"He has his moments," I agree dryly.
"He told me you were taking a gap year," Byungho continues, leaning back and spreading his arms, taking up as much space as possible. "Traveling. Finding yourself. I told him it was a waste of time, but seeing you now? You carry yourself well. Better than some."
His eyes slide, for the first time, to his right. To Sihwan.
Sihwan stiffens instantly, his spoon freezing halfway to his mouth.
"Sihwan," Byungho barks. "Sit up straight. You’re hunching over your bowl like a dog."
Sihwan’s spine snaps straight so fast I hear a pop. "Sorry, Father."
"And what is that on your face?" Byungho gestures vaguely at Sihwan’s jaw with his fork. "You missed a spot shaving. Sloppy. Details matter, Sihwan. If you can't manage your own face, how do you expect to manage a hotel chain?"
I glance at Sihwan’s jaw. It’s perfectly smooth. There’s nothing there. It’s a criticism for the sake of criticism, a power play to remind the boy who holds the leash.
"I was rushing," Sihwan mumbles, his gaze dropping to the tablecloth.
"You're always rushing," Byungho scoffs, turning back to me with a conspiratorial roll of his eyes. "He lacks discipline. I sent him to the best prep schools, got him the best tutors, and he still insists on pursuing this...artdegree."
He saysartthe way one might saysyphilis.
"Visual Communication Design," Sihwan corrects quietly. "It’s brand management. It’s relevant to the business."
"It's drawing pictures," Byungho snaps, slamming his hand down on the table. The silver jumps. "I need a CEO, not a graphic designer. I need someone who can walk into a boardroom and command respect. Look at Donghwa. He’s a freshman, younger than you, and he has more gravity in his little finger than you have in your entire bulked-up body."
I pause, my wine glass halfway to my lips.
The irony is almost suffocating. If Byungho knew exactly what I’ve been doing with his son—how I’ve been bending that "bulked-up body" over his own furniture, how I’ve been the one stripping that command away from him—he’d probably have a stroke right here in the consommé.
But looking at Sihwan, the humor dies a quick death.
He looks small.
It’s a strange thing to think about a guy who is six-foot-one and built like a linebacker, but he looks tiny. He’s shrinking into himself, absorbing the insults like he’s heard them a thousand times before. And suddenly, the loud, obnoxious, attention-seeking behavior at school makes perfect sense.
Sihwan isn't an egomaniac because he thinks he’s God’s gift to the world. He’s an egomaniac because in this house, he’s nothing. He screams for attention out there because in here, he’s invisible until he makes a mistake.
"I'm doing well in my classes," Sihwan tries, his voice tight. "My GPA is a 3.8."
"And yet I hear you're wasting time on social clubs," Mrs. Oh chimes in, not to defend him, but to pile on. She picks at her salad delicately. "I saw the photos from that mixer last week. You looked drunk, Sihwan. Red-faced and sweaty. It’s unbecoming. People talk."
"It was a department party," Sihwan argues, his hands clenching in his lap. "I have to network."
"You call that networking?" Byungho sneers. "You call chasing after skirts and acting like a frat boy networking? Real Alphas don't need to chase, Sihwan. They attract. They dominate."
I watch Sihwan cut his steak.
It’s a mechanical action. He keeps his elbows tucked tight against his ribs, his head bowed slightly, slicing the meat into uniform, bite-sized squares before he even takes a bite. It’s the behavior of a child trying to be invisible, trying to minimize the space he takes up at the table so he doesn't draw fire.
And suddenly, the loud jackets, the aggressive cologne, the desperate need to be the "King" of the campus—it all clicks into place.
It’s not vanity. It’s not even ego, really. It’s a survival mechanism.
Out there, he screams for attention because in here, he’s starving for it. He built that "Alpha God" persona out of necessity, a frantic, glittering armor to protect the soft, bruised thing sitting across from me. He has to be the best, the loudest, the most physically imposing, because if he isn't, he’s just... this. A disappointment in a tailored suit.
The realization leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
"Of course," Byungho says, waving a forkful of beef in the air, "we always imagined Sihwan would settle down with a nice Omega. Someone from the Kim or Lee families. Good breeding stock. Someone to give us heirs and keep the house quiet."
