The room smelled of expensive wine and tension.
Crystal glasses caught the light, scattering it into fractured patterns across the polished floor. Around me, the children of shareholders laughed too loudly, their clinking cutlery barely concealing the whispers of power, alliances, and ambition.
I should have been performing the act of enjoyment. But my mind refused to cooperate.
Then came the announcement—sharp, clean, and cruel.My brother, Yiran, engaged.
Not to her.
To a woman sculpted for headlines: a socialite, polished and perfect, a replacement dressed in silk and hypocrisy.
Ten years erased in a single toast. Ten years of her waiting, of her loyalty wasted, replaced by a stranger's diamond ring.
The glass in my hand trembled. Red wine spilled over my knuckles—dark, senseless, inadequate to drown the fire twisting inside me.
How could he do this? How could he discard her devotion like an old contract clause and parade his betrayal so proudly?
Her voice returned to me then, from that night at the bar—drunk, raw, and honest.
"Women aren't as lucky as men when it comes to life…"
She had said it with a crooked smile and glassy eyes, unaware she'd carved those words into me.
I excused myself and stepped onto the balcony.Cold air hit like glass—sharp, cleansing. The city below glittered, indifferent to heartbreaks and headlines.And then I saw her.
A blurred silhouette near the fountain.Stumbling. Laughing. Drunk again.The same woman.
My pulse didn't quicken—it thundered. Of course she would appear when my control faltered. Chaos always found me when I least wanted it.
She leaned too far over the fountain's edge, giggling at her reflection. Hair messy, lips flushed pink from cold and liquor.
She's drunk. Again.
I moved before I thought—swift, quiet, deliberate. I wanted to scold her. To scold him.
How dare Yiran let her wander alone? How dare he waste her heart?
She stumbled out of the shadows and crashed into me.Soft. Warm. The scent of vanilla and rain-soaked sweetness.
For a moment, she froze against my chest. Then her eyes blinked open—wide, dazed, heartbreak swirling behind the haze.
"Oh," she breathed, slurring. "Sorry—sir—Mr.—uh—"
I hated her in that moment.
Hated how her voice burned through my composure.
Hated that she reminded me of everything I shouldn't want.
Her gaze dropped to my shoes. "Your shoes are so long," she muttered. "Are you a clown?"
A clown.
Almost, I laughed. Almost.
Instead, I studied her—this woman who had loved my brother so blindly she'd forgotten herself.
She squinted again, tilting her head. "Are you an idol?"
My jaw tightened. Words were dangerous; silence is safer.
Then—without warning—she grabbed my collar and pressed herself against me.
The kiss was reckless, clumsy, soaked in alcohol—but it hit me like a storm. Her lips were soft, trembling, and insistent. And in that instant, the world fractured.
The fountain's gentle splashes, the cool night air, even my own heartbeat—they all fell away. There was only her. Her warmth. Her defiance. Her chaos.
I tasted mint, faint and sharp, under the sweetness of alcohol, and a flicker of something impossible—regret, yes, but also longing—exploded inside me. My chest tightened, my pulse surged, every inch of me awake, betraying my calm exterior.
Her hands fumbled at my shoulders, desperate, searching, and I instinctively held her closer. Not forcefully—just enough to steady her, to anchor her. A laugh escaped me, raw and unpracticed, as if the world had forgotten how to cage sound.
She pulled back slightly, eyes wide, pupils dilated, as if seeing me for the first time. Her lips were parted, cheeks flushed, and I realized with a jolt that this was more than a kiss—it was confession, challenge, surrender all at once.
Her gaze locked with mine—unguarded, vulnerable, yet daring. It cut straight through me, unraveling every layer of control I'd spent a lifetime perfecting.
Then, impossibly, she broke the spell. Her lips curved into a mischievous, shy smile, and she mumbled, "You—uh—nice shoes," before darting away, giggling into the night.
I let her go. My hands lingered in the empty space where she had been, aching with absence.
But the scent of her—vanilla laced with the sharp tang of alcohol—lingered, haunting me. Every breath reminded me that she had left a mark on me deeper than any wound, a storm no calm could erase.
The next day.
The elevator doors slid open, and there she was.
Sober. Composed. Pretending the world hadn't cracked open the night before.
Vanilla. Again.
My pulse stuttered.
She stood beside me, avoiding my gaze. But the silence between us was thick—heavy with recognition neither of us dared to speak aloud.
I said nothing. Acted normal. Cold. Controlled.
But my hands ached to brush the stray hair from her face, to steady her as she had been last night—fragile, alive, mine.
She glanced up, just once. Shock. Embarrassment. A flicker of memory.
I ignored it, stepping forward just enough for our shoulders to graze. Just enough to remind her I was real.
My exterior stayed perfect: calm, professional. Inside, my thoughts were chaos.
I watched her reflection in the elevator door—the faintest quiver of her lips, the tension in her posture.
I wanted to tell her I remembered. That her kiss still burned through my restraint. That she had become the one crack in my control.
But timing was everything. Desire without control was dangerous. And she—fragile as glass—wasn't ready for me. Not yet.
When the doors opened, she stepped out, straightening her shoulders as if to erase the memory.
She didn't see the storm behind my stillness. She didn't see the plan already forming in my mind—the plan to restore my mother's name, reclaim the company, and, above all, make sure that she—my chaos, my anomaly—would one day belong to no one but me.
To be continued...
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₍₍⚞(˶˃ ꒳ ˂˶)⚟⁾⁾ Tell me if you like having the ML's POV!! I'd love to know your thoughts, feelings, and favorite moments so far. Thank you for reading, ily!
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