Park Choon-hee groaned into her pillow, muffling a frustrated scream.
Her mother, Mrs. Park, sighed softly and sat beside her, rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles.
"Don't say that, Choon-hee. He loves you. He just… has a horrible way of showing it," she said gently.
"Just think about it—he told you to stay out of the kitchen because you might hurt yourself. That shows concern."
Choon-hee lifted her head, eyes puffy, hair sticking out in every direction. "Mother, please. How can I possibly hurt myself in the kitchen? Be for real."
Mrs. Park frowned. "There are knives, stoves, slippery floors—my point is, he cares in his own way. He'll never call off the wedding. So stop worrying yourself."
Choon-hee pushed herself up and sat cross-legged, facing her mother.
Without makeup, she looked younger—softer, even beautiful in a way that didn't need foundation or false lashes. Mrs. Park wished her daughter could see that.
"But Mom, what if he's seeing someone else?" Choon-hee whispered. "Think about it. We've been engaged for over two years, and not once has he ever…" she trailed off, frustration creeping into her tone. "Not once has he touched me. I mean, he barely kisses me. And when he does—it's never on the lips. Always the cheek or forehead. And afterward, he wipes his mouth like I disgust him."
Mrs. Park's gaze softened. "Sweetheart…"
"No, listen," Choon-hee continued, her voice trembling with embarrassment. "Maybe it's the makeup, I thought of that too. But why won't he sleep with me? Aren't men supposed to want it more than women?"
Her mother looked away, clearly uncomfortable.
"I've tried everything," Choon-hee went on, words spilling faster now. "I wore a swimsuit and invited him over. I dressed seductively. I even tried to get him drunk—he drank two cups of soju and refused the rest. I pretended to be changing when he walked in, but he didn't even look at me. Maybe I'm not his type, Mom."
Mrs. Park sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Enough of this talk, Choon-hee. Get ready and come downstairs for breakfast. We'll discuss something else."
The girl pouted, defeated, and watched her mother leave. Her eyes lingered on the engagement ring—beautiful, sparkling, cold.
She muttered under her breath, "Then what kind of woman is his type?"
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Kim Ha-joon adjusted his cufflinks, sliding into his crisp white tuxedo. He was ten minutes late for the morning meeting, and didn't care in the slightest.
He walked into the boardroom, the air immediately growing tenser. Without a word, he took his seat at the head of the long table. His secretary slipped beside him, quietly passing him the meeting minutes.
Across the table, a woman in her thirties kept stealing glances at him. When he finally looked up, her cheeks flushed crimson. She straightened quickly, feigning professionalism.
"Well," she said, clearing her throat, "as I was saying—Hyundai Mobis' losses could affect the company's other branches if we don't take action soon. We need to recruit stronger workers—experienced people. The kind we see in Do Kyung's department, for example. We need more employees like him."
Ha-joon's jaw tightened. His cold eyes flicked toward her like a blade. She clearly had no idea the kind of monster she was praising.
Another manager cut in. "Speaking of Do Kyung, he didn't even report his absence today. That's irresponsible. So I'll have to disagree with you, Ms. Hirata."
Ha-joon said nothing. He leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, pretending to listen.
The whole meeting was nothing but noise—corporate chatter, fake smiles, empty words. He couldn't wait for it to end.
Hours later, the night was alive with neon lights and music as he stepped into Red Velvet, the private strip club in Hongdae.
It was chaos wrapped in luxury—velvet seats, gold poles, perfume and smoke thick in the air. Rich married men pretended to be gods here, laughing too loud, throwing money they didn't have.
Ha-joon took a seat on one of the couches, his expression unreadable. He scanned the room—the flickering lights, the girls twisting around poles, the hollow laughter.
If this was hell, it was gilded.
Several women approached him, smiling, hopeful. He met their gazes once—cold, disinterested—and they backed away immediately.
One of his men leaned closer. "Boss, can I ask something?"
Ha-joon didn't respond, but the man spoke anyway.
"How come you never… y'know, see anyone? No girlfriend, no—"
A glare silenced him instantly. The man shut his mouth and turned away, pretending to sip his drink.
Ha-joon's phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen and exhaled sharply. Mother.
He stood. "We're done here," he said to his crew. "We'll come back another time."
Outside, the rain had started again, a thin drizzle under the glow of streetlights. He answered the call.
"Yes, Mom."
"Kim Ha-joon!" her voice thundered through the speaker. "What is this I'm hearing? She's your fiancée, and you're going to touch her today! Drop whatever nonsense you're doing and come home immediately!"
Ha-joon closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening. He said nothing.
The line went silent for a long, heavy moment before he finally muttered,
"…Yes, Mother."