The marble floor of the penthouse gleamed under the afternoon sun, and Dae-Jung stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, phone pressed to his ear, watching the city sprawl below like a kingdom he'd conquered one bloody piece at a time.
"I don't care what excuse he gave you," Dae-Jung said, his voice cold and measured. "If the shipment isn't here by midnight, I want his fingers delivered to me by 12:30. All ten of them. Are we clear?"
A pause.
"Good."
He ended the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of his tailored black slacks. His reflection stared back at him in the window. His pink hair styled perfectly, the undercut sharp, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar because ties were for men who gave a damn about convention. At thirty-five, Dae-Jung had built an empire that made politicians nervous and rival syndicates think twice. He didn't need to prove anything to anyone.
Behind him, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps.
"Mr. Han?"
Dae-Jung turned, and for the first time in what felt like years, something caught him off guard.
The man standing in his living room—correction, his new housekeeper, was not what he'd expected. Dae-Jung had told his assistant to hire someone competent and invisible. Someone who could clean, cook, and disappear into the background of his life without asking questions or making unnecessary noise.
This man was none of those things.
He stood at maybe 5'11", broad-shouldered and solid in a way that spoke of hours in a gym, not genetics. His dark-brown skin caught the sunlight streaming through the windows, and his tight black t-shirt did absolutely nothing to hide the definition in his chest and arms. He had a neat fade, a strong jawline, and the kind of quiet, understated masculinity that didn't need to announce itself.
But what really threw Dae-Jung off was the expression on his face.
The man looked terrified.
Not the kind of fear Dae-Jung usually inspired; the kind that came from knowing exactly who he was and what he was capable of. No, this was different. This was the fear of someone standing in a stranger's home, clutching a resume, trying not to visibly sweat through his shirt.
"Uh…yes. Hi. I'm Marcus. Marcus Webb. I'm… I'm the new…" He cleared his throat. "The new housekeeper. Your assistant said to come today for the trial period."
Dae-Jung raised an eyebrow. American accent. Deep voice, but soft-spoken. Nervous energy practically radiated off him.
"You're Marcus," Dae-Jung repeated, walking closer. He let his gaze travel over the man slowly—assessing and calculating. Marcus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands fidgeting with the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder.
"Yes, sir."
"You're late."
Marcus blinked, panic flashing across his face. "I—what? No, I—your assistant said 2 PM, and it's—" He pulled out his phone, hands shaking slightly. "It's 1:58"
"Relax," Dae-Jung said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I'm kidding."
Marcus froze, staring at him like he'd just been told the floor was actually lava.
Dae-Jung tilted his head. "You don't joke much, do you?"
"I—sorry, I just—" Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but directly at Dae-Jung. "I'm a little nervous. This place is… really nice. And I really need this job."
"Clearly." Dae-Jung turned and walked toward the open kitchen, gesturing for Marcus to follow. "My last housekeeper quit after two weeks. Said I was 'emotionally unavailable' and 'borderline sociopathic.' Do you have a problem with that?"
Marcus's eyes went wide. "Uh…."
"I'm kidding again."
"Oh." Marcus let out a shaky laugh, following him into the kitchen. "Right…Yeah."
Dae-Jung leaned against the kitchen island, crossing his arms over his chest. He studied Marcus in silence for a moment, watching the way the man's gaze darted around the space, taking in the spotless counters, the expensive appliances, the wine fridge that cost more than most people's cars.
"You worked as a housekeeper before?"
"Yes, sir. For three years. I have references—" Marcus started to reach for his backpack.
"I don't care about references." Dae-Jung waved a hand dismissively. "My assistant already vetted you. What I care about is whether you can follow instructions, stay out of my business, and not fall apart every time I walk into a room."
Marcus swallowed hard. "I can do that, Sir."
"Good." Dae-Jung pushed off the counter and walked past him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. He caught the faint scent of something clean. Soap maybe, and a hint of cologne. Simple but Unpretentious.
He stopped at the doorway and glanced back. "Your quarters are down the hall, last door on the left. You'll work Monday through Friday, 9 AM to 6 PM. Weekends off unless I need you. You'll handle cleaning, laundry, meal prep, and occasional errands. You do not answer my phone, open my mail, or enter my office without permission. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Marcus?"
"Sir?"
Dae-Jung's gaze locked onto his, sharp and unwavering. "If you see something you shouldn't, you forget it immediately. If someone asks you questions about me, you know nothing. If you value your safety and your life you'll keep your head down and do your job. Are we clear?"
Marcus's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Yes Sir."
"Good." Dae-Jung turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
"Stop looking so scared. It's distracting."
And with that, he walked away, leaving Marcus standing alone in the kitchen, looking like he'd just survived his first encounter with a tiger.
—
By the end of the first week, Dae-Jung had to admit: Marcus was good at his job. The penthouse had never looked better. Every surface gleamed. The laundry was done perfectly; shirts pressed, colors separated, delicates handled with care. Meals appeared on schedule, and they were really good. Not fancy in any sense, but solid home-cooked food that reminded Dae-Jung of a time before his life became blood and business.
But Marcus himself? He was still a nervous wreck.
He barely spoke unless spoken to. He jumped every time Dae-Jung entered a room. He apologized for things that didn't require apologies; putting a glass down too loudly, vacuuming while Dae-Jung was on a call (even though Dae-Jung had told him it was fine), existing in the same space.
It was, in a word, adorable.
Which was a problem.
Because Dae-Jung didn't do adorable. He did efficient. Cold and Controlled. He didn't notice people the way he was noticing Marcus. He was catching himself watching the way the man's shoulders moved when he reached for something on a high shelf, or the way his hands flexed when he kneaded dough for bread, the way his ass moved when he walked or the way he bit his bottom lip when he concentrated on folding fitted sheets.
It was absurd. And it needed to stop.
—
It was Thursday evening, just past 7 PM. Marcus should have left an hour ago, but Dae-Jung had asked him to stay late to prep for a dinner meeting the following night. Marcus had agreed immediately—too immediately—and now he was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, working on some kind of marinade.
Dae-Jung sat at the dining table with his laptop, pretending to work while very much not working.
"Mr. Han?"
He looked up. Marcus stood a few feet away, wiping his hands on a towel. His t-shirt had a small smudge of sauce on it, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from the heat of the stove.
"What is it?"
"I just wanted to confirm. You said eight guests tomorrow, right? Any dietary restrictions I should know about?"
"Two vegetarians. One allergic to shellfish. The rest will eat anything."
Marcus nodded, pulling out his phone to make a note. As he typed, Dae-Jung's gaze drifted—down the line of his forearms, the veins visible under his skin, the way his fingers moved across the screen.
"Got it," Marcus said, looking up. He caught Dae-Jung staring and immediately looked away, his jaw tightening. "I'll, uh—I'll get everything prepped tonight so it's ready to go tomorrow."
"Good."
An awkward silence settled between them. Marcus shifted his weight, glancing toward the kitchen like he wanted to escape.
"Marcus."
"Yes?"
"Why are you so nervous all the time?"
Marcus blinked, clearly not expecting the question. "I'm…I'm not.."
"You are." Dae-Jung closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair, studying him. "You act like I'm going to bite you."
"I just—" Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit Dae-Jung had noticed before. "You're… intimidating, sir. That's all."
"Intimidating."
"Yeah."
Dae-Jung smirked. "You're not the first person to say that."
"I agree."
"Does it bother you?"
Marcus hesitated. "No. I just… I don't want to mess this up. This job—it's important to me."
There was something in his voice. Something raw and genuine that made Dae-Jung pause. He stood, walking over to where Marcus stood. The man tensed immediately, his shoulders going rigid.
"You're doing fine," Dae-Jung said quietly. "Better than fine, actually."
Marcus looked up at him, surprise flickering across his face. "Really?"
"Really." Dae-Jung reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed a small smudge of flour off Marcus's shoulder. The touch was brief and barely a second but Marcus flinched like he'd been burned.
Their eyes met. And for a moment, the air between them shifted.
Dae-Jung felt the sudden, unexpected pull. The way Marcus's breathing had gone shallow. The way his pupils dilated just slightly. The way neither of them moved, standing close enough that Dae-Jung could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Mr. Han…"
The sharp buzz of Dae-Jung's phone shattered the moment.
He stepped back, pulling the phone from his pocket and glancing at the screen. It's Business. It's always business.
"I need to take this," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
Marcus nodded quickly, already retreating toward the kitchen. "Of course. I'll just…yeah."
Dae-Jung answered the call and walked toward his office, forcing himself not to look back. But he could still feel the ghost of that moment lingering on his skin. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was going to be a problem.