Chapter 4 : The Party
The mansion pulsed with noise—laughter too sharp, glasses clinking like brittle bones, conversations thick with smiles that never quite touched the eyes.
Yeri steadied the tray in her hands, though her fingers trembled slightly. The dress Soojin had squeezed her into was too tight around the ribs, and the heels pinched with every step. Still, she kept her face calm, distant. Invisible.
She'd gotten good at that—being part of the background. Safe in the shadows.
Across the room, Yunjun stood with a glass of whiskey, his jaw tight. Men surrounded him, talking, laughing, gesturing like they owned the world. He wasn't laughing.
His eyes kept drifting toward her.
She looked away. Pretended she didn't notice. Pretended she didn't feel it—*him*.
And then, he approached.
Kang Daeho. His silver hair was slicked back too neatly, his smile a little too sharp. He smelled of expensive cologne and something colder underneath—like rusted metal hidden under silk.
"Ah, what's this?" he said, voice smooth as ice. His fingers brushed against hers as she poured his drink. They didn't move away. "Yunjun-ssi never mentioned he had such a pretty little helper."
Yeri stiffened.
She pulled back, but not fast enough.
His hand clamped around her wrist.
"Leaving so soon?" His thumb pressed into her skin—too hard, too familiar. "A girl like you should know how to be… accommodating."
Her heart thudded against her ribs. The room dimmed at the edges.
*Don't react. Don't give him anything.*
She kept her eyes down. But her breath was shaky now, uneven.
Then—
**"Let go of her."**
The voice was low, dangerous.
Daeho's smirk faltered. He turned, still holding her wrist. "Yunjun-ssi, come now. I was just—"
He didn't finish.
In a blink, Yunjun crossed the room. A fist cracked into Daeho's face.
The tray clattered to the floor.
Blood sprayed. Daeho hit the ground.
Yunjun yanked him up again, fury burning in his eyes.
**"You don't touch her."**
Another punch.
**"You don't *look* at her."**
Daeho tried to speak. Choked on blood.
**"You don't even *breathe* near her."**
Silence swallowed the room. No one moved. No one dared.
Yeri stood frozen. Her wrist throbbed where Daeho had gripped it.
Yunjun's knuckles were torn, blood dripping down his hand. His voice was rough when he turned to his men. "Basement. Now."
The guards moved. Dragged Daeho away.
Then—he looked at her.
Just looked.
And for a moment, the mask cracked.
She saw it. Rage. Fear. *Regret.*
He stepped toward her. The crowd parted around him like they couldn't stand the weight of his presence.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice barely more than a breath.
She shook her head.
He reached out—then stopped himself. His hand hovered near her arm, uncertain.
"Go upstairs," he said quietly. "You're done for the night."
She didn't argue. Didn't thank him. Just walked.
---
**Later that night**, in the quiet of his study, Yunjun pressed a shaking hand to his face.
His heartbeat hadn't slowed. His knuckles burned.
What the hell had he done?
He hadn't lost control like that in years. Not since—
The door creaked open.
He turned.
Yeri stood there, barefoot. Hair down. The stiffness of the dress gone, replaced with something softer, quieter. She looked… young. Tired.
He swallowed hard. "You should be resting."
She didn't answer. Just stepped in, shut the door.
The silence stretched.
Then—
"Why did you do that?"
Her voice wasn't accusing. Just honest.
Yunjun stared at the amber swirl in his glass. "Because he had no right."
She tilted her head slightly. "Men like him always think they do."
He looked up.
She was watching him. Carefully.
"You didn't have to stop him," she said. "You could've ignored it. No one would've said a word."
He blinked. His throat tightened.
"I would've," he said softly. "I would've said plenty."
Something shifted in her expression.
He saw it now—the exhaustion in her posture, the way her fingers tugged at her sleeves like she was holding herself together thread by thread.
He set the glass down. "I'm sorry."
Her brow furrowed. "For what?"
"For all of it. Bringing you here. Ignoring what that meant." He paused. "For how I looked at you when you first arrived. Like you were something I could use."
She didn't flinch. Just listened.
Then—quietly—"Why did you bring me here?"
The question he'd been avoiding.
He looked down. "At first… you reminded me of someone."
She hesitated. "Who?"
"My mother."
Her eyes widened, just a little.
He gave a bitter smile. "She left when I was twelve. No note. No goodbye. Just gone."
He shook his head. "When I saw you that day, you had her eyes. That quiet sort of defiance. Like the world couldn't quite touch you." He looked at her again. "But I was wrong. You're not her."
She was still. "You hated me."
"I did." He didn't pretend otherwise.
Silence.
Then—
"Do you still?"
The question hit him harder than he expected.
He let out a shaky breath. "No," he said. "*God*, no."
Her lips parted.
Slowly—*so slowly*—he reached out, fingers brushing the faint bruise on her wrist.
She didn't pull away.
His voice dropped. "I don't want to hurt you. Not ever again."
Her eyes filled, but she didn't cry.
She just let him see.
And somehow, that was more intimate than anything else could've been.
---
**Down the hallway**, Soojin leaned against the wall. Her fists clenched.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Her brother was unraveling.
And she knew exactly who was pulling the thread.
She smiled. Cold.
*This isn't over.
To be continued.....
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