The Man Behind the Mask
Morning light spilled through the half-open blinds of Lee's apartment, casting golden stripes across the floor. The city buzzed outside, but inside, the air was still thick with the residue of fear from the penthouse encounter.
Lee sat in front of the mirror, bare-faced, a silk robe tied loosely at his waist. His reflection stared back at him, eyes haunted by the questions that kept circling in his mind like vultures. He reached out, his fingertips hovering an inch above his cheek.
"Who do they love?" he whispered to the glass. "Lee, or Lia? The truth, or the beautiful, expensive lie?"
He reached for a pair of delicate diamond earrings on the vanity, hesitated, then dropped them back into the drawer. Today, he would be Lee. Just Lee. No lashes, no lipstick, no binding. No illusions. He put on his most neutral clothes: a black turtleneck and gray slacks, dressing to blend in.
But even as he dressed, he couldn't shed the invisible weight of the past two days: the memory of Leejoon's stare, the chilling accuracy of his words.
The door buzzer ripped through the silence.
Lee glanced at the clock: 6:27 a.m. No delivery person or friend ever visited him this early. His blood ran cold.
Cautiously, he opened the door just a crack, his body pressed against the frame.
A colossal bouquet of deep red peonies greeted him, their petals heavy with dew and intensely fragrant. There was no card. No name.
Just a simple ribbon tied around the stems: Black silk.
Lee's breath hitched. He knew exactly who sent them. Not an admirer, but a warning. This wasn't affection; it was a statement of access and surveillance. He knows where I live. He knows my routines.
His gaze darted up and down the hallway. Empty. Silent. Yet, the air felt watched. He snatched the flowers inside, slamming the door shut. He set the peonies on the kitchen counter, staring at them like they might contain a hidden camera or a timer. Leejoon was not a man who sent gifts; he was a man who staked claims.
The Observer and the Possessor
Across the city, Leejoon stood in his high-floor office, staring out at the hazy, emerging skyline. One hand wrapped around a heavy tumbler of whiskey despite the early hour. He was not drinking; he was simply feeling the cold bite of the glass against his skin.
"Boss," Minho's voice crackled through his earpiece, discreetly placed in his ear. "The drop went clean. Flowers delivered. No confrontation."
Leejoon sighed, a sound of pure control. "And the girl? Lia."
"We're not sure, but someone might be following her. Discreet, non-professional. Could be paparazzi, but they're too hungry. More tenacious."
Leejoon's shoulders tensed. He walked to the window, his entire focus snapping from his business to the unseen threat around Lee. "Who?"
"We're still checking. We just know someone else has resources focused on her."
Leejoon clicked off the comm, dismissing his subordinate. Another collector.Another shadow. His jaw tightened. He found the idea of anyone else laying claim to the beautiful, complex lie that was Lia unacceptable. She was his to unravel, his to protect, his to claim.
Han Jisoo's Obsession
Later that afternoon, Lee arrived at the fashion studio only to be pulled aside immediately by Han Jisoo. The flowers and the CEO's unsettling gaze had already put his nerves on edge.
Jisoo was dressed in a pristine white pantsuit that screamed quiet power. Her smile was forced and bright, masking the sharp, calculating gleam in her eyes.
"Lee!" she called sweetly, but her voice held a note of impatience. She linked her arm with his, her grip tight, proprietary. "I need your opinion on something incredibly personal."
He followed her into her private office, a space filled with mood boards, intense color palettes, and expensive camera gear.
"I've been thinking," Jisoo said, twirling a pen in her fingers before dropping the corporate pretense. "About love. About you."
Lee swallowed hard. "Miss Jisoo, I need to focus on the spring line inventory."
"Don't interrupt me." Her voice was soft, but the underlying threat was clear. "I believe everyone has a soulmate. Even someone... contradictory, like you."
Lee tensed. "Contradictory?"
"You're different," she said, circling him slowly, like a cat toying with its prey. "There's something so rare about you, Lee. You're soft and strong at the same time. You possess a kind of elegant femininity in your aesthetic choices, but you move with a masculine precision. I find that utterly fascinating."
Lee stepped back subtly, his spine ramrod straight. "Miss Jisoo, that is a professional observation, nothing more."
"I know my father favors you," she said, walking closer, ignoring his boundary. "But I don't care. That just makes it more satisfying. I don't care if anyone else loves you. I want to know if you love me."
He blinked, his heart hammering against his ribs. I'm not who you think I am. He knew if he gave her a direct answer, whether yes or no, the storm would break.
Before he could offer a polite deflection, the office door burst open. Han Doyun, the CEO, stood there, his face thunderous.
"Jisoo, stop playing around. Lee, I need you downstairs. Now." His eyes briefly locked on his daughter's, a silent war passing between them, before settling on Lee with a look of possessive anger.
Jisoo sighed dramatically, offering Lee a sultry, vengeful wink. "We're not done talking, love."
Lee followed her father out in silence, his stomach twisting. Every day, the net tightened. One man. Two lives. Three hearts hanging in the balance, none of them knowing the full cost of their desire.
The Rooftop Interrogation
That evening, Lee snuck out, transforming into Lia in the rushed, practiced silence of his own bathroom. He was scheduled for a designer gig, but the driver rerouted him to an unfamiliar, windswept rooftop overlooking the entire city.
The air was cool, the sky deepening to a bruised violet.
He stepped out of the car, heels clicking against the rough concrete, his gown shimmering in the faint city light.
And there he was. Leejoon. Sitting on the ledge like a shadow prince, utterly alone, the wind whipping his black hair.
"You came," he stated, not sounding surprised, but pleased.
"I didn't have much choice, did I?" Lia replied, her voice cool, reflecting her fear. "You sent flowers to my home. That is not a request; it's a statement."
Leejoon stood slowly, his movements fluid and dangerous. "You always have a choice. Even in fear. And those flowers were merely a message: I know where you sleep. Don't hide from me."
"I'm not afraid," Lia lied, though her voice betrayed her.
He walked toward her, slow and deliberate. "You are. But not of me. You are afraid of the price of the lie."
She didn't answer, holding her breath.
He stopped inches from her, so close Lee could feel the subtle warmth radiating from his body. "I know you're lying about who you are. The effort is breathtaking, but the execution is flawed."
Lia's breath caught. "W-what exactly do you think I'm lying about?"
"I don't care if you're not really a model. I don't care if you're hiding a past. But I do care about being lied to," he murmured, his gaze dipping briefly to her throat, where the collar of the dress met her skin.
Lee's heart pounded, a frantic drum against the constraints of the disguise. He suspects something, but he doesn't know the full truth.
"Why me, Leejoon?" Lee asked softly, desperate to shift the focus. "You could have anyone in this city."
Leejoon smiled, a gesture that was cold and deeply sad. "Because you make me forget the blood on my hands. You make the silence tolerable. And I recognize the pain you carry, he burden of needing to be something you are not."
Lee felt something crack in his chest. A sudden, dangerous ache of connection. "You're dangerous," he whispered, not as a woman, but as himself.
"And yet you came." Leejoon reached up and gently brushed a stray curl of the wig behind her ear. His fingers lingered for a moment on the delicate skin of her temple. "I don't need your name. I need your honesty. And I need to know: Are you running from someone else, or are you running from yourself?"
The intensity of the question shattered Lia's resolve. She stood frozen, unable to speak, unable to move away from the terrifying connection.
Leejoon finally stepped back, his eyes unwavering. "I won't press you tonight. The truth will come out when ready."
He turned and, just like that, disappeared into the shadows of the fire escape.
"But next time," his voice drifted back, a final, commanding promise, "let me protect you."
Lee stood frozen, trembling not from fear, but from something worse: Want. He knew Leejoon was a killer, a predator. Yet, he was the first person who ever saw the pain and offered not judgment, but protection.
He was falling. And the fall was irreversible.