The glass doors of King Group Tower shut behind Eunwoo with a soft hydraulic sigh. He didn't look back—he never did.
Seorii stood by the reception arch, watching the shine of his car disappear into traffic like something final. Her eyes followed until it was gone, a faint tremor in her jaw betraying the calm she wore like makeup.
Her phone buzzed in her palm.
She didn't hesitate. She pressed it to her ear, her voice steady despite the crack just under it.
"I'm in."
A pause. Then a quiet voice on the other end, satisfied.
Her lips curved—not in joy, but in a smile that looked borrowed from someone stronger. "I'll handle the rest," she added, and hung up before her resolve could waver.
For a second, she just stood there. The lobby light pooled gold over the marble floor, her reflection thin and ghostlike. She whispered to herself, "You didn't even look back, Eunwoo."
And then she turned, spine straight, walking toward the upper floor—toward the man who had made this whole game possible.
The corridor outside Juntae King's office smelled faintly of lemon polish and old money. Seorii paused just long enough in the doorway to watch the car take Eunwoo away, then slipped her phone back into her hand. It buzzed once — a curt, important tone — and she answered with the flat professionalism she kept for family crises. "I'm in," she said, and then let out a small, brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes.
The private office was a different world. Thick glass, heavy blinds, the kind of leather chairs that made it hard to stand up for yourself. Juntae's voice tore through that controlled atmosphere like a bolt of thunder. Paper rustled. A suit jacket snapped on a shoulder. The lawyer, Mr. Cha, who had a voice like a rubbed wire, was trying to keep the facts mild and legal.
"I was only repeating what the documentation says," Mr. Cha said, voice careful. "The will is lawful. Your father specified the conditions clearly. If Eunwoo remains single, the chair remains vacant. If he marries but the marriage ends in divorce or the spouse dies within six months, we revert. That clause is unusual, but it's there."
Juntae stopped in the middle of the carpet, eyes like a man who'd been told his favorite bridge was burning. The newspaper headlines he'd imagined — King Global: Juntae Consolidates Power — were shredded by a single line of handwriting from a dead man. He had spent a decade moving pieces, smoothing rough edges, buying loyalty. A paper note from the past had just shoved a wedge under his fingers.
"Bullshit," he barked. The word slammed into the room. He made for the desk like a storm. "He can't—he can't walk into my boardroom and sit like a king because he decides to wear a ring overnight." His hand swept across the desk; pens skittered; a framed photograph landed face up on the carpet. He was frightening in that moment: composed façade cracking into raw, naked fury.
Seorii stepped forward, voice small: "Uncle—what happened?" Her entrance was a quiet lifeline thrown into the tempest, and for a second he looked at her like a man drowning who had been handed a rope.
He laughed then, a sound with sharp edges. "What happened? I built this. I ran this. I kept the wolves at bay while the boy played soldier. And for what? So some—some will from some dead man can come back and tell me I'm not fit unless he signs a marriage certificate? This is a joke." He reached for a vase on the mantle as if it were an instrument of punctuation. "A joke I will not take."
"Sir, please—" Mr. Cha began, hands raised. He tried legality. He tried to smooth the edges. "There are procedural responses—"
Juntae didn't listen. He threw the vase. It flew across the air, a thrown oracle, smashing at Mr. Cha's feet. Water and ceramic exploded; the lawyer stumbled back, face blanching. Papers flew into the air like startled birds.
Seorii's breath hitched. Even now, standing at the door, she did not expect the violence of his despair. The vase cracked open at Cha's shoes; the lawyer's composure shattered like the ceramic. He took a step back, managing a watery, "Sir, sir—" as though a simple protocol could hold back a man who had decided violence was the only language left.
Juntae's face had gone red, then white. He pounded the table with both palms until the wood sang. "He will not take this from me," he snarled. "I will destroy him. I will tear the paper, find some loophole, buy some signature. I will bury him under debt, under scandal, under any stone I can move."
Seorii watched him and felt old memories curl open — the way he used to be softer in lunches, the way the world had taught him cruelty and how he returned it in full measure. Fear and pity warred inside her. "Uncle... we—" she tried, but the words sounded foolish next to the animal in him.
"Leave us," Juntae snapped suddenly. Those two words were not only command but exile. The room blinked as if the air itself obeyed. One by one, the staff melted away, drawn out by the juddering authority in his voice. Mr. Cha picked up the pieces of his dignity and his paperwork, eyes too wide to meet anyone.
When the door finally closed and the outer world shut out the sound of cars and elevator chimes, Juntae leaned his forehead against the glass and breathed as though the building had caved in.
"Damn him," he whispered, for no audience but himself. Then louder, a rotten roar pushed up from the bottom of his chest: "I am not finished."
Seorii stayed in the doorway a moment longer, not because Juntae asked, but because she wanted to see the man who had ruled half her life break. Her pulse hammered with a complicated, dangerous loyalty — and a guilty, ashamed ache that he had chosen this path. She wanted to help, and she wanted to run. Both things were impossible.
Juntae's shoulders shook once, not from grief but from the ragged violence of plans unmade. He wasn't defeated; he was strategizing defeat into offense. His mind began to sharpen, teeth grinding into strategy: lawyers to bribe, shareholders to seduce, a past to unearth. He would not simply complain. He would fight.
In that private fury, he muttered to himself, words near-hallucinatory: "He thinks this is fate. He thinks he can stand before me and win. Let him try."
Outside the room, Seorii straightened, wiped her hands on her skirt as if she could mop up the last fragments of broken porcelain and angry words. She turned, the apartment of the office receding behind her with all its shadows.
Juntae remained at the window, watching the city. Angry, exhausted, and very dangerous. His next moves would not be small. They would be surgical. And the chessboard had only just been set.
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The morning mist still lingered above the forest like thin silver smoke, curling around the villa's gates as if it didn't want to let her go. Andrea stood near the car, her hair pulled back, jacket zipped high. Her duffel bag lay open in the trunk, filled with folded clothes, weapons, and the faint metallic scent of bullets. Every movement she made was precise—too precise, like a soldier disguising nerves with discipline.
Layla leaned against the driver's side door, sipping her iced coffee like this was just another casual road trip. "You check your things again?" she asked, watching Andrea slot the last pistol into its case.
"Yes," Andrea murmured, eyes scanning the bag one last time. "Everything's there. Clothes, docs, gear... and my knives."
Layla raised a brow. "And the other thing?"
Andrea closed the trunk with a quiet thud. "Hidden. Where it should be."
Layla smirked. "You'd hide your own heart if you could."
Andrea looked up, the corner of her mouth twitching. "That one's already hidden."
The wind caught her scarf, brushing it against her cheek. For a moment, her eyes lifted toward the balcony of the villa—the one where she'd argued, trained, and laughed like she didn't belong to this kind of life. It felt strange to leave it behind, even for a mission.
Layla clapped her hands once. "Alright, boss lady. All set?"
Andrea nodded, slinging her small side bag over her shoulder. "All done. Can I drive?"
Layla turned her head sharply. "Can you even read Korean road signs?"
Andrea blinked, deadpan. "...Nope."
"Then absolutely not," Layla said, sliding into the driver's seat with mock ceremony. "Here, take your smoothie. You'll need the sugar rush for Seoul traffic."
Andrea rolled her eyes but took the cup anyway, sipping it without comment as she moved to the passenger seat. The car's leather was cool against her palms, the faint hum of the engine waiting.
Layla fastened her seatbelt, threw a grin her way, and shifted gears. "Alright, princess of chaos. Buckle up."
Andrea smiled faintly, the first real one that morning. "You drive like a maniac, Layla."
"Only when I'm late to a fake wedding."
With that, the black luxury van rolled down the stone path, tires crunching against the wet gravel. The forest thinned as they drove, sunlight breaking through the trees in scattered rays. The villa shrank in the rearview mirror until it was nothing more than a silhouette swallowed by mist.
Andrea leaned back in her seat, smoothie in hand, her gaze fixed on the endless road ahead. Seoul waited—louder, sharper, and more dangerous than the woods she was leaving behind.
And somewhere there, Eunwoo waited too.
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In the heart of Seoul's luxury district, the mall gleamed like a palace of glass and gold. Every floor shimmered beneath chandelier light, and somewhere between that glamour and silence walked Eunwoo King — black suit, cold eyes, and an expression that made every clerk straighten their spine before he even spoke.
Behind him, Minjoon followed, juggling half a dozen glossy bags from every luxury brand imaginable. "Boss," he muttered, panting slightly, "are you sure she'll even like all this?" He nodded toward the ridiculous mountain of gowns, perfumes, and shoes they'd collected.
Eunwoo didn't slow. "She's a girl, Minjoon. Girls like shiny things."
Minjoon nearly choked. "Correction. Andrea's not that kind of girl. She'd rather fight in boots than walk in those heels. You're shopping for an assassin, not a beauty queen."
Eunwoo finally paused, eyes tracing the storefronts glittering with diamonds and silk. For a fraction of a second, his confidence cracked. His jaw tightened. "Still," he said softly, "she deserves something special. Something that looks like her."
The way he said her carried a weight he didn't want to explain.
Minjoon noticed it instantly. "Wow. You're thinking about her, aren't you?"
Eunwoo's silence was answer enough.
They walked until Eunwoo stopped before a jewelry boutique, its windows glowing like captured stars. The clerk inside recognized him instantly, her eyes widening as she hurried to the door. "Welcome, Mr. King."
The store was silent except for the low hum of light hitting glass. Rows of diamonds blinked like constellations. Eunwoo moved through the aisles, expression unreadable, until something caught his eye — a rose-gold ring, elegant but strong, the metal twisting into an eternal knot of two crossing paths.
Beside it lay a necklace — rubies framed by tiny diamonds, glowing under the white light like heartbeats caught in silver fire.
"Perfect," he said quietly.
Minjoon squinted at the display. "That necklace looks like it belongs to a queen, not a woman who could kill me with a pencil."
Eunwoo's mouth curved just slightly. "She already is a queen. She just doesn't know it yet."
The clerk returned, smiling nervously. "Would you like these wrapped, sir?"
"Both," he said, tone flat but steady.
Minjoon sighed, shaking his head. "You're actually smiling. You never smile. You scare CEOs for fun and suddenly you're buying jewelry like you're in a drama."
"I'm not smiling," Eunwoo said, voice cool.
"Yes, you are. It's horrifying. Stop it before people think you have emotions."
Eunwoo ignored him and handed over his black card — the kind that screamed quiet power. Minjoon muttered, "You could've just asked her what she likes—oh wait, right, she'd probably threaten to break your wrist for asking."
Eunwoo didn't even blink. "She'll wear it."
The clerk brought out two velvet boxes and bowed deeply. Eunwoo took them gently, thumb brushing the lid like it was something sacred. For a man whose touch was usually steel, there was care in that small movement.
"Make sure the white dress I bought yesterday is sent to Andrea's villa by evening," he said.
Minjoon groaned. "You mean that designer one? The dress that costs more than my car?"
"Yes."
"What if she doesn't like it?"
Eunwoo's eyes flicked to him. "Then you'll wear it to work."
Minjoon froze, horrified. "Sir. Please. I beg you."
Eunwoo's laugh escaped before he could stop it — short, low, almost disbelieving.
Minjoon blinked. "You laughed. I should record this. The legend himself—"
"Don't push your luck."
They walked out of the store. The polished marble reflected their figures — two men moving through light and shadow. One calm as ice, the other tripping over too many shopping bags. But as they approached the escalator, Eunwoo slowed. His reflection shimmered beside the glass display, the ring box in his hand catching golden light.
His face looked different — still sharp, still proud — but there was something behind it now. Something dangerously human.
Minjoon noticed. "Boss," he said carefully, "this whole marriage mission thing—are you sure you're not… feeling something?"
Eunwoo didn't answer right away. His voice, when it came, was quieter. "I don't know. Maybe it's not supposed to make sense."
Minjoon frowned. "You're starting to sound like a poet."
"I'll fire you if you say that again."
"Right, right. Totally not in love. Just buying half a jewelry store because of 'strategy.'"
The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside. Reflections surrounded them in the mirrored walls — the billionaire and his exhausted aide, frozen between two worlds: business and something far too close to emotion.
When the doors slid open, sunlight poured in. Seoul sprawled before them — steel and glass and heartbeats. The kind of city where people fell in love and pretended they didn't.
"Boss," Minjoon said, voice low now, "you know this marriage started as a mission. Don't get… attached."
Eunwoo's stride never faltered. "I know exactly what it started as. But I don't know how it'll end."
Minjoon looked at him, lips parting in disbelief. "You really mean that, don't you?"
Eunwoo stopped by the car, sunglasses glinting under the light. "Maybe," he said quietly, "some things aren't meant to be planned."
The chauffeur opened the door. Minjoon loaded the mountain of boxes into the trunk, muttering curses under his breath.
"You could've just asked her what she wants," Minjoon grumbled again.
Eunwoo looked at the ring box one last time before slipping it into his coat pocket. "No. I'd rather find out myself."
Inside the car, the world softened. The hum of traffic faded beneath the muted glow of afternoon sun. Eunwoo stared at the jewelry resting on the seat beside him — gold and fire and quiet promises.
Maybe he'd never believed in fate. Maybe he still didn't. But something about the weight of that ring, the way it glimmered like a heartbeat, made him think that fate didn't ask for belief. It just happened.
Minjoon glanced at him. "We're late for the board meeting."
Eunwoo's answer was barely above a murmur. "Let them wait. Today's for her."
The car began to move, gliding through Seoul's veins of traffic and light.
Outside, the city shone — ruthless, loud, alive.
Inside, the man who once treated emotion as weakness now sat quietly, holding proof that he wasn't immune after all.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, a faint smile ghosting his face. The kind of smile that could break hearts if anyone ever saw it.
And somewhere far away, in a quiet villa nestled in the green folds of a forest, Andrea Volkov sneezed, rubbed her nose, and muttered, "Someone's talking about me."
She didn't know that the man she swore she'd never fall for was, at that very moment, carrying the world she'd never asked for — wrapped neatly in velvet, sealed with a name she didn't yet realize she'd one day love.