Silence greeted him like an old ghost.
The estate sat in the private heights above the Han River—a fortress of stone, ironwood, and etched glass. Half-architectural marvel, half-mythic tomb. Minimalist art. Marble floors. No family photos. No coats by the door. Just motion sensor lights that flickered to life as Seungho stepped in, shedding his jacket with military precision.
Servants had come and gone over the decade.
None ever stayed long.
They always said the same thing: “He’s not cruel, just… not here.”
Even when he was.
He removed his coat at the entryway. Hung it precisely. Undid his cuffs. Poured himself a second drink. Walked barefoot into the living room, where nothing was out of place. A fireplace without flame. A table without fingerprints. A glass chess set, halfway played, the other player missing.
He lit no music. He spoke to no one. He never did.
Seungho sat down slowly, hands on his knees.
The only thing out of place was the sketchbook on the low table.
He’d left it open. The drawing on the page was unfinished — a sharp mouth, braid slung over one shoulder, frost caught in the lashes.
He stared at it now.
That fucking face. That fucking ache. It hadn’t left since the first dream.
He had slept with women. Often. Beautiful ones. Dancers. CEOs. Politicians’ daughters with diamond tongues and expensive heels.
He gave them what they wanted: attention, spectacle, a night that felt like victory.
He never called again. Never asked what they dreamed of.
They said he was a perfect lover. Focused. Generous. Unspeakably skilled. But they all agreed on one thing: He never gave himself. Not even for a moment.
He would pin you against the wall, kiss you like a war about to start, leave your skin marked and ruined—but when you looked in his eyes, he was already gone.
No one stayed the night.
And no one had ever touched his bedroom door.
Sometimes, he dreamed of warmth.
Not sex. Not sweat.
Warmth.
Like a hand held too long. A voice that fought back. A presence that bit.
He used to think he’d imagined it.
Some reincarnation myth his mother warned him about when he was small, brushing his hair back like a prince’s and whispering, “You were fire before you were flesh. Fire does not need to be loved. It only needs to burn.”
She was beautiful. Icy. And dead before he turned eighteen.
She taught him how to wield power, how to cut without raising a blade. But she never taught him how to stay.
Now, thirty-two and heir to a crumbling dynasty of ash and gold, he sat alone in a house with a view and no laughter. No clutter. No mess.
No storm.
