Chapter 1: Sober, But Not Safe
I didn't sleep.
How could I?
Every time I closed my eyes I was back in that elevator: mirrored walls, his breath on my ear, the way he said my name like he'd already bought it.
At 6:03 a.m. I was sitting on the bathroom floor of my shoebox studio, staring at the black company cardkey in my shaking hand. It had appeared in the inner pocket of my suit sometime between the party and the taxi home. No note. Just the card. Matte black, heavier than it should be, a tiny silver 42 engraved on one corner.
I showered three times. Changed shirts twice. Threw up once (half champagne, half terror). By the time I walked into HQ at 6:47 p.m. the next day, I was sober, exhausted, and wearing the only clean white shirt I owned.
The lobby security guard glanced at the cardkey when I scanned it at the private turnstile. His eyes widened. He actually stood up.
"Straight ahead, sir. East elevator. It'll take you."
Sir.
He called me sir.
I wanted to laugh or cry. I did neither.
The elevator remembered me. Doors opened the second I stepped close. Same scent (his cologne, cold metal, snow). I walked in like a man heading to his own execution.
Floor 42.
The doors parted into a hallway I'd only ever seen in rumors. Black marble floor reflecting a ceiling full of stars (actual fiber-optic stars, not cheap LEDs). A single set of double doors at the end, no handles.
They opened before I reached them.
He was waiting.
Yoon Jaehyun wore a charcoal three-piece suit tonight, no tie, the top two buttons undone like he'd been pulling at them. The city glittered behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows that took up the entire wall. Seoul at night, tiny and breakable beneath his feet.
He didn't speak. Just looked at me (slow, deliberate, the way a wolf decides which part of the deer to bite first).
I bowed so low my nose almost touched my knees. "Director Yoon, I—"
"Jaehyun is fine."
My head snapped up. His voice was different from last night (still low, still dangerous, but less icy). Or maybe I was just too close to the sun now.
He turned and walked deeper into the penthouse. I followed because what else could I do?
The place was obscene. Not in a tacky way (everything was black, white, or glass, museum-level minimalism), but obscene in how obviously money stopped mattering years ago. A single painting on the wall was probably worth more than my entire apartment building. The sofa looked like it had never been sat on.
He stopped at a bar cart that cost more than my yearly salary and poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass.
"Drink."
"I'm… still on probation. Company policy—"
"I own the company." He held the glass out. "Drink."
I took it with both hands so he wouldn't see them shake. One sip and my throat caught fire. Expensive didn't even begin to cover it.
He watched me cough, lips twitching (almost a smile, gone before it arrived).
"Sit."
There was only one chair in front of the window. The city behind it made whoever sat there look like a king. I stayed standing.
He sighed, set his own untouched glass down, and stepped close enough that I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact.
"Last night," he said, "you trespassed."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'll resign immediately, I'll delete every photo, I'll—"
"I'm not finished." His fingers caught my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. They were darker than I remembered. "Trespassing on the 42nd floor carries consequences."
I swallowed. "What kind?"
His thumb brushed my lower lip, slow. "The kind you can't pay with money."
My heart slammed so hard I was sure he could feel it through my shirt.
He let go and walked to a desk that looked carved from a single block of onyx. Pulled out a folder. Thick. Black.
Inside: a contract.
Not employment. Not internship.
Personal.
I saw the word CONCUBINE in bold Hangul before my brain blanked.
He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching me flip through pages that should not exist in the 21st century.
Exclusive rights to my time. My body. My silence.
In return: tuition for my sister, my mother's hospital bills, an apartment in Gangnam, a black card with no limit, and (buried on page seven) a single line that made my knees actually buckle.
Upon termination of contract, subject will receive 5 billion won and a letter of recommendation signed by Chairman Yoon himself.
Five billion.
I could buy my family freedom with that.
I looked up. He hadn't moved. Just waited, predator-patient.
"You're insane," I whispered.
"Probably."
"You can't just… buy people."
"I don't want people." He pushed off the desk, closing the distance again. "I want you."
"Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead he reached past me, picked up a pen (Montblanc, probably worth my rent), and held it out.
"Because last night you looked at me like I was a man, not a title. And I haven't been looked at like that in ten years."
His voice dropped. "Sign, Rael-ah. Or walk away and I'll make sure no one in this industry ever hires you again. Your choice."
The pen was heavy. The paper smelled like money and damnation.
My hand didn't shake anymore.
I signed.
Kang Rael, in careful, terrified handwriting, right under the line that said I now belonged to Yoon Jaehyun for exactly one year.
He took the contract, slid it back into the folder, and locked it in a drawer.
Then he turned to me, cupped my face with both hands, and kissed me like he'd been starving for it.
Not gentle. Not asking.
Claiming.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
"Bedroom's upstairs," he murmured against my lips. "You're not leaving this floor until I've ruined you for anyone else."
I should have been scared.
Instead I whispered, "Yes, sir."
He smiled (real this time, sharp and beautiful and terrifying).
"Jaehyun," he corrected, voice rough. "Say05 Say it."
"Jaehyun."
He kissed me again, harder, and the city lights blurred behind my tears.
I was his now.
And God help me, I already wanted to stay.