Donghwa catches my eye. For a second, his expression is blank, unreadable. Then, the corner of his mouth ticks up. It’s microscopic. If you didn't know him, you’d miss it. But I know him. I know exactly what that twitch means.
It means I am screwed.
He turns to my mother, clasping his hands in front of him, looking for all the world like a humble, grateful suitor instead of the demon who just spent three days wrecking my internal organs.
"We would be honored, Director Choi," Donghwa says, his voice smooth as velvet. "Sihwan is right, my schedule is tight, but for an invitation to the main house? I will make the time."
My jaw unhinges. I stare at him, betrayed.You traitor. You absolute snake.
My mother beams. It’s terrifying. "Wonderful. I knew you were a sensible young man. Unlikesomepeople." She shoots a side-eye at me that withers my soul. "My husband will be very interested to meet a Kang. Don't be late. You know how your father gets about punctuality."
"Seven o'clock sharp," Donghwa confirms with a nod. "We wouldn't dream of keeping the Chairman waiting."
"Good." She snaps her purse shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. She takes one last, lingering look around the disaster zone of my bedroom, her nose wrinkling slightly as she catches a fresh waft ofEau de Rut. "AndSihwan? Open a window. Immediately. It smells like a locker room in here. It’s undignified."
"Yes, Mother," I mumble, staring at the floor.
She turns on her heel, executing a perfect pivot, and marches back down the hallway. I listen to theclick-clack-click-clackof her heels retreating, holding my breath until I hear the front door open and close. The electronic lock chirps its cheerful little goodbye, sealing my fate.
Silence descends on the room. Heavy, oppressive silence.
I slowly turn my head to look at Donghwa.
He is still standing there, looking calm and collected in my too-tight t-shirt. As soon as he’s sure she’s gone, the polite mask drops, and a slow, lazy smirk spreads across his face. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
"You," I whisper, pointing a shaking finger at him. "You are a dead man."
"Seven o'clock, Saturday," he muses. "Better buy me a suit, Hyung. I don't think your dad is going to appreciate my leather jacket."
I groan, burying my face in my hands. I have four days to turn a sarcastic, tattooed, dominant freshman into the perfect submissive Omega-loving boyfriend my parents think I have.
I am absolutely going to die.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Donghwa
Iusually prefer the bike. There’s something about the wind chill and the risk of road rash that clears my head better than any climate control system ever could. But tonight is about theater, and if I’m going to walk into the lion’s den of "New Money" insecurity, I need to speak their language.
And their language is obnoxiously expensive German engineering.
I tap my fingers against the leather-wrapped steering wheel of the matte black coupe, the engine purring with a low, menacing rumble that vibrates through the soles of my boots. It’s one of the few toys from my father’s garage I actually tolerate—mostly because it looks like something a villain would drive, and less like the rolling billboards Sihwan usually drools over.
I check my phone.Read.
He’s stalling.
I shift in the leather seat, adjusting the cuffs of my black button down. I didn't bother with a tie. My family name does enough heavy lifting that I don't need to choke myself with silk to prove I belong at a dinner table. Sihwan, on the other hand, is probably hyperventilating in front of a mirror right now, trying to decide which watch makes him look most like a CEO in training.
A minute later, the glass doors of the apartment building swing open.
I stop tapping.
Oh, he tried. He really tried.
Sihwan steps out onto the pavement, and for a second, I actually forget to be annoyed. He’s ditched the neon hypebeast garbage for a navy suit that fits him like a second skin. It’s cut aggressively slim, highlighting the thick taper of his waist and the heavy shelf of his chest. His hair is styled back, not a single strand out of place, exposing that strong, stubborn forehead and the sharp cut of his jaw. He looks polished, expensive, and absolutely terrified.
He’s looking around for a taxi, or maybe my bike, clutching a leather overnight bag like a shield.
