into a haze of light and fever, and for the first time in days, she didn’t think about the press, or him, or anything at all.
Woochan’s morning began like any other — quiet, restrained, predictable. The faint clatter of porcelain echoed in the dining room as the maids set out the plates and teacups, mingling with the low hum of the news playing from the mounted television. Woochan sat at the end of the long table, the seat opposite him noticeably empty.
He paused briefly, glancing at it. She’d never actually skipped breakfast before. Even on days when she was running late, she’d make an appearance — sometimes just long enough to sip her coffee or nibble at toast before disappearing off to work.
The empty chair felt… strange. Out of place, somehow.
He buttered his toast, flipped the page of the newspaper, and told himself it was nothing. Maybe she’d had an early call, or decided to eat in her room. It wasn’t his concern. Still, the quiet felt different this morning — thicker, more pronounced.
The maids moved about with unusual caution, their steps softer than usual. One of them, after a moment’s hesitation, finally spoke.
“The Madam didn’t come down this morning, sir.”
Woochan didn’t look up immediately. “Yes,” he said dryly, a faint edge of sarcasm in his tone. “I see that she’s not here.”
The maid flushed and lowered her gaze, murmuring an apology.
He sighed and softened slightly, a little guilty, and set the newspaper down. “Did she have an early appointment?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. Her aide reported that her morning schedule was clear today.”
He nodded, brushing it off with a noncommittal hum. “She’s probably just tired.”
But something in his chest twisted faintly. He didn’t know why. She’d made it very clear she didn’t enjoy their shared breakfasts — her eyes always on her plate, her posture politely distant. Yet now, the sight of her untouched place setting — the cup still empty, the napkin folded neatly beside it — felt heavier than it should have.
He finished his meal, though the food sat tasteless on his tongue. As he stood, he found himself glancing once more at the stairs, half expecting her to appear — hair brushed, expression unreadable, muttering a quiet apology for being late.
But no sound came.
He told himself it wasn’t his problem.
As he made his way back to his room to grab his briefcase, Woochan mentally went through his schedule for the day — meetings, calls, another tiresome lunch with the board. Nowhere in that list was there room for concern over whether or not his “wife” had decided to skip breakfast. She was an adult, perfectly capable of handling herself. If she wanted to sulk upstairs after that fiasco of a press conference or sleep in, that was her business.
Still… the thought lingered. She’d never missed breakfast before. No matter how strained things were between them, she always appeared — sometimes with her makeup done, sometimes still in her pajamas, sometimes with a velcro roller still clinging to her bangs, but present. That was just the kind of person she was: disciplined, controlled, predictable.
So why today?
He exhaled sharply, irritated at himself for even thinking about it. “Jo Woochan, you’re really doing this now?” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, careful not to ruin the parts he carefully set in place with pomade earlier in the morning.
“She probably just overslept. Or didn’t feel like dealing with you.” The corner of his mouth twitched with a humorless smirk. That last part sounded about right.
But as he slipped on his watch and headed toward the foyer, something in him resisted walking out the door without saying anything. It wasn’t concern — he refused to call it that — but rather an uneasy sense of… obligation. That was the word.
He stopped near the staircase where Ahjumma was directing one of the maids. “Ahjumma,” he called, and she turned immediately, bowing slightly.
“Yes, young master?”
He hesitated a beat before saying, “Let me know once Madam comes down for breakfast — or if she leaves for work. Just… inform me when she does.”
Ahjumma blinked in mild surprise, then nodded. “Of course. Would you like me to knock and ask if she’d prefer breakfast in her room instead?”
Woochan froze for a fraction of a second, internally grumbling at himself.
Don’t overthink it. It’s not wise to meddle.
But another part of him — quiet, stubborn — hesitated.
She’s never missed breakfast before. Maybe ... maybe it’s fine to offer.
No.
No, Woochan. Don’t push.
Don’t. Meddle.
He shook his head quickly. “No. Don’t disturb her if she hasn’t asked for anything.”
“Understood,” Ahjumma said gently, folding her hands.
He gave a short nod and turned toward the door, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. It was nothing, he told himself. Just a small, practical request — nothing to read into. But even as he stepped out into the crisp morning air, the image of the empty chair at the dining table refused to leave his mind.
The boardroom was alive with the low hum of conversation, the scratch of pens on notepads, and the faint whir of the air-conditioning — a dull, mechanical backdrop to the sharp, polished rhythm of corporate talk. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint tang of paper and ink, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clung to every high-rise meeting room in the building.
Woochan sat at the head of the long mahogany table, expression unreadable. His fingers drummed idly against the polished surface as the finance director droned on about quarterly projections, percentages climbing and falling in neat, impersonal patterns on the screen behind him. A cascade of charts flickered in blue and gray, the company logo glowing faintly in the corner — like a visual lullaby for anyone like Woochan who’d sat through too many of these.
A bead of condensation slid down the side of his untouched glass of water. He watched it absently, more aware of that small movement than the presentation continuing before him. Outside, through the tinted windows, the city glimmered faintly under a washed-out afternoon light.
And yet, sitting there, surrounded by voices and figures that should have held his attention, Woochan felt oddly distant, as if something else was tugging faintly at the edges of his concentration, waiting to pull him away from the noise.
His phone lit up with a sudden vibration against the desk, the sharp buzz cutting through the monotone rhythm of numbers and forecasts echoing in the boardroom. Woochan frowned, glancing down.
Incoming call from: Ahjumma.
His brows furrowed faintly as he glanced at the screen. Without a word, he pushed back his chair and rose, ignoring the brief, puzzled looks from the executives around the table.
“Excuse me,” he said curtly, slipping his phone into his palm as he stepped out of the boardroom.
Woochan could tell this must be in relation to his request — the one he’d made before leaving for work, when even he himself hadn’t quite understood why he’d said it. But why Ahjumma thought it was something urgent enough to call instead of simply leaving him a text…
That made his stomach churn a little in discomfort.
The corridor outside was quiet, a stretch of marble and glass that made every footstep echo faintly. It smelled faintly of polished wood and the jasmine scented air freshener his father had so insistently made sure was placed in the hallway of every floor. Woochan lifted the phone to his ear as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, his voice low.
“Ahjumma?”
“Sir,” came her voice, soft and cautious. “I’m sorry to disturb you during work hours, but the Madam hasn’t come down all day. She didn’t have breakfast or lunch, and she hasn’t left her room since morning. I’m a little worried and just thought perhaps… I should check on her? Bring something up?”
He stopped mid-step. The faint hum of the air-conditioning filled the silence that followed. Ahjumma’s tone was careful — deferential, but edged with something that didn’t belong in her usual calm professionalism: worry.
Woochan’s gaze drifted to the tall window overlooking the traffic below, his reflection faint against the afternoon light. The words replayed in his mind.
Hasn’t come down all day… Hasn’t eaten… Hasn’t left her room.
That wasn’t like her.
He’d seen Youngseo tired before — drawn from meetings, eyes shadowed from long nights of work — but never absent. She was too precise, too composed to let herself fall out of routine. Even when they barely spoke, he knew she was the kind of person who wouldn’t let anyone see her falter.
His chest tightened, an unease he couldn’t quite name creeping up on him. Then, as if on cue, his mind flicked to the contract — the one he wrote himself, and had dictated nearly every aspect of their lives since the marriage had been announced.
- Private life is completely off-limits. (...)
(...) Each party shall respect the other’s privacy and refrain from interfering in the personal or professional affairs of the other.
The words came back to him with rigid clarity, almost mocking in their precision. He had written and proof-read that clause a dozen times, memorized it even, yet here he was, hovering over a call from his housekeeper, considering whether he should care.
He swallowed, leaning back against the wall. It’s not my place. I wrote it. I signed it. The terms are clear.
She’s allowed to lock herself away all day if she wants to.
The logic was ironclad, and yet… logic didn’t stop his fingers from twitching slightly. His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in restraint. He drew in a slow, steady breath before replying, voice measured and cool.
“No,” he said finally. “Don’t bother her unless she specifically requests for anything. And that’s an order.”
There was a pause on the other end. Woochan felt his grip tighten around the phone. For a fleeting second, he was almost certain Ahjumma would speak again — would gently insist, as she sometimes did when she thought he was being too rigid. She was the only one in the house who dared to. The only person who’d most likely tut softly and say, “Sir, forgive me, but Madam’s health should come first,” or “It wouldn’t hurt to check once.”
And truthfully, he was bracing himself for it. For the sound of reason, for that quiet nudge that would let him do what part of him already wanted to. Maybe if she pushed, just a little, he could pretend his agreement wasn’t concern — it would be practicality, compliance, something he could justify later.
He caught himself before he sighed. He shouldn’t want her to challenge him. But some stubborn, restless part of him almost did. Because if Ahjumma tried to talk sense into him, if she gave him an excuse, he wouldn’t have to face the truth that he’d already been thinking of going back on his own words. That the thought of Youngseo shut away, silent and unseen, had been gnawing at him since morning.
But this time, Ahjumma didn’t argue. She didn’t even hesitate long enough to give him that out.
“Understood, sir,” she said softly, and the line clicked off before he could think of anything else to say.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the call itself.
Woochan lowered the phone slowly, his thumb resting on the dark screen longer than necessary. For a few seconds, he stood there motionless, listening to the hollow quiet of the hallway.
It was a practical decision, he told himself. Nothing more. Boundaries were there for a reason — to keep things clean, professional, predictable. To stop him from making mistakes like this, to stop him from thinking with his heart and not his head.
And besides, this was what she would have wanted too.
Youngseo had made it painfully clear from the start — the kind of clarity that left no room for interpretation. She clearly didn’t want anyone prying into her schedule, didn’t want to be asked where she was going, didn’t even want any of his maids and housekeepers hovering next to her at home. She’d told them to take some time for themselves instead of shadowing her at home all the time, and that she’d call if she ever needed them.
She viewed this marriage as a liability. Yes, she despised this as much as he did.
He still remembered the way she’d said it the night they got married, back when he had suddenly dropped the agreement on her — her voice cool, steady, perfectly composed.
“Two years is just routine to me, and I will whole-heartedly cooperate. Thank you.”
Woochan almost laughed at the lack of emotion from her. If anything, she seemed almost relieved that the arrangement was purely transactional — that it came with a timeline, clauses, boundaries, an exit strategy. A contract. A deal. Something she could manage and measure and survive.
He remembered thinking, with a kind of grim amusement, that it suited her perfectly. A relationship that wasn’t one. A marriage where feelings were unnecessary. Efficiency wrapped in civility.
It had stung a little, though — that quiet acceptance of distance. Not because he’d wanted a grand romance, but because her indifference stripped even the possibility of trying. And yes, it was stupid to even think so in the first place, because he was the one who had written the agreement, who had meticulously outlined every clause, every condition, every boundary.
Yet he had expected her reaction to be different. He had anticipated some flicker of resistance, some quiet defiance, even a sharp edge of resentment — anything that would show she recognized the gravity of what she was agreeing to.
At the time, it unnerved him more than any confrontation could have. If she truly didn’t care, if she truly could comply with the arrangement with such seamless composure, then the power he assumed he had over the situation suddenly seemed less tangible.
And somewhere, deep down, he knew he had to live with this feeling — only because it was what she would have wanted, and he could convince himself that respecting it was the most practical, rational choice of all.
When he finally returned to the boardroom, the room was alive again with murmurs and the faint clatter of pens against paper. The finance director was still talking, the presentation on the screen unchanged, graphs glowing in sterile blue.
He sat down, expression composed, yet his mind drifted — to the untouched breakfast table, and the thought of her upstairs, unseen behind closed doors.
Oh, and also that weird feeling in his heart that seems to be throbbing incessantly as time goes by.
The office clock ticked toward five, each movement of the second hand slicing through the low hum of the air-conditioning, mingling with the soft shuffle of staff preparing to leave. Woochan adjusted the cuff of his shirt, ready to step out of his office for a late-afternoon meeting, when his phone buzzed.
An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen. He hesitated for half a second, thumb hovering over the green icon. Unknown numbers at this hour rarely brought anything pleasant — usually something bureaucratic, a scheduling mix-up, a minor crisis that someone else could have handled. His day had already been long, filled with back-to-back meetings and the gnawing ache of unspoken thoughts he’d been trying to bury. The last thing he wanted was another interruption.
Still, protocol won out over preference. He exhaled quietly and accepted the call.
“Jo Woochan speaking.” His tone was clipped, the kind of measured politeness he reserved for strangers who might matter later.
The response came after a brief, trembling pause. “Ah — hello, sir. I’m so sorry to call you directly like this.” The voice was female — soft, but threaded with something taut, like someone trying hard to sound composed. “This is Han Jiyun, from the Blue House Communications Office. I… I’m one of Madam Spokesperson’s aides.”
His hand holding his phone stilled. Blue House? He straightened slightly, muscles tightening beneath his suit.
No one from the Blue House ever called him. They didn’t really need to. He had nothing to do with Youngseo’s work, and by some mutual understanding, he also never interfered with her political life.
Maybe this is about that media fiasco yesterday? Woochan wondered, but shook that thought away. No, if they wanted to call and talk to him about it, they’d have contacted him first thing in the morning. And, frankly, that press conference had nothing to do with him either. Unless they wanted his company to do some damage control? It’s not unlikely, but, come on, they were the freaking Blue House. He’s sure they’d have more say in filtering what the media spread in this country than his company had.
“Yes,” he finally replied. “What is it?”
There was another pause — longer this time, enough to make him glance at his secretary, who was currently waiting at the office door and glancing at him with a thoughtful expression. He waved her off to signal for her not to wait for him and she nodded before scurrying out of the office.
“Sir…” the aide began again, her tone laced with hesitation. “I’m sorry to call you as I know you’re busy. But this is quite urgent. We have been trying to reach the Madame Spokesperson all afternoon. No calls, no messages, no response from her at all. Her phone’s been off since a meeting with us this afternoon.”
A faint thrum began behind his temples. He shifted his jaw slightly, the irritation that had flickered earlier now curdling into something quieter.
“...Did you try her personal line?”
Woochan was aware that Youngseo had two phones. The first was her work device — a slim, silver, older Samsung model issued by the Blue House. The ringer of it was always left on, something Woochan always couldn’t stand as it would buzz constantly when she was home, a steady rhythm of notifications echoing in the living room. That phone belonged to the public — to her aides, the press, the Chief Secretary, the endless chain of policy meetings and statements that defined her professional existence.
The other was different. Smaller, newer, and white — Woochan suspected it was an iPhone, but he couldn’t really tell which model it was as they all looked pretty much the same to him anyway. She usually kept it tucked away in her coat pocket or handbag. That one rarely lit up, and when it did, it was always late at night, when the house was quiet and she thought he wasn’t paying attention. From some of the late-night conversations he ‘so happens’ to overhear sometimes, though, the only person that seems to be calling her on that phone is her cousin, Jiwoo.
Not like it was any of his business.
“Yes, sir. Repeatedly. All her aides, her office staff, even her father’s assistant — no one’s heard from her. We’re all quite worried. And…” The aide’s voice dipped, as if lowering it would soften the blow. “Assemblyman Lee is… very upset. He has already called the Chief of Staff twice.”
Woochan tapped the edge of his phone against his palm. The mention of her father was enough to send a ripple through him. Of course he’s furious. Sure, a missing presidential spokesperson was a political inconvenience — but a missing daughter, to someone like Assemblyman Lee, was a matter of control.
He didn’t answer right away. His mind had already begun slipping backward — replaying the day in sharp, unforgiving detail. It pained how clearly he could see it all now, each detail suddenly bright, significant … accusing.
“Of course. Would you like me to knock and ask if she’d prefer breakfast in her room instead?”
“No. Don’t disturb her if she hasn’t asked for anything.”
“She didn’t have breakfast or lunch, and she hasn’t left her room since morning. I’m a little worried and just thought perhaps… I should check on her? Bring something up?”
“No. Don’t bother her unless she specifically requests for anything. And that’s an order.”
Woochan had said every rejection casually — brushed every concern for Youngseo off like it meant nothing. And maybe, back then, it really hadn’t. That was how things worked between them.
He’d told himself it was respect — that giving her space was the right thing, that she preferred it that way. But the truth was simpler. It was easier not to ask. Easier not to look too closely. Because if he did, he might have to care. And caring just wasn’t part of the deal.
He felt it first as a tightness in his chest, then as a sinking weight in his gut. The kind that doesn’t shout, but just sits there and twists.
He realized, too late, that the last words he’d said to her were cold and dismissive, and definitely not what someone who’d just narrowly missed a full-blown entertainment scandal from different highly-respected journalists would have wanted to hear.
“Do as you please.”
He’d convinced himself that she needed space after the press conference, after the endless calls. He’d wanted to believe that. Because it was convenient. Because it absolved him from asking questions he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask.
And suddenly, every choice he’d made that day felt like a mistake cut in slow motion. He swallowed hard, the guilt clawing its way up his throat.
You should have at least let Ahjumma check on her. You should have knocked before going off to work…
You should have cared enough to ask.
But that wasn’t the rule, wasn’t it?
Boundaries. Space. Their unspoken agreement. They’d live their own lives and stay out of each others’. That was the rule. But the more he said it, the more it felt like a lie — like it was something brittle and hollow that was now cracking apart under pressure.
Woochan’s pulse quickened — not a full panic, but the start of it, something that clawed beneath the surface of his composure. He ran a hand over his face, trying to steady his breath, but the more he thought, the more so everything began to loop in his mind as he pieced them together.
He swallowed hard. The taste of regret sat bitter on his tongue.
“She’s not the type to disappear,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“No, sir,” the woman replied quickly. “Which is why we thought it was best to contact you. We apologise and understand your schedule must be —”
“I’ll handle it,” he said abruptly, cutting across the aide’s polite apology.
“Sir?”
“Don't call me unless I call first. And don’t alert any Blue House staff or her father yet.” His voice came out low, steadier than he felt. “I’ll check on her at our residence myself.”
There was a beat of stunned silence from the other end. Then the woman stammered, “Y-Yes, sir. Of course.”
He hung up before she could say anything else.
For a second, he just stood there — completely still, phone slack in his grip. The silence in the office was deafening.
The late sunlight filtered in through the blinds, bleeding gold across the walls, cutting the room into long stripes of shadow and light. Dust floated lazily in the air — slow, indifferent — the kind of stillness that only made the pounding in his chest feel louder, more jarring.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass partition — the crisp buttoned-up suit, the steady gaze, the illusion of calm. He almost looked like himself. Almost. But the longer he looked, the more he could see it — the faint twitch of his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders.
It was a strange kind of panic — the quiet, suffocating kind that didn’t show on the surface. The one that lived in the space between breaths, in the too-fast beat of his heart.
Dozens of different paperwork lay scattered across the desk. All the things that had demanded his attention an hour ago now just looked like static, meaningless noise on white paper. He couldn’t even remember what the last meeting had been about.
None of it mattered.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and reached for his coat, his movements sharper than necessary. The fabric caught on his sleeve, and he yanked it free with a muttered curse — something too low to be anger, but too frayed to be composure.
His breath came uneven now, short and clipped. Every step toward the door felt impulsive, like his body was moving faster than his mind could keep up.
The sound of his shoes against the polished floor echoed down the empty corridor.
He didn’t even bother turning off the lights, letting the office glow bleed into the hallway, a stark contrast to the tightening coil of unease in his chest. The walls seemed narrower somehow, pressing in on him with every step, and the quiet hum of the building’s air-conditioning became a background roar in his ears.
By the time he reached the end of the hallway, his phone was already pressed to his ear, dialing his driver.
“Bring the car around.”
The line clicked off, and then he was forced to confront his thoughts in silence again.
He lowered the phone slowly, fingers brushing against the edge of his pocket, and that’s when he noticed it — the faint, uncontrollable tremor in his hands.
He flexed his fingers, trying to steady them, but the more he focused, the worse it seemed. His pulse hammered in his temples, each beat a relentless reminder of what he had ignored that has gotten him into this mess now.
Something was wrong.
And it was already too late to pretend otherwise.
The city blurred past his window — streaks of gold and gray melting into each other as the car weaved through traffic. Woochan sat rigid in the back seat, one hand gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. Every second felt like it was dragging him further behind.
He didn’t even remember making the call to his residence line, only the sound of the ringing that seemed to stretch forever until one of his housekeepers’ voice cracked through, breathless and worried.
“Good evening, you’ve reached the Jo residence.”
“It’s me,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “Pass the phone to Ahjumma and ask her to go upstairs and check on the Madam.”
There was a pause on the other end — muffled voices, the sound of movement — before a familiar, trembling voice came through.
“Sir? It’s me.” Ahjumma’s tone was already uneasy, breath hitching as if she’d been hurrying. “Is something wrong with Agassi?”
Woochan swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the blur of headlights streaking past the car window. “I’m not sure. Just go check on her for me, please. Do it now.”
He could hear her footsteps echoing faintly through the speaker — quick, uneven, the way someone moved when they were trying to stay calm but failing. The creak of the stairs followed, then a muttered prayer from the other end. Woochan pressed the phone tighter to his ear, his fingers locking around it until the hard edge dug painfully into his palm.
Then came a pause. The sound of her breathing. And a soft, hesitant knock.
“Youngseo-yah?” Ahjumma’s voice wavered, gentle at first. “It’s Ahjumma. Are you alright, dear?”
Woochan’s brows drew together almost instinctively. Youngseo-yah? The sudden drop in formalities between his loyal housekeeper and his fake wife in a house where titles mattered more than anything made Woochan pause for a second. Even he didn’t call Youngseo by her name — not even in private, and certainly not when speaking to her directly.
He almost opened his mouth to correct her, the reflex automatic, but stopped himself. It didn’t matter. Not right now. There were more pressing things than what Ahjumma chose to call her.
He brushed the thought aside, jaw tightening as silence filled the line again. “Go on,” he said, steadying his voice. “Try again.”
The knocks came again, firmer this time. “Dear? Are you resting? You didn’t eat anything all day — ”
Still nothing.
Woochan’s chest felt constricted. A dull ache started to rise behind his sternum — part panic, part dread. “Keep going,” he said, his voice dropping lower, as if volume could steady him.
Ahjumma’s voice cracked this time, and he could hear the rattle of the doorknob through the line — a sharp, stubborn sound followed by the frantic jiggling that told him the door was locked tight. “Agassi! Please open the door!”
And then — faint, almost imperceptible — came a sound through the line. A muffled, broken noise, like a stifled breath.
Woochan straightened in his seat. “...What was that?”
Ahjumma’s reply was a whisper, shaky and terrified. “Sir, I think that was her…”
His pulse jumped. “What do you mean you think—”
“I can hear her!” Ahjumma cut in, her words tumbling over themselves. “I can hear her, she’s ... she’s making sounds, like she’s trying to speak, but she’s groaning. She sounds like she’s in so much pain. Oh, poor child, oh dear, oh dear —”
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. “Groaning?”
“Yes. It’s growing louder by the minute,” Ahjumma said, her voice trembling so hard he could hear the tears building. “The door’s locked from the inside, and s-she’s not answering at all. I’m calling her name, knocking — nothing. Sir, please — please come home quickly. I don’t know what to do. Oh, my poor darling child — ”
The noise of the city outside faded into nothing. Woochan’s heartbeat drowned it all out, pounding so loud it felt like it was in his ears, his throat, everywhere.
For a moment, he couldn’t form words. His mind felt blank — not empty, but flooded. Images he didn’t want to see flashed behind his eyes: the untouched breakfast, her silence all day.
When he finally spoke, his voice was slower — the kind of calm that only barely held the panic underneath. “Stay outside her door,” he said. “ Don’t leave her alone. Get someone to call our concierge doctor.”
“I will, I will,” she breathed out, her voice breaking. “Just hurry home, my boy. Oh, my poor heart is aching for this child already!”
The call ended, but Woochan didn’t move. The sound of her voice — that desperate, quivering fear — lingered in the air long after the line went dead. His hand stayed frozen, the phone pressed against his ear, until he realized his knuckles had turned white.
He lowered it slowly, staring blankly at the passing lights outside the window. The glow from the streetlamps slid across his face in flashes, and for a split second, he caught his reflection in the glass — pale, tense, eyes wide with something he couldn’t name.
He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. “Drive faster,” he said hoarsely.
“Sir?” the driver asked, startled.
“Don’t make me repeat myself. Drive. Faster.”
The words came out cold and clipped, but his voice trembled at the edges. The car jolted forward, tires screeching as they cut through the next lane.
Woochan’s pulse thudded in his throat, hard enough that it almost hurt to breathe. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every light that flashed past felt like another second wasted, every corner they turned like they weren’t moving fast enough.
And through it all, one thought looped in his head, merciless and unrelenting:
At least let her be okay.
The car screeched to a halt in the circular driveway, tires crunching against the gravel. Before the driver could even reach for the door handle, Woochan had already stepped out, coat still unbuttoned, his tie loosened from the drive.
The front doors of the mansion flew open the moment he reached them. Ahjumma was there waiting — pale, wringing her hands, her apron twisted between her fingers. The sight of her like this when she was normally so composed and overflowing with warmth, sent a flicker of unease through him.
“Chairman!” she gasped, her voice trembling as she stepped forward. “I’ve called Doctor Jang — he said he’ll be here in half an hour. We also tried getting one of the security guards to find the spare key to her room, but it’s so rusted it broke off as soon as it was inserted into the keyhole.”
Her words tumbled out in a rush, breathless and panicked.
Woochan’s jaw clenched. “Where’s the guard now?”
“Upstairs, sir. Trying to force the door open —”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He was already moving, long strides cutting through the marble foyer, the sound of his shoes sharp and echoing in the vast, empty space. The air inside the house felt heavy and all too warm. It pressed against his chest like a warning.
He took the stairs two at a time. “Has she said anything? Any noise?” he called over his shoulder.
Ahjumma followed behind, breath hitching. “Only… only groaning, sir. And v-very faint muttering.”
“Muttering? Of what?”
“‘Help me’ …” Ahjumma put a hand over where her heart is and drops her head, trying to hide the fact that her eyes are watering, “Oh, this is all my fault, really…”
Woochan opens his mouth to comfort her and say it was actually his fault, but decided he’s better off continuing his ascend to the second floor.
The guard at the end of the hallway looked up just as Woochan rounded the corner. The man straightened immediately, his expression pinched. “Sir, the door’s jammed. We tried prying it open with pliers, but it’s not budging at all, unless we somehow destroy it.”
“Move,” Woochan ordered, voice low but edged.
The guard stepped aside hesitantly. Woochan’s eyes scanned the hallway, landing on a heavy, ornate chair in the adjacent tea room. He went inside and grabbed it without thinking, yanking it close to the door. The wood felt solid and unyielding in his hands.
The guard watched nervously, hand twitching toward the door handle. “Sir, this is not safe for you — maybe we should —”
“Don’t interfere,” Woochan snapped. “Just step back.”
The guard froze, nodding quickly, but his unease was palpable.
He braced himself, lifting the chair like a battering ram, and slammed it against the door with a sharp, splintering crash. The lock groaned, but held. He adjusted, angling the chair differently, and struck again — harder this time.
“Sir — maybe I should —” the guard tried again, his voice tense, but Woochan cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.
“I said don’t interfere. Step back!”
A crack ran along the frame, splinters flying. Woochan didn’t pause, swinging the chair with precise, desperate force that burned his arms and made his knuckles sting until the door finally gave way with a loud, resounding thud.
Woochan dropped the chair immediately, chest heaving, and stepped inside.
The first thing that hit him was the heat.
The air inside the room was stifling, heavy with the faint scent of her perfume and something sour — sweat, maybe. The curtains were half-drawn, sunlight pooling weakly across the floor.
And then he saw her.
Youngseo lay sprawled across the bed, tangled in sheets that looked far too heavy, too suffocating. Her hair clung to her skin in dark, damp strands, glistening with sweat in the harsh light. Her face, pale and trembling, seemed impossibly small, swallowed by the vast expanse of blankets and pillows. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, a shallow, labored rhythm that made his heart constrict.
For a heartbeat, he just froze, unable to process the sight fully. The room, the bed, the faint groaning that had drawn him here — none of it registered immediately. All he could see was her: fragile and diminished, so unlike the composed, controlled woman he knew.
Then, his instincts overtook him. Every carefully measured thought, every self-imposed boundary, every rule he had repeated to himself since morning evaporated in an instant. His legs carried him forward before his mind even registered the motion.
He crossed the room in two steps, sitting on the edge of the bed. Up close, she looked worse — her skin flushed and glistening, her breaths shallow, uneven. He hesitated for half a second before pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.
The heat that met his skin made his stomach drop.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low, barely controlled. He adjusted the blankets, loosening them from her body, trying to let some air in.
“Miss Lee,” he breathed, voice low and urgent, but breaking somewhere along the edges. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands from her forehead to get a better look at her face. His heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic drum, as he scanned her expression for any sign of recognition.
“You!” His voice cracked through the air, sharp and commanding as he turned toward the guard who was still standing by the door, his expression pale. “Bring towels — ice packs, water, anything cold. And do it quick!”
The guard darted away immediately.
Youngseo’s head shifted weakly toward him at the sudden raise in his voice, a soft, broken sound escaping her lips.
Woochan froze again. For a moment, the sound didn’t register — it was too soft, too fragile, almost childlike. Then it sank in. She was trying to ask what happened.
“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “Miss Lee, can you hear me?”
Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open. A weak mumble slipped out, something he couldn’t quite catch.
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest tightening instead of easing.
“Don’t talk,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Just… stay still. Our family doctor is on the way, and my father made sure we got one that’s the best in his field. So just… stay put.”
Ahjumma rushed into the room with a bowl of cold water and a stack of towels. Woochan didn’t even look up as he took them from her, wringing one out and laying it gently against Youngseo’s forehead.
He could feel his pulse still racing — too fast, too uneven — but his movements stayed careful, deliberate.
She stirred faintly at the touch, turning her face toward the cool cloth. For a fleeting moment, her lips parted, and she whispered something barely audible.
“Woochan…”
He froze mid-motion, the towel slipping slightly from his fingers. His heart skipped a beat, a jolt that ran straight to the tight coil of anxiety in his chest.
Her voice was faint, hoarse, almost a whisper, but unmistakable. There was something in it that made the air in the room feel heavier, more intimate than it had ever been before.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, swallowing hard. “It’s me.”
And then it hit him — slowly at first. She had just called him Woochan. His own name, spoken by her lips, in her voice, sounded like a fracture in the carefully maintained distance between them.
He realized with a start that this was the first time she had ever used it. Not in passing, not by accident, not even in moments of irritation or frustration. Every interaction before had been measured, transactional — her voice crisp and formal, like a performance meant to keep him at arm’s length.
And now, lying there, sick and weakened, she had let that wall slip. Her exhaustion, her vulnerability, the way she had whispered his name — it was a bridge he had never expected to see, yet here it was, trembling but real.
A surge of something foreign and raw — (was it protectiveness?) — twisted in his chest. He wanted to respond, to tell her that everything would be fine, that he wouldn’t leave her side. But for a fleeting, shocking second, he didn’t. He just let the sound of his own name on her lips sink in, the weight of it pressing against the restrained part of himself that had always kept them at a safe distance apart.
A faint shuffle sounded from the corridor — hurried, hesitant, the soft drag of shoes over polished wood. Then came a knock, light but trembling, what remained of the doorframe, its uneven edge creaking under the pressure.
“Sir,” one of the maids said softly as she stepped in, wringing her hands in front of her apron. Her face was pale, her voice caught somewhere between fear and shame. Her eyes darted over the scene — the splintered frame, the shards of wood scattered across the floor, the overturned chair still lying on its side — before landing on the bed. The color drained from her face.
“Doctor Jang is here.”
Woochan didn’t turn at once. His gaze remained on Youngseo’s unmoving form, her breath shallow beneath the sheets. Only after a beat did he respond, voice even but low. “Come in.”
The maid dipped her head quickly, relief flickering briefly across her features before she hurried out again, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hall.
Doctor Jang entered briskly — a tall, middle-aged man in a pressed shirt and dark vest, a brown leathered medical bag clasped tightly in one hand. The faint scent of antiseptic followed him in, clean and sharp against the stale, fever-thick air. He paused just long enough to take in the wrecked doorframe, the broken chair, and Woochan standing beside the bed, his expression unreadable.
He stepped over the splintered threshold without a word, his gaze sweeping across the room in one efficient glance. For the briefest second, something flickered across his features — not quite surprise, but an acknowledgment that this was not an ordinary household call.
The smell hit him next — thick and stifling. The air was heavy with fever, tinged with salt and perfume that had gone sour in the heat. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight cutting through the curtains, turning the room into a muted haze of gold and grey. Somewhere beneath it all, the faint hum of the air conditioner struggled to push back the oppressive warmth.
The doctor’s eyes finally fell on Youngseo, and his posture shifted. The clinical sharpness in his gaze softened just slightly as he moved closer. Her hair clung to her damp skin, her lips dry and faintly parted. The sheet twisted around her legs, her body small and tense against the wide bed.
Woochan didn’t move, but the air around him seemed to sharpen. His stance reminded him of back when he was still in military service, as if he once again were a soldier awaiting orders — back straight and shoulders locked.
Doctor Jang finally set his bag down on the nightstand with a metallic click, the sound oddly loud in the quiet. He began unpacking instruments — a thermometer, a stethoscope, a few glass vials that gleamed faintly under the fading light.
As the doctor reached for the thermometer, Woochan’s gaze flicked briefly toward him, as if assessing his movements, then back to Youngseo. He said nothing.
The doctor pressed the thermometer beneath her arm and checked her pulse, his brow furrowing. “She’s burning up,” he murmured, half to himself. The faint beep that followed cut through the air.
When he looked up again, his voice carried a faint edge of reproach. “39.8 degree celcius.”
“Her temperature is dangerously high. This doesn’t happen in such a short amount of time. Pardon my… rudeness, but may I ask why I wasn’t called here sooner?”
Though the accusation in his tone hit him like a punch straight to the stomach, Woochan’s face remained impassive. “I only came back and found her like this not long ago. She’d been locked in this room since the afternoon. No one realized until it was too late.”
The doctor blinked once, clearly startled. “Locked in? So you’re telling me she’s been unattended for hours?” His voice rose, edged with disbelief.
Woochan’s eyes didn’t waver. “The Madam values her privacy,” he said quietly. “No one thought to disturb her.”
At that, Ahjumma — who had been hovering by the doorway — broke down. Her voice trembled as she covered her mouth. “I should’ve forced the door open… I thought she was just resting — I didn’t realize —” Tears slipped down her cheeks, wrinkling her apron. “Oh, Miss Youngseo…”
The doctor sighed, a weary sound, as he prepared the syringe. “Crying won’t help her now. We need to bring the fever down quickly.”
He moved with as much clinical efficiency as expected of him — checking her pulse again, rolling up her sleeve, swabbing the skin. His tone softened slightly as he spoke, more to himself than to them.
“She’ll be fine,” the doctor said after a moment, his voice settling into a steadier rhythm. “It’s a viral infection that’s causing her high fever and dehydration, which is nothing uncommon this season. She just needs time. I’ll prescribe some antibiotics and some paracetamol so make sure she takes them every six hours.”
Doctor Jang then prepared a syringe, his movements deft and unflinching. Woochan watched in silence from a few feet away, his back straight, his hands still locked behind him. His gaze followed every motion, but he didn’t dare move closer.
He wanted to. The thought came like a pulse beneath his ribs, a subtle, dangerous urge to reach out — to cool her forehead, to steady her arm and tell her that it’s going to be fine, to do something. But the weight of restraint held him still.
He wasn’t here as anything more than what he was required to.
So he stood, motionless, the light catching faintly in his dark eyes as he watched the doctor work.
The injection went in smoothly. Youngseo flinched at the sting, a faint whimper escaping her lips — a small, broken sound that seemed to tear through the silence. Woochan’s hands twitched at his sides but didn’t lift. He exhaled once, slowly, and that seemed to be the only outward sign of reaction from him.
After stowing away the used syringe into a biohazard bag, Doctor Jang paused, glancing toward Woochan. “She’ll need someone here through the night. The fever could spike again.”
“I’ll stay in her room and watch her,” Woochan said simply. His voice was almost mechanical.
The doctor studied him for a second — eyes narrowing slightly, the faintest crease forming between his brows. Woochan could feel the weight of that gaze, heavy with quiet scrutiny. Perhaps it was his composure — too restrained, too still — that made the older man hesitate. The air between them felt suspended, brittle.
But then Doctor Jang spoke, his tone soft but edged with something curious, almost probing.
“... You do not sleep in the same room as your wife?”
Woochan’s expression didn’t shift, though something flickered behind his eyes — a brief, imperceptible pause. He could feel Ahjumma’s anxious stare from the corner of the room, could sense the faint tremor in her clasped hands. The truth hovered close to his tongue, heavy and inconvenient.
“Yes,” he said instead. “I do. I just call this her room because… well, she uses it more than I do. You know me. Plenty of late night meetings and paperwork. I am always busy at the office, since you do not seem to know.”
The last sentence seemed to take Doctor Jang aback, even though it’s been known Woochan had a slight tinge of hotheaded-ness to him since he was his doctor as a child. The doctor seemed to study him a moment longer, his brow lifting slightly at the contradiction between the man’s tone and his demeanor. But Woochan held his gaze, unblinking. There was no tremor in his voice, only the faint echo of control — that particular kind born of habit, of needing to appear composed when everything inside him was burning.
Doctor Jang gave a short hum, perhaps unconvinced, but unwilling to pry any further. “Well then, I must say, she has been through enough unnecessary suffering,” he said, glancing down at the woman on the bed. “A fever this high, and locked in by herself without care — it’s a wonder she’s still conscious at all.”
Woochan’s eyes flickered toward Youngseo’s face — pale and damp beneath the stray strands of hair plastered to her skin. His hands remained at his sides, fingers curling slightly, restrained. He fought the urge to adjust the sheet that had slipped from her shoulder.
Woochan’s gaze stayed on the doctor, cool and steady, as though bracing himself against the professional judgment he was subjecting himself to. “I called as soon as I realised,” he said simply, crossing his arms in defiance. “With all due respect, Doctor Jang, there is no use lecturing me on matters that have already passed.”
Doctor Jang exhaled sharply, a silent admission that he had perhaps pressed too far. The subtle shift in Woochan’s expression — that unflinching calm that carried the weight of warning — was enough to tell him to stop. He had been their family physician long enough to recognise the difference between Woochan’s composure and threat.
In truth, he had his long-standing relationship with the Jo family to thank for his restraint — and perhaps for his continued intact nose. Were it not for that thread of loyalty, he suspected the young man before him might have done more than simply fix him with that cold, level stare.
The older man pinched the bridge of his nose before packing his instruments and moving to stand. “She’ll recover, given time. And do monitor her temperature. If it passes forty-one, call me immediately.”
“I’ll see to it,” Woochan replied, relaxing his shoulders after what seemed like forever.
As Doctor Jang finished packing his instruments and started towards the door to leave, he lingered for a moment, taking in the scene once more — Youngseo pale and resting beneath the sheets, Ahjumma quietly weeping, and Woochan standing beside the bed, almost painfully still.
Abruptly, he took a step closer, his movement deliberate but gentle. Reaching out, he placed a firm hand on Woochan’s shoulder. The older man’s grip was warm and reassuring, an anchor in the tension that had filled the room all evening.
“You’ve grown into a responsible young man,” Doctor Jang said quietly, his voice carrying both pride and a soft note of relief.
Woochan’s hands stayed clasped behind his back. He didn’t respond; the acknowledgement itself was enough. The weight of the hand on his shoulder lingered longer than expected, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone after all.
Doctor Jang gave a short nod, then pulled back, adjusting his bag. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on her again. Have a good night, Chairman.”
Woochan inclined his head once, a single motion that conveyed understanding without words. The doctor gave one last glance at the room before stepping out.
As the door clicked softly behind him, the room seemed to exhale all at once — not in relief, but in something heavier, denser. The quiet that followed was thick, oppressive, filled with the muted sound of Ahjumma’s stifled sobs. She stood near the dresser, wringing the hem of her apron, her shoulders trembling under the weight of guilt. Every choked breath that escaped her seemed to echo in the still air, merging with the faint, uneven rhythm of Youngseo’s breathing.
Woochan finally tore his gaze from Youngseo and turned toward her.
He moved closer and reached for Ahjumma’s trembling hands. His dark eyes fixed on her, his voice low, lacking the softness she might have expected from someone trying to comfort her.
“Ahjumma,” he said, voice steady, almost detached. “Look, crying doesn’t help her. And it’s not your fault, okay? I gave an order and you obeyed it, so this… this mess is all on me. I know your heart aches for her, but it’s no use crying over something that has already happened. For now, let’s focus on what needs to be done.”
She sniffled, lifting her head. Her eyes were red, her shoulders trembling.
“Come on, you go and get some rest. It’s been a long day for everyone.”
Slowly, Ahjumma nodded, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, and then wiping her hands on her apron. Ahjumma straightened, taking a steadying breath. She moved quietly to the sideboard, gathering the towels and cold compresses. Her sobs had ceased, but her guilt was still there, lingering, however it was now folded into a renewed sense of purpose.
“L-Let me at least get a new batch of towels for her.”
“Ahjumma, I can handle it. Just go downstairs and have dinner and then get some sleep.”
“But I feel —”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Woochan said, his tone carrying the weight of authority, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed a subtle amusement. It was the kind of tone that made it impossible to tell whether he was joking or deadly serious.
Ahjumma hesitated at first, her hands still carrying the towels and wet compresses. Still, she obediently dropped them on the dresser near the door, next to the water pitchers she had arranged earlier. With a small nod, Ahjumma slipped out into the hallway, leaving the room again under Woochan’s watchful care.
Woochan returned his gaze to Youngseo, eyes scanning the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremor in her fingers — all under the same detached, calculated scrutiny. His mind, though tense, ran on methodical logic: temperature checks, fluid intake, positioning to prevent heat buildup, anticipating when she might stir. Every instinct in his body screamed to reach out, to at least brush the damp strands of hair from her face that he was sure was annoying her more than it annoyed him, but he forced himself to resist.
…What the fuck did I get myself into?
The thought flickered unbidden through the edges of his mind. Spending the whole night here, by her side, watching her like a hawk over every shallow breath — it was foreign. Uncomfortable, to say the least. But now, with her so small, so fragile, laying on her bed in front of him, every instinct in him screamed to close the space between them, to shield her from the fever and the panic and the helplessness that clung to the room like smoke.
…And yet, beneath it all, a quiet unease throbbed, unacknowledged. Watching her like this, in a distance that was the closest they had ever been since they exchanged rings during their wedding, tugged at something he had long denied. But he couldn’t let it. He had spent too long training himself to separate heart from reason.
No.
He would not falter. He would not let emotion dictate his actions. Not now. Not ever.
Notes:
hello! 10k+ words and not beta-ed lol i hope i managed to capture woochan's mind and heart battling the fawkkk out nicely!!! #internalconflict oooo how slow-burn of them...
the first 2 chapters were more of youngseo's pov so yay finally a woochan pov! u guys *finally* get a small glimpse into his conflicting and messyyyyy mind!!
next chapter will be abit delayed as i'm dealing with finals season rn! i pre-wrote the first 2 and a half chapters before publishing this work so the updates were pretty fast lol but next chapter onwards unfortunately is still a blank doc in my drafts ...
as always ty for reading, i hope u guys enjoyed!
Chapter Text
The night stretched thin, creeping up quietly and unrelenting.
Woochan sat on the wooden chair at the desk opposite the bed, its hard edges pressing uncomfortably into his back, but he didn’t move. The room was dim now, the light from the lamp softened to a low amber glow that flickered against the fever-thick air. Youngseo lay still beneath the sheets, her face turned slightly to the side, strands of damp hair clinging to her temple. Every so often, she stirred — a faint murmur, a shift in her hand — and each time, his eyes lifted immediately.
He had placed the basin of water on the nightstand, a towel folded neatly beside it. Each hour, as Doctor Jang had instructed, he replaced the cloth on her forehead, wringing it out with as much precision as he could muster. His movements were impersonal — the kind of care stripped of affection, reduced to its functional form. He avoided touching her skin any more than necessary; and, even when he did, his hand moved lightly as if he were handling something fragile but distant.
He checked her temperature without a thermometer, gauging by the heat of her skin against the back of his hand, counting the seconds between her breaths. It wasn’t tenderness — at least, that’s what he told himself — it was observation. A man keeping a patient alive, and nothing more.
Outside, the wind pressed faintly against the windows. Somewhere in the corridor, a clock struck eleven.
He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. His sleeves were rolled to the forearm, the veins along his hands visible under the low light. He rubbed them once, absently, trying to dispel the ache that had settled in his joints.
He had not planned to stay the night. When he first broke through the door, when he found her trembling and burning under those sheets, the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. But the doctor’s words echoed still — Monitor her closely.
And so here he was.
Woochan’s gaze drifted briefly to her face. Though sick, she still managed to look impossibly composed — the kind of beauty that didn’t fade but dimmed, softened by her fever’s haze. Her lashes fluttered, the faintest motion breaking the rhythm of her stillness. He caught himself watching too long and turned away, jaw tightening.
He reached for the pocket logbook Doctor Jang had left on the nightstand. On it, he had begun to log the hours — a methodical list of temperature estimates, medication times, changes in her breathing. It helped keep his mind busy.
“Eleven p.m.,” he murmured under his breath, jotting down the time. “Administer … next dose of Paracetamol… in three hours.”
His voice sounded strange in the silence, as if he were talking to himself just to fill the emptiness of the room.
He stood, picking up the glass of water and setting it near the bedside. The ice inside had already melted, condensation trailing down the glass in slow rivulets. He replaced it with a fresh one from the tray Ahjumma had left before retiring, then adjusted the curtains to let in a sliver of moonlight.
Behind him, Youngseo stirred again. Her brow furrowed, a quiet sound escaping her lips — soft and pained. Woochan froze mid-motion, his hand still on the curtain. For a moment, instinct nearly overrode reason; he wanted to go to her, steady her. But he didn’t.
Woochan turned back only when the sound subsided. Her breathing evened again, shallow but stable. He exhaled slowly, letting his hand fall to his side. “You’ll be fine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You just need to make it through the night.”
He returned to the chair, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes remained on her, unwavering.
She looked so at peace this way that he almost envied her.
Then, the stillness broke.
A faint rustle of fabric, followed by a shallow intake of breath. Youngseo stirred, her brows tightening as if her body was fighting its way out of the fever’s haze. Her lips parted, dry and pale.
“...What..?” The word rasped from her, barely a whisper, rough as sandpaper against her throat.
Woochan’s head lifted at once, his chair creaking under the sudden shift of weight. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Her eyelids fluttered open, sluggishly at first, pupils contracting at the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The world came into focus in fragments — the edge of the nightstand, the basin of water, the scent of medicine lingering faintly in the air.
And then — him.
Youngseo’s breath caught.
Woochan was sitting there, impossibly composed despite the hour — sleeves rolled, tie gone, and she noticed the top buttons of his shirt were undone as she tried not to stare too long at his now-exposed collarbone. His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady but distant, like he’d been carved out of the dimness itself.
“C-Chairman Jo,” Youngseo’s voice trembled around the title, disbelieving. She blinked a few times, as if trying to make sense of the sight before her. “W-what are you d-doing here? What happened…?”
Woochan didn’t answer right away. His eyes met hers — as if thinking of the right response — then flicked briefly to the damp towel that had slipped from her forehead. He extended his arm slowly, the movement deliberate yet unhurried, as though testing the distance between them. The space between them felt fragile, too easily disturbed. When his hand came close, she flinched, her breath catching at the sudden nearness. He paused for the briefest moment, eyes flicking toward her face, but whatever thought passed through him, he buried it just as quickly.
Without comment, he reached for the cloth resting on her forehead, fingers steady and sure. The faint sound of water droplets dripping onto the floor filled the silence as he crossed to the basin. He wrung the towel out with quiet focus.
When he turned back, his steps were careful. He leaned in just enough to replace the cool towel on her forehead, his touch precise, impersonal — or at least it should have been. But the warmth of his hand lingered, brushing against her hair as he adjusted the edges, and she could feel the faint tremor of hesitation before he withdrew.
Youngseo’s fingers tightened slightly around the blanket, the fabric crumpling beneath her grip as she tried to steady herself. Her head was still foggy — spinning, really — a haze of fractured memories from earlier in the day. She remembered lying down sometime in the late afternoon, the light still filtering through the curtains, soft and golden. But everything after that had dissolved into a blur: the heaviness in her limbs, the faint echo of voices, the cool touch on her skin that she had half-convinced herself was part of a dream.
Now, however, there was no mistaking it. Woochan was here — actually here — sitting quietly by her bedside as though this had always been his place. Woochan, her contract husband, who for the past week had spoken to her only out of obligation, his words clipped and impersonal. The same man who had moved around their shared space like a polite stranger, careful never to cross boundaries or invite familiarity.
Yet tonight, something in him was different. The usual distance that defined him — the precise, almost clinical reserve — had softened around the edges. His movements were still controlled, but there was an unfamiliar gentleness threaded through them, a quiet deliberation that unsettled her far more than any harsh word could have.
Youngseo watched him in the dim light, the way the shadows caught along his profile, the calm focus in his eyes as he adjusted the towel on her head. It was all so careful — too careful. As if he didn’t trust himself to touch her otherwise.
And that was the worst part. Not the silence, not the confusion, not even the pounding in her temples — but the realization that he was taking care of her. Not out of duty, not out of convenience, but …something else she couldn’t figure out. Something that felt dangerously close to kindness.
She didn’t know whether to be grateful or afraid of it.
He sat back down on the chair without a word, his gaze fixed somewhere past her. Her question still hung in the silence.
“Why are you —” she tried again, her tone laced with both confusion and unease. “You’re not supposed to —”
“...You fell ill,” he cut in evenly, his voice a low monotone that seemed to steady the room itself. “You were burning up when I found you. The fact that you decided to lock yourself in your room didn’t help things, either.” Woochan gestured to the half damaged doorframe and the splinters still scattered across the floor.
Youngseo’s eyes widened with horror at what he was implying. “You broke the …”
She couldn’t even finish the sentence. The words caught somewhere between disbelief and the dull ache in her chest. The reality of it all hit too suddenly, leaving her mind scrambling to catch up while her head throbbed with the effort of trying to make sense of it.
“The doctor came and left orders for you to be monitored closely.” Woochan said instead, trying to shift the conversation to another direction. He was certainly not going to admit that he’d kicked the bedroom door down just to get to her. It sounded… wrong.
But it was the correct explanation, so why did it?
“Why couldn’t Ahjumma —”
“She’s not really in the best position to take care of you right now,” Woochan sighed and ran a hand through his hair, as if talking to Youngseo was so tiresome that it depleted most of the energy in his body.
She stared at him, still dazed. She wanted to ask about Ahjumma, but she felt like there were far more important questions to be asking him right now.
“You were the one that… found me?”
“Yes.” Woochan didn’t elaborate further. His attention shifted to the notepad on the nightstand as he reached to grab it, pen poised as though he were about to record something trivial. He crossed over to pick it up, then returned to where he was seated at her desk.
For a long moment, she simply looked at him — the man who, just a day ago, she’d barely spoken to beyond necessity. The man she shared a last name with, but nothing else.
“You’ve been here… all night?” she asked quietly.
His pen didn’t stop moving. “Does it matter?”
Youngseo’s throat tightened. “... It does to me.”
Woochan looked up at her, his eyes unreadable in the low light. “Then yes,” he said after a beat. “I’ve been here.”
Youngseo blinked, as if the answer only deepened her disbelief. He shouldn’t have been here. Not in her room. Not beside her bed. Not in the kind of silence that felt too intimate for the distance they’d spent weeks building.
The way he said it — flat, deliberate — made something in her chest twist. She wasn’t sure if it was gratitude, or resentment, or something that blurred the line between both.
She looked away, the faint tremor in her fingers betraying her exhaustion.
“You breached the contract.”
He didn’t respond this time. Only the faint scratch of his pen filled the silence as he wrote the next line in the logbook:
11:05 p.m. — Patient has awakened. Fever seems to have slightly reduced.
The act felt almost clinical, as if writing the words would keep the situation — and her — at a safe distance.
“I said,” Youngseo repeated, her tone sharper now, though the fatigue laced through it softened the edges. “You breached the contract.”
Her voice wavered — not from fear, but from the strain of forcing calm into her words when her body was too weak to match her will. She wanted him to meet her eyes, to acknowledge it, to say something — anything — that would make sense of why he was sitting there, tending to her as if he hadn’t spent the past few weeks avoiding any sign of closeness.
When he did speak, his voice was low — steady, but frayed at the edges.
“I’m aware.”
That was all. Two words was all that he could spare her, apparently.
But Youngseo caught the slight hesitation before he said them — the almost imperceptible pause that gave him away.
She studied him through half-lidded eyes, taking in the faint crease between his brows, the way his shoulders stiffened as if bracing for an argument. It struck her then, with quiet dissonance, how he could sound so calm while looking anything but.
Her throat tightened. “Then why are you still here?”
The question came out quieter than she intended — not accusatory, but brittle, the kind of fragility that came from exhaustion rather than anger. He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to his hands. His fingers flexed once before curling back into stillness.
“Because,” Woochan said, almost under his breath, “like I just said, you fell ill.”
Youngseo’s lips parted, a faint laugh escaping — humourless and thin. “That’s hardly grounds for a contract breach. You really should know better. One would think the youngest chairperson in South Korea’s corporate history would exercise better judgment.”
At this, Woochan finally set the pen down, the faint click of metal against the desk splitting the stillness like a pulse. For a long while, he didn’t move — didn’t even look at her — his thumb resting against the spine of the logbook as though the cool, hard edge could anchor him.
“Is that so?” he said quietly. “Then perhaps the youngest chairperson in South Korea’s corporate history should remind his wife that she would have died if not for him.”
Youngseo froze, the blanket tightening in her grip as her heart skipped a beat.
Wife?
The word replayed in her mind, each one striking her with unexpected force. Her breath hitched, and a strange warmth blossomed in her chest, fluttering like wings against her ribs. Even her mind felt tangled, caught between disbelief and a hesitant, thrilling flutter she couldn’t quite name.
He leaned back slightly, arms crossing with practiced composure, as if nothing about him acknowledging her as his wife for the first time in front of her was anything but unusual. “However, if this bothers you that much, I’ll be sure to leak this incident to those imbecile reporters for their next big scoop — Heir to Jo conglomerate breaches contract by ensuring Presidential Spokesperson wife doesn’t die from a fever. That should make a fine headline, don’t you think?”
Youngseo’s eyes darted away, a sudden heat creeping up her neck and settling across her cheeks. Her fingers fumbled with the edge of the blanket, twisting it between them as if to anchor herself. “I —” she began, her voice faltering, thinner than she intended, “First of all, what do you mean I could have died? And second of all, I don’t… I mean, it’s not like I care what the reporters think, anyway.”
“It’s what our doctor said,” Woochan replied simply, “that your temperature was dangerously high. I’m sure death was already knocking on your door. And somehow, I doubt the reporters’ opinions matter much to you after yesterday’s little … spectacle.”
Youngseo’s gaze dropped to the floor at the mention of that terrible excuse of a media briefing, refusing to meet his, though she could feel the sting of her own embarrassment burning hotter with every passing second. “It’s just…” she stammered, trying and failing to regain her composure. “You’re impossible.”
Then, as if trying to stand her ground, Youngseo tried to push herself up, struggling, and then her arms gave out almost immediately. Woochan caught the movement, but he didn’t rush over to help. He simply watched, one brow lifting slightly.
“Don’t move,” he says, sighing. “You’ll make it worse.”
A flicker of something crossed her face — irritation, maybe, or embarrassment. “You could… at least sound a little less like you’re scolding a child.”
Woochan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Would you prefer the youngest chairperson in South Korea’s corporate history to lie to you instead?”
Youngseo’s brows knit. “You don’t have to —” She sighs before continuing, “Okay, first off, you can stop with the whole youngest chairperson thing. And second of all, you really don’t need to be doing all this because I —”
“I do,” he cut in, his tone clipped. “Because someone has to keep you from making the same stupid mistakes. Just focus on getting well.”
The silence that followed was thick, fragile. The only sound in the room came from the faint hum of the air conditioning — until the landline on the bedside table rang suddenly, the tone sharp and jarring.
Youngseo winced. Woochan’s eyes flicked toward the phone, then back to her. Neither moved.
It rang again.
“Well, are you going to answer that?” she asked, her voice weaker now, the edges of her words fraying.
Her hands trembled slightly as she tried to sit up once again, the effort almost too much. The sheets rustled around her as she struggled against them — one elbow braced behind her, the other hand clutching at the headboard for balance. Her body felt heavy, uncooperative, each movement pulling at muscles that seemed to have forgotten how to obey.
Woochan’s gaze flicked toward her immediately, his expression unreadable but tense — the kind of quiet, restrained reaction that said more than any reprimand could. He half-rose from the chair, as if to stop her, then froze mid-motion.
She exhaled shakily, back pressed against the headboard, trying to mask the faint tremor in her arms. Her breathing was shallow but determined — she wanted, needed, to reclaim at least a shred of dignity after lying there helpless under his watch.
When she finally lifted her eyes to meet his, the lamp’s glow caught the sheen of sweat along her temple, and something defiant flickered beneath her exhaustion.
“Are you going to answer that?” she repeated — quieter this time, but sharper. The question wasn’t just about the phone anymore; it was a challenge, a refusal to be treated like she was fragile.
Ignoring the incessant phone ringing, Woochan decided he’d want to have the last say before picking it up. He sat back down and leaned slightly in the chair, crossing his arms. “You should really start learning how to mind your own business. Had I not just said to focus on your recovery?”
She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, you’re still the same —”
“Don’t,” he warned quietly. “You are in no state to argue with me.”
Her eyes met his — tired, glassy, but still burning with defiance. “And you are in no position to act like you know what’s best for me.”
“You see that? That’s your problem,” he said finally, voice low, cutting through the room like ice. “Even when you are sick like this, you’d rather fight than rest.”
“Oh, so now you’re acting like you give a fuck about me?” Youngseo’s voice cracked, ragged and sharp, tearing through the dim, fevered air of the room. Each word laced with exhaustion and indignation. Her cheeks burned with heat that wasn’t just fever, and her fists clenched weakly under the sheets, trembling with both weakness and rage.
“Jo Woochan, you absolutely disgust me, you know that?” The words spilled out, a torrent she had no energy left to hold back. Her voice rose slightly, hoarse, jagged, echoing against the walls like broken glass. “You… you sit there, like this — acting like you care — but all you ever do is treat me as if I am a nuisance, a constant annoyance you just can’t be bothered with. Every interaction I’ve had with you has made it so clear to me that you think I’m just … in the way. And now — look at you; now you hover over me, pretending to be some kind of savior, as if your cold, calculated attention is a kindness!”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, fury mingling with exhaustion. “Newsflash, Jo Woochan — I don’t want this any more than you do. I didn’t choose to be trapped in this marriage, in this life, in this house with a husband who’s always made me feel like I’m a problem. I don’t want your attention, your hovering, your rules… nothing you have ever given me!”
She paused, chest heaving, sweat matting her hair to her forehead. Her eyes, fever-glazed and shimmering with unshed tears, locked onto him. “Do you even know what it’s like? To feel trapped in your own home? Like a prisoner?”
The phone rang again, longer this time. Woochan’s jaw tightened, the sound grating against the fragile calm of the night. He watched her hands tremble against the sheets, curling and unclenching as her words continued to slice through the quiet.
“So don’t act like I should thank you for just existing in the same room as me!”
She’s furious at me… but she has every right to be.
He clenched his jaw slightly, feeling the weight of her accusation settle between them like a physical presence.
She thinks I’m an asshole.
She’s right.
I am.
The chair beneath him pressed into his back, uncomfortable and unyielding, mirroring the tight knot of tension coiled in his chest. He felt the phantom weight of all the weeks he had imposed his authority over her, all the moments he had restrained himself from kindness, from softness, from acknowledging the fact that she was human and vulnerable, not just an obligation to be managed.
I’ve always been this way.
And yet now, with her sitting there, the tips of her ears red with anger (or fever, he couldn’t quite tell), a sharp ache coursed through him — not regret exactly — but a recognition of the consequences of his coldness. The air between them was thick, stifling, heavy with unspoken words and shared history. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, each shallow breath a stark reminder that she could collapse in an instant. He could not let her.
But he could not let himself care, either. It was wrong. It was so, so wrong on so many levels.
“You’re not going to say anything, huh?” Youngseo let out a shuddering breath, her chest rising unevenly beneath the sheets. Her fingers clenched at the blanket, knuckles white, “You must think I am delirious.”
Woochan’s gaze didn’t leave her face. For a long moment, nothing moved except the faint flicker of lamplight across her fevered skin.
Then — unexpectedly — the words tumbled out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
He froze immediately, as if the sound itself startled him.
FUCK.
The thought hit him like a jolt, sharp and unwelcome. His throat felt tight, his jaw clenched, and for the briefest second, he looked genuinely disoriented by his own confession.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfu —
I did not mean to say that.
What the fuck are you doing, Jo Woochan?
Youngseo’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and incredulity overtaking the lingering fever haze. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again, searching for a response that wouldn’t come. “…What?”
Before either of them could speak, the phone rang again — shrill, insistent, cutting straight through the fragile quiet that had settled after Woochan’s unexpected apology. The sound seemed louder this time, sharper, as if deliberately reminding them that the outside world still existed.
Woochan’s eyes flicked toward it, jaw tightening, the muscle near his temple pulsing once. Youngseo’s gaze followed, unfocused, weary — but before either could move, the faint sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway.
At first it was just one set — quick, heavy — then several others followed, overlapping in a panicked rhythm. There were murmured voices too, urgent and low, leaking through the cracked door. The indistinct words — “Found her,” “She’s awake,” “The Chairman—” — merged into a rush of tension that made Woochan’s spine go rigid.
Then — silence.
The kind that stretched, brittle and expectant, seconds before a storm breaks.
And then the door exploded open.
The wood slammed against the wall with such violence that the frame rattled and a splintered piece broke free, clattering onto the marble floor.
“YOUNGSEO!”
Assemblyman Lee’s voice tore through the room like a thunderclap. Deep, commanding, laced with both fury and relief — but mostly fury. The sheer force of it seemed to suck the air from the space.
Woochan’s head snapped toward the door, every muscle in his body tensing as though bracing for impact.
The maids behind the Assemblyman froze mid-step, their faces drained of colour, one of them clutching the still-ringing landline to her chest as though afraid to let it make another sound. The scent of expensive cologne and cold night air swept in behind them, mixing with the sterile tang of medicine and fever.
Youngseo flinched violently at the sound of her father’s voice. Her body curled inward instinctively, small and fragile against the mountain of pillows, her breath catching as the fever-glow on her cheeks deepened.
“Father…?” The word came out broken, hoarse — barely more than a whisper — as though speaking it might shatter whatever thin layer of calm she had left.
Assemblyman Lee didn’t respond immediately. His eyes swept across the room — the dim lamp, the untouched water glass, the discarded towel on the floor — before landing on her. His expression hardened instantly, fury tightening his jaw.
Woochan rose to his feet without thinking, instinct overriding thought.
The silence between the three of them hung heavy before Assemblyman Lee finally spoke again, his voice like thunder rolling through the night.
“Do you have any idea what kind of chaos you’ve caused?”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
“First, you create an absolute spectacle during yesterday’s media briefing — a public embarrassment I had to spend the entire morning cleaning up. I called in every favour, spoke to every contact I could to contain the damage you caused.” Assemblyman Lee’s voice was cold, controlled — the kind of calm that made his fury even more severe. “And just when I think the matter has been dealt with, I receive word from the Chief of Staff that you’ve been ignoring calls from the Blue House since midday.”
He took a step closer, each word weighted, deliberate. “Do you have any idea what that looks like? What it says about me — about this family?” His tone cut through the air like a blade. “How reckless, how utterly irresponsible can you be, Youngseo? Must you sabotage everything I’ve built just because you are unable control yourself for a single day?”
Youngseo’s lips parted, but no sound came at first — just a rasp of air against her throat. She forced herself to sit up a little, her hands trembling as she steadied herself on the blanket. “I wasn’t—” she began, voice raw and uneven. “I wasn’t ignoring anyone. I was sick. I… I was unconscious since afternoon.”
The older man took a slow step forward, each movement deliberate, controlled. “Do you understand the chaos you caused? We were supposed to schedule another press conference today with you, explaining and formally apologising for the events of yesterday, but thanks to your no-show, it had to be cancelled. And yet again, I had to pull many strings to get the press to stop talking.”
The silence that followed his outburst rang in Woochan’s ears. It wasn’t just noise that had been silenced — it was air, warmth, the fragile pulse of the room itself.
He stood just off to the side, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that was almost military, but his knuckles had gone white. From where he stood, he could see the slight tremor in Youngseo’s fingers as she clutched the blanket, her face pale and damp with fever. The way she tried — futilely — to hold her father’s gaze made something twist inside him.
He knew this tone.
He’d heard it before — from commanding officers, from corporate executives, from the kind of men who believed volume wasn’t necessary when authority could slice with precision. But this wasn’t a boardroom. This was a daughter, vulnerable and fever-stricken, being carved open by her own father’s disappointment.
Assemblyman Lee’s eyes burned into her as if he were looking at a subordinate who had failed a national mission, not his only daughter. “As if orchestrating this whole marriage with the Jo family was not a privilege enough for you,” he said, voice rising now, hard and relentless. “You decide to vanish in the middle of your responsibilities? You treat this arrangement like it’s beneath you? You think you can act like a child when the world is watching?”
Youngseo flinched as his voice deepened, cold and steady, the way only a man accustomed to commanding rooms could make it. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice faltering, “but Father, I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I didn’t even have the strength to —”
Woochan’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering along the edge of his cheek. His instinct was to step forward — to say something, anything — but he didn’t. Not yet. He’d learned long ago that men like Assemblyman Lee only grew more dangerous when challenged too soon.
He shifted his weight slightly, his eyes moving between them. Youngseo’s shoulders had drawn inward, her hands gripping the duvet as though bracing herself against invisible blows. Her father’s shadow loomed over her, long and sharp beneath the warm light of the bedside lamp.
Assemblyman Lee exhaled sharply through his nose, straightening his jacket with the flick of a wrist, his composure returning. “Do you even know how many people were waiting on you today? How many had to be reassured that the Lee family still maintains its dignity?”
Youngseo’s throat bobbed, her voice breaking as she whispered, “I never meant to humiliate you, Father. I just — I couldn’t even get out of bed —”
Woochan’s fingers twitched at his side. He could hear the desperation in her voice, that trembling edge she always tried so hard to hide. It struck him then — she wasn’t afraid of her father’s power. She was afraid of failing him.
“Enough.” Her father’s voice sliced through again, louder this time. “Do you think the public will care that you were sick? That you were unconscious? They’ll only remember that you didn’t show up. That I raised a daughter too fragile to stand by her family name.”
Assemblyman Lee’s glare flicked briefly toward Woochan, then past him — sweeping across the room in a slow, deliberate survey, as if taking stock of every offensive detail.
His eyes landed on the basin of water on the nightstand, the damp towel draped over its edge. Then the small pile of medicine bottles and the untouched glass of water beside the bed.
All unmistakable signs of illness, or, in his eyes, weakness.
His expression hardened. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, almost to himself, before his gaze snapped back to Youngseo. “Is this what you’ve become?”
The question wasn’t shouted — it didn’t need to be. The quiet contempt in his voice was far more cutting than rage.
“You’re lying here, pale and feverish, in a house that bears the Jo name. Do you have any idea what kind of image this paints?” He took another step forward, the polished soles of his shoes clicking sharply against the marble. “The Lee family’s daughter, bedridden like some frail invalid — what will people say when they find out? That you couldn’t handle a little pressure? That you broke down the moment you were challenged by some puny entertainment reporters?”
He looked around again, his eyes narrowing at the towel on the floor, the faint disorder in the room — the kind that comes only from panic and care. “And this —” he gestured vaguely to the nightstand, the sheets, the air itself, “this display of weakness, this mess, is what the staff of this house have to see? What your husband has to see?”
The last word came out laced with disdain, as if even acknowledging Woochan’s presence was an irritation.
Youngseo swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the blanket. “I didn’t ask anyone to see me like this,” she whispered. “I didn’t even ask him to stay.”
Her father’s gaze cut sharply toward her again, his nostrils flaring. “You shouldn’t even have given him the opportunity,” he said coldly. “A Lee should never look small — not to the press, not to the staff, and certainly not to her husband.”
Woochan, who had remained silent by the window, finally moved. The motion was slow — almost cautious — but the air in the room shifted with him. Even the faint hum of the air conditioning seemed to fade as his footsteps fell against the hardwood.
He stopped beside the foot of the bed, his eyes level, his expression unreadable. The dim light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the shadows around his eyes — exhaustion, yes, but more than that, restraint. He had been holding his tongue for far too long.
“Your daughter is not well,” he said finally. His tone was calm, but each word carried a quiet weight, deliberate and precise. “If you have more to say, it can wait until she’s recovered.”
The room froze.
Assemblyman Lee turned toward him, disbelief flickering first — then fury, quick and hot. “You will not interfere,” he snapped, his voice cutting like a whip. “This is between me and my daughter.”
Woochan’s hands tightened behind his back for the briefest second — the only outward sign of emotion he allowed himself. He didn’t flinch, nor did he look away. When he spoke again, his voice was steady, even softer than before, but it carried an edge that made the older man’s words falter for a beat.
“With all due respect, Assemblyman — she is also my wife,” he said. “And if you fail to see how sick your daughter is right now, then allow me to remind you: you are the one who insisted on this arrangement. At the very least, allow me to uphold my end properly.”
The air cracked.
Tension coiled, invisible but palpable, stretching between the two men like wire drawn too tight.
Woochan could feel it — the pulse of defiance under his skin, the thrum of anger he kept buried. His father-in-law’s authority pressed against him like a wall, but he refused to bend. Not this time.
He saw Youngseo from the corner of his eye — small and fevered, trembling as her father’s shadow loomed. Her lips were parted, but no sound came. She looked… cornered. Vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be. And shocked that he even spoke up.
And maybe that was what broke his composure. Not affection — he wasn’t foolish enough to think that’s what this was — but something quieter, heavier. A kind of duty that had become too real to ignore.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the maids by the door dared not breathe.
Assemblyman Lee’s expression hardened. He stepped closer, his shadow spilling across the floor toward Woochan. “You seem to have misunderstood your role in this arrangement, Mr. Jo,” he said coolly. “This marriage may have your name on the contract, but make no mistake — I remain the one who decides what’s best for my daughter, not you.”
Woochan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then perhaps you should start by deciding to let her rest,” he said quietly.
Lee’s eyes flashed. “Watch your tone.”
“I am.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the maids by the door dared not breathe.
Assemblyman Lee drew himself taller, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. “You forget yourself, Woochan. You think standing up like this to me gives you the right to speak to me like an equal?”
“It seems you are the one forgetting something, Assemblyman Lee,” Woochan said, his tone as even as before — but the undercurrent in his voice shifted, firmer, more defined. “You are currently standing in my estate. Under my roof.”
Assemblyman Lee’s eyes narrowed, disbelief flashing across his features. For a heartbeat, he looked almost taken aback — no one ever spoke to him like that, least of all someone who was decades younger than him. But Woochan’s voice left no room for misinterpretation.
“Do not delude yourself, Woochan. This arrangement was meant to stabilize reputations, not blur boundaries.” The assemblyman’s lips thinned, the faintest twitch betraying his indignation. “And, might I remind you, you are most certainly dangerously close to overstepping right now.”
Woochan met his gaze. “Then consider this my final warning before I do.” His tone sharpened. “If you have more to say, I suggest addressing them elsewhere — at a time when your daughter is not teetering on the brink of collapse, as she was for several hours today. It is quite laughable, how you treat it as some trivial inconvenience.”
Assemblyman Lee stiffened, the weight of Woochan’s words clear and undeniable. For the first time that day, the gravity of Youngseo’s condition, coupled with the professional authority Woochan commanded in managing it, left him momentarily unsettled.
“Leave now, or I won’t hesitate to have my guards remove you. I doubt that would be a scene either of us would like to witness, would it?”
The words hung there, quiet but cutting — a perfectly veiled threat wrapped in professional courtesy.
Assemblyman Lee’s nostrils flared, the faintest sign of losing control. His gaze swept the room — the damp towel on Youngseo’s forehead, the scattered medication on the nightstand beside the bed, and Woochan standing like a wall between them.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was cold as marble. “You’ve learned to use your words well, my son-in-law. I will remember that.”
Woochan inclined his head slightly, the gesture polite, almost courtly. “I’d expect nothing less, Assemblyman.”
For a long, unbearable moment, the two men simply stood there — a battle of silence and pride, the air between them taut as glass.
Then Assemblyman Lee’s jaw set. He turned sharply toward the door, his coat brushing against Woochan’s arm as he passed. “Have it your way,” he said curtly. “But don’t mistake my patience for approval.”
He strode out, the maids trailing after him, leaving behind the faint echo of authority — and something colder, emptier.
When the door finally shut, Woochan let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders eased, just barely, though his pulse still hammered beneath his calm exterior.
He turned to look at Youngseo.
She was staring at him, wide-eyed and dazed, the tears she didn’t realise she was holding back suddenly streaming down her face, the fever still painting her cheeks in fragile color.
She didn’t speak — she couldn’t find any words to say. She couldn’t tell if she was grateful Woochan had came to her aid, or if she was grateful her menace of a father had finally left the room. Whatever it was, it was accompanied by the slight feeling of — was that butterflies? — in her stomach.
Because for the first time since they’d signed that damned contract, Woochan had done something that wasn’t written in it.
The tension in the room lingered long after Assemblyman Lee’s departure, the echo of the door closing settling into a heavy silence. Woochan exhaled slowly, the faintest trace of frustration slipping through the calm veneer he’d maintained for hours. Then, reaching for his phone, he scrolled through his recent call logs and pressed the number that had called him earlier in the evening.
“This is Jo Woochan calling, am I speaking to Han Jiyun from the Blue House?” he said when the call connected. His tone was composed — quiet, but unmistakably authoritative. “I’d like an explanation.”
There was a pause on the other end, barely a breath. “Sir?”
“How,” he continued evenly, “did Assemblyman Lee find out about Miss Lee’s condition? I think I made myself quite clear that no one outside this residence was to be informed until I gave explicit permission.”
The line went still. He could hear faint background noise — papers shifting, the low hum of an office — and then Jiyun’s nervous exhale.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I c-called the residence line. I know you said not to call you if you didn’t call first, but I was worried sick, and I-I needed answers... One of the maids answered and… after I introduced myself and said I was calling from the Blue House, she told me that Madam Spokesperson had taken ill.”
Woochan’s jaw tightened, though his tone didn’t waver. “So, instead of waiting for my return call like I instructed, you decided to verify it with my staff.”
“I didn’t mean to overstep,” Jiyun said quickly. “I was just worried. Miss Lee has an early morning meeting tomorrow with the Deputy Minister — if she doesn’t show up… I mean, the whole afternoon, I’ve tried to reach her for hours. It wasn’t until later that I —”
“That you let her father find out,” Woochan interjected, his voice cool, precise. “The one person I specifically instructed you not to contact.”
There was no response this time — just a faint, guilty silence.
Woochan leaned back, fingers drumming once against the desk before stilling. “Jiyun,” he said quietly, “when I give an order, especially one regarding Miss Lee’s condition, it is not a suggestion. It is to prevent major conflict like the one that has just happened at my residence, which, I am sure you have heard from one of the Assemblyman’s aides by now. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured.
He exhaled through his nose, the sound soft but edged with restrained irritation. “Good. And I hope there'll be no more calls like this to me from the Blue House in the future.”
When he ended the call, the phone screen dimmed in his hand. For a long moment, he remained still, staring at the faint reflection of her on the room window — where she lay against the pillows, aware of the chaos her absence had stirred.
He set the phone down on the desk and straightened his posture, expression once again composed. But his fingers, still faintly curled against the desk, betrayed just how close he’d come to losing that calm.
He exhaled quietly, and for a moment, he didn’t turn around. His posture was calm, but his shoulders carried a tension that didn’t belong to calmness at all.
“You are remarkably composed for someone who just told off a National Assembly member,” Youngseo murmured, her voice faint but threaded with a brittle kind of humour.
Woochan glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifting slightly. “If you are referring to your father, I’d hardly call it telling off. I actually think I was being quite civil.”
“I was talking about Jiyun, actually,” Youngseo said, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. She tried to shake off the aftermath of getting an earful from her father, but it’s hard to forget when he’d just called her a national disappointment in ten different ways.
That earned the smallest flicker of surprise — or perhaps amusement — in Woochan’s eyes. “Ah,” he said lightly, turning just enough to glance at her over his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware aides were part of the National Assembly. And have you always had a habit of eavesdropping on phone calls, or is tonight a special occasion?”
Youngseo blinked, caught between indignation and disbelief. “Well in my eyes, they are. They work two times more than the assemblymen but get recognised far less. Also, eavesdropping? You were standing right there,” she retorted, her voice still faint but laced with irritation. “Is it my fault you talk loud enough for half the room to hear?”
Woochan made a quiet sound — something between a hum and a scoff — as he finally turned to look at her. “I wasn’t aware that dangerously ill patients had such sharp hearing.”
“Maybe because dangerously ill patients are forced to listen when their husband starts threatening their staff,” she shot back, though her tone wavered ever so slightly on the word husband.
Woochan didn’t seem to notice — or perhaps he did and chose not to acknowledge it. “For the record,” he said, straightening a pen beside the notebook, “I did not threaten her. I merely reminded her of her responsibilities.”
Youngseo let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Now, I have to ask — when the hell did you even get in touch with Jiyun? She mostly works for my father in the office. I don’t see how you both have any chance of crossing paths with each other.”
Woochan’s lips curved into something faint — not quite a smile, but close enough to pass for one. “She initially called me in the evening,” he said simply. “And apparently she couldn’t wait any longer for me to give her an update. So she rang the residence line, and one of the maids informed her that you were unwell.”
Youngseo blinked, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly, though her pulse didn’t follow. “So that’s how…” She trailed off, half to herself. “And then she told my father.”
“She did,” Woochan confirmed, his tone even. “And in doing so, unintentionally created a diplomatic crisis between two households. Quite the accomplishment, really.”
Youngseo shot him a look — weak, but still pointed. “You make it sound like she plotted it.”
“I don’t think she’s capable of that kind of chaos intentionally,” Woochan replied, his tone almost indulgent, the faintest glint of dry humour in his voice. “Still, it was her call that got me here before anyone else. You might want to thank her for that.”
Youngseo hesitated, taken aback by the ease with which he spoke — how effortlessly he could turn what should have been a moment heavy with urgency into a matter-of-fact statement.
“…So I have Jiyun to thank for you coming here?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Woochan said, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers. “She did more for you tonight than anyone here, I would say. Including me.”
The words sank into the quiet between them, unexpected in their weight. Youngseo looked at him for a long moment — at the faint crease between his brows, the calmness that never seemed to leave his face, the restraint that made him so infuriating and, somehow, steady. He’d come home because of Jiyun’s call… but he’d stayed because of her. That realization sat heavily, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
There was a beat of silence before Woochan added, almost casually, “I suggest you give her a raise.”
Youngseo’s breath hitched, and a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped her — edged with the slightest tremor. “A raise?”
Woochan shrugged, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She managed to make me come home from work early. That deserves some sort of compensation.”
Something fluttered in Youngseo’s chest — a warmth that had no business being there. “You’re impossible,” she said, trying for a sigh but failing to hide the faint curve of her lips.
“I’ve heard,” Woochan replied lightly, as though the words meant nothing.
But they lingered — the silence that followed wasn’t the strained kind anymore. It was gentler, suspended between them like a thin thread neither of them dared to touch. Youngseo looked away first, her gaze falling to the faint pattern on the blanket, her thoughts a quiet tangle of disbelief and something softer she refused to name.
Youngseo could feel the residual heat from her fever mingling with the rapid thrum of her pulse, each beat reminding her just how close they felt in just one night, how steady and deliberate his presence remained even in the quiet. For a moment, she imagined she could reach out and open up to him, just slightly, and let the tension between them ease — but pride, stubbornness, and exhaustion warred inside her, leaving her firm in place.
Woochan shifted suddenly then, moving closer to the bed with a careful, measured grace that seemed almost instinctual. He reached for the damp towel resting on the nightstand, his fingers brushing it lightly before pressing it against her forehead again. Each movement was deliberate, precise — as if the cool fabric could not only measure the fever that burned beneath her skin but also the weight of the unspoken between them.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t glance at her, didn’t offer a reassuring smile or a word of comfort. And yet, the quiet intensity of his presence filled the room, stretching across the small space between them like an invisible current. It was the kind of silence that demanded attention, made her pulse quicken despite herself, and left her chest tight in ways she couldn’t entirely understand.
Youngseo’s fingers twitched against the edge of the blanket, gripping it as if she could anchor herself against the swirl of emotions that threatened to rise. Her fevered thoughts tumbled over themselves, catching on the memory of her earlier words to him, the sharpness of her anger, then to how he had defended her in front of her father to how he stood his ground firmly, and now the unyielding calmness of the man tending to her. She wanted to look away, to retreat into the safety of detachment, but something about the steadiness in his movements — the quiet authority in his gestures — made it impossible to act unaffected.
Even as the cool towel pressed to her fevered skin, a warmth bloomed in her chest that had nothing to do with illness, fluttering and unsettling in equal measure. Every brush of his fingers against hers, however brief, carried a weight she wasn’t prepared for — a reminder that, despite everything, he was here, and he was paying attention in ways even she herself never dared to.
Youngseo’s chest tightened, and she swallowed the lump forming in her throat. The coolness from the towel pressed to her forehead and the quiet steadiness of his presence left her feeling both exposed and unguarded.
“I…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, faltering under the weight of her own exhaustion and lingering pride. Her fingers clenched weakly around the blanket. “…I apologise. Especially for what I said to you earlier. For yelling, for my father… for everything.”
Youngseo’s gaze dropped to the sheets, avoiding his eyes though she could feel him watching her. Her cheeks burned, a mix of fever, embarrassment, and something she refused to name. “And… I didn’t mean it like that. I was… I was angry, and I —”
Her words faltered, tangled in the fluttering warmth that pooled in her chest every time his fingers brushed hers, every time he leaned just slightly closer to adjust the towel. The heat wasn’t from her fever alone, and she hated how vulnerable she felt under his calm, deliberate attention.
Woochan didn’t answer immediately. He filled up the glass of water by her bed, then spoke quietly, almost to himself, “I understand.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “Your anger… it was understandable.”
“No, it’s not that… I was just really frustrated, because I was just — I was just really alone all the time here, and I do apologise for taking it out on you… I’m sure you didn’t want this as much as I did and —”
Youngseo exhaled shakily, the tension coiling in her shoulders loosening fractionally. She wanted to retreat, to insist she was fine, but her body betrayed her, drawn toward the quiet steadiness he radiated.
Her fingers twisted in the blanket, frustrated at her own weakness, at the heat that had nothing to do with her fever. She hated how disarmed she felt, how even her pride seemed to falter in the face of his calm presence.
Finally, he looked at her, eyes sharp, controlled, yet not unkind. “You do not need to explain yourself. I understand,” he said evenly, almost dismissively.
“But don’t try to soften it with apologies you don’t fully mean.”
Youngseo’s pulse jumped, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, struggling to reconcile the fluttering warmth in her chest with the deliberate coldness in his gaze. “... I do mean it,” she whispered defensively, though she knew he would see through her uncertainty.
“I don’t need assurances,” he said quietly, adjusting the towel one last time with that same precise, measured touch. “I know what is real, and what is not.”
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, each second making the space between them feel smaller and sharper. Youngseo’s chest ached, a mix of fever, lingering anger, and something she couldn’t quite name at the edge of her thoughts. She had expected acknowledgement, maybe even a trace of warmth — not this quiet, controlled dismissal that somehow felt more cutting than the argument she’d with her father earlier.
Her fingers twisted the blanket, knuckles white, and she pulled it slightly closer to her chest, almost as if it could shield her from the faint, chilling authority radiating from him. “…So this is how it is,” she muttered, voice tight and brittle, more to herself than to him. “You are tending to me, but only because someone else made you come. Not because… not because you care.”
Woochan didn’t flinch, didn’t correct her, but his eyes flicked to her briefly, calm and unreadable.
That only fueled the hurt coiling in her chest. Youngseo’s shoulders stiffened, her gaze hardening as she finally met his eyes. “Fine,” she said, her tone sharper now, defensive. “If this is all I get from you — then maybe I was wrong to think you deserve my apology. Have it your way then.”
Youngseo pulled the blanket closer, wrapping herself tighter in its warmth as if it could armor her against the quiet, unwavering presence of the man beside her. Her pulse raced, not entirely from fever, and she hated that part of her — the part that longed for even the smallest trace of care, even while she tried to push it away with words.
Woochan adjusted the towel again, deliberately slow and measured. His gaze didn’t soften. “You misunderstood,” he said evenly, almost coldly. “I know why you are upset. I meant I don’t need apologies to understand your anger.”
Youngseo’s chest tightened further. His words, though neutral in tone, cut deeper than she expected. She pressed her lips into a thin line, refusing to show how much the acknowledgment — detached as it was — unsettled her.
“…Good,” she murmured, her voice flat, defensive. “Then I don’t need to explain anything else.”
Her fingers clenched the edge of the blanket, knuckles tightening as her chest fluttered with a confusing mix of fever, lingering pride, and the warmth that still lingered from his words.
Youngseo swallowed, dry-throated and hesitant, her voice barely more than a whisper before she asked again: “Earlier… when you said you were sorry… did you really mean it?”
For a moment, Woochan froze, just slightly — a subtle lift of his brow, a flicker of something unspoken passing through his eyes.
Youngseo thought he probably hadn’t expected her to ask, and hadn't expected her to voice it aloud. She figured he was probably surprised that she was this daring.
Hmph, of course I am. Youngseo huffed to herself in her head, a little irritated at the thought of Woochan underestimating her and probably thinking that she was nothing but a girl who obeyed orders and who would do anything as he pleased.
Then, almost immediately, his composure returned, smooth and controlled, though the faint pause lingered like a quiet ripple in the otherwise measured calm.
“Was it important that I said it?”
“It’s more important to me that you meant it.”
Woochan’s eyes flicked to her briefly, controlled, though a faint quirk of his brow betrayed the smallest hint of amusement.
“Is that so?” he asked slowly. “Or is it just very convenient for you to test my sincerity while you’re weak and confined like this?”
“Can you just answer the question?” Youngseo demanded, irritation flaring despite herself. Her cheeks burned, half from fever, half from the way his calm, controlled presence seemed to unsettle her with every measured movement.
Woochan’s lips curved just the faintest fraction, a ghost of a smirk that didn’t quite reach warmth. His eyes, sharp and controlled, lingered on hers with a quiet intensity that made her heart skip. It wasn’t the warmth of affection, not exactly, but it was deliberate, probing — a steady, unwavering gaze that seemed to strip away every wall she had carefully erected.
“Just because I say something doesn’t mean I am giving in. That is the answer you’ll get from me.”
Youngseo stared at him for a moment that felt longer than it should have — long enough for the faint ache in her chest to spread, quiet and uninvited. His words were cool, almost detached, as if they were meant to draw a line, to remind her of the distance he’d carefully maintained between them since the very beginning.
She forced out a small nod, pretending it didn’t sting. “Right,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “That’s… fair.”
Woochan said nothing, adjusting the blankets beneath her that were bunched up by how much she fiddled with them. There was no tenderness in the gesture, but there was care in the way he made sure it covered her legs and entire lower body.
She hated how she had mistaken this care for affection. The fever must’ve burnt off all the logic she had in her brain. This was an obligation to him, and nothing more.
Her chest tightened again — disappointment creeping in before she could stop it. Foolish, she told herself. Absolutely foolish. What exactly had she been expecting? That the apology meant something? That his quiet words carried warmth instead of duty?
She bit back a shaky breath, looking away, eyes blurring slightly. Don’t be ridiculous, Youngseo.
They were bound by circumstance, not choice. A marriage written into contracts, not carved from love. Woochan’s care was a responsibility, never a sentiment — and she had no right to want it to be anything else.
Youngseo’s lashes fluttered, heavy from exhaustion and fever, and she let her eyes fall shut. The faint sound of him wringing out the towel again filled the silence — steady and infuriatingly calm.
Don’t be so foolish as to fall for him, she told herself, the words a final whisper in her mind before sleep took her.
Stand your ground.
And as the warmth of the fever blurred the edges of her consciousness, she drifted into uneasy sleep — unaware that Woochan’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than it should have, his hand pausing midair before he finally turned away.
The adjacent bathroom’s light was harsh — too bright, too sterile against the dull ache pounding behind Woochan’s eyes. He’d never entered this bathroom ever since the master bedroom was given to Youngseo for obvious reasons, so he’d really forgotten how bright the lights in this particular bathroom were. He remembered when this room used to be his and he’d installed these extremely harsh white lights in the bathroom so he could see better when he came home from the office late at night, as his eyes were so tired that he couldn’t keep them open even when brushing his teeth to get ready for bed.
Woochan braced both hands on the edge of the sink, breathing through his nose, jaw tight, trying to steady the roil in his stomach. But the moment he closed his eyes, her trembling voice echoed again, quiet and uncertain.
“When you said you were sorry… did you really mean it?”
And his own reply — cold, detached, deliberately cutting — replayed right after.
“Just because I say something doesn’t mean I am giving in.”
He tried to breathe — slow, steady, contained — but it only made the pressure in his chest worse. His stomach churned violently, the bile climbing higher, until his composure snapped.
Woochan barely managed to stumble to the toilet before he retched, the sound echoing sharp and hollow against the cold tiles. His palms pressed flat against the floor for balance, the chill of the porcelain seeping through his skin as his breath came ragged, uneven. Each heave felt like it was dragging something deeper out of him — not just nausea, but frustration, guilt, and the kind of ache that words couldn’t reach. By the time it subsided, his entire body trembled, hollowed out by the force of it.
It wasn’t food. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was her voice — the tremor in it when she’d asked the one question that had lodged itself like a blade beneath his ribs.
“When you said you were sorry… did you really mean it?”
He’d looked right at Youngseo — pale, burning with fever, eyes glassy with something too raw to name — and still, he’d said it.
“Just because I say something doesn’t mean I’m giving in.”
The words played again and again in his mind, crueler each time. He pressed his forehead to the cool rim of the porcelain, his breath coming in uneven bursts. The silence that followed was deafening — the kind that made the heart sound louder, heavier, as if it were trying to crawl its way out of his chest.
When he finally managed to lift his head and head to the sink to wash up, his reflection in the mirror looked nothing like the man who had stood beside her bed hours ago. His face was pale, drawn tight with something between anger and regret. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned from when he’d rushed in to check her fever. His hands trembled faintly — not from exhaustion, but from the weight of something he couldn’t control.
The Hello Kitty toothbrush holder that perched on the sink seemed to be mockingly staring at him too — its bright pink bow and cheerful grin a grotesque contrast to the turmoil clawing at his insides. The absurd innocence of it made his jaw tighten.
It was her thing, of course. Her quiet rebellion against the impersonal house she lived in. A childish pink reminder that she still had softness left in her somewhere — softness he’d spent weeks trying not to notice.
Now, even that stupid plastic smile felt like it was mocking him for pretending he didn’t care. He stared at it for a long moment, the corners of his mouth tightening, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. “Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, the word dry and hollow.
He turned on the tap, the cold water splashing over his hands, over his wrists, then his face. Anything to numb it. Anything to drown out the feeling clawing at him.
“Get it together,” he whispered to his reflection. But even his voice sounded foreign, fraying at its edges.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to matter. She wasn’t supposed to matter.
He’d reminded himself of what bound the two of them together every day since it began. And yet, when she’d looked at him tonight — flushed, trembling, whispering that small, fractured “Did you mean it?” — he’d felt something shift. Something he didn’t want to name.
Woochan slammed the tap shut, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. Hello Kitty wobbled a little, but then managed to find its footing and stood curtly in her place.
“She hates you,” he muttered, voice low and venomous. “Don’t forget that.”
But even as he said it, the words rang hollow. Because the truth — the one he refused to look at directly — was that she actually didn’t hate him. Not really. Well, she apologised for saying so, anyway. And that scared him far more than her anger ever could.
As for the contract — that convenient, sterile shield he’d used to justify every distance, every cold remark — felt laughable now.
He had already breached it.
The moment he’d busted down that door, the moment he’d sat awake through the night counting every uneven breath she took, the moment her voice — trembling, furious, human — had made his chest twist… that contract had stopped meaning anything.
It was supposed to protect him, to keep feelings clean and boundaries sharp. But now, somewhere along the way, he’d crossed the line, and it felt like there was no taking it back.
He gripped the edge of the counter again, forcing his breathing to slow. “Get it together, Woochan,” he muttered like a mantra, “You’re not allowed to feel this.”
But as he stood there, drenched in the sterile light and the faint echo of his own heartbeat, he couldn’t escape the truth that gnawed at him — that somewhere along the line, despite every rule, every boundary, every reminder of the contract binding them —
He’d already started to.
Notes:
HIIIIIII i'm so excited to share this (NOT BETA-ED LMAO) chapter with u guys! 10k++ words again & loooots of development esp on woochan's end (notice how initially the chapter was woochan's pov then ended w/ youngseo's? it was coz i Had to gradually switch it for the sake of the bathroom scene lololol)
i hope this chap wasn't too messy!!! i struggled with writing this one forreal lol due to the amount of confused Feelings involved... also youngseo's father AAAAHHHHH i know someone's dad who is exactly like this irl so writing him was kind of . the easiest part of this chapter... lololol he's a career-driven asshole who is obssessed with his perfect political family image (which is why youngseo hardly ever argues w/ him she just does as he says most of the time lmaoooooo)
side note i don't wanna toot my own horn but i'm kinda proud of the wooseo dialogues that happened this chapter i think it suits au them very very well and it flows nicely so hehe patting myself on the back for this one (had to go and watch some cdramas for research i can't lie)
oki that's all for now! see u guys in the next chapter teehee thank you for reading as alwayssss <3333
Chapter Text
The chandelier light shimmered like frost above the ballroom — a constellation of crystal and gold, reflecting off the polished marble floors where the city’s most powerful families gathered that night. The air smelled faintly of perfume and champagne, and beneath the low hum of classical strings, laughter rippled through the hall in carefully measured tones — polite, practiced, rehearsed.
Youngseo stood near the edge of the crowd, a flute of sparkling water in her hand instead of wine. Her gown — pale ivory satin, simple but tailored — caught the light when she moved, and the subtle gleam of the presidential crest pin on her shoulder drew the occasional curious glance. She was only fifteen, but had already carried herself like someone being watched — someone who understood what it meant to represent a legacy.
Her father, Lee Hyunseok, or more widely known as just Assemblyman Lee, was somewhere near the stage, shaking hands with senior ministers. Reporters hovered discreetly in the background, and every now and then, someone would murmur about his “inevitable candidacy.”
Future President Lee, they whispered.
And by extension — his daughter, the spokesperson-in-training.
At the center of the room, seated just beneath the chandelier’s golden light — was her grandfather, President Lee Jungheon, a man whose presence seemed to still the entire ballroom. His silver hair gleamed under the warm glow, his expression carved with the calm authority of someone who had ruled long enough to shape the nation in his image. Three terms — an unprecedented stretch in modern Korean democracy — and yet the whispers had already begun: a fourth, perhaps; as the people still trusted him.
To the public, he was a visionary statesman — the architect of Korea’s “New Dawn” initiative, the man who restored national pride and stability.
To Youngseo, he was something else entirely — the shadow that stretched behind every achievement her family made, the name she could never step out from under.
“Youngseo,” her etiquette instructor had once said, “grace is not about silence. It’s about knowing when to speak and when to hold the room’s attention.”
She practiced that grace now — the polite smile, the soft nods, the well-timed comments that sounded mature enough to impress adults, but not too bold to offend them.
“Ah, Miss Lee,” a deep, smooth voice interrupted her thoughts.
She turned and found herself face-to-face with Chairman Jo, a man whose reputation preceded him. The chairman of the Jo Group, a close ally of her father’s, and one of the richest men in the country. He carried power effortlessly, his smile broad, his presence commanding.
“You must be Hyunseok’s daughter,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s an honor to finally meet the young woman everyone has been talking about.”
Youngseo smiled gracefully and took his hand. “You’re too kind, Chairman Jo. My father speaks very highly of you.”
“Does he?” His eyes crinkled, amused. “Then I suppose I must live up to my reputation.”
Chairman Jo gestured slightly to the young man standing beside him — tall, dark-haired, his tuxedo a little too formal for someone his age. “This is my son, Woochan. He’s around your age, I believe. 2nd year at Daehan Middle School?”
Youngseo nodded at the question and turned to face the boy who was quite literally a spitting image of his father.
Woochan inclined his head slightly, expression polite but unreadable. “Nice to meet you, Miss Lee.”
His voice was even and his tone was careful — but there was something in his eyes that wasn’t. A faint, quiet detachment that made Youngseo’s spine straighten without meaning to.
“Likewise,” she said, returning the greeting with a practiced smile.
Chairman Jo’s expression softened. “Two promising young people from distinguished families. Perhaps the next generation of this country will be in good hands.”
“Perhaps,” Youngseo replied, tone composed but distant, not quite sure what he meant. She was in politics and he was in corporate — they couldn’t have been more different from each other — but yet, for reasons she couldn’t quite put her finger on, there was something unsettling in the way the older man looked at her.
Before the moment could stretch further, a discreet figure in a dark suit approached — one of the Chairman’s senior aides. He leaned in close, murmuring something just beneath the music and chatter. Whatever he said drew a subtle flicker of irritation across Chairman Jo’s features, quickly masked by a feigned calm.
“Excuse me,” he said smoothly, his tone as polished as the silver cufflinks on his wrist. “It seems I am needed elsewhere.”
He offered them both a courteous nod before turning to follow the aide toward a cluster of serious-looking investors gathered by the champagne table. Within seconds, his tall figure was swallowed by the crowd — reabsorbed into the elegant current of conversation, laughter, and the low hum of whispered negotiations.
For a brief, suspended moment, Youngseo and Woochan stood apart from it all, a pair of middle schoolers in a world built for men twice their age.
“So… you attend Daehan too.” Woochan asked, after a pause. His words weren’t exactly friendly. It was more like he was merely testing her response.
“Yes,” she said simply. “I’ve seen you around the school.”
He nodded, then decided to change the subject. “The mock exams are brutal.”
“They are,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “But I prefer that to being unprepared.”
Woochan gave a faint huff — not quite a laugh.
“Spoken like the true golden child of politics who is prepared for everything.”
Youngseo blinked at him. “And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” he said, though there was a ghost of something in his voice — irony, maybe. “Just not something I’ve mastered. I guess we’re both stuck living up to expectations.”
Her brows lifted slightly at his words. “I don’t see it that way. I’m working toward mine.”
“Right,” he murmured. “You’re training to be the next presidential spokesperson, right? I heard that rumor.”
“Not a rumor,” she said flatly. “A goal.”
He studied her for a moment — like he wanted to understand how someone his age could say that without flinching. “You actually want that kind of life?”
Youngseo didn’t hesitate. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about responsibility.”
Woochan’s lips curved just faintly — not mocking, but something close. “You really are your father’s daughter.”
Before she could reply, Chairman Jo’s hand landed briefly on his son’s shoulder. “Come, Woochan. Let’s not keep the hosts waiting.”
Woochan’s gaze lingered a moment longer — steady, unreadable — before he gave her a polite nod and followed his father into the throng of politicians and executives.
She watched them go, her expression still composed, though something about the exchange lingered uncomfortably — like a question she hadn’t realized she’d been asked.
“Youngseo!”
She turned at the familiar voice.
Moon Seoyoon — her childhood best friend, radiant as ever in lavender chiffon, gliding through the sea of guests with a smile that could disarm entire rooms. Three years older and heiress to the old money Shinsegae Group, Seoyoon had a presence that made people look twice.
“There you are,” she said as she reached her, her tone conspiratorial as her eyes flicked toward Woochan’s retreating back. “Wait. Was that Jo Woochan?”
Youngseo nodded. “Chairman Jo introduced us.”
Seoyoon arched a brow. “Careful with that one. I’ve heard stories.”
Youngseo frowned lightly. “Stories?”
Seoyoon tilted her head, eyes glimmering with curiosity. “You haven’t heard? Thought you would have since you’re both attending the same school. Jo Woochan’s been acting out lately.”
“Acting out?” she echoed.
Seoyoon’s eyes flicked toward Woochan across the ballroom, his posture impeccable, before she continued. “Yeah, heard he’s been beating some kids up behind the gym after classes. A few from Class 2C, I think. His private tutor practically lives in the principal’s office now, begging him not to inform his father. They say if Chairman Jo found out, the boy would be finished.”
Youngseo looked down at her cup, her confused reflection in her drink reflecting back at her. “Why is he even fighting?”
Seoyoon’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Who knows? Maybe because they’re calling his birth mother a fraud. Or because they whispered about how the Chairman’s new wife wasn’t exactly… respectable.”
Youngseo couldn't believe her ears. “That’s ridiculous. Why would people —”
“Because the Jo family just had their little scandal, didn’t they?” Seoyoon’s tone was airy, but the glint in her eyes was sharp. “Chairman Jo remarried last year, right after his first wife’s death. Then it was revealed that his first wife wasn’t from a prestigious family at all, and she somehow managed to have the Jo family fooled all this while. And then, when Chairman Jo remarried, the tabloids started saying his new wife is a notorious gold-digger who used to be an adult actress — well, before he pulled some strings to erase everything of her past. But people don’t forget. They never do.”
Youngseo’s gaze drifted back toward Woochan. He stood just behind his father, silent but alert, his expression unreadable.
Her stomach twisted. “That… doesn’t justify violence.”
Seoyoon shrugged elegantly. “Of course. But that’s what makes him interesting, don’t you think? A boy who keeps his father’s empire intact by beating its secrets into silence.”
Youngseo turned her gaze back toward him.
Woochan stood perfectly still beside his father, expression detached, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the crowd. His posture was perfect, polite — and yet there was something almost weary in it, something that didn’t belong to a boy his age.
She looked away quickly, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name.
“He’s dangerous,” Seoyoon added softly, as though in warning — or temptation. “And I don’t mean the kind you can fix.”
Youngseo forced a small, practiced smile. “Good thing I don’t intend to try.”
Seoyoon grinned. “That’s what every girl says before she does.”
Before she could ask more, a group of businessmen approached Seoyoon, and the conversation shifted. Youngseo smiled politely, but her mind stayed tangled in Seoyoon’s words.
Youngseo didn’t try to join in on the conversation as she took a sip of her drink and let the chill of it sit heavy in her chest — telling herself that whatever that flicker of curiosity was, it meant nothing.
Later that evening, after the orchestra struck its fifth waltz and the room swelled with clinking glasses and polite laughter, Youngseo slipped quietly away from the ballroom. The chandeliers behind her glittered like constellations, the air inside warm with perfume and politics. Her father — Assemblyman Lee — was still deep in conversation with several ministers, his expression the perfect blend of charisma and calculation. Near him, her grandfather, President Lee, commanded the room effortlessly, surrounded by foreign dignitaries and top party figures.
The sight was almost too much — too loud, too bright, too heavy with expectation.
She needed air.
The corridor outside was a different world — dimmer, cooler, touched with the faint scent of polished wood and old Bordeaux. The hum of the ballroom faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet murmur of voices from down the hall. She had meant only to step outside for a breath — but then she heard that voice.
“…— if the press keeps spinning that narrative, it’ll ruin everything.”
Her pulse quickened. Chairman Jo.
Even without seeing him, she knew the tone — low, controlled, and threaded with threat.
Another man responded, his voice anxious and taut. “Your board’s already restless, Chairman. You can’t keep burying this. People are starting to ask how your son —”
“Leave my son out of this,” Chairman Jo cut in sharply, his voice cold enough to slice through the air. “He is already dealing with enough, I’m sure. And as for my wife… I suggest the media learns to mind their own business. You’ll do your part, won’t you?”
A heavy silence followed — one thick with the weight of leverage, of quiet blackmail dressed in civility.
Youngseo froze behind a marble pillar, her hand pressed against the wall to steady herself.
Seoyoon’s words from earlier that night about their family scandal echoed sharply in her mind.
Her stomach dropped.
She hadn’t fully believed it — not entirely. Seoyoon could be dramatic when gossip was involved. But now… now she wasn’t so sure. The pieces began to slide together in her mind — the tension in Woochan’s gaze, that strange flicker of something unreadable behind his calm. It wasn’t something as simple as teenage rebellion or arrogance. There was something heavier there. Something that came from growing up in a house where silence was currency, and anger had no place to go but inward.
For a brief moment, she pitied him.
Her pulse quickened.
She should leave — she knew she should leave — but her feet wouldn’t move. Every word that floated down the hallway felt like proof she was hearing something she was never meant to.
Then — a faint shuffle of footsteps.
Quick, deliberate. Coming closer.
Her heart jolted.
She turned, half-expecting an aide or a guard — but instead, it was Woochan.
He stood only a few paces away, the corridor light catching the bruise-colored shadows under his eyes. His jacket was perfectly pressed, his tie slightly loosened, but there was something raw in his expression — as if he’d been holding his breath too long.
His eyes, dark and sharp, flicked toward her, and she knew in an instant that he had heard the same conversation.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The voices of his father and his board members still murmured down the corridor, low and dangerous.
Then Woochan spoke — his voice a little too calm. “You shouldn’t be here.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was an acknowledgment — the weary tone of someone already too used to cleaning up after others.
Youngseo straightened, chin lifting. “Neither should you,” she replied defiantly.
A flicker passed through his eyes — surprise, or maybe irritation. He exhaled softly, the faintest trace of bitterness tugging at his lips.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “But I never really have a choice.”
For a heartbeat, the air between them felt charged — brittle with everything unsaid. She wanted to ask what he meant, why he looked like someone far older than his age. But before she could, he stepped past her.
As he did, his hand brushed the wall beside her shoulder, fingers grazing the polished wood — the only trace that he’d been there at all. Then he was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the corridor, leaving her alone with the faint echo of the voices still arguing in the distance.
When Youngseo finally returned to the ballroom, she slipped seamlessly back into her role as the Assemblyman’s daughter, the President’s granddaughter — the picture of composure. Her smile was immaculate, her tone even as she kept her movements poised.
But as the orchestra swelled and laughter rose around her, her mind wasn’t on the polished parquet floors or the glimmering crystal glasses.
Instead, her thoughts drifted — unbidden — to the boy she’d just met in the corridor. To the quiet weight in his gaze, the way he’d spoken like someone who already knew how the world could break you. It was absurd, she told herself. She’d only met him twice. He was just another name in a long list of powerful sons she’d been introduced to.
And yet, as the music rose and some rich, old couples began to dance, she caught herself glancing toward the ballroom doors, half-expecting to see him there.
Youngseo inhaled, straightened her shoulders, and forced the thought away. Whatever that moment had been — curiosity, pity, something else entirely — it didn’t matter.
Jo Woochan had no place in her life.
The next morning, Daehan Middle School’s famously posh school grounds looked deceptively peaceful. Morning sunlight spilled across the courtyard in pale streaks, catching on the glass windows and trimmed hedges, on the faint mist rising from the school fountain. Students drifted in, murmuring about mock exams and upcoming student council elections, their laughter crisp against the early air.
Youngseo stepped out of her father’s black sedan, adjusting the strap of her bag as her bodyguard trailed a polite distance behind. She was used to this rhythm — early arrival, perfect attendance, her mornings filled with debate notes and study prep before homeroom. Her world ran on control and precision.
Which was why the shouting broke through her calm like a crack through glass.
It came from near the gym — short, sharp voices rising above the hum of morning chatter. A small crowd had gathered, mostly boys from Year 2, circling something with the kind of fascination reserved for trouble they didn’t dare join.
Youngseo hesitated for only a moment before walking closer. Her bodyguard, catching her look, stepped aside to let her through.
At the center of the circle stood Jo Woochan.
Gone was the polite, well-mannered boy she’d met last night, who had bowed neatly beside his father under chandeliers and crystal light. Gone was the calm voice that had sounded almost too careful, too restrained for someone his age.
This Woochan looked nothing like that.
His blazer hung off one shoulder, its expensive fabric wrinkled and streaked with dust. The starched white of his shirt was undone at the collar, one button missing, and his tie was hanging loose like he’d torn it off mid-argument. His knuckles were raw, skin split where they’d met something harder than flesh. A faint line of blood trailed down from his split lip, stark against his pale skin. His hair, once neatly combed back for the gala, was now tousled, clinging to his forehead with sweat.
But it was his eyes that struck her most — sharp, cold, alive with a kind of fury she hadn’t seen before. There was nothing restrained about him now. No polished smiles, no heir-like composure. He looked raw. Dangerous. Human.
The boy in front of him — taller, heavier — was breathing hard, his lip swollen and his pride clearly wounded. Woochan stood a little slouched, like he was deliberately holding himself back. Every muscle in his jaw was taut, his hands trembling with the effort of restraint.
“Say it again,” Woochan said, voice low, steady in a way that didn’t match the chaos around him.
The other boy spat to the side. “Everyone knows what your family is. Pretending you’re better than us when your—”
The rest of the sentence never landed. Woochan moved before the word even formed — a quick, precise strike that sent the boy stumbling backward into the gravel. Gasps rippled through the circle, sneakers scraping as everyone took a step back.
“Woochan!” someone hissed. “Stop it, man —”
But he didn’t move, didn’t even look up. His chest rose and fell slowly, almost rhythmically, as though he were controlling his breathing to keep from snapping.
The boy on the ground groaned, clutching his jaw, but Woochan only wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
That was when he looked up.
And saw her.
Youngseo froze.
Across the crowd — a gap of maybe ten meters, sunlight glinting off the school windows — their eyes met. His were sharp, unflinching, still edged with the residue of anger that hadn’t yet cooled, but they were now threaded with a sudden, fleeting shock. Hers widened for half a second before she caught herself, spine straightening instinctively.
Around them, noise swelled. First as a low murmur, then a full wave of chaos breaking against the courtyard walls. A few teachers’ voices cut sharply through the air, shouting from the corridors for everyone to “Move back, clear the way!” The crowd scattered reluctantly, the shuffle of polished shoes and hurried whispers filling the space where fists had landed only moments ago.
Phones were lowered just as quickly as they’d been raised, their screens flashing with half-captured images before vanishing into blazers and bags. A few students lingered at the edges, whispering in disbelief — “Did you see that punch?” “He actually hit him —” “Isn’t he that Chairman’s kid?”
The scent of adrenaline and sweat clung thick in the air, mingling with the faint perfume of the cherry trees lining the courtyard.
Woochan still hadn’t moved. He stood in the center like a storm caught in stillness — blood on his lip, breathing heavily as his hands fell to his sides now that the damage was done. The boy he’d just fought with wiped his mouth, muttering something under his breath before a teacher reached him and helped him off the ground, pulling him away.
Youngseo’s chest tightened. The intensity in his gaze made her stomach drop and her thoughts scatter. Instinctively, she looked away, forcing her eyes down to the polished stone beneath her feet. Her fingers clenched the strap of her bag as if it could anchor her racing heart.
But Woochan didn’t look away. Even as a teacher gripped his arm and told him to come to the office, his gaze stayed on her — unreadable, yet burning with a question she couldn’t quite name that was simmering beneath the surface.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the morning’s fight had already spread through Daehan like wildfire.
Whispers trailed through the hallways — “Shit, I heard he broke Sungho’s jaw.” “The Chairman’s kid is definitely gonna get expelled this time.” “His dad doesn’t even know it yet — heard his private tutor’s covering it up again.”
Youngseo tried not to listen. She sat through her Advanced Literature class, pen moving in precise, mechanical strokes, her mind miles away from the board. Every time she blinked, she saw it again — the blood trailing down his lip, the stillness in his eyes, the way he’d looked at her like he didn’t quite know what to do with being seen.
Now, standing by the fountain courtyard, she pressed a hand against her temple, willing the memory away. The sunlight reflected off the water, fractured and too bright, and the scent of cherry blossoms hung heavy in the air — deceptively peaceful.
“ … Youngseo.”
The voice made her jump. She turned to look and saw that it was Minjae from Class 2B — neat uniform, flushed cheeks, and the kind of nervous energy that made it obvious why he was here with… a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates.
She already had a guess where this was going.
Youngseo thought hard and came to the conclusion that it was safe to say she hardly knew Minjae. In fact, it’s even safer to say she didn’t know him at all. They weren’t in the same class, have never really crossed paths, and the only reason she knew his name is because she’d just read his name tag embroidered on the left side of his blazer five seconds ago. She oddly remembered a rumour of someone also by the name of Minjae peeing their pants in first grade, but she decided to give the boy in front of her the benefit of the doubt.
He stood there holding the bouquet of pale pink roses and the box of chocolates wrapped in a ribbon so tight it looked like it might snap from tension alone.
“I-I have something to tell you. I’ve… liked you for a while now,” he said, his voice stumbling over the words. “You’re so smart and so confident, and everyone knows you’re going to do something great, so I just —”
“Okay, stop right there for me,” Youngseo said softly, before he could go further. “I’m sorry, um, Minjae, but dating isn’t something I can think about right now. I’m sure you know our finals are in a few months, and then we have CSATs in a few years, and then after that…” she hesitated, searching for words that didn’t make her sound like she was trying to brag, “I want to get into politics. It’s … what I’ve been preparing for my whole life.”
The silence that followed felt too loud.
Minjae blinked, the rejection landing onto him harder than she’d intended. For a second, his face went blank — the kind of expression people wear when they’re not sure whether to laugh or be angry. Then his shoulders tensed, and his fingers clenched tighter around the bouquet.
“So... that’s it?” he said, his voice low but trembling at the edges. “You’re just … just going to study your life away?”
Youngseo parted her lips to speak, to soften it somehow, but he cut her off before the words could form.
The bouquet hit the ground first. It fell awkwardly, stems bending beneath the weight of the roses as the paper wrap tore open with a muted crackle. A few petals came loose, scattering like tiny fragments of embarrassment against the cobblestone path.
Then came the chocolates. The glossy red box slipped from his other hand, landing with a dull thud before it slid, spinning once, twice, until it stopped near her shoes. The lid popped open slightly, revealing the neat rows of confections — some already cracked from the fall, edges crushed in. The rich scent of cocoa and caramel mingled faintly with the cool afternoon air, oddly out of place in the silence that followed.
Minjae exhaled hard, the sound shaky. His jaw worked as if he was swallowing words he shouldn’t say, but frustration got the better of him. “Forget it,” he muttered bitterly, eyes flashing up at her. “People like you don’t understand normal things anyway.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut deep — not because it was cruel, but because of the raw resentment behind it.
Before she could say anything — an apology, an explanation, something — he turned on his heel and strode off, the sound of his footsteps fading into the chatter of the schoolyard.
For a long moment, all Youngseo could hear was the gentle trickle of the fountain and the faint flutter of petals landing on the surface of the water. She exhaled slowly, crouched down, and began to pick up the chocolates one by one — not out of guilt, but how it felt wrong to leave something broken behind.
As she gathered the roses, brushing off the dirt from their bent stems, a prickle ran down her spine.
Someone was watching her.
When she looked up again, her eyes caught on a familiar figure seated on one of the benches nearby — dark hair slightly tousled, uniform rumpled and his blazer slung loosely over one shoulder. His shirt collar was stained faintly with dried blood and his dark hair was tousled and damp at the ends, as if he’d run a hand through it too many times or just washed away the aftermath of something he didn’t want to talk about.
Woochan.
Youngseo’s fingers twitched at the edges of the chocolate box in her lap. She bent down to pick up a stray petal from the bouquet Minjae had discarded, and in that small movement, their eyes locked.
The light from the corridor fell across his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the fading bruise just beneath his cheekbone. And then there were the bandages — fresh white gauze wrapped around his knuckles and palm, the faintest bloom of red already seeping through. He’d just come from the infirmary, she realized. The fight from that morning hadn’t left him unscathed.
Yet he sat there as though nothing had happened — one arm draped over the back of the bench, legs stretched out with a lazy indifference that didn’t quite mask the stiffness in his movements. His gaze held hers, steady and quiet, the kind of look that didn’t need words to say everything it wanted to. One eyebrow lifted, slow and deliberate, as if he were making a silent comment on her situation, on her.
Typical. His eyes seemed to say.
Youngseo’s fingers twitched at her side. “What?” she wanted to snap, but the word caught in her throat. His presence — disheveled, bruised, and somehow still composed — pulled the air from her lungs.
Heat crept up her neck, a tangled mix of embarrassment and something she refused to name. She smoothed the pleats of her skirt with sharp, precise movements, forced her breathing into something steady, and turned on her heel. The crushed chocolates lay on the ground between them, a small, ruined symbol of everything she didn’t want him to see.
As she walked away, she could still feel his gaze burning against her back, almost haunting. It followed her past the benches, past the corner, past reason itself.
And for some reason, it lingered longer in her mind than the confession ever did.
So she forced herself to think of anything else — her schedule, her father’s expectations, the plans that left no room for distractions. Because she had plans. Because she had no time for boys who bled through their bandages and looked at her like they could see the parts she tried to keep hidden.
Because Jo Woochan, whoever he was, had nothing to do with her future.
As it turned out, Jo Woochan had everything to do with her future.
The morning sunlight slipped through the curtains in pale ribbons, spilling warmth across the room. For a few moments, Youngseo didn’t move. She lay there, eyes half-open, her mind still tangled somewhere between dream and memory — between the scent of polished marble ballrooms and the quiet of a school courtyard littered with crushed roses.
Then the ache in her head brought her back to the present. For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was. The blurred edges of last night returned in fragments — the fever, the argument, the quiet after he’d basically told her not to overstep on the line between them.
Her body felt lighter than it had yesterday — the feverish heaviness in her limbs was fading — but her throat still carried the faint scratch of exhaustion. She blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the soft morning light. She felt… better. Fragile, maybe, but steady enough to sit up.
Her eyes drifted toward the far side of the room — and stopped.
Woochan was asleep on the floor, right beside the bathroom door. Youngseo’s eyebrow raised at this questionable choice in sleeping position.
He’d made good use of his blazer, now folded neatly under his head like a makeshift pillow. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and one arm lay over his eyes to block out the sunlight. His other hand rested loosely against the floorboards, fingers curled faintly as though even in sleep he couldn’t let himself fully rest.
A bath towel — one she vaguely remembered was stocked as a spare one in her closet — was draped haphazardly over his torso, slipping down to his waist. His breathing was even, quiet, almost too calm for someone who looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.
For a long moment, she just stared at him.
There was something strangely grounding about the sight — this boy, her supposed husband on paper, who had every reason to keep his distance, now sleeping on the cold floor in her bedroom. It was absurd. Unnecessary. And yet… her chest tightened.
She rubbed her arms, trying to shake the thought away.
He could’ve slept on the couch in the middle of her room. He could’ve gone back to his room. But no — he’d chosen the floor, close enough to hear if she called out in the night.
Her gaze softened despite herself.
The morning light caught the faint shadows under his eyes, the unruly strands of hair falling across his forehead, the quiet rise and fall of his chest.
Youngseo sighed, leaning back against the headboard. Her body felt weak, but not sick anymore — just tired in the way that came after a storm.
“What an idiot,” she muttered under her breath.
Still, her gaze lingered.
The space between them was quiet, almost peaceful. The kind of quiet that came after too many words had been said, and all that was left was the steady rhythm of breathing — his, hers, the faint hum of morning.
And though she told herself she didn’t care, she couldn’t quite look away.
The room was awash in soft light now — the kind that made everything appear slower, quieter, as if time itself had decided to move carefully around them.
Youngseo shifted slightly, the rustle of the sheets whispering against the stillness. Woochan didn’t stir. His breathing remained steady, his arm still shielding his face from the sun. In the gentle light, she noticed the faint shadows beneath his eyes — deep, tired circles that stood out starkly against his pale skin, the kind that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too much restraint held too long.
Her gaze lingered — unwillingly, but inevitably. The sunlight traced the lines of his form as it filtered through the curtains, catching on the faint crease of his white dress shirt. The shirt had come undone at the collar, revealing a hint of tanned skin, the outline of muscle beneath. His shoulders were broader than she’d remembered.
For someone who claimed to be constantly buried in meetings, responsibilities, and reports, he looked far too… disciplined. Defined, even. She frowned slightly, eyes narrowing as she studied the way the fabric of his shirt stretched faintly across his chest.
When does he even find time for the gym? she wondered, irritation curling at the edge of curiosity. Probably wakes up before dawn just to be this insufferably put-together.
She didn’t know why she kept looking.
Maybe it was the contrast — the same boy who had stared her down for the past few weeks and even at their own wedding, now lying defenseless on her floor. His usual composure had fallen away in sleep; the sharpness in his eyes replaced by something startlingly human.
He looked… young. Too young to be the person who bore his father’s name.
Her chest tightened before she could stop it.
Then, his fingers twitched.
The movement startled her. Woochan’s arm shifted from his face, and his eyes — impossibly sharp even in the haze of waking — blinked open. For a moment, he didn’t move. His gaze landed on the ceiling first, then, slowly, turned toward her.
Youngseo froze.
Their eyes met — hers wide, caught between guilt and pride; his still hazy with sleep but instantly alert. The sunlight carved faint gold lines across his cheekbone as he blinked again, realizing where he was.
For one suspended second, neither of them spoke.
Then his brows arched faintly — that subtle, familiar expression that always seemed to say, What are you looking at?
“You’re awake,” Youngseo said quickly, her voice too composed for how fast her heart was beating.
Woochan exhaled once — slow, deep — before sitting up, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. The motion pulled his shirt tighter across his shoulders, the crisp fabric rumpled and creased from the floor.
“I should be asking you that,” he said finally, his tone low, roughened slightly from sleep. “How’s your fever?”
“Gone,” she said. “Mostly. It's fine.”
“Mostly,” he repeated, glancing up at her, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “You still look pale.”
“I said it’s fine,” she muttered, brushing her hair back and looking anywhere but at him.
He made a quiet sound in his throat — something between a sigh and a laugh. Then he leaned against the wall beside the bathroom door, long legs folding up lazily, eyes still half-lidded but sharp enough to notice how she refused to meet his gaze.
“Didn’t know South Korea’s youngest Presidential Spokesperson was this bad at saying thank you,” he murmured, almost teasingly.
She stiffened, turning her face toward the window, her expression smoothing into the same practiced neutrality she wore in public. “You should go.”
“You’re going to be late for work.”
Woochan tilted his head slightly, studying her for a long, unreadable beat — the way her fingers clutched the edge of the blanket, the faint pink at the corner of her ears, the effort it took her to sound unaffected.
Then, finally, he pushed himself to his feet.
He checked the time on his watch, the movement precise, controlled, before he crossed the room with that steady, grounded stride of his. She tracked him despite herself — the faint stiffness in his shoulders from sleeping on the floor, the slight unevenness in his breath that betrayed he still wasn’t fully awake yet. But he didn’t slow down until he reached her nightstand.
On it sat a small bottle of pills and the half-filled glass from last night, water gone stale and cloudy against the morning light.
He didn’t sigh, didn’t comment — didn’t even glance at her. He simply picked up the bottle, turning it in his hand before shaking two tablets into his palm. The click of the cap closing sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room.
Then, without rushing, he reached for the pitcher, pouring fresh water into the glass. His posture was unhurried but unyieldingly focused, like this was a routine he’d already accepted as his responsibility.
When he turned back to her, he held both the pills and the water out, not a tremor in his hands. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice dropped to something softer, firmer, almost impossibly gentle.
“Take your medicine first.”
His tone made it clear to her that it wasn’t a suggestion.
Youngseo’s chest tightened. She hesitated, her lips parting as if to form an excuse — something about not needing it, or being fine, or already planning to take it later. But Woochan’s gaze didn’t soften or even shift.
She reached out at last, her fingers brushing his as she took the tablets. The touch was barely there — the lightest slide of skin against skin — but it sent a pulse straight up her arm. She immediately looked away, pretending it hadn’t happened, pretending her heart hadn’t just betrayed her.
Woochan didn’t comment. He only watched silently until she swallowed the pills with a small, resigned exhale.
Only then did he nod once, a quiet mark of approval, and set the glass back on the nightstand with careful precision. “You’ll feel better once you eat,” he said, his tone low — but the underlying concern was avid. Youngseo tried to ignore it after the conclusion she had come to before drifting to sleep last night.
He turned toward the door, one hand brushing briefly against the frame as if steadying himself, though he composed himself a second later.
When the door clicked shut behind him, Youngseo finally let out the breath she’d been holding — long, shaky, and far too revealing for her liking.
Her gaze lingered on the empty space he’d left behind — the folded blazer he’d used as a pillow, the floor next to the bathroom where he’d slept.
Her chest ached in a way she couldn’t quite name.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t hate. It was something far more dangerous — the realization that the distance she’d worked so hard to build was starting to feel like something she didn’t actually want anymore.
Woochan’s footsteps were quiet as he entered the kitchen — or rather, the gleaming expanse that passed for one in the Jo family mansion. Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, pooling on the marble counters and catching on polished silverware. The entire room smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee, warm bread, and citrus-scented cleaning polish — the sort of effortless luxury that came from a household run like a small kingdom.
The staff had been up long before dawn. The atmosphere was lively, rhythmic — or had been, until the moment he stepped inside.
The conversation among the maids stuttered into silence. A knife paused mid-chop, hovering above a carrot. A spoon clinked too loudly against a metal bowl before being hastily set down.
One of the younger maids blinked, eyes widening. “Chairman?” she blurted, as if convinced she was hallucinating so early in the morning.
Woochan gave a brief nod, already rolling up his sleeves as he headed for the stove. “I’ll just need a burner.”
The ripple this caused was almost comical — heads turning, brows rising. The maids exchanged looks of disbelief. A second maid hurried forward, bowing slightly in her fluster.
“Sir, please — if you’d like something, we can prepare it immediately —”
“I’ll do it,” he cut in, not unkindly, but with a quiet finality that ended all room for argument.
Ahjumma, drawn by the sudden cessation of noise, peeked out from the pantry. Her eyes widened when she spotted him at the counter, sleeves rolled and posture determined. “Woochan-ah,” she called out, tone softening to the warmth only years of raising him could give, “you haven’t cooked since that one time in middle school where you suddenly decided it would be nice to bring your mother breakfast in bed. What’s gotten into you?”
Woochan didn’t look up. He reached for a pot like the movement was muscle memory, even though it wasn’t. “It’s just porridge,” he said simply, placing it on the stove. “Nothing complicated.”
Ahjumma’s gaze flicked to the maids, who were desperately pretending not to stare. She exhaled through her nose, equal parts fond and troubled. “For the Madam, I assume?” she asked, her voice dropping just enough that the maids’ ears perked up, their smiles threatening to break.
Woochan didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.
He rinsed the rice under cold water, letting the grains wash over his fingers. The sound of water rushing over metal filled the quiet — soothing, steady. His movements were careful, almost meditative. When he added the rice to the pot and poured in the broth, the simmering began slowly, tendrils of steam unfurling into the warm air.
As the porridge thickened, he stirred with slow, controlled motions. The rhythm was grounding. Repetitive. Almost peaceful.
But his mind wasn’t here.
His gaze flicked toward the hallway every so often — toward the staircase leading to the second floor, where she lay in bed with that familiar, infuriating, fragile pride. He pictured her sitting upright despite her body begging for rest, pretending her fever was just a “slight discomfort,” pretending she didn’t need anyone. Pretending she was unaffected. Untouched.
A muscle in his jaw tightened.
She had no idea how transparent she was.
No idea how easily he could read her, how much effort she wasted trying to appear strong when she was clearly still unwell. No idea how much it bothered him — that stubbornness, that refusal to rely on anyone, the way she forced herself to stand alone even when she was shaking.
He wasn’t sure when it started affecting him like this. When a simple fever on her end left a knot in his chest. When seeing her this vulnerable felt like someone was jabbing a knife through his heart and twisted it so that it lodged deep inside him. Maybe it was because she hid it from everyone else. But she could never hide it from him. He’d notice anything. Everything.
Was this skill of his a blessing or a curse, Woochan wasn’t sure. It was something he picked up from sitting in corporate rooms all day for half of his life. When things are so repetitive, you start looking for the smallest details that make each day different.
The maids, slowly recovering from the sight of the Jo heir cooking of all things, returned to their tasks — though more than one stole glances his way, murmuring under their breath. The distant, untouchable Chairman Jo, sleeves rolled past his forearms, standing at the stove like a quiet storm.
Ahjumma crossed her arms, watching him with an expression that softened into something deeply affectionate. “You’ve grown,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “But some things don’t change.”
Woochan looked up at her briefly — the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, rare and fleeting — before turning back to the pot.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” he said quietly, stirring again.
When the porridge reached the right consistency and started giving off a warm, comforting scent — he ladled it into a bowl. The clink of ceramic against the metal ladle felt loud in the hush.
He set the bowl on a tray, adding a spoon. Simple. Something she could eat even if her appetite was gone.
The tray settled on his palms, warm against his still-sore hands. The weight wasn’t much — a single bowl, a spoon, a small cloth — yet it pressed into the skin of his palms more sharply than it should have.
He flexed his fingers once, subtly.
They still ached from the cold, hard wooden boards he’d slept on the night before — something he had never done in his entire life. Not once. Not even as a child in his family manor, where every bed, every surface, every inch of his world had been designed for comfort.
He could still feel the imprint of the uneven flooring against his skin, the strain in his wrists from the way he’d curled one arm under his head as a makeshift pillow. His shoulders had stiffened from the awkward angle; his knuckles had throbbed where they brushed the ground and his palms had carried the weight of his upper body for hours.
No heir of the Jo family had ever slept on the floor. There were hardly any circumstances that would have called for it.
And yet he had — without thinking twice — because the alternative had been letting her sleep alone while burning with fever.
He inhaled once, steadying himself, ignoring the faint soreness blooming across his shoulders as he adjusted the tray. The warmth of the bowl seeped into the tender skin there, a reminder of the choices he’d made in the quiet darkness of last night —
And of the fact that he would make them again.
He glanced at the bowl of porridge in the tray. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but he was sure Youngseo wouldn’t be picky with the quality of her food. At least, not right now.
She’d probably still complain. Say it was too bland, too simple. Then eat it anyway.
And he’d let her. Because apparently, caring for her like this, quietly and wordlessly, had become the only way he knew how to breathe around her.
Youngseo sat propped against her pillows, the duvet gathered neatly over her lap, her posture perfectly straight despite the dull heaviness still clinging to her body. The fever had mostly broken, but the exhaustion lingered — a quiet, persistent drag beneath her skin.
Her throat felt raw. Her limbs felt like they weighed three tonnes. Her thoughts were all fogged around the edges.
Still, her first instinct was work.
She reached for her tablet — fingers moving with the practiced precision of someone who had been conditioned never to let a single day slip out of control. The screen lit her face in a pale glow as she tapped the aide-line.
The call connected immediately.
“Blue House general office, this is Hwarin speaking.”
“Hwarin, it’s me,” Youngseo began, clearing her voice into something colder, smoother. The shift was subtle but absolute — the practiced mask sliding into place. “I won’t be coming into the office for the next three days.”
A stunned pause. Papers rustled on the other end.
“M–ma’am? Did something happen? Are you —”
“I’ll be working remotely,” Youngseo continued, not giving space for the inevitable fussing. “Video briefings only for anything time-sensitive. Keep the committee schedule as planned.”
“O-of course,” Hwarin stammered. “Should we inform the Assemblyman?”
Youngseo’s gaze flickered toward the window, toward the faint sound of movement somewhere in the hall.
“My father already knows,” Youngseo answered with a sigh. “There’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“Oh. Of course.” Hwa-rin exhaled in visible relief. “Then — shall we rearrange your schedule for remote work?”
“Yes. And send me the revised education proposal within the hour.”
“Right away, ma’am. Please rest as much as possible.”
But Youngseo had already ended the call, sinking back into the pillows as the room slowly returned to silence. She set the tablet aside, massaging the bridge of her nose with her thumb, trying to push the dull pressure away.
Just as she was sinking back into the pillows, her personal phone vibrated sharply against the nightstand. A familiar name flashed across the screen in bright lettering.
Incoming call from: Jiwoo.
Of course.
Youngseo took a slow breath and swiped to answer.
“Unnie?!” Jiwoo’s voice screeched through immediately, frantic and full of breathless panic. “Oh my God, are you on your deathbed?!”
Youngseo closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself picture her cousin.
Jiwoo had always been a hurricane wrapped in designer silk — loud where Youngseo was quiet, impulsive where she was measured, unfiltered where she was diplomatic. She had a talent for turning heads without trying, for filling a room just by breathing, for making even her worries sound like runway commentary. And despite the chaos she carried like her Miss Dior perfume, Jiwoo was one of the few people Youngseo trusted without condition.
To the public, Jiwoo was the glamorous niece of the President — socialite, law student, professional trouble-finder. To Youngseo, however, she was simply Jiwoo: the cousin who snuck her snacks during study marathons, who threatened to sue anyone who made her cry, who claimed she’d someday be Youngseo’s unofficial bodyguard “just for the vibes.”
Hearing her voice now — urgent and concerned — softened something tight in Youngseo’s chest.
“Hellooooo? Are you okay? Mom said you were dying,” Jiwoo continued dramatically. “I told her that’s impossible because you’re basically powered by caffeine and spite, but she insisted I call.”
Youngseo huffed a weak laugh. “I’m not dying.”
“Good,” Jiwoo said. “Because if you die, I have to speak at your funeral, and I’m absolutely not doing that without a teleprompter.”
Youngseo pressed a hand to her forehead, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Jiwoo, for all her theatrics, somehow always managed to sound like home.
“Well, it’s good that you’re not dead. At least, not yet,” Jiwoo muttered. “But seriously — you missing work? That’s DEFCON 1. You don’t miss work unless your limbs are like, falling off.”
Youngseo leaned her head against the headboard, sighing. The sound felt scraped from her lungs.
“It’s just a fever,” she said. “It’s not that serious.”
“Yeah, a fever that made Uncle act like the country might collapse,” Jiwoo shot back. “Seriously, your dad is a freaking drama king. He —”
She cut herself off, exhaling sharply, the rustle of blankets on her end suggesting she had sat up straighter.
Then her tone softened — noticeably quieter, stripped of theatrics and wrapped instead in genuine worry.
“You sound… bad, unnie.” A pause, the kind filled with all the things Jiwoo didn’t know how to say gently. “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean really okay?”
Youngseo’s gaze drifted to the window — thin morning light spilling across her desk, washing over the stack of briefing folders she hadn’t touched. Though her fever was mostly gone, her head still throbbed, and her skin felt too warm. Beneath it all, there was a bone-deep exhaustion she hadn’t wanted to admit, the kind that had been building for weeks — maybe months.
She swallowed, voice softer than she meant.
“I… I’m managing.”
“Liar,” Jiwoo said immediately, not unkindly. “You only say ‘managing’ when you’re about to pass out or when you’ve been crying. Wait, you weren’t crying, right?”
“No,” Youngseo murmured. “Just tired.”
Jiwoo was quiet for a moment, then her tone shifted into something more tentative… and suspicious.
“…So,” she began slowly, dragging out the word like she was testing the ice, “is he even there?”
Youngseo blinked. “He?”
Jiwoo scoffed, exasperated. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. Jo. Woo. Chan.” Each syllable dropped like a tiny indictment.
“That emotionally constipated chaebol brat who keeps acting like you ran over his pure-pred Pomeranian whenever you talk to him.”
Youngseo pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jiwoo —”
“No, because every time I call, you tell me how he either just stares at you or pretends you don’t exist, or says something rude and mysterious like he’s the lead in a bad Korean drama. Seriously, what’s his issue? I get how the whole ‘marriage by contract’ thing is crazy and extremely bad, but he can’t even talk to you like a normal person?” Jiwoo paused, then added pointedly, “Look, is he still being a bitchass? You’re sick as hell and that motherfucker didn’t even care, huh?”
Despite herself, Youngseo let out a tiny laugh — one that made her chest ache. “He’s… not here right now.”
“Oh good. Then I hope he stepped on a Lego.”
Youngseo hesitated. Her fingers brushed the edge of her blanket, tightening slightly.
“Jiwoo,” she said softly, “he wasn’t… like that last night.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then: “What?”
Youngseo swallowed, suddenly aware of how raw her voice sounded. “He… took care of me.”
“…I’m sorry, what?”
“I collapsed,” Youngseo said quietly. “And my father —” her throat tightened at the memory “— he came, and he was yelling at me for being sick. And Woochan… this feels weird to say, but he defended me.”
Jiwoo went dead silent.
A full five seconds passed.
Then, in the most startled voice Youngseo had ever heard from her cousin:
“Hold on. Are we talking about the same Jo Woochan? Tall, rude, used-to-fight-for-fun, probably sleeps upside down like a bat — that one?”
Youngseo huffed a weak laugh. “Yes, that one.”
“And he… defended you? Against Uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, that’s badass. And then he took care of you? As in… actually took care of you? Like, stayed with you?”
A small breath escaped her lips — not quite a sigh, not quite a confession.
“Yes,” she whispered. “All night.”
Jiwoo sounded like she had stopped breathing.
“…Okay,” she finally said. “I take back the Lego. This is some plot-twist-level shit.”
Youngseo pressed her palm to her warm forehead, eyes fluttering shut.
“Jiwoo, please don’t start —”
“Oh, I started the moment you said he defended you,” Jiwoo snapped, fully animated again. “What do you mean he stayed all night? Explain. Explain everything. Right now.”
Youngseo pulled the blanket a little higher, heat curling in her cheeks — fever or something else, she didn’t know.
“It’s… complicated,” she murmured.
Jiwoo practically vibrated through the phone. “Oh my God. Holy crap. Is this real? Unnie, you’re not lying right?”
“No, I’m not.”
Jiwoo gasped so loudly Youngseo had to yank the phone away from her ear, the sudden sound making her heart jump.
“Wait — Where is he right now?” Jiwoo practically shrieked, her voice reverberating through the phone.
Youngseo swallowed hard, tugging the blanket a little higher around her shoulders, the soft cotton tickling her flushed skin. “He… went downstairs to make me breakfast.”
Silence.
Not just a pause — a dead, eerie, apocalyptic silence that made Youngseo’s ears ring.
Then Jiwoo exploded.
“I’m sorry — he WHAT?!” The words came like a shotgun blast, frantic and incredulous.
Youngseo winced. “…He said I needed to eat something light. He insisted.”
“INSISTED?!” Jiwoo’s voice pitched even higher, practically shaking the ceiling. “This man — This man — the same Woochan who wouldn’t even glance at you two weeks ago, the one you described as a walking emotional brick wall — is now in the kitchen making you breakfast?!”
Her cheeks burned. “Yes…” she muttered, curling further into the blanket, as if shrinking into herself could somehow shield her from Jiwoo’s reaction.
Jiwoo made a strangled, half-laugh, half-scream noise that sounded like it could shake up the entire building. “No, start over. Start from the beginning. Did he hit his head? Did you hit your head? Did someone swap him for a nicer, hotter clone?! What’s happening?!”
“That’s not —” Youngseo tried to interject, but the words barely escaped her lips.
“No. No, unnie, this is huge,” she whispered, shaking as if revealing classified intel. “This is seismic. Earthquake-level. Men do not do that for no good reason. This is not professional. This is not normal. This is not ‘just being nice.’ This is… unprecedented, unnie.”
Youngseo groaned. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being accurate,” Jiwoo snapped. “You told me that this guy was a brick wall who was tall, had an annoyingly handsome face — which, I agree with — and muscles. A man who said exactly eight words to you per day. A man who once nodded at you so coldly you called me crying!”
Youngseo immediately defended herself. “I did not cry —”
“And now?” Jiwoo gasped, ignoring her cousin. “Now he stays up all night taking care of you, stares down your father like he’s in an action movie, and makes you breakfast? That’s not contract marriage behavior. That’s not even real marriage behavior! That’s — that’s—”
She struggled for a word.
“Jiwoo!” Youngseo snapped, though her voice was soft, weak, and entirely unconvincing. “It’s just breakfast. And anyone would have defended me at that moment. You would have, too.”
Jiwoo nearly combusted.
“In what world is the Jo family’s personal stone statue cooking a romantic sick-day meal just ‘breakfast’? And excuse me, this is different! I’m your cousin. He’s your — your — well, I don’t even know anymore.”
Youngseo hid her face in her blanket.
She hated — absolutely hated — that she didn’t have an answer, either. Before this, Woochan was just her husband by contract, a man she had agreed to tolerate for the sake of family negotiations.
He was supposed to be a formality — a business arrangement wrapped in the polite fiction of a marriage. Someone to stand beside her at events, someone to sign the documents, someone to exchange practiced smiles with in public and clipped conversations in private.
But now?
Now he was the man who’d sat by her when she was sick with a clenched jaw and tired eyes, the man who’d held a cold cloth to her forehead and snapped at her father like he actually had the right to. The man who’d stayed when she told him not to, who’d stood between her and a voice that had cowed her since childhood.
And for the first time, she realized she didn’t know what box to put him in anymore.
Before she could formulate another excuse, a faint shuffle of footsteps from the hallway reached Youngseo’s ears. Her grip on the phone tightened, and a sudden, inexplicable heat rose to her cheeks.
“Jiwoo… I — uh — I have to go,” she said quickly, fumbling with the blanket to cover herself better. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“What?! Unnie — don’t hang up!” Jiwoo protested, but Youngseo had already ended the call, placing the phone on the nightstand with a soft thud. She exhaled, trying to calm her racing heart, but it was no use. The sound of footsteps was closer now, deliberate, steady.
Her pulse skipped as she lifted her gaze toward the door creaking open, and there he was.
Woochan stood in the doorway holding a tray, balanced with quiet precision. On it rested a small bowl of steaming porridge, a glass of water, and a neatly folded napkin. The morning light caught the edges of the tray, the steam curling upward like a gentle halo — an almost domestic picture so startlingly out of place that Youngseo forgot how to breathe for a moment.
He lingered there, not fully entering, not fully retreating — caught in some strange limbo where even breathing felt like a decision. His eyes darted from her to the tray, then back again, as if double-checking reality itself.
And she watched him back, her fingers twisting in the blanket, equally unsure, equally tense.
After a beat, he stepped toward her — slowly, almost cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal he wasn’t entirely convinced wouldn’t bite him. The tray wobbled just the slightest bit in his hands, a betrayed flicker of nerves he covered up instantly by tightening his grip.
Youngseo pretended not to notice. Woochan pretended it hadn’t happened.
The space between them shrank, inch by inch, until he was standing close enough next to her nighstand that she could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne — something warm, understated, impossibly distracting. A quiet mix of bergamot and wood; the kind of refined fragrance that didn’t announce itself, but lingered in the air with quiet confidence. It was expensive — unmistakably so — the sort of scent she’d smelled on executives in boardrooms, or on suits tailored in London or Milan. Jo Malone, maybe. She caught herself wondering if he was a fragrance kind of guy.
Woochan angled himself awkwardly around the edge of the bed, trying not to brush against her blankets, or her knees, or — God forbid —her.
His shoulder still grazed hers.
Youngseo’s breath stuttered.
He froze for half a second, as if deciding whether to apologize or pretend it didn’t happen, then chose the latter with painful determination. He carefully — too carefully — set the tray on the nightstand, adjusting it once, then again, then another time purely because the silence between them was starting to feel like a living thing.
“There,” he said, voice low, cleared his throat, then said it again. “There.”
Youngseo blinked at him.
He blinked back, equally stiff and equally unsure.
It was an awkwardness so thick it could’ve been packaged and sold.
“Um,” Woochan said finally, clearing his throat. “So. Here’s your breakfast.”
“Oh. I can see that,” Youngseo replied, a little too quickly, a little too sharp. Her voice cracked on the last word and she winced.
His brows pulled together. “Your voice still sounds a little scratchy. I don’t think you should go to work for at least the next three days.”
“Wow, thank you, Doctor Jo. Very insightful.”
He narrowed his eyes. “It’s basic logic, you know. You can barely talk.”
“I am talking.”
“Barely.”
“Wow, that’s rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
She made a strangled sound in her throat — half scoff, half wounded pride — and sank a little deeper into her pillows. “Look, I’ve already informaed my team that I’ll be working from home. I don’t need your commentary.”
“You needed me to tell you to take your medicine.”
“That was one time.”
“That was just this morning.”
“Exactly — the past. Move on.”
Woochan gave her a flat look, expression unreadable. Youngseo couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed. Then, he silently lifted the tray from the nightstand and, with careful precision, settled it onto her lap, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“You should start eating,” he said. “It tastes better hot.”
“You still sound like you’re lecturing me.”
“I’m reminding you.”
“Same thing.”
“...It’s not.”
“It is.”
He let out a slow, pointed exhale — the kind that said he was absolutely, definitely counting to ten in his head.
“…Can you stop arguing with me for five minutes?”
“Can you stop fussing?” Youngseo shot back.
“I am not fussing.”
“You rearranged the tray on my lap three times. Are you presenting evidence in court or what?”
“That was —” He faltered, visibly offended by the accusation. “…I was making space.”
“For what, a banquet?”
“For your water,” he snapped, ears going faintly red. “And your napkin. And — just — just eat.”
Youngseo’s lips twitched. She tried — really, really tried — not to smile at the way his composure was slowly unraveling. There was something absurdly endearing about watching Jo Woochan, king of emotional austerity, visibly malfunction over her and her bickering.
Woochan caught it immediately.
His eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious, a man bracing for an ambush. “What.”
“Nothing.”
“You are smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he repeated, but softer this time — not accusatory, but almost… bewildered. As if the idea of her smiling at him short-circuited something in his brain. Maybe he felt offended, Youngseo concluded.
Her heart thumped hard, heat blooming under her skin. “Stop staring.”
“Then stop smiling.”
“I’m not. You should stop fussing.”
“I’m not —” He stopped, snapped his mouth shut, then dragged a hand through his hair as if physically restraining himself from throwing the spoon out the window. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she murmured, lifting the spoon he’d set out with such ridiculous gentleness, “you’re still here.”
Silence stretched — not cold, not suffocating, just… suspended. Charged.
He blinked at her. Once. Slowly. As though learning she could fluster him was new data he wasn’t sure how to process.
“…Just eat your breakfast,” he said at last, his voice lower, steadier — but frayed at the edges.
Normally she would’ve argued. Thrown a jab. Rolled her eyes.
But as she looked down at the porridge, now set on the tray in her lap, the spoon hovering just above it, a memory from the night before slipped into her mind uninvited — sharp enough to sting.
“Just because I say something doesn’t mean I am giving in.” His voice from last night echoed in her skull, low and tired and brutally honest.
Her hand paused, the spoon trembling imperceptibly. The warmth in her chest flickered, dimmed, then folded in on itself.
Woochan didn’t notice — or maybe he did, because he shifted his weight, shoulders tense, as though he sensed the sudden shift in her mood but didn’t know how to name it.
Youngseo swallowed, forcing her expression to smooth out, forcing herself to breathe normally. It was stupid to let his words get to her now — after everything. After she’d sworn none of this mattered.
But he was still standing there. Waiting. Close enough that she could feel the quiet gravity of him.
And for once, she didn’t argue.
She lifted the spoon to her lips.
Woochan stood there, arms loosely crossed, watching her eat like it was a board meeting he needed to supervise. The moment she scooped the first spoonful into her mouth, she felt his gaze and nearly choked.
“You can go,” Youngseo said quickly, not looking at him. “Seriously. You’ll be late for work.”
“I’m working from home,” he replied without missing a beat.
Her spoon paused mid-air. “…What?”
He blinked, infuriatingly calm. “For the next few days.”
“No,” she said immediately. “No, you don’t need to do that. I’m fine. You should go to the office.”
“I don’t need to go anywhere,” he countered, tone maddeningly mild.
“But your schedule —”
He raised a brow, leaning slightly against the edge of her desk where he’d returned to check the logbook. “Miss Lee. I’m literally the CEO. Who exactly is going to deny my leave?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. She ignored the fact that Woochan still thought they were on a last name basis.
Woochan shrugged one shoulder, casual in a way that made her want to throw the spoon at him. “If I say I’m working from home, I’m working from home. The company won’t combust.”
“That’s not the point,” she hissed. “You don’t need to stay here just because I’m sick.”
He looked at her then — eyes steady, unreadable, something quieter beneath the surface. “I know I don’t need to,” he said. “But well, I just am.”
Her heart thudded traitorously.
She took another bite of porridge just to avoid answering. And even as the warmth of the meal spread through her, she knew she couldn’t hide from him — or from the questions he stirred inside her.
For now, silence reigned. But it was a fragile kind, one that promised it wouldn’t last.
Notes:
hiii 11k words wow this chapter is lowkey a beast... thank u everyone for waiting patiently and enjoying the story so far!!! ooooh slow revelation of feelings arc is starting (wait... or is it? i do enjoy writing major suffering and angst for my characters)
MIDDLE SCHOOL WOOSEO FLASHBACKKKKK and i had to include annie because come on... woochan is just a misunderstood angsty teenage boy with nowhere to place his anger at life but can u blame perfect student And perfect daughter youngseo for judging tf outta him?!?!
the next chapter will probably be the end of sick youngseo and the start of a new arc!! yayy new storyline i'm so excited :DDD also i love reading and replying to everyone's comments so thank you guys mwah see u guys in the next chap!
Chapter Text
Three days after Youngseo’s fever had finally receded and she felt like she could get herself to the office and start working again, the Blue House felt unfamiliar — not in its architecture or routines, but in the way every hallway seemed to echo with something she couldn’t name.
She sat in her office — the one tucked near the west wing windows overlooking the courtyard — surrounded by the soft rustle of aides shuffling documents and the low drone of printers. The air smelled faintly of pine from the polished floors and the sharp, clean scent of ink from the files stacked around her. Normally, the busy rhythm of government work grounded her.
Today, it only magnified the strangeness.
Her fingers paused over a briefing packet, the black text blurring for a moment. She traced the edge of the page slowly, remembering with an unwanted flush how, just days ago, Woochan had been a constant, irritating presence at her bedside.
The quiet clink of a spoon against a bowl he insisted she finish. His rumbling voice scolding her for trying to sit up too fast. The irritated crease between his brows when she said she didn’t need help.
It was embarrassing. Infuriating. Yet, still comforting in a way she hadn’t untangled.
Youngseo smacked a hand on her forehead. Honestly, she didn’t even know how to describe their relationship now. It was weird, having full on conversations with him, when just days ago they’d never spoken more than five words to each other a week. At least they were on speaking terms.
Not on good speaking terms, though.
Most of their conversations were drenched in annoyance — her snapping that he hovered too much, him snapping back that she was the worst patient he’d ever seen. He insulted her stubbornness, she insulted his micromanaging tendencies, and somewhere between the jabs and eye rolls, they settled into a shaky, begrudging rhythm of communication.
Not progress, but definitely not silence.
Which was why the quiet today felt wrong. Too clean. Too deliberate. Like someone had wiped a chalkboard and she was the only one still staring at the dust.
This morning, when she’d walked into the dining room — still slightly off-balance from getting back into routine — she’d half-expected him to be there. Not because she wanted him to be, of course. But because somehow now, he always was. Hovering in her space. Critiquing the way she held a spoon. Overall, he was acting like her personal annoyance-in-chief.
At the very least, she’d expected a sarcastic remark about her hair, or her late wake-up time, or how she hadn’t touched the tea the chef prepared.
Instead, she got a room full of quiet.
Only the maids were there, tidying the already-tidy table. One looked up, startled, and delivered the message gently, almost apologetically:
“The Chairman left very early, madam. Before sunrise. I thought I’d let you know.”
The knot that tightened under Youngseo’s sternum wasn’t big by any means, but it wasn’t reasonable. However she wanted to justify it, it was there — tight enough that she felt it every time she inhaled.
She forced herself into work instead. It was safe and something she understood. She buried her hands in paperwork, letting the scent of ink and the crisp edges of briefing documents anchor her. She moved through policy drafts, press notes, and security memos with mechanical precision. She read the same paragraph three times, and each time her mind slipped away before she could absorb a single word.
Ding!
Her desktop computer chirped, a sharp electronic note that cut through the stillness like a blade pressed against glass.
Youngseo lifted her gaze from the memo she hadn’t truly been reading, the quiet hum of her office suddenly feeling too loud, too present. The cursor blinked insistently on her screen, drawing her attention to the notification in the corner.
An email.
After reading the sender address, her pulse stuttered once — annoyingly, traitorously — before settling into something sharper.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Tonight
Message:
Charity gala tonight at 7 p.m. I’ll arrange transportation and security. Formal attire. Driver will pick you up at 6 p.m.
She stared at the text, her eyebrows arching slowly as disbelief bled into irritation.
A gala? Tonight? And he was informing her like… this? The thought hit her with a jolt, sharp enough that she straightened in her chair, fingers going still above the keyboard. The sheer absurdity of the situation made her pulse jump, heat rising to her cheeks as disbelief and irritation tangled into something she couldn’t quite name.
From: [email protected]
Re: Tonight
Message:
Seriously? You’re telling me by email?
She hadn’t expected a fast reply — not from a man who’d left before sunrise without so much as a shadow of a goodbye — but the notification ping bounced off the office walls barely seconds later.
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Tonight
Message:
I don’t have your phone number. And I’m not calling any of your aides. They’ve already left a bad impression.
Youngseo blinked once. Then again.
He didn’t have her number?
After spoon-feeding her porridge, lecturing her about hydration, tucking blankets around her like she was a toddler, and arguing with her for three straight days?
Her jaw tightened so much she felt the tension climb all the way up her temples. A hot flush climbed the back of her neck, prickling at her ears.
It was ridiculous. Absolutely, bewilderingly ridiculous.
Her irritation flared, sharp and immediate, and before she could second-guess herself, her hands were already flying across the keyboard. Her fingers struck the keys with a little too much force, each tap a tiny explosion of pent-up annoyance. She typed out her phone number in crisp, clipped digits, then added a command that read more like a threat than a suggestion: Save it. The cursor blinked at the end of the sentence, almost flinching from the heat rolling off her. She hit send harder than necessary, the click of the mouse loud in the quiet room — satisfyingly final, like slamming a door in someone’s face.
Youngseo sank back into her chair, the leather sighing softly beneath her, eyes still fixed on the message as a knot of restlessness twisted beneath her ribs.
Now, overnight, he was acting like they were nothing more than formal acquaintances, as if the last few days of shared space, arguments, and begrudgingly tolerated care had never happened. The distance between them felt like a chasm now, wider than any physical separation.
Strangers who, apparently, had a charity gala to attend tonight — together.
The thought made her chest tighten, a heavy, simmering knot of irritation she couldn’t shake. The irony of it pressed against her like a coat that was too tight, warm and suffocating in all the wrong ways.
And if that weren’t enough, her mind refused to stay put. For the past few nights, she had been trapped in the same dream over and over, refusing to loosen its grip.
She was fifteen again, standing in that grand, opulent ballroom, the chandeliers throwing fractured light across polished floors. He had been there, impossibly poised and, she had to admit, infuriatingly handsome even then, and she remembered the sharp, fluttering panic she had felt when he caught her overhearing his father’s argument with his staff. She saw it all again: the next day, him getting into a fight at school, fists and fury flying, and how she had watched from the edge of the crowd, her stomach twisting. And then, at the school fountain, she had witnessed him watching her as she rejected someone’s confession with the same cool, dismissive expression she now saw mirrored in her memory.
Each fragment of those memories pressed against her like sand in a wound, and now, with him acting like a stranger, the weight of it all — the closeness, the disdain, the history — was maddening. She clenched her fists on the desk, nails pressing into her palms, wishing she could shake the dream from her mind as easily as she wished she could shake the rising tide of irritation threatening to spill over.
Despite the care he had shown over the past few days — hovering over her when she was sick, fussing over her meals, lecturing her like she was fragile — he had drawn a line the moment it suited him.
“Just because I say something, doesn’t mean I’m giving in.”
Even now, as her irritation simmered and her chest tightened at the thought of his email, Youngseo reminded herself of that line. She repeated it quietly in her mind, like a mantra she didn’t want but needed: he could care, fuss, even linger in her space — but that didn’t mean she had any leverage, that he would bend for her. It stung, more than she wanted to admit, a quiet ache she tucked away beneath her irritation.
It was maddening to feel so close to someone who could still keep such a firm wall between them, and yet, she had to acknowledge it, over and over, because the truth of his words kept her tethered, even when it hurt.
Shaking the thought away, Youngseo straightened in her chair and called in one of her aides. “Hwarin,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady despite the flurry of irritation and anticipation inside her.
Hwarin appeared promptly, holding a notepad and pen, her expression polite but curious.
“Do you know anything about a charity gala happening tonight?” Youngseo asked, leaning forward slightly. “Maybe… one that has to do with my… husband?”
Hwarin nodded, flipping a page in her notebook. “Yes, Madame. The gala is being hosted by the Jo Corporation,” she explained carefully. “Chairman Jo has invited a number of major companies to attend. He’s also planning to announce his new acquisition of a big tech company during the event.”
Youngseo’s eyebrows rose. “Acquisition? That… sounds significant.”
“It is,” Hwarin said. “The company is called SynTech. They specialize in software development and AI solutions — cutting-edge stuff, very ambitious, but their corporate culture is notoriously protective and resistant to external control. They’re not happy about the acquisition, though they’ve been invited to the gala as a formality. Still… well, money talks, as they say.”
Youngseo’s lips pressed into a thin line. The gala was clearly more than just a charity event; it was a stage, a show, and he would be the center of it all. Her pulse quickened, a mixture of anticipation and irritation curling through her chest. She turned back to her desk, already reaching for her phone. “Call my stylist,” she instructed Hwarin. “Tell him I need a dress for tonight. Elegant, formal… but nothing flashy.”
Hwarin nodded immediately, jotting down the instructions. “Understood, Madame. I’ll make the arrangements right away.”
Youngseo exhaled, pressing her fingers briefly to her temples. Focusing on the dress, on the planning, on the tangible, allowed her mind to push aside the swirl of irritation, memories, and complicated thoughts about him — at least for the moment.
Woochan sat alone in his corner office on the top floor of Jo Corporation, and he had to admit, it really was the kind of office meant to intimidate — sleek lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, an empire’s skyline displayed like a trophy. Below him, the city churned in restless, glittering waves, headlights smeared into streaks, buildings pulsing with ambition. Up here, however, the air was still. Heavy. Too quiet for a man who avoided silence as a rule.
He leaned back in his chair, the faint glow of his monitor still reflecting off the glass windows as he turned to face them — the afterimage of the email he’d just sent Youngseo about the charity gala tonight lingering in the corner of his vision like a ghost he refused to name. The exchange between them had been short and efficient on the surface… but his fingers had hovered over the keyboard longer than he’d like to admit.
His computer chimed, interrupting his thoughts.
He didn’t look up immediately. It was probably a revised contract or one of the dozens of reports his executives insisted he “review personally.” But when he finally clicked the notification, his hand stilled.
It was neither a report nor a memo.
Just one line.
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Re: Tonight
Message:Save it. — 010-XXXX-XXXX
Her number.
Woochan stared, his breath snagging for a fraction of a second before slipping out in a low exhale. The muscles in his jaw relaxed — no, lost structure entirely — and he knew if any of his board members walked in right now, they would assume he’d just received catastrophic financial news. But this was arguably worse. It was way more destabilizing.
Youngseo — Lee Youngseo — had just sent him her phone number. She’d just shot it at him like she was throwing a dagger.
A slow, bewildered thud echoed somewhere in his chest. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under him, and dragged a hand through his hair as if that might clear the dizziness blooming beneath his ribs.
Why would she…?
Nothing about the past three days had suggested this. Their “conversations” — if one could consider trading insults as conversations — had been a battlefield. She had snapped at him for hovering; he had snapped back that she was the most impossible patient he’d ever seen. They bickered, argued, glared, and somehow still ended up in the same room, orbiting one another with a closeness he should have resisted but didn’t.
She got under his skin in a way that was silent and infuriatingly precise — slipping past the defenses he’d spent years building in corporate war rooms and childhood battlegrounds, lodging herself somewhere beneath his ribs where he couldn’t ignore her even if he tried. And she stayed there, stubborn and immovable, haunting the edges of his thoughts with every irritated glance and every careless flick of her hair, imprinting herself with a permanence that felt nothing like the temporary arrangement their marriage was meant to be. Worst of all, it was as if she knew it — knew exactly how to needle him, how to make him react, how to leave him off-balance with a single look or clipped word, wielding that awareness with the kind of unintentional precision that made him feel seen in ways he both resented and couldn’t quite walk away from.
And yet… she sent him her number, a fact that lodged itself in his mind with far more weight than the simple line of digits deserved. Bracing his elbows on the desk, he lowered his forehead briefly to his knuckles, as if he could press the confusion out of his skull by sheer force.
What is she thinking?
What am I thinking?
The questions circled each other like wary animals, refusing to settle. When he finally reached for his phone, the motion was slow, almost reluctant — uncharacteristically cautious, as though the device were a live wire and touching it meant admitting to something he wasn’t ready to name aloud. He typed the digits with careful precision, but when he reached the name field, his thumb stopped cold, that blinking cursor suddenly feeling heavier than the entire corporation beneath him.
Name:
The cursor blinked up at him expectantly, almost mockingly, as if daring him to expose whatever ridiculous softness had taken root in his chest.
‘Miss Lee’? His lips twitched, amused despite himself — it sounded far too distant for someone he had, just a few nights ago, help shove a spoonful of porridge into her mouth because she “wasn’t chewing fast enough.”
‘Spokesperson Lee’? He nearly laughed — yes, he’d called her that on their first night as a married couple, but it was a mistake he made from desperately trying to draw a line between the both of them, and one he regretted. That was a label he reserved for officials he spoke to twice a year, not for the woman who had yelled at him for adjusting her blanket by two centimeters.
His thumb hovered, suspended between choices he couldn’t justify even to himself. Memories flickered like static — her tired eyes meeting his across the dim room, her hair plastered messily to her cheek at six in the morning while she complained about the taste of medication. Too alive. Too disruptive. Too present in his head. And before he could talk himself out of it, he typed simply:
Youngseo.
Just her name. Just enough. It felt like the safest middle ground he could claim — familiar without assuming too much, personal without stepping over the lines they kept redrawing between them. They were at least on a first-name basis now… weren’t they? He grimaced, remembering how he’d stiffly addressed her as ‘Miss Lee’ that morning while serving her breakfast in bed for the first time.
The memory made him wince. All because he was so desperate — pathetically desperate — to make sure it wasn’t obvious he wanted to be even closer to her. He’d overcorrected, hiding behind the formality as if it could disguise the fact that he’d spent the whole night hovering over her bedside like he had a right to be there.
He could practically feel the secondhand embarrassment tightening around his spine. The idea of calling her Miss Lee again made his skin crawl — not because it was wrong, of course, but because it suddenly felt too distant, too formal, too opposite of the last few days they’d stumbled through together. And yet, the absolutely absurd part was that he had never actually called her ‘Youngseo’ out loud before. Not to her face. Not even in all the years they'd known of each other. Not even when they were teenagers crossing paths at posh galas he knew they both hated.
Somehow, typing her name into his phone felt more intimate than all of that combined, and he wasn’t sure what to do with the strange, unwelcome weight of that realization.
He hit save, the soft click sounding louder than it should have, and slid the phone back into his pocket — though the weight of it felt entirely different now.
But the moment the phone left his hand, his chest tightened — subtle at first, then sharp, as though something restless and uncooperative had curled itself beneath his ribs and refused to be ignored.
He tried to dismiss it — straightened a stack of documents, adjusted the cuff of his shirt, pretended to be absorbed in the glowing cityscape beyond the glass. But the feeling only grew heavier, more insistent, until it eclipsed every other thought. After a few seconds of losing that internal battle, he reached for his phone again, the motion far too quick for a man who prided himself on precision.
Woochan opened the newly saved contact and stared at the name as though it had personally offended him, the simple letters suddenly too intimate, too revealing, too close to something he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. His thumb hovered above the screen, suspended between logic and something far messier — something that had been simmering beneath the surface for days, maybe even months, maybe even since the day they got ‘married’.
And then — impulsively, almost recklessly, with a sharp flick of his thumb — he erased it. Deleted her contact name entirely, the space going blank and blindingly honest. Before he could think, before he could talk himself out of it, he typed another word instead.
Wife.
The letters appeared one by one, bold and unyielding, settling into place with a finality that punched through the air like a held breath released. The word looked foreign on his phone, intrusive, like it had broken into his carefully controlled life without permission. His pulse thudded louder, a rhythmic protest against the boundary he’d just crossed — arguing with him about logic.
He exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him shakier than he would ever admit.
Then, with a final tap, he hit ‘Save’.
“Hey, do you know Lee Youngseo?”
Woochan didn’t respond immediately. He was too absorbed in the rhythm of the game, the ball thudding against the polished school basketball court, the sharp, hollow echo bouncing off the surrounding walls and the skeletal branches of the autumn trees lining the edge of the campus. Sunlight slanted across the asphalt, stretching long, distorted shadows of the hoops and the chain-link fence, painting the court in golds and grays. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust, sweat, and crushed leaves — a quiet reminder that the school was alive, even in the anxious countdown to the CSATs.
It was a month until the exams, and though every seventeen year-old on school grounds was currently cramming for them, Woochan and a few classmates had come here to let off some stress. Among them was Lee Chaewon, Woochan’s deskmate and occasional sparring partner in both academics and basketball — he was undeniably tall with sun-kissed skin and a grin that suggested he thrived on pushing people’s buttons.
Sneakers squeaked sharply against the court with every pivot, every stop, and the distant hum of students walking between classrooms added a gentle undertone of life. A soft breeze carried the rustle of leaves across the fence, catching in his hair and briefly distracting him.
A small group of girls had gathered at the edge of the court, leaning lazily on the fence, their whispers punctuated with quiet giggles. Their eyes followed every shot, every twist and turn, as if they were watching a performance rather than a casual game. Woochan felt their stares prickling across his skin, but he tried to ignore them, letting the ball dictate his movements — the bounce, the spin, the satisfying snap of net swallowing a shot.
Chaewon was sprawled on the court floor a few feet away, one knee bent and the other leg stretched out lazily, tossing a ball up and catching it with easy, exaggerated skill. He was Daehan’s basketball team captain for a reason.
He clearly enjoyed the attention the game — and Woochan — were drawing, his smirk widening as he waited for a reaction. “Do you know her?” he asked again, a little louder this time. “I hear her name everywhere, and I think she’s… something else.”
Woochan caught the rebound mid-dribble, pivoted, and shot without looking. Swish. The net whispered as the ball fell cleanly through. He exhaled slowly, letting the familiar rhythm calm him, before finally meeting Chaewon’s gaze. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess.”
It wasn’t the casual, dismissive answer Chaewon had expected. Woochan’s tone carried weight, subtle and almost imperceptible, but enough to hint at history tangled with that single name.
“Really?” Chaewon pressed, bouncing the ball lazily, the leather hissing against his palm. “Like… how well?”
Woochan dribbled twice more, eyes fixed on the court rather than the boys, rather than the girls leaning on the fence, whispering and craning to get a better look. “Enough,” he muttered, the word heavy, weighted with meaning he didn’t bother unpacking aloud.
Chaewon frowned, sensing he’d crossed an unspoken line, but his curiosity — or mischief — refused to relent. “Enough to… what?”
The question hung in the late afternoon air like a sudden gust, sharper than the rhythmic thud of the ball. Woochan didn’t answer. He dribbled, pivoted, and let the ball fall cleanly through the net again, the satisfying swish filling the empty space where words would have failed him. The girls leaned in a little closer, captivated, their whispered excitement mingling with the breeze. The sunlight caught the edges of Woochan’s hair, casting him in a halo of light and shadow that made him look taller, sharper, impossibly still amidst the chaos of sound and motion around him.
Woochan pivoted sharply, ball in hand, and let it bounce against the court twice, the rhythmic thud grounding him in the late afternoon haze. He finally glanced at Chaewon again, this time with a frown, his brow tightening. “Why are you asking me this?” he asked, carrying the weight of someone who didn’t like being pulled into trivial matters.
Chaewon smirked then, that self-satisfied, mischievous grin that always set Woochan on edge. “Well… you’re both kinda elite, and kinda top tier rich. I figured you’d know her,” he said, shrugging as if the explanation itself was a punchline.
“No,” Woochan said, narrowing his eyes. “I mean — why are you asking me if I know her? What do you want?”
The other boys paused mid-dribble or mid-laugh, sensing the tension radiating off Woochan like heat from asphalt. One of them muttered, nudging another, “Ohhh, here we go. This is about to get good.”
Chaewon grinned, letting the words hang in the air like a spark before he dropped the bomb. “I’m thinking about… pursuing her.”
Woochan’s hand froze mid-dribble. The ball slipped slightly, bouncing off rhythm, and he didn’t bother correcting it, letting it hit the court with a dull, hollow thud. His chest tightened in an inexplicable way, a restlessness he couldn’t name crawling up his spine.
He barely knew her — hadn’t really spoken to her, not properly, not beyond the occasional curt nod or the faintest recognition at events their fathers both attended. And yet, the idea of someone else chasing her… it pricked at him and nagged at him greatly.
"Don't," Woochan spat.
“Don’t what?” Chaewon asked, stretching and tilting his head, unfazed.
“Don’t pursue her,” Woochan said, scanning the court, letting his gaze wander over the girls leaning on the fence, whispering and nudging each other, over the rustling leaves, the pale autumn sunlight catching on the chain-link fence. “CSATs are coming. It’s not the time. She’s going to be focusing on that first. You’ll —”
“Relax, man,” Chaewon interrupted, grinning wider than ever, unbothered by Woochan’s tension. “I was planning on asking you to introduce me to her first anyway. We can start by being just friends.”
“Introduce you?” Woochan repeated, voice unwavering, though his pulse had jumped like a trapped bird against his ribs.
“Yeah,” Chaewon said, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I mean, you said you know her. Thought you could help me out. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Look, I don’t know her that well,” Woochan said, dribbling the ball a little harder, the leather thudding sharply against the polished court. “Why not you go and — ”
“Come on, man,” Chaewon interrupted, grinning, leaning back on his hands, the sun catching the edge of his hair in sharp golds. “Help a brother out! Just a little intro. I’m not asking for your soul.”
Woochan’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowing slightly. His fingers tightened around the ball, letting it bounce with a sharper rhythm, each thud echoing his uncertainty. Chaewon didn’t even seem to notice. With a flourish, he reached into his backpack and pulled something out — a small keychain shaped like a pink bunny, soft and plush, dangling delicately from a silver ring.
Woochan felt a faint stab of recognition, reluctant and unbidden. She’d like this, he thought automatically. The soft pink of the bunny matched the pink of her backpack and the delicate hairclips she wore every day to school, pinned just so. It was a harmless little thing, ridiculous even — but in his chest, something coiled tight and unreasonably alert.
“Give this to her,” Chaewon said, holding it up like it was a sacred offering, the sunlight glinting off the silver ring. “Say it’s from me. Help me get on her good side. Come on, bro, for me?”
Woochan’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, feeling the ball almost slip from his fingers, bouncing almost unnoticed against the court. His throat went dry, and for a moment he wondered why he felt like his body was betraying him—why the idea of holding that keychain, even briefly, sent a jolt of heat through his chest. Without speaking, he gave a stiff nod, forcing his focus back to the basketball.
He dribbled twice, pivoted, and shot. Swish. The ball fell cleanly through the net, the echo of it masking the strange twist of unease in his mind.
Chaewon smirked, satisfied, tossing the ball lazily into the air and catching it again. “See? Easy,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You’re already halfway to being a hero in my book.”
The tension in his chest refused to ease, the rhythm of dribbling doing little to quiet the tight coil of frustration. Without thinking, Woochan yanked off his hoodie, then tugged at his T-shirt beneath it, peeling it off in one swift motion.
The air hit his skin, cool against the warmth of the court, and for a moment he just stood there, ball forgotten at his feet, jaw clenched, letting out a sharp, annoyed exhale.
From the sidelines, the girls gasped and cheered. “Whoa!” one squealed, clapping her hands over her mouth. Another laughed, leaning on the fence and whispering to her friends, “I didn’t know he had arms like that!”
Chaewon’s jaw dropped slightly, though he tried to mask it with a smirk. “Dude… seriously?” he said, shaking his head. “Now I get why you’re always the center of attention.”
Woochan ignored him, letting his gaze settle on the basket again, dribbling the ball once more with renewed focus. The cheers from the girls mingled with the thud of the ball, but in his chest, the knot remained, sharper now — not from embarrassment, but from a restless irritation he couldn’t quite name.
“I’m sorry bro, she didn’t want it.”
Woochan’s voice cut through the low hum of Daehan High School’s cafeteria, where sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows and bounced off the gleaming white tables. The scent of fresh pastries and brewed coffee mingled with the faint tang of polished wood, giving the space an air of sophistication far beyond a typical high school lunchroom. Students clustered in neatly arranged booths, their laughter polite but carrying the faint edge of competition, as if even a lunchtime conversation was a subtle contest.
Woochan had made his way across the cafeteria when he’d spotted Chaewon sitting at a corner table, tray pushed aside, animatedly gesturing as he recounted some story to their friends. Woochan had approached and relayed the devastating news to him, calm and composed, though the weight of the words he carried made his shoulders feel heavier than usual.
Chaewon froze mid-sentence upon hearing it, the grin on his face faltering as the words sank in. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for the first time that afternoon, his usual easy confidence seemed to waver. Around them, the chatter of the posh cafeteria continued, oblivious to the small, charged moment that had just passed.
Chaewon’s head shot up, eyes wide. “What do you mean she didn’t want it? Are you sure? Did you even try?”
Woochan shook his head, leaning back slightly, his expression calm but firm. “I’m sure. I told you as soon as I could. And no, I didn’t try to force anything. You can’t just make someone like you.”
Chaewon groaned, leaning forward, resting his forehead on his folded arms. “But why? Why not? How did you even ask her? Tell me how you approached her!”
Woochan’s jaw tightened, a faint shadow crossing his features. “I didn’t… I mean, I just — I kept it simple. I told her who it was from, and gave her the keychain. Nothing fancy. No big speech or any showy gestures. Just… 'Here, this is from Chaewon.' That’s it.”
“Just that?” Chaewon echoed, incredulous, sitting up straighter. “You didn’t, like, charm her? Use some killer line? Woochan, man, I thought you had a way with this stuff!”
Woochan let out a short, humorless laugh, shrugging lightly. “Charm won’t change whether she’s interested. That’s all there is to it. I just delivered the message. The rest… that’s on her.”
He leaned down slightly, resting a hand briefly on Chaewon’s shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said, voice softer now, measured but warm. “Don’t take it too hard. You’ll find better options. You’re not short on chances.”
Chaewon let out a rueful laugh, more to himself than anyone else, shaking his head. “Yeah… maybe,” he muttered, still staring at the table.
“You’ll see,” Woochan continued, straightening up, his gaze firm but reassuring. “Just don’t force it. Someone who actually wants to be around you? That’s the one worth chasing.”
The corner of Chaewon’s mouth twitched into a small, grateful smile. He slumped back in his chair, letting the tension seep out of his shoulders. Around them, the cafeteria buzzed on — students laughing, trays clattering, a world that continued moving. But in that small bubble by the corner table, Woochan’s calm presence grounded him, lending a quiet reassurance that somehow made the rejection feel a little less like failure.
“Jo Woochan, what would I do without you, man?”
“Jo Woochan?”
“Jo Woochan!”
“Hey, Jo Woochan!”
His name snapped through the fog of his half-dream like a pebble tossed into water.
Woochan jerked awake just as his elbow slid, knocking a small stack of papers off the side of his desk. They fanned out across the floor in a quiet flutter, landing like fallen feathers. His vision refocused slowly — the dimming sunlight outside his office windows, the glow of his locked computer screen, the faint imprint of a document crease against his cheek.
He blinked hard.
Standing at the doorway, his assistant, Yeo Mina, crossed her arms with the kind of tired exasperation reserved only for people who had worked under Woochan long enough to know that “I didn’t mean to fall asleep” was his most predictable lie. Mina was petite but razor-sharp, dressed in her usual clean, monochrome suit, hair pulled into a sleek low bun that not a single hectic day could dislodge. Her expression was neat, too. Now, she looked professionally annoyed, if you could even call it that.
“You fell asleep,” Mina said, stating the obvious with the sharp precision of someone who wanted him to feel guilty about it.
She clicked her tongue. “Again.”
Woochan rubbed his temple, sitting up straighter. “Whatever it is, it’s Chairman Jo to you,” he muttered, voice gravelly from the nap.
She scoffed. “Please. If I start calling you that while you’re drooling on your quarterly reports, HR is going to think I’m being sarcastic.”
Woochan raised a brow. “I wasn’t drooling.”
“You were snoring,” she corrected, stepping forward to retrieve the scattered papers. “And I’m going to have to come up with some new method to keep you awake. Cold water. Air horns. Maybe a taser.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Try it and see what happens.”
She only sighed, smoothing the papers into a neat pile before placing them on his desk with a pointed thump.
“Anyway,” she continued, switching back into professional mode with practiced ease, “here’s your briefing for tonight’s charity gala.”
She listed everything off — arrival time, press interaction points, last-minute program changes, his placement at the VIP table, and the reminder of the two-minute speech. “And don’t forget,” she added, tapping her tablet for emphasis, “tonight’s your big reveal. The board wants you to officially announce the SynTech acquisition during the speech. I know the press has been reporting about it for a while now, but this is the first time you’re publicly acknowledging it.”
Woochan let out a slow breath, fingers massaging the stiffness in his neck. Big reveal. As if a billion-won acquisition was just a party trick he could casually pull out between cocktails.
She scrolled further down her tablet. “And speaking of which, SynTech Group will be present tonight.”
Woochan’s fingers stilled against his neck.
Of course they’d attend. He knew that the company had sent them an invitation, but last he heard they hadn’t confirmed their attendance. To be fair, it would’ve caused more trouble if they didn’t. Still, the words hit with a familiar weight, grounding him back into the reality he’d been putting off thinking about all morning.
“They confirmed their RSVP an hour ago,” she continued, unaware — or purposely pretending not to notice — the faint tension tightening his shoulders. “They’ll be seated at Table Three, just across from you. Their CEO won’t be attending, but the executive team will. I’m guessing they’ll want to size you up a little.”
Woochan exhaled through his nose, slow, steady. “They’re not thrilled about the acquisition.”
“No,” she agreed bluntly. “They are not. But what can be done? The contracts have been signed, and they’ll have to show up because the industry’s watching.” She glanced up from her tablet. “Just be prepared. They might try to corner you for… comments.”
He rolled his shoulders back, expression neutral. “Let them try.”
She gave him a look — half impressed, half exasperated — before continuing, “Right. And lastly, your wife, Spokesperson Lee. Should I prepare an escort for her arrival?”
He shook his head almost too quickly. “No. I’ll meet her there.”
Mina nodded once, satisfied. “Anything else you need before I finalize your schedule?”
Woochan exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across the back of his neck. “No. That should be everything.”
“Good.” She flipped her tablet closed with a soft snap, took one step back toward the door — then hesitated. A small, knowing smile curved her lips. “By the way… I saw Spokesperson Lee when I went to the broadcasting station this morning.”
Woochan looked up once, sharply.
“She’s really…” She searched for the word, her smile widening. “Stunning. Not just pretty — she’s elegant. The kind of elegance that makes everyone else check their posture.”
He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his jaw tightened.
“And competent too,” She let out a soft, almost conspiratorial laugh. “God, she handled that reporter ambush that day like she was born to be in front of the cameras. I don’t understand how you’re not showing her off every second of the day. If I had a wife like that, I’d be insufferable.”
Woochan blinked once. Slowly. As if the comment had knocked loose something he’d wedged firmly into a locked room inside his head.
Mina didn’t notice. She was already gathering her files. “Anyway. Just thought I’d say it. She’s… impressive. You two make a good picture. If what the Dispatch reports are saying is right, you guys have a heartwarming meet-cute story too.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence spilled into the room, heavy and humming.
Woochan’s gaze dropped to his open laptop, but the words on the screen blurred uselessly.
Show her off.
As if he didn’t want to. As if he didn’t think about it constantly — how she looked standing beside him, how she carried herself with a quiet fire that made people turn their heads before they even realized they were doing it.
She wasn’t just impressive. She was devastating. But she wasn’t his to show off. Not in the way he wanted.
Woochan’s throat tightened. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest, betraying the agitation he refused to let surface anywhere else.
Mina and everyone else saw the polished surface of their marriage — the grand wedding, the titles, the public grace.
But they didn’t see the way Youngseo stiffened whenever he got too close. Or how she swallowed her emotions like they were things she wasn’t allowed to feel. Or how her eyes softened only in split-second glimpses, quickly hidden before he could read too much into them.
Woochan dragged in a slow breath.
If he could, he’d show her off to the whole world.
But right now, he was trying not to want her too loudly, for fear of driving her away. Trying not to let his desire — this new-found longing of his — spill over into something that would make her step further away instead of closer.
He shut his laptop, pushing it aside. It didn’t help. Her face still occupied every corner of his mind, just as loud, just as painfully annoying as before.
But Mina’s parting words wouldn’t leave him.
Dispatch reports. Meet cute.
A neat, almost flippant pairing of words, tossed out casually, but landed with the sharp precision of a needle. The phrases replayed in his head, soft but insistent, like someone tapping a bruise just to see if it still hurt.
Woochan exhaled slowly, rubbing at the tension gathering at the base of his neck. He’d never actually read any of the articles about their marriage — not the wedding features, not the flattering profiles, and certainly not the fabricated “romance timeline” people loved to circulate.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know they existed. He did.
They’d trended for weeks.
His phone had buzzed with notifications back then — friends from college sending links, relatives forwarding articles with heart emojis, employees trying to be subtle while passing around headlines in the office. Even shareholders had congratulated him with indulgent smiles, as though he’d won the lottery rather than signed a contract.
And then there was Chaewon.
Chaewon hadn’t said a word to him after the marriage news broke — no congratulations, no teasing, no familiar banter; he just… stopped contacting Woochan altogether. One minute they were exchanging the occasional meme, the irregular “bro, did you see this?” messages, and the harmless nostalgia pings that kept dormant friendships alive. And the next — nothing.
No reply to Woochan’s last text, no reaction to the wedding announcement, no subtle jab about Woochan “stealing his high school crush,” not even a half-hearted attempt at pretending he was fine with it.
Just silence. A clean, unceremonious cut.
And Woochan had understood it, in a way. Chaewon had liked Youngseo in their senior year — earnestly, in that stubborn, loyal way only teenage boys could. Even after they graduated from high school, he’d still bring her up sometimes, laughing it off like it was just nostalgia, but Woochan had always known it wasn’t. Not really. And that dream he had just now when he fell asleep reminded him further of just how sincere Chaewon had been about her.
Almost without thinking, Woochan reached over and slid open the bottom drawer of his desk. His fingers hesitated for a beat before they moved aside old documents, a forgotten charger, a few empty envelopes — until they found it.
A small pink, fluffy bunny keychain stared back at him with its googly eyes. Still soft. Still stupidly cute. The same one Chaewon had asked him to pass onto Youngseo three years ago.
Woochan had told him she didn’t want it and that she’d politely declined. He’d painted the scene in gentle, careful strokes — he said he delivered the message and the keychain promptly, but she refused to accept it. And when Chaewon’s face fell, when that hopeful spark dimmed just enough to make the moment ache, Woochan had stayed right beside him. He’d clapped him on the shoulder, offered hollow reassurances about “she’s not the one” and how he had “better chances in the future,” even walked him home that evening under the pretense of being a good friend.
Woochan comforted him through heartbreak he himself had fabricated. He’d delivered the lie so smoothly back then, with such practiced calm, that Chaewon hadn’t questioned a single word.
Back then, he’d justified it to himself with half-formed excuses — We’re not close. It’d be so weird. She’d feel uncomfortable. I’m doing Chaewon and myself a favor by avoiding embarrassment. But now, looking at the ridiculous pink bunny sitting in his palm, he wasn’t sure if those reasons had ever been the full truth, or if they were just convenient ones.
He slid the keychain back inside, the drawer closing with a dull click as he sighed.
When their marriage was announced, Chaewon’s disappearance said more than any dramatic confrontation or emotional outburst ever could. It was the kind of withdrawal that didn’t need explanation.
Woochan hadn’t chased after him. He didn’t know if that made him a bad friend or simply a practical one. And though he felt guilty to admit this, truthfully, he hadn’t missed Chaewon much — they’d been drifting long before Youngseo was arranged to be his wife. But still… the sudden quiet had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable. It was a small, persistent reminder that even an arranged marriage had collateral damage.
So he avoided all of it — the glossy features, the slow-motion wedding reels Korean netizens made, the “relationship analysts” breaking down their supposed chemistry, the timeline videos detailing milestones that had never happened. He never clicked on a single article. Not one.
Because every headline felt like a mirror reflecting a life he was supposed to be thrilled about. Because every photo captured them smiling in ways that didn’t belong to them yet. Because every over-romanticized paragraph felt like a reminder of how wide the gap was between public perception and private truth.
And at the time, he hadn’t had the emotional bandwidth to stare directly at that gap. It was one thing to live inside an arranged marriage with all its quiet awkwardness, the careful politeness, the steps they took around each other like the floor might crack. It was another to see the world cheering for a love story he wasn’t sure he had the right to want.
He still remembered scrolling past thumbnails and headlines like they were landmines — bright, glittering traps.
“A Modern-Day Fairytale the Nation Can’t Stop Talking About!”
“Korea’s Newlywedded Golden Couple: Chairman Jo Woochan and Spokesperson Lee Youngseo!”
“From Middle School Acquaintances to Post-CSAT Soulmates — A Love Years in the Making!”
It was nauseating, all of it. Not because it wasn’t beautiful, but because it was beautiful in the wrong way — beautiful in a way that didn’t belong to them. And he stayed in his lane — quietly, cautiously, now trying to build something real with Youngseo while the rest of the country celebrated a version of them that doesn’t exist.
A version he now secretly wishes they could be.
After a long moment of silence, Woochan reached for his phone, the polished surface cold under his fingers. Normally, he would have stayed curious — about the articles, the headlines, the endless speculation — but Mina’s words had planted a seed he couldn’t ignore.
Unlocking the screen, he hesitated, thumb hovering over the browser icon as if touching it might make the world of polished smiles and romanticized timelines collapse onto him. Finally, he tapped it, opening a blank search page. His fingers moved almost mechanically, typing in their names, pausing briefly as if the act itself required courage.
The results flooded in instantly: dozens of links, each promising a curated version of their “love story.” He scrolled past thumbnails, pausing at a photograph that made his chest tighten — Youngseo in a poised, effortless smile, the world seemingly bending to her light. And then, atop the list, from none other than Dispatch themselves, was the headline that had been cited countless times in fan pages and social chatter:
“Everything YOU Need to Know About Korea’s Newest Golden Couple Involving A 3rd-Generation Chaebol Heir and Daughter of a 3rd-Generation Political Dynasty!”
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the link, heart oddly tight. A breath in, a breath out. Then, almost against himself, he tapped it. The page loaded, text and images spilling across the screen in glossy, storybook perfection — the story of a life that had never actually happened, now presented as if it had.
And yet… he couldn’t look away.
SEOUL — South Korea’s newest “golden couple,” Jo Corporation Chairman Jo Woochan and Blue House Spokesperson Lee Youngseo, have captivated public attention not only for their high-profile wedding but also for the compelling story behind their relationship. According to sources, the two first became acquainted in elementary school through their families’ longstanding influence in business and politics. Chairman Jo Woochan, now the youngest yet most influential corporate leader South Korea has seen in fifty years, leads Jo Corporation, a multinational conglomerate with a storied legacy spanning three generations. Spokesperson Lee Youngseo, currently the youngest-ever spokesperson for the Blue House, is the granddaughter of the sitting President of South Korea, President Lee Jungheon, and daughter of prominent political figure Assemblyman Lee Hyunseok, who is widely expected to run in the next presidential election, with current approval ratings ranking among the highest in the nation.
Insiders report that Chairman Jo and Spokesperson Lee have maintained a long-standing familiarity over the years. The two reportedly first met in elementary school, thanks to their fathers’ longstanding business and political connections, and later attended the same schools — Daehan Middle School and Daehan High School — which are among Seoul’s most prestigious educational institutions. Daehan is renowned not only for its rigorous academic programs and elite extracurricular offerings but also for its opulent campus and refined environment, catering to the children of Korea’s upper echelon. The school’s tuition ranks among the highest in the country, a reflection of its exclusive, prestigious status and its reputation as a place where the nation’s wealthiest and most influential families send their children to secure both a first-class education and a powerful social network.
It was during these formative years that the two reportedly grew closer. Sources indicate that they began a quiet relationship in high school prior to the CSAT exams, a period often considered a major turning point for Korean students. Their courtship, carefully managed to preserve privacy and propriety, remained largely out of the public eye until the official announcement of their wedding yesterday.
The Jo and Lee families are among Korea’s most influential. The Jos have built a business empire that spans finance, real estate, and technology, while the Lees have held political power for three generations, shaping national policy and maintaining a prominent presence in government. Observers note that the couple’s union represents not only a convergence of Korea’s business and political elites but also a symbolic continuation of their families’ influence in shaping the next generation of leadership.
The public’s newfound fascination with Chairman Jo and Spokesperson Lee, often described as a “modern fairytale,” reflects both their personal accomplishments and the dynastic prominence of their families, cementing their status as one of the most talked-about power couples in contemporary South Korean society.
Youngseo stood in the center of her office, which usually radiated the understated luxury expected of a Blue House spokesperson — but now, looked more like a private atelier.
Garment bags lay opened on the sofa, silk and tulle spilling out like quiet decadence. Her personal stylist moved with efficient precision, while her makeup artist was already setting out brushes and palettes on her desk, turning policy briefs and speech notes into a makeshift vanity. The air smelled faintly of setting spray and the soft florals of her perfume.
The dress itself was a sculpture.
A custom couture piece flown in from Paris — a limited-release Elie Saab gown in a shade of moonlit ivory, its fabric threaded with hand-embroidered crystals so fine they shimmered like frost when she moved. The design was sleek, architectural even, hugging her waist before cascading into soft, fluid folds that whispered against the polished floor. Only five of these gowns existed worldwide, and hers had been personally adjusted by the maison’s senior atelier director.
“Now, be careful with that — this bodice alone is worth more than my mortgage,” her stylist muttered, half-joking, half-serious.
Youngseo stared at the gown as he zipped her into it, then grumbled under her breath.
“I said nothing flashy.”
Her stylist didn’t even flinch. “This is the least flashy option,” he said, entirely serious, “the others looked like they were prepared for coronations.”
The jewelry came next: a pair of Cartier Étincelle diamond drop earrings that caught the evening light in sparkles, a slender Chaumet bracelet that wrapped around her wrist with almost impossible delicacy, and a high-jewelry ring placed on her right hand as the final touch. Each piece was rare, meticulously selected — not loud, but unmistakably expensive to anyone who knew where to look.
Her makeup artist stepped back, brushing a final highlight across her cheekbone.
“You look like you’re about to get married again,” he teased softly.
Youngseo exhaled, smoothing a hand down the gown’s silk. The weight of the dress was exquisite — luxurious, grounding, a reminder of the world she’d been born into and the image she was expected to carry. She glanced down at her phone to check her time and realised the driver would be here soon to pick her up.
With one last check of the train and a gentle tap to her shoulder, her stylist and makeup artist guided her out of the office and toward the Blue House’s main entrance to wait.
The late-evening air met her the moment the doors opened, cool and crisp against her warmed skin. The Blue House courtyard glowed under carefully placed lights, casting soft gold across stone pathways and the manicured trees swaying quietly in the breeze. Staff members passing by paused — subtly, politely, but unmistakably — to take in the sight of her.
Youngseo held herself with practiced composure, shoulders straight, chin lifted, every inch the nation’s beloved spokesperson and the Lee family’s perfect daughter. But the gown felt heavier now, not from fabric, but from the attention. The kind she had spent years mastering, yet never fully grew used to.
Her stylist fussed with a final adjustment on the veil-like back panel while her makeup artist dabbed more glitter lightly at the corner of her eye. Youngseo stood still, hands clasped before her, watching headlights glide past the front gate as the city hummed in the distance.
A low rumble approached — the familiar, polished black sedan rounding the drive.
“Is that your car?” her stylist murmured.
Youngseo nodded and exhaled once, quiet and steady.
Her fingers curled slightly against the silk, a small tell her team didn’t notice — but she herself felt acutely. She was nervous, though she couldn’t quite pin down which part of the evening was responsible for the flutter under her ribs.
Was it the fact that this would be her first public appearance with Woochan since the wedding — an event guaranteed to draw cameras, headlines, and endless speculation? Or was it the simpler, far more disquieting truth that she hadn’t seen him at all today, and the thought of facing him after almost a full day apart made something warm and unsteady pool in her chest?
She swallowed, eyes fixed on the approaching sedan as it rolled to a smooth stop before her, the engine humming softly in the cool evening. The door would open soon. And when it did, she had no idea which version of her heartbeat would answer.
The gala was already in full, glittering motion by the time Woochan stepped into the reception hall, the low hum of conversation rising and falling beneath the soft swell of a live string quartet. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured gold across the room, catching on sequins, polished shoes, and the glossy sheen of champagne flutes.
Jo Corporation was the official host of the evening — as it had been for the past sixteen years, ever since Woochan’s grandfather established the tradition. What began as a modest annual fundraiser had grown into one of the most anticipated philanthropic events in the country, a cornerstone of the conglomerate’s corporate legacy.
Every year, the gala raised money for a cause the Jo family had long championed: expanding nationwide accessibility to education and healthcare for underprivileged children. Scholarships, mobile clinics, mental-health programs for adolescents, community centers in rural towns — the initiatives shifted slightly each year, but the mission remained the same.
It was a legacy project, one rooted in the late Chairman Jo’s belief that privilege came with responsibility — and that the truest measure of a dynasty was not its wealth, but the lives it changed quietly, without expecting applause.
Woochan was expected to uphold that legacy meticulously, and tonight was no exception.
He moved deeper into the hall, where the chandeliers glowed like suspended constellations and the polished marble floor reflected every shimmer of champagne, gold embroidery, and evening jewels. The air carried the faint scent of orchids arranged in towering centerpieces, their petals pale and delicate against the opulence of crystal vases. Conversations rose in warm, melodic waves — ministers trading policy murmurs, CEOs discussing markets, socialites laughing behind jeweled fans.
Everywhere he went, people paused to acknowledge him.
Woochan accepted each greeting with practiced grace, offering bows of polite depth and smiles that were perfectly measured — warm but not overly intimate, confident but never arrogant. He moved like someone who had grown up in rooms like these, trained to navigate power with steady footsteps and steady breath.
He checked in with the event coordinator by the stage, adjusting the order of speeches without missing a beat. He reviewed the donation display wall — dozens of gold plaques engraved with the names of donors who had contributed enough to fund entire programs. He spoke with the director of the foundation they have been diligently donating to, a woman in her sixties whose eyes softened whenever she spoke of the children their programs reached.
Yet beneath it all — beneath the careful hosting, the steady composure, the weight of legacy pressing lightly but unmistakably on his shoulders — every few seconds, his gaze drifted toward the grand entrance.
Waiting for the moment the doors would open and Youngseo, his wife, would step into the light. The moment the room would shift around her, the way it always did.
An older CEO — Chairman Park of a heavy industry company, who’d been in the business world longer than Woochan had been alive — approached him with the familiar shuffle of polished leather shoes and the faint smell of old cologne and cigars.
“Chairman Jo,” the older man boomed warmly, gripping Woochan’s hand in both of his as though greeting an old comrade rather than someone forty years his junior. “Good to see you, good to see you. I was hoping to congratulate your wife as well tonight. Where is the young Madam Jo? Haven’t spotted her yet.”
Woochan opened his mouth to answer with something along the lines of she’s on her way — when suddenly the distant hum of conversation thinned and the paparazzi stationed behind the velvet ropes exploded into overlapping shouts.
“She’s here, she’s here!”
“Look this way, please!”
“Madam Jo, over here! Over here!”
Woochan’s head turned before he even realized he was moving.
Youngseo stepped through the grand doors with the poise of someone raised in the eye of every storm. The lights from a hundred camera flashes collided against her like falling stars, catching on the silk of her gown that poured over her frame like moonlight made tangible. Her earrings sparkled with each tilt of her head as she smiled for some of the cameras. Her hair was swept into a soft, smooth bun that exposed the clean line of her neck, elegant and devastating in its simplicity.
And Woochan, who had always known she was striking in a quiet, disciplined way, felt a slow, tightening realization curl through him.
She’s beautiful.
The thought didn’t hit him; it unfolded. Like a curtain being drawn back to reveal something he’d been looking at for years without ever truly seeing. It was… unsettling. Like someone had quietly pulled the rug out from under him, just enough for him to notice he’d lost balance.
It began with the line of her shoulders, straight but soft, framed by the delicate straps of the gown. Then the faint dip at the hollow of her throat, where her bedazzled necklace lay. Then her face — composed, serene, framed by the gentle sweep of hair pulled into a low chignon that bared the graceful curve of her neck.
His breath hitched.
She’s beautiful.
She’s beautiful.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
The thought repeated itself, reshaping, deepening, cresting like a quiet wave. He felt it in his pulse, in the warm tug low in his chest, in the sudden awareness that the room had blurred around her — or maybe around him.
Chairman Park was still talking beside him, asking another question he barely registered. But Woochan’s attention was locked, wholly and helplessly, on the woman walking into the hall.
She was, suddenly, painfully, unequivocally the most beautiful person he had ever seen.
And the thought hit him with such quiet violence that his mind stalled for just a heartbeat before everything rushed back in. How was he supposed to keep pretending this marriage was all neat and arranged and logical when she walked in looking like that?
He felt it. That slow, spiraling drop in his stomach, the kind he’d only read about in romance books he’d pretended were boring. The kind of feeling that made time stretch, thin and shimmering, as if everything around him blurred at the edges while she stayed in frightening, perfect focus.
And in that clarity, it sank in, horribly yet beautifully:
Woochan was absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically screwed.
Notes:
helloooo woah 10k words !!! another wooseo flashback sorta? (this time from high school) but i hope they aren’t too confusing LOL
woochan’s lore on youngseo runs deeeeep i won’t spoil but while it’s true that they’ve never actually talked to each other and aren’t close, being in the same school means he has DEFINITELY noticed her way more than he’d like to admit. i mean who wouldn’t? she’s the top student, president’s granddaughter… everyone talks about her!!!
side note i’m so extremely upset with tbl’s decision for their upcoming ep and exclusion of youngseo :( their damage control was so laughable lmao and the way this caused such a big rift in the fandom makes me sad. also i can’t believe chesoms are getting attacked left and right just for speaking up and then suddenly wooseo fans are getting dragged too like ?!!?!? anyways yeah those are my 2 cents on what has happened the past couple of days… but writing wooseo is genuinely a comfort hobby of mine (is that even a term?) so yeah, see you guys in the next chapter!
Chapter Text
Woochan didn’t remember breathing on his way to the main table.
One moment he was standing beside Chairman Park, pulse ricocheting in ways that felt medically concerning, and the next he was lowering himself into his seat, muscles moving on autopilot while his mind lagged somewhere ten steps behind — still stuck on the image of Youngseo stepping through those doors like she’d been carved from light.
Across the room, servers drifted between tables carrying trays of champagne, the low hum of conversation weaving beneath the swell of orchestral music. It should have grounded him. It didn’t. Everything sounded like static.
Because there she was.
Youngseo had paused to greet someone — a foreign ambassador, if his disheveled brain was identifying correctly — her posture straight, her expression polite yet warm. The loose tendrils of hair escaping her bun curled against her cheek as she bowed her head politely. Her gown shifted like ripples of liquid silver with every breath she took.
Woochan’s jaw tightened.
This was fine. He was fine. People had endured far worse storms than this. He was sure plenty of men had stood beside their legally-bound-but-not-quite wives and felt something inside them splinter under the weight of it, and they had survived. He could too. He only had to steady himself — breathe past the ache in his ribs, and pretend he wasn’t standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name.
Beside him, someone spoke his name.
“Chairman Jo?”
He jerked slightly, turning to see Chairman Park studying him with mild confusion — or maybe suspicion. It was hard to tell since his brain was still buffering.
“You went quiet just now,” the older chairman observed. “Is everything alright? You look pale.”
Right.
“I’m fine,” Woochan said, even though he absolutely wasn’t. “Just… the lighting. Very bright. I should let the technical team know.”
Chairman Park blinked at him as if evaluating whether that was the most idiotic excuse he’d heard today.
Woochan didn’t care. Because from the corner of his eye, he could see Youngseo had started walking toward the table now — toward him — and the rest of the gala dimmed in his peripheral vision. Her eyes lifted, scanning the room, searching for her seat.
And then she found him.
Her gaze brushed his. Soft. Steady. Familiar.
And something in his chest clenched so sharply he almost flinched.
She smiled — just a small, polite, composed curve of her lips, yet Woochan felt it deep in his chest.
She reached the table with the effortless grace of someone born knowing how to move through rooms full of power. Then, just as Woochan opened his mouth to greet her, Youngseo moved. She leaned in delicately, her gown whispering against his chair, and slipped her arm through his.
The act was not timid, exactly, but cautious in the way a person is when they’re pretending not to be nervous. Every movement was measured, almost weightless, as if she feared she was pressing too hard, taking up too much space, or even revealing too much. Her hand rested lightly along the sleeve of his suit, just above his wrist, her touch warm even through the fabric.
Lightly — the word didn’t even do it justice.
It was barely a touch, a whisper of contact. It was soft enough that, for a fleeting moment, Woochan wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. The lingering warmth diffused through layers of fabric, delicate yet impossibly distinct.
The tension bloomed instantly.
Woochan felt it first in the stillness between their arms, in the tiny pocket of heat where her skin hovered just close enough to burn without ever crossing the line. Then in the way she shifted, the slightest lean of her body toward his, subtle enough for the room to miss but unmistakable to him.
“I —” Youngseo cleared her throat, quiet enough that only he heard it. Then she tried again, smoother this time. “I’m sorry I’m late. The photographers were swarming at me before I could even come in.”
There was a subtle tremor she fought to hide — the tiniest waver of breath, the smallest pause as if she was hoping he wouldn’t notice she was flustered. She kept her chin high, her smile polite, but her eyes darted to his only for a fraction of a second before flicking away, like prolonged eye contact might give something away.
Up till now, Woochan had felt every point of contact as though she’d pressed a hand directly to his chest. His pulse thudded once, hard.
Her perfume — soft lavender layered with something warmer — brushed past him, and he felt her exhale as she settled beside him. Even then, she kept her arm linked with his for an extra heartbeat, perhaps without realizing it, before she released him and sank gracefully into her seat.
Only then did she glance at him fully, as if checking whether she’d done it right. As if she were seeking confirmation on whether she’d played her role convincingly.
“Thank you for waiting,” she murmured, voice lowering again, steadier this time.
Woochan swallowed. He wasn’t sure which was more dangerous — the elegance she showed everyone else, or the softness she tried (and failed) to hide from him.
“Anytime,” he managed, though the word felt rough, dragged from somewhere deep.
Youngseo raised a brow as if she wasn’t expecting such a sheepish reply from him, but looked away quickly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear in a motion so subtle and self-conscious it nearly undid him.
She had no idea what she did to him. And God help him, for he had no idea how he was supposed to survive the rest of the night.
Woochan wasn’t even given a chance to recover. A shadow fell over their table, followed by a bright, too-pleased voice.
“Excuse me,” the photographer said, camera already lifting — though not boldly, not like someone who assumed entitlement. His posture was slightly hesitant, shoulders rounded with the careful respect of a man who knew exactly whose table he was approaching.
He wore the event’s staff lanyard, the logo of the charity foundation printed beside his name. One of the volunteers, probably hired in from a small local studio — the kind that handled graduations and corporate dinners, not political royalty and conglomerate heirs. His shoes were scuffed at the edges; his shirt a little too big at the collar.
He smiled anyway, earnest and hopeful, the way someone did when they were just grateful to be included.
“Mind if I take a photo of the lovely couple?” he asked politely.
Woochan felt Youngseo go still beside him.
Not visibly — not in any way an outsider would notice — but in the subtle, instinctive way only he would. The slight pause in her breath. The faint tightening of her fingers in her lap. The shift in her posture, elegant but alert, as if preparing herself to be seen.
So when she looked up at the photographer with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes, Woochan felt something in his chest twist.
“We —” he began, because instinct wanted to push back, to stall… anything. But he had no reason to refuse. To everyone, they were South Korea’s blissfully newly-wedded couple, in love since their teenage years, and lived the perfect life.
Youngseo’s fingers curled against her dress, gripping the fabric so subtly that only someone who studied her the way he did — too closely, too desperately — would notice. Her cheeks held a faint flush. Whether from embarrassment or something else, he couldn’t tell.
(God, he didn’t want to guess.)
“Of course,” she answered quietly, without looking at him. “Many are here to see us tonight, aren’t they?”
Was that a reminder? A warning? Or a plea? Woochan couldn’t tell. All he knew was that her voice was tight, balanced on the knife-edge between duty and vulnerability.
And most importantly, he knew she wasn’t saying it to the photographer.
“Of course,” he said, the word scraped raw. “We’d be happy to.”
It was surrender, and he felt every inch of it. The contract didn’t protect him here, in the eyes of the public. He could feel the gazes of every important person in the room on them as soon as Youngseo sat down next to him.
He rose first, muscles tense beneath the restraint he wore like armor. Youngseo followed almost immediately, moving with that impossible grace that made the world think she was untouchable. And yet, every subtle shift from her spoke to the truth only he could see: she was as human as he was.
When he stepped beside her, the space between them disappeared in a heartbeat.
The brush of her arm against his. The heat radiating from her. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was devastatingly intimate. A simple proximity, but it felt like trespassing into something forbidden.
He wanted to inhale her, to memorize the soft line of her jaw, the quiet curve of her shoulder, the way her body inclined toward him without asking permission. And he hated himself for it. Hated the way the blood thrummed in his chest, the way his mind had just betrayed him with images he would never admit aloud.
The photographer adjusted the lens. “Perfect. Just a little closer —”
Closer.
Woochan’s chest tightened, heart hammering like it was betraying him. He exhaled slowly, forcing control, and then — almost instinctively — he leaned his head closer to hers, just enough to feel the warmth of her cheek grazing his.
“Smile,” he murmured, so low it should have been inaudible.
Youngseo blinked, caught off guard by the closeness, by the rough intimacy of his whisper brushing against her ear. For a fraction of a second, she faltered, lips parting as if to protest — then she smiled, carefully, softly, letting the gesture reach her eyes in a way that made the photographer’s camera irrelevant.
The world outside the frame might see a perfect, composed couple. But Woochan felt the tremor in her, the subtle pulse of her warmth against him, and it stole his breath in a way the contract could never anticipate.
The photographer murmured his thanks and stepped back, assuming the moment was over. But for Woochan, the air between them didn’t change. If anything, it thickened, heavy and electric, as though the world outside the table had vanished entirely.
Youngseo’s smile lingered, delicate and controlled, but there was something unsteady in her eyes now. Despite every instinct in him screaming at him to, Woochan didn’t move away.
Instead, he stayed close, just enough to feel the heat radiating from her, to hear the quiet rhythm of her breathing. His head was still tilted toward hers, almost brushing her hair. The proximity was intimate and, dare he say, deliberate.
“Good work,” he murmured, a private approval meant for her alone. “That was.. perfect.”
Youngseo's lips twitched, a flash of amusement and something more — a recognition of the dangerous closeness, and the subtle power play between them.
For the first time that night, Woochan let himself really, fully acknowledge it.
How badly he wanted her.
By 8 p.m., the room was alive with movement and sound. Laughter bubbled across the room, mixing with the soft clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversation that never truly stopped. Waiters weaved between tables with trays of champagne, and food that were tailored to the palates of the rich. The air smelled faintly of perfume and polished wood, of ambition and expectation, pressing down on him in a way that was both exhilarating and suffocating.
Woochan moved through it all like he belonged, offering smooth smiles and nodding along to their boastful conversations with just enough warmth to make it convincing. Each table had its own rhythm, its own subtle rules: the donors who measured every gesture, the socialites who counted every glance, and the politicians who scanned every expression for weakness.
He accepted a glass of champagne from a young donor, fingers brushing theirs for just a moment longer than necessary. He could feel the warmth of the liquid slide down his throat, but it did nothing to ease the tightening in his chest. Every laugh, every joke, every polite exchange reminded him how carefully he had to manage the world’s perception of him and his new marriage — and how much of it was a lie.
Youngseo sat at her table like a queen surveying her court. Her posture was straight, the soft curve of her neck framed by the shimmer of her dress. She smiled at the guests around her, poised and unshakable, yet every so often her gaze drifted, scanning the room. And when it landed on him — even for a heartbeat — it felt like gravity itself shifted.
By the edge of the hour, she felt herself unraveling, thread by thread. The ballroom’s golden glow had begun to press down like a weight, the endless hum of polite conversation and forced laughter buzzing in her skull. Every smile she offered, every nod she made, had become a performance, and her chest ached with the effort. She needed air. She needed space.
With the softest of nods, barely catching anyone’s attention, she slipped past the crowd and found the balcony doors. The click of the latch was startlingly loud in the quiet hallway outside, but she didn’t care. Once the doors swung open, the night hit her like a cool wave, sharp and sweet against her flushed skin. The city sprawled below her in a river of lights — gold, silver, and occasional neon flickers — alive but distant. For the first time that evening, she could breathe without holding herself together for anyone else.
From her small, elegant clutch, she drew a plain, unassuming bottle, hidden among tissues and lip gloss. Banana milk. She popped the cap and took a slow, deliberate sip, letting the creamy sweetness coat her tongue and soothe the tension coiling in her shoulders. No champagne for her — the real stuff would make her throat seize and leave her gasping. The secret comfort tasted of childhood and rebellion at once.
Leaning against the cold railing, she let her eyes drift across the skyline, listening to the faint murmur of laughter and clinking glasses inside. The noise felt distant, almost dreamlike, as if it belonged to someone else’s life. She tilted her head back slightly, letting the cool wind brush against her face, tousling a strand of hair that had escaped her meticulous styling.
For a moment, she allowed herself to be just Youngseo. Not the poised Blue House spokesperson, not the wife the world thought she was. Just a girl with a tiny guilty pleasure, a stolen moment of solace in the chaos of expectation. The banana milk was sweet, but fleeting — like this calm. Like the possibility that no one could see the small cracks she hid behind her perfection.
Her eyes traced the city lights, but her mind was elsewhere.
Woochan.
She could see him in her head just as clearly as if he were standing beside her, moving through the gala with that effortless composure that made him seem untouchable. The way he smiled at people, nodding, shaking hands — polished, controlled, commanding respect. And yet, she knew what lurked beneath that mask. She’d seen it in private, in the small moments no one else could witness: the way his jaw tightened when something frustrated him, the way his eyes flickered with something unspoken when he looked at her.
He was infuriating. Infuriatingly competent, infuriatingly calm, infuriatingly… human.
Her lips twitched, resisting a small, reluctant smile. She hated that he got under her skin the way he did, the way just imagining him made her pulse quicken. She hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about him — about his proximity, the heat of his shoulder when they posed for that stupid photo, the quiet power he seemed to exude without even trying.
And yet, she couldn’t deny it. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled at her like gravity. Something that made her want to lean closer, to break the rules they both lived under, just for a moment.
She sighed softly, letting the night air carry away some of the tension coiling in her chest.
I barely know him. And he barely knows me.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because every glance, every brush of his hand against hers, every forced smile for the cameras, made her forget — for just a second — that their marriage existed on paper, that their closeness was a performance. That desire was forbidden.
The whole photo-taking session they had just now with the photographer was… weird, to say the least. She could feel the tension, feel something there that she didn't dare name.
Woochan.
She whispered it under her breath, as if saying his name out loud could somehow make the ache inside her more bearable. And the thought that he might never feel the same — or worse, that he might feel too much — sent a shiver down her spine.
The balcony door opened behind her with a soft click. Youngseo turned slightly, startled, though she masked it immediately.
“Couldn’t stay inside, huh?” Woochan remarked, his voice low, calm, carrying that familiar weight that made her chest tighten. He stepped out onto the balcony, letting the door click shut behind him.
The hum of the gala faded behind the glass, leaving only the faint whisper of the night wind and the distant glow of the city.
“Guess old habits die hard.”
Youngseo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she tipped the bottle to her lips, taking another slow sip, letting the creamy sweetness ground her. When she finally looked at him, her expression was carefully neutral, but he caught the tiniest flicker — of amusement? — that made his pulse hammer.
Woochan stepped closer, closing the small space between them without touching her, just letting his presence press against hers. The night air was cool, but the heat between them was undeniable.
“Banana milk?” he asked, eyebrow raised. His tone was half teasing, half incredulous.
Youngseo lifted one shoulder in a small, almost sheepish shrug, the corner of her mouth tilting upward as if she couldn’t quite decide whether to smile or hide. “Allergic to alcohol,” she explains, her voice soft but steady.
The moment the words slipped out, Woochan’s gaze sharpened. His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in that quiet, attentive way he had when he was cataloguing something important, something about her. Youngseo realises at this point that she’s never told him this piece of information, and he probably didn’t know anyway.
“I see,” he manages to say, “I should have known to prepare some sparkling water instead. It’s no wonder your champagne was untouched.”
Youngseo shakes her head with a small smile, “It’s fine. I’ve never mentioned it. I wouldn’t expect you to have known either. Banana milk is tastier and … safer anyway.”
“Safer?” Woochan repeated after a beat, eyes glinting with amusement.
“It’s… sophisticated,” she corrected, lifting the bottle just slightly as if proving a point. “Very exquisite taste.”
Woochan smirked, shaking his head. “Exquisite taste,” he echoed mockingly. “I’ll have to try some next time.”
“Not for you,” she said, though the defiance in her voice faltered under his gaze. “It’s a very private indulgence.”
Youngseo arched an eyebrow slowly as she realised something, setting the bottle of banana milk on the railing. “Why are you out here?” she asked, the corner of her mouth twitching in that way that made him want to lean closer.
Woochan reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim, black cigarette case, flipping it open with a casual flick. A single cigarette rested inside, untouched. He held it between his fingers as if it were a piece of evidence.
“Thought I’d take a smoke break before my big speech later,” he said, voice low, teasingly calm. “You know… warm up the lungs, clear the head. Gotta be perfect for that big, important crowd inside.”
Youngseo’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she cocked her head, incredulous. “Since when do you smoke?”
Woochan’s lips curved into a faint, mischievous smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes entirely. He tapped the cigarette between his fingers, letting it dangle as if it were nothing more than a casual accessory. “Since always, I guess. Once I started, I didn’t feel like stopping,” he said lightly, his voice smooth, teasing, but there was a flicker behind his gaze — there was more to this statement than he was letting on, but Youngseo wasn’t one to push.
“Though I smoke very selectively.”
At this, she couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Selectively?”
“Yeah,” he replied, the cigarette case still in his hand. “Only when I feel like breaking rules.”
Her lips twitched, trying not to smile. “Breaking rules… guess that sounds more like you. But since when do you sneak off for anything? Thought that was more of a me thing.”
“Since I realized the only person worth talking to is out here anyway,” he replied without missing a beat, voice dipping, teasing, but laced with something sharper underneath.
Youngseo’s cheeks flushed just slightly, and she quickly turned her attention back to the city lights, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
Woochan flicked open his lighter with a practiced motion, the small flame dancing briefly before he brought it to the tip of the cigarette. The scent of burning tobacco mingled with the night air, sharp and warm, curling around them like a silent thread connecting them.
He drew in a slow drag, then let the smoke escape in a languid spiral. It floated toward her, teasing, almost playful, brushing past her cheek. Youngseo flinched ever so slightly, though she tried to hide it, but he noticed.
“You don’t like … smoking?” Woochan probed.
Youngseo hesitated. She blinked, as if the question had caught her off guard, and for a long moment, she didn’t answer.
“Not really,” she said finally, soft, almost hesitantly.
Woochan’s eyes softened just slightly, though the smirk remained, teasing and sharp all at once. “Not really, huh?” he murmured, letting the words hang.
“Well, okay, I’ve tried it before, but only once in high school.” Youngseo admitted, “But I stopped soon after. I don’t think underaged smoking would do my family’s image any good, either.”
“You’ve always been careful,” Woochan murmured, in almost a whisper meant only for her. “Even with the small things. I envy that.”
She turned her gaze to the city below, pretending to look at the lights, pretending the tight knot in her chest wasn’t his doing. “Careful… yes. But I’ve made mistakes too. Smoking included.” she said, her voice quieter than she intended, each word deliberate.
Woochan nodded, exhaling with ease, not probing any further. The grey-blue tendrils of smoke curled lazily around them, drifting in the night air, soft and hypnotic. For a few long moments, neither of them spoke. The distant hum of the gala inside was muted by the glass doors, replaced by the gentle rustle of wind brushing against the balcony.
The city stretched below them, a scattering of lights, alive and distant. Youngseo could feel the quiet way his presence seemed to claim the small space beside her. It wasn’t loud or dramatic — it was a silent tension that pressed close, making the seconds feel taut and intimate.
He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the glow brightening briefly in the dark, then leaned back slightly, letting the smoke curl around his face as if to frame the moment. Her gaze flicked toward him, and he met her eyes with that same teasing, unreadable look, a quiet acknowledgment that they were alone in a world that would never know this pause.
Finally, he tapped the ash into the night, crushing the cigarette between his fingers. “I should head back inside,” he murmured, voice calm but deliberate. “Get ready for my speech.” His eyes flicked toward her, sharp and knowing. “You should go back inside soon too. You can be there… see me up there. It’ll look good for the media.”
Youngseo’s lips twitched, a small smirk hiding the rapid beat of her heart. “Always thinking about appearances,” she said softly, almost a challenge.
“Always,” he repeated, stepping back just enough to let her breathe, but not far enough to let the tension dissipate.
Woochan shifted slightly, closing just a fraction of the distance between them. His hand hovered near hers for a moment, deliberate, teasing — the kind of slow, careful movement that made her pulse spike before she even realized it. Then, almost casually, he let his fingers brush against hers, just enough to make contact but not enough to let her pull away without noticing.
Youngseo’s grip on her bottle of banana milk tightened as if her body had reacted before her mind could. She drew in a sharp, shaky breath, feeling her pulse pound in places she didn’t even know a pulse existed. And the strangest part — the part she didn’t know what to do with — was the realization that there was no reason for him to do this. There was no audience watching, no flashing cameras waiting for a headline, no need to act like a married couple for the sake of optics. This wasn’t a staged display of affection, and it wasn't a moment crafted for the public.
This was private — just the two of them tucked into a quiet balcony with no audience to impress, no expectations to uphold, no carefully curated image forcing them into their usual roles — and yet, despite the absence of anyone to perform for, despite the fact that there was no reason at all for him to blur the boundaries they always tried hard not to cross, he had still reached out for her, still let his fingers brush against hers with that slow, deliberate gentleness that felt less like an accident and more like a choice. Like a quiet declaration made in the soft, breathless space between them.
Her thoughts tangled together, messy and frantic, as she realized he was touching her not because he had to, but because he wanted to — or at least, because something in him had decided to try. The realization made her heart thump even harder, and she could feel an unmistakable warmth spreading across her cheeks. She hoped desperately that the dim lighting hid it, though she doubted she was lucky enough to escape his notice.
When his eyes met hers — steady, unreadable, but filled with a tension she could feel more than interpret — it struck her that he was looking at her in a way that felt uncomfortably real. Not contractual nor an obligation.
Real. And that alone was enough to make her wonder if she was the one who would break first.
Youngseo swallowed hard, telling herself to pull her hand back, to reestablish the distance she always insisted they maintain, the distance that made sense, the distance that kept everything simple.
But she didn’t move. She just couldn’t.
Her hand stayed exactly where it was, frozen not in fear but in a kind of suspended anticipation she didn’t want to name. Because whatever this was — this small, trembling space between their hands, this invisible thread tugging quietly at both of them — it felt fragile. Too fragile to disrupt. Too honest to pretend away.
A shaky breath slipped out of her before she could stop it, and her eyes flicked to the nearly empty glass beside his elbow. For a moment — a foolish, desperate moment — she wondered if he’d simply had one too many drinks. If that was all this was. If the warmth in his gaze, the careful brush of his fingers, the way he was looking at her like she was something he was memorizing — if all of that was just alcohol-softened impulse.
Her chest tightened, and her eyes flickered down to their hands — nearly touching, barely touching, definitely touching — before darting back up to his face. Woochan didn’t look away. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t doing this. He didn’t offer an excuse or a smirk or an apology.
“You coming?” he finally asked, voice low, almost a murmur, as if this was no big deal. His hand lingered on hers for a heartbeat longer, like a teasing challenge.
Youngseo swallowed, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “Yes,” she murmured, trying to sound indifferent, though the truth was that every inch of her felt the pull of his presence.
Woochan smirked faintly, letting his hand drop back to his side, but the intimacy of the touch remained, a spark left hanging in the space between them. “Good,” he said, voice measured, teasing, and just slightly dangerous. “Because the gala isn’t going to wait for either of us.”
Then, without another word, he stepped back toward the balcony door, and she followed, each step closer to the crowd inside a reluctant return to their public lives — and away from the private tension that had wrapped itself so tightly around them.
The ballroom shimmered like an opulent jewel box, its chandeliers spilling cascades of molten gold across velvet-draped tables while violins unfurled a gentle, gliding melody that threaded through the air already saturated with perfume, wealth, and shimmering anticipation. As Woochan made his way toward the stage, the guests rose in near-perfect unison, their applause sweeping across the room in refined, undulating waves that echoed faintly beneath the music. Cameras flared with clinical precision, capturing every angle — the glossy black sheen of the obsidian podium, the flawless architecture of his tailored tuxedo, and the practiced coolness settled over his expression like a second skin.
He did not feel composed, not in the slightest, not when each carefully measured step toward the stage echoed far too loudly in his own ears and seemed to reverberate in the charged space between him and the main table — especially the space where Youngseo sat, luminous beneath the soft amber lights, completely unaware of how relentlessly his gaze kept drifting back to her, drawn with the helpless inevitability of a tide returning to the shore no matter how many times he told himself to look away.
He cleared his throat just as the spotlight swept across the stage like a slow, deliberate sweep of judgment and settled over him in a pool of warm, unforgiving brightness.
“Good evening,” he began, the practiced steadiness of his voice threaded with the kind of inherited authority carved into him through years of expectation, duty, and relentless preparation. “Thank you all for being here tonight at Jo Corporation’s annual charity gala.”
A hush descended upon the ballroom, smooth and heavy like velvet draped across the crowd.
“Tonight, as always, we gather to support educational equality across underserved regions. Our commitment is long-standing — rooted in the belief that opportunity should not be a privilege withheld but a foundation we have a responsibility to build, especially where futures were never promised in the first place.”
He continued his speech with polished cadence and effortless control, each line delivered with the finesse of someone who had been trained to navigate crowds and cameras since childhood — until he reached the sentence his secretary had added to his script only that morning, the one that still felt like a weight lodged somewhere between his lungs.
“And,” he said, allowing the moment to stretch just long enough for the atmosphere to shift, “Jo Corporation is proud to officially announce our acquisition of SynTech.”
The effect was instantaneous. A ripple of gasps shuddered through the ballroom like a gust of cold air, the sentence confirming everyone’s suspicions and the rumour that had been floating around for days. Conversations broke into hurried whispers, while cameras flashed with renewed frenzy. The spotlight pivoted toward the SynTech table, illuminating the executives seated there in a cold, unwavering beam of scrutiny.
But something was undeniably wrong.
The SynTech team did not look resigned, nor begrudgingly accepting. Their collective expression radiated a tense, simmering hostility — something dark and coiled, deeply incongruous with the glittering, celebratory space they occupied.
Woochan felt a prickle of unease crawl along his spine as he watched a staff member — notably, someone he did not recognize — approach a senior SynTech executive and hand him a microphone with a furtive, almost rushed movement. The man who accepted it was rigid, his eyes too cold, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder the bone didn’t crack.
Multiple alarms were sounding off in Woochan’s head. He was aware that SynTech would probably try to embarrass him at his own charity gala, and though he was prepared for almost anything they had coming his way, this part of handing them a microphone during his speech was definitely not part of the event flow.
However, the spotlight had already claimed the man, and the audience had already turned toward him with expectant confusion, leaving Woochan no other way to intervene.
So he forced a diplomatic smile he didn’t feel.
“And,” he said, dipping his head with polished courtesy, “since it appears SynTech would like to share a few words, we’ll welcome a brief statement.”
He stepped back from the podium with a bow, nodding toward the SynTech executive now holding the mic.
The executive stood with deliberate slowness, smoothing his suit in a gesture so careful and precise it felt like a warning. When he finally spoke, his voice flowed through the speakers in a tone that was laced with something chillingly wrong beneath the surface.
“Thank you,” the man said, his smile thin and sharp, “for the… announcement.”
The syllables carried the weight of a blade dragged along stone.
He lifted his chin, sweeping his gaze across the ballroom with a cutting, predatory calm.
“Change,” he continued, the microphone amplifying his voice into something silk-lined and venomous, “is often met with discomfort. Fear. Resistance. Especially when it arrives without warning and without — shall we say — the appropriate respect for those who have built something with their own hands.” His smile sharpened, the corners pulling tight, never once touching his eyes. “SynTech has always prided itself on values that do not shift with the wind: loyalty, precision, and dedication to what matters.”
A murmur rippled through the audience, quiet but unmistakably uneasy.
“And you see,” he went on, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if confiding in the room despite the way his voice sliced cleanly through the air, “when something matters — really, truly matters — you do not simply let it be taken. You do not simply smile and bow and claim it is for the good of progress. No.” His gaze hardened. “You protect what you treasure. You hold onto what is precious. You make sure the world understands its worth.”
The tension in the ballroom tightened, almost physical, almost choking, settling over the crowd with a weight so palpable it felt as though the chandeliers themselves were holding their breath, and in the midst of that growing, suffocating unease, Woochan saw Youngseo shift in her seat with a faint furrow between her brows. Her expression tinted with a quiet, bewildered alertness as she glanced around the table, trying to decipher the sudden shift in atmosphere that everyone seemed to feel but no one dared to name.
Woochan felt something cold crawl along his spine as he narrowed his eyes, a wordless warning threading itself through his ribs like wire. He too did not like where this speech was going.
Then the man’s eyes found him — locked onto him — with a directness so precise and so deliberate it felt like a trigger being pulled.
“So,” the executive said softly, and though the microphone carried the sound across the room, it had the intimacy of a whisper meant only for Woochan, “since you took what was most precious to us…”
A pause unfurled slowly, painfully, as though every second was being stretched taut like the final moment before an explosion.
“…we will take what is most precious to you.”
What happened next did not feel real.
The words hadn’t even finished reverberating through the speakers when the world seemed to slip sideways, as if the ballroom itself had been pulled out of alignment. Woochan felt the moment stretch impossibly thin, a suspended instant where his brain registered danger but could not yet translate it into movement, where his muscles remained locked under the false illusion that there was still time to act, where his pulse began to rise but had not yet reached panic.
It was in that stretched, fragile, impossible moment — one that felt both endless and brutally finite — that reality snapped.
The gunshot did not ring out so much as detonate.
A large force reverberated through Woochan’s ribcage like a physical blow, and the moment it struck, the ballroom erupted into a sprawling, tangled chaos. Guests surged backward in a frenzied wave of silk and panic, their chairs screeching violently across the floor as though shoved by invisible hands, and a few aristocrats near the back let out a scream so sharp it splintered into sobs before dissolving into the rising roar of terror.
Yet even as the entire world seemed to move with dizzying speed, Woochan could perceive, with horrifying clarity, one detail above all others — the sudden, brutal convulsion of the main table where Youngseo sat, the way it jerked violently as if struck by an unseen force, the way it teetered on its legs for one impossibly slow heartbeat before flipping sideways in a sweeping, catastrophic motion that sent dishes, cutlery, and crystal scattering like startled birds.
He couldn’t recall the moment his body decided to move, only the dizzying blur of himself shoving past panicked bodies that had dissolved into instinct and terror, nor could he remember the split-second choice that sent him vaulting over a toppled chair — one that someone had crashed into during their frantic attempt to flee — because by then he was no longer thinking in steps or decisions or anything resembling a sequence.
What seared itself into Woochan’s memory with the permanence of fire was the sight of Youngseo tumbling backward as the table collapsed, the air stolen from her lungs in a silent gasp, her eyes wide and luminous with shock, and the delicate beadwork of her gown erupting into a cascade of shimmering fragments that scattered across the polished floor. In that fraction of a second, the world around him blurred into insignificance as every fiber of his being honed in on the single, urgent need to reach her before gravity could claim her completely.
“Youngseo!” The name tore from his throat, carrying every ounce of fear and desperation he had never allowed himself to voice, and as it left him, he realized with a jolt that this was the first time he had ever called her by her name directly. He cursed the gods, cursed fate, cursed every cruel design that had contrived for this moment of pure terror to coincide with the utter vulnerability of seeing her fall.
And yet the name itself trembled in his mouth, a lifeline flung across the chasm of chaos that had engulfed the room. But now, he could not care less, because all that mattered, all that had ever mattered in that instant, was that she heard it, that she knew he was there, and that he would not let her be taken from him.
His arms closed around her with a force he didn’t know he possessed, pulling her into his chest, anchoring her against him as he dropped with her, twisting his body instinctively so he absorbed every impact, every shock, as they both fell to the ground. He curled over her, shielding her completely beneath him as another scream tore through the air and someone somewhere shouted for everyone to get out.
Woochan heard none of the chaos around him as they all had reduced into one incessantly loud ringing in his ear. All he could register was the thin, trembling flutter of her pulse beneath his fingertips, the faint hitch of her breath against his chest, the warmth of her body pressed tightly to his as he shielded her from a world collapsing into madness.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Woochan allowed himself to pull back just enough to see her face, the movement deliberate and careful, as though any sudden motion might shatter the fragile sense of life he was still holding onto, and when his eyes met hers, the sight carved a new kind of panic straight through him: her skin was pale, almost translucent under the ballroom lights, a ghostly contrast to the delicate beadwork of her gown, her lips parted, trembling, and a sheen of unshed tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes. Her gaze met his, wide and disbelieving, a raw, unguarded vulnerability that made his chest tighten until it hurt, and he felt the familiar, suffocating dread of not being able to protect her fully, even as he tried to anchor her to him with every ounce of strength he had.
“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s okay,” he assured her over and over, the words spilling out in a rush as if repetition alone could convince the universe to right itself, and he pressed the palm of his hand to her cheek gently, feeling the warmth of her skin and the faint hitch of her breath that made his chest squeeze with unbearable intensity.
“Only one shot was fired. Just one. Nothing else happened, so don’t be scared. You’re safe, and I’ve got you.”
Her lips parted to respond, but only a faint rasp of a sound emerged, a raw, broken intake of air that did not resemble the controlled breaths he had become obsessed with monitoring, and then finally, through a voice that trembled like fragile glass being crushed, she whispered, “It… it hurts so much.”
“Woochan, please, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…”
The words struck him harder than any bullet ever could. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, the world slowing, as his gaze followed the movement of her arm instinctively, his eyes tracking the subtle but unmistakable seep of red that had spread across the pristine fabric of her gown near her shoulder, the smooth ivory now marred with dark, vivid blood that gleamed wet and real under the soft chandelier glow, and the color stole the air from his lungs, left him dizzy and nauseous as the knowledge settled in like ice in his veins: Youngseo had been their target, and that was why there was only one shot fired. Because they had succeeded.
His fingers brushed against the wound almost automatically, pressing against the warm, damp fabric, and a pulse of heat, sharp and intimate and terrifying, radiated from it into his hand.
“I’ve got you, it’s fine, it’s fine,” he repeated again, his voice shaking now despite himself, the words desperate and taut as if saying them faster could somehow stitch her together, could somehow push the wound closed and erase the sudden, brutal reality, even as his heart thudded in his chest with a terrifying rhythm that made his vision blur at the edges.
As his hands remained pressed against her trembling form, he tried to anchor her to him and ground himself in the fragile thread of control he still possessed. Woochan’s gaze flicked outward, sweeping the fractured ballroom with urgent precision, scanning for any semblance of order, any sign that his security detail had assessed the situation and were moving to contain the chaos.
The room stretched out around him like a living, breathing organism gone mad — guests diving under tables, champagne flutes shattering, crystal scattering across the floor like dangerous confetti, and yet through the panic, his eyes finally caught the telltale flashes of dark suits, movement coordinated yet frantic, bodies slicing through the crowd as they searched desperately for him.
He rose carefully, mindful of every motion as he held Youngseo steady, and with deliberate urgency, he lifted his hand high, waving them over as his eyes narrowed to scan each figure to ensure they were indeed his men. His voice cut through the cacophony, sharp and commanding, carrying over the din of terror like a whip cracking across the room: “Hey! Over here! Now! Call an ambulance! And the half of you, go escort the remainder of everyone out!”
And as the first of his men reached their positions, carving a path through the panicked guests, Woochan felt the tiniest measure of relief — enough to keep moving, enough to keep fighting, enough to stay with her and keep her alive, even as the room continued to reel and burn with chaos.
The moment his security team converged on their position — forming a protective barrier around them, arms outstretched — Woochan finally let his knees bend, lowering himself beside Youngseo again, his breath catching as he instinctively reached for her face, for the fragile line of her jaw, for anything that grounded him in the reality that she was still here, and most importantly, still breathing.
Her eyes, normally so sharp and steady, were blown wide with terror, shimmering beneath the shards of chandelier light; tears had gathered along her lashes, clinging there for a suspended moment before spilling down her cheeks in trembling trails that carved through the faint powder her makeup artist had perfected just hours earlier. She was shaking; violently, uncontrollably, each breath collapsing into the next like her body was fighting itself just to stay upright.
And then she looked at him. Really looked at him. Her fingers, clumsy and trembling, curled in the fabric of his suit jacket as though anchoring herself to him was the only way she could remain conscious. Her lips parted, quivering before any sound emerged, and when she finally spoke, the words rasped out of her in a broken, thready whisper that seemed to tear itself from the deepest, most frightened part of her soul.
“Woochan… I — I don’t want to die.”
The sentence cracked in the middle, collapsing under the weight of her fear, and her voice dissolved into a sob that punched through him with such force he almost forgot how to breathe. She dragged in another breath, shuddering and weak — and her next words emerged almost unintelligibly, each syllable scraped raw by terror. “Please… but I am dying, aren’t I?”
He felt something inside his chest wrench — violent and absolute, like a dam bursting open — and the mere possibility of losing her, of her slipping out of his arms and into the void of the unthinkable, sent a wave of panic so ferocious through him that it nearly robbed him of the ability to form words.
But he forced himself to move. Forced himself to lean in until his forehead nearly touched hers, until her tears dampened his cheek, until her shaking breaths mingled with his own, and forced his voice to break through her spiraling fear.
“Stop,” he whispered first, the word desperate and intense, not a command but a plea dressed as one, his voice cracking under the strain. “Do not say that. Do not even think it.” His thumb brushed away a tear before another could fall, but more followed, spilling over in raw, trembling streaks.
“You are not dying. Do you hear me?” His voice grew stronger, shaped by a determination that bordered on feral. “You are not dying, Lee Youngseo. I will not let you die.”
He gathered her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressing firmly over her shoulder in a desperate attempt to slow the bleeding, his fingers already slick with warmth that made his stomach lurch violently. “As long as I am here — no, even if I wasn’t — you would survive this. You are going to be fine. Do you understand?”
She sobbed again, her breath hitching painfully as she tried to form a reply, her tears soaking into the collar of his shirt while her body trembled uncontrollably, each shudder running through her like a violent aftershock. Every time she shook, Woochan tightened his hold on her without thinking, as if sheer force could keep her together, as if anchoring her to him could somehow hold the world in place long enough for help to arrive.
And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the roar of blood in his ears, a bitter, aching thought cut through him with startling clarity.
Why is it always like this?
Why was it that every moment they truly touched — every moment they were stripped of distance, of politeness, of carefully maintained restraint — came wrapped in her suffering? The first time he had really seen her, really stayed by her side, she had been feverish and pale, confined to a bed, her strength stolen by illness while he hovered uselessly at the edge of her pain. And now this — her body shaking in his arms, blood soaking through silk, fear breaking her apart while he held her together with hands that felt suddenly too clumsy.
The realization burned. He hated it. He hated that fate seemed determined to carve their closeness out of moments where she was hurting, vulnerable, reduced to trembling breaths and whispered pleas, as though the universe itself refused to grant them gentler ground to stand on. His jaw clenched hard as he pressed his forehead briefly to her hair, the scent of her — perfume and fear and something achingly familiar — lodging itself deep in his chest.
“Damn it,” he breathed under his breath, the words not meant for anyone else, not even for her, but for whatever cruel force kept throwing her into his arms only when she was breaking, as if pain were the only language fate allowed them to share.
“Look, you’re going to be fine,” he whispered fiercely to her, then, his own voice thick with emotion he no longer bothered to hide. “Hold on just a little while longer. Don’t go to sleep, you hear me?”
Despite Woochan’s plea, Youngseo’s eyelids trembled like fragile silk in a draft, heavy with fear, pain, and exhaustion, and despite the warmth and strength of his arms around her, despite the frantic reassurances spilling from his lips, they slowly, agonizingly fluttered closed, shutting out the chaos of the world, until the only thing she could feel was the steady, overwhelming presence of him pressed against her, shaking her violently to keep her awake when she physically just couldn’t anymore.
The back of Daehan High School smelled of dust, damp asphalt, and the faint tang of last week’s rain, a narrow strip of untended concrete that few cared to notice unless they had somewhere they didn’t quite belong. Woochan leaned against the chain-link fence, the late afternoon sun slanting across his face and casting sharp shadows across the ground, his tailor-made uniform jacket hanging loosely over his shoulders like armor he hadn’t quite learned to wear.
He wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He wasn’t here because he fit in. He was here because no one else had been willing to tolerate him ever since he started, well, punching people for no good reason in middle school, save for Chaewon and a few of the basketball club guys in his class. That absence of choice had led him, like a leaf carried by a slow current, into the orbit of the school’s delinquent group, a cluster of kids whose reputations kept the rest of the school cautious and polite.
Despite this, Woochan knew better than to play hooky and do drugs, or dye his hair colours that broke at least 4 of the school’s dress codes, and the delinquents knew better than to bully a chaebol like him into adapting to their lifestyle. They had fallen into routine like this after school where Woochan would wait for them to finish their smoke breaks, then take them to play a few rounds of 8-ball pool at one of the country clubs Woochan’s family owned.
One of them, a tall boy with a permanent sneer and a cigarette perpetually dangling from his fingers — Jaehyun — pushed off the wall beside Woochan, letting the smoke curl lazily around his head before extending the cigarette toward him.
“Come on, have just one today,” Jae-hyun offered, voice rough and teasing, the way people always spoke when they were trying to impress or intimidate at the same time.
Woochan’s lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smirk, his fingers brushing against the rough wooden railing beside him before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single Pocky stick from its box, holding it between his fingers like he was about to take a puff. He pressed it to his lips, mimicking the motion of smoking with a ridiculous seriousness that made Jaehyun blink for a moment, caught off guard.
Then, with a small shrug, Woochan tapped the Pocky against his teeth before popping it into his mouth. “Nah,” he murmured, as if the candy stick somehow made his point louder than words ever could, “I think I’ll pass on that.”
Jaehyun laughed, a short, startled bark, and for a moment the tension in the air shifted, just enough that Woochan felt the faintest sense of belonging.
Jaehyun let the laughter taper off into a grin that was sharp around the edges, the kind that usually meant he was sitting on a piece of information he thought was impressive, and he nudged Woochan again with his elbow as he flicked ash onto the concrete.
“Speaking of passing,” he said casually, lowering his voice even though there was no one else close enough to hear, “I’ve just gotten the biggest customer I’ve ever landed. Can’t believe I almost passed on her.”
Woochan glanced sideways at him, unimpressed but mildly curious, the Pocky stick still resting between his fingers. “Customer?” he repeated, already suspecting the answer.
Jaehyun’s grin widened, pride practically rolling off him as he leaned back against the wall. “Cigarettes, obviously. You think I’m risking detention for nothing?” He jerked his chin toward his worn-out duffel bag he flung onto the ground earlier, where Woochan knew he kept the neatly hidden packs, smuggled in through connections that he’d never explained out loud. “I’ve been selling them quietly the past month — only to people who know how to shut up. Clean business. Cash only.”
Then he scoffed, shaking his head like he still couldn’t quite believe his own luck. “But this one?” He let out a low laugh before he continued, “This one’s insane. Lee Youngseo. That fucking perfect politician’s daughter.”
The name landed heavier than Jaehyun seemed to notice.
Jaehyun kept going, oblivious, clearly enjoying himself. “Can you believe it? All pristine reputation, model student, everyone practically bowing their heads when she walks past — and now, she comes to me. Paid me a ridiculous amount, too. Like, stupid money. All for one thing.”
He held up a finger. “I don’t tell anyone she’s buying cigarettes. Or that she smokes.”
Woochan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he listened.
“She even promised she’d stick with me,” Jaehyun continued, clearly pleased. “Said she’ll keep buying from me all the way until after the CSATs are over. Regular customer. Loyal, even.” He snorted. “Guess she’s terrified of anyone finding out. Image and all that.”
Jaehyun pushed off the wall again, eyes gleaming now, voice dropping to something sharper, greedier. “And then? After the CSATs?” He laughed softly, already counting money that didn’t exist yet. “Between you and me, I’m selling this info to those damned paparazzis. I’ve already asked Seojun to secretly take pictures of all our exchanges. I’m sure one of those big entertainment news companies will eat this shit up. Fucking South Korea’s president’s granddaughter caught underaged smoking. Hell, I’ll make a fortune off this scoop alone.”
He glanced at Woochan like he expected approval, or at least admiration. “Crazy, right? I thought she was fucking perfect and hard to crack but damn, she walked right into this herself.”
Woochan didn’t answer immediately. He bit down on the Pocky, the chocolate coating snapping softly between his teeth, his expression unreadable as the late afternoon light slanted across the fence, as the implications of Jaehyun’s words began to stack themselves one by one in his mind. Jaehyun had done some pretty messed up things in the past, but this was bad — very, very bad, in a way that went far beyond detention slips or a few weeks of suspension.
If Jaehyun actually went through with his idea, if he really fed that story to the media once the CSATs were over, the fallout wouldn’t be contained to a single student or even a single family. Lee Youngseo wasn’t just anyone. She was the daughter of a sitting politician whose entire career was built on an image of spotless integrity, moral discipline, and family values so polished they bordered on performative. A scandal like this — no matter how trivial the act itself might be — would be weaponized until it became something grotesque and unrecognizable.
Woochan could already see it happening, the way the headlines would twist themselves into something sharp and sensational, the way talking heads would speculate about “parental failure” and “hidden hypocrisy,” the way approval ratings would dip not because of policy or governance, but because optics mattered more than truth ever did. And once the media smelled blood, it wouldn’t stop at just the Lees alone.
His father was the Lee family's closest ally, and Assemblyman Lee’s longest-standing friend, the kind of relationship journalists loved to probe when they were running out of real substance. Best friends, political collaborators, families intertwined at events and fundraisers and galas. If Lee’s image cracked, the fractures would spider outward, and Woochan knew with grim certainty that his own family would not escape unscathed. The narrative would write itself: What did Chairman Jo know? When did he know it? Speculation would turn into suspicion, suspicion into accusation, and suddenly his father’s name would be dragged through a cycle of scrutiny it had done nothing to earn.
All of that — over some stupid cigarettes.
Woochan’s fingers tightened slowly around the empty Pocky box in his pocket, the thin cardboard crumpling soundlessly as his gaze dropped to the ground, jaw setting hard. Jaehyun thought he was talking about money, about leverage, about a scoop that would make him feel powerful for once in his life, but Woochan could see the real cost of it with terrifying clarity, the way one reckless decision could detonate years of carefully maintained trust and stability.
And the worst part — the part that made his stomach sink — was the creeping realization that Youngseo wouldn’t just be collateral damage in all of this.
She would be the target. The realization of this was the worst of all.
Then, a thought struck Woochan with the sudden, sharp clarity of something dangerous and necessary, the kind of idea that didn’t feel clever so much as inevitable, and he lifted his head slowly, eyes hardening as he turned back to Jaehyun.
“Don’t sell to her anymore,” he said quietly, the words delivered without emphasis, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of a decision already made.
Jaehyun froze for half a second before he barked out a harsh, incredulous laugh, pushing himself fully off the wall with a sudden, aggressive motion that sent ash scattering onto the concrete.
“What the hell did you just say?” he snapped. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do. I’ve already sold her one box today.” He rolled his shoulders, irritation bleeding into smugness as he continued, “But I can tell you, I’ve already pre-ordered a load more. All for her. She promised she’d stick with me until after CSATs. That’s months of guaranteed cash, Woochan.”
Something twisted uncomfortably in Woochan’s gut, but he kept his face carefully blank. “How much is she paying you?”
Jaehyun narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious now, then named the amount in won with deliberate emphasis, as if he were throwing the number like a challenge straight at Woochan’s chest. “More than most kids would even dream of,” he added darkly.
Woochan didn’t react. Instead, he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until Jaehyun could no longer pretend this was casual.
“I’ll pay you double,” Woochan said. “For everything. Every box you’ve ordered, every carton you planned to sell her. You give all of it to me instead.”
Jaehyun’s face twisted in disbelief, heat flaring instantly as he jerked back a step. “Are you out of your damned mind?” he shouted, his voice cracking with fury. “Do you know what kind of leverage this is? This isn’t just cigarettes, dude. This is Lee Youngseo. The fucking perfect politician’s daughter. Everyone is waiting for her downfall, waiting to get some kind of dirt from her because she’s so damned perfect. They’ll fucking eat this piece of news up!”
He jabbed a finger toward Woochan’s chest, anger spilling over. “You think money replaces that? You think I care about a few extra bills when I’m sitting on a story that could set me up for life?”
Woochan didn’t raise his voice, but something iron-hard settled into his gaze. “I’ll pay you five times whatever those entertainment dogs would offer you for the scoop,” he said calmly. “More than enough to make sure you never regret not selling her out. Fully cash, too, if you’d like. No reporters, no investigations, and certainly no one circling back to you when things get ugly.”
Jaehyun’s breathing turned uneven, chest rising sharply as he stared at Woochan, rage and temptation warring openly across his face. “Why the hell are you doing this?” he demanded. “This is my business. You don’t get to walk in here and steal my shot just because you’re feeling righteous, Jo Woochan. Fuck off.”
“I’m not stealing anything,” Woochan replied, his tone cold now, unyielding.
“I’m buying it.”
The words hit harder than a shout.
For a long moment, Jaehyun said nothing, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack, his cigarette forgotten as smoke burned down toward his fingers. When he finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth.
“Fine,” he spat. “But I’m not letting you play savior without paying the price.”
“Oh, pray tell,” Woochan raised a brow.
“If you’re taking her supply,” Jaehyun said, eyes burning with resentment, “then you’re the one smoking it. All of it. Every box, every stick. I’m not moving stock for nothing while you get to feel clean.”
“That’s insane,” Woochan shot back immediately, frustration flaring despite himself. “I don’t —”
“Non-negotiable,” Jaehyun cut in sharply. “You buy it, you smoke it. Otherwise, I keep my deal with her and I keep my future payday.”
The silence that followed pressed in on Woochan from all sides, thick and suffocating, filled only by the distant sounds of the school grounds and the crackle of a cigarette burning down. Every instinct in him screamed that this was reckless, that he was trading one disaster for another, that he was about to poison himself for someone who barely knew he existed.
But the alternative — Youngseo’s name dragged through headlines — was far worse.
Woochan exhaled slowly, feeling something heavy and final settle into place.
“…Fine,” he said at last, voice low and steady. “I’ll do it.”
Jaehyun’s lips curled into a sharp, triumphant grin, satisfaction flashing through the anger in his eyes as he flicked the cigarette away and nodded once.
“Good,” he said. “Then we’ve got a deal.”
Over the next few days, Woochan learned very quickly that agreeing to Jaehyun’s condition had been far easier than actually living with it. He showed up behind the school building like clockwork, sleeves rolled up, posture deliberately careless, only to choke on the first drag every single time. The smoke scraped harshly down his throat, burned his lungs, made his eyes sting in a way that felt humiliatingly obvious, and no matter how hard he tried to hide it, the coughing always came — sharp, involuntary, and loud enough to draw laughter from the others.
Jaehyun found it endlessly entertaining.
“Relax, Mr. Righteous,” he would sneer, clapping Woochan on the back hard enough to make the smoke burst from his mouth. “God, you’re hopeless. If you’re going to do it, at least don’t look like you’re about to pass out.”
The others laughed along too, shaking their heads, tossing out half-mocking advice about inhaling slower, holding it longer, not looking so damn stiff. Woochan endured it all in silence, forcing the cigarette back to his lips even as his chest burned and his stomach twisted, because quitting was not an option — not when the cost of backing out was far worse than a bruised ego and his lungs gasping for help.
Then, one afternoon, Jaehyun mentioned it as if it were an inconvenience rather than a calculated move. “She tried to ask me what happened,” he said, eyes flicking up briefly as he spoke. “So I just stopped giving her the chance.”
Woochan glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
Jaehyun exhaled smoke slowly, a lazy curl of it drifting between them. “I’m avoiding her entirely. Different routes, different breaks. If she can’t find me, she can’t ask why the deal fell through.” His mouth twisted into something sharp. “Simple.”
The words settled heavily in Woochan’s chest, not with relief, but with the cold confirmation that the risk had truly been severed at its source. Jaehyun was not just cutting off supply, he was erasing himself from her orbit altogether, making it impossible for her to trace the absence back to him, or to question where the cigarettes had gone.
After that, Woochan began noticing her more often than he’d like to admit to himself.
At lunch one day, he caught sight of Youngseo from across the courtyard. She sat near the windows with her classmates, sunlight spilling across open textbooks and neatly arranged notes. Her attention was focused, her posture composed, a pen moving steadily across the page as someone beside her murmured about practice questions and deadlines.
She looked… perfect. It was the only word everyone used to describe her, and now Woochan realises just why that was so.
The cigarette smoke still lingered in his lungs, bitter and unwelcome, and he knew he would cough again later, that Jaehyun would laugh again, that this strange bargain would continue to cost him more than he cared to admit. But as he watched Youngseo turn a page and lean closer to her notes, surrounded by people and habits that could only help her, Woochan thought, with a quiet, resolute certainty, that it was all worth it.
Notes:
bear w/ me and the flashbacks pls LOLLLL i promise i'll stop overdoing them but it's just a fun way to kind of show how woochan was lowk there for her even when they didn't know each other which contrasts to what youngseo initially thought of him hating her guts LMAO poor boy was just too shocked by the sudden marriage he didn't know how to act!!!!!
also yup this is the new arc i mentioned ... attempted assasination arc!!! LMAO i'm sorry i sound too happy for this lmao but the syntech acquisition previously mentioned in the last chapter was a chekov's gun (i guess) surpriseeeeee
i can't stop listening to you and i,, and i can't stop watching wooseo workdol either lol they're genuinely so funny and it was such a fun watch :) i hope we see more wooseo variety content @tbl don't make me send protest trucks pls
enough rambling for today - see u all in the comments/next chapter ~
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