I pick up my fork again, spearing a piece of potato.
"This beef is excellent," I say to the room at large. "Please, continue."
The exit is just as theatrical as the entrance, though the tension has shifted. Before, the air was thick with Sihwan’s impending execution. Now, it’s thick with the suffocating politeness of people who desperately want to scream but can’t afford the social fallout.
We stand in the cavernous foyer, the marble floor amplifying the sound of the butler retrieving our coats.
Byungho stands by the stairs, his face a mottled shade of purple that clashes horribly with the gold wallpaper. He looks like a man who has eaten something sour and is being forced to smile through the indigestion. Beside him, Mrs. Oh is frozen in that same icy, porcelain perfection, though her eyes keep darting to me with a mixture of wariness and calculation.
They hate it.
I can smell it on them—the sharp, acrid tang of disapproval spiking through their heavy perfumes. They hate that their son, their "heir," is leaving with another Alpha. They hate the implication of what we do behind closed doors. In their world, an Alpha pairing is a dead end. No biological heirs, no traditional lineage, just a surplus of testosterone and "wasted" potential.
But they can’t say a word.
Because I am a Kang. Because my grandfather sits on committees that decide whether their hotel expansions get approved. Because insulting me is insulting a bloodline that predates their money by three centuries.
So, they smile.
"Thank you for having me," I say, slipping into my coat. I button it slowly, letting the silence stretch. "The meal was excellent. And the conversation was... illuminating."
"We were delighted you could make time for us," Mrs. Oh says, her voice tight. She steps forward, smoothing invisible lint fromher sleeve. "It’s rare to see young men of your generation taking courtship so seriously."
She chokes a little on the wordcourtship.
"We believe in doing things properly," I lie, flashing a sharp, brief smile.
I glance at Sihwan. He’s standing by the door, clutching his overnight bag like a lifeline. The decision not to stay the night was an easy one to make on my part, but Sihwan looked almost unsure if he could accept my lifeline out of here when I suggested we needed to get back before early classes in the morning. He hasn't looked at his parents since we left the table. He’s staring at his shoes, his shoulders hunched, radiating a chaotic mix of relief and residual shame.
"Sihwan," Byungho grunts.
Sihwan’s head snaps up. "Yes, Father?"
Byungho stares at him. For a second, I think he’s going to double down, maybe throw one last insult to reassert his dominance before we leave. He opens his mouth, his eyes flicking to me, then back to his son. He sees the way I’ve positioned myself—slightly in front of Sihwan, blocking his direct line of sight.
Byungho closes his mouth. He clears his throat, looking away.
"Drive safely," he mutters. "The roads are winding."
It’s a concession. A pathetic one, but a concession nonetheless.
"We will," I answer for him.
I place a hand on the small of Sihwan’s back. It’s a possessive gesture, deliberate and heavy. I feel him jolt under my touch, his muscles tense and rigid, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans back into it, just a fraction of an inch, seeking the anchor.
"Goodnight," I say.
We turn and walk out the double doors.
The night air washes over us, crisp and clean, scrubbing the scent of lilies and burnt sugar from my nose. The valet has thecar waiting, engine idling, the headlights cutting through the dark driveway.
Sihwan walks fast. He practically sprints down the steps, tossing his bag into the back seat and diving into the passenger side before the valet can even offer to open the door. I tip the guy—probably too much, but I’m in a good mood—and slide into the driver’s seat.
The moment the door thuds shut, sealing us in the quiet, leather-scented sanctuary of the coupe, Sihwan deflates.
He slumps forward, putting his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He lets out a long, shuddering breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his lungs for three hours.
I don't say anything. I just put the car in gear and drive, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as we leave the palace of insecurity behind.
