..
The helpers didn't dare utter a single syllable—neither a yes nor a no. They remained frozen like marble statues, keeping their eyes locked onto the floorboards.
Win didn't wait for their reply. With a quiet, effortless grace, he slipped his fingers into Mark's massive, tense palm, locking their hands together. Without a word of protest, the towering Sovereign let himself be led away, completely submissive to the gentle tug of his Treasure. Win guided him back toward the privacy of their suite, the soft, flowing silk of his robe brushing against Mark's dark suit like a whisper of peace.
The heavy door shut with a soft, muted click.
Instantly, the suffocating pressure in the grand hall evaporated. The two maids finally raised their heads, the air rushing back into their lungs as if they had just been pulled from the depths of the ocean.
The newbie maid let out a long, ragged breath that trembled with sheer relief. She pressed both of her hands tightly against her chest, right over her racing heart. Her eyes grew wide and glassy, a starstruck, borderline delusional smile spreading across her face. "Master Win... is such a sweetheart," she whispered, her voice airy, completely intoxicated by his warmth.
The superior maid turned, her eyes narrowing as she side-eyed the girl with cold, unyielding irritation.
"Snap out of your delusional fantasies and look at the reality," the superior maid hissed, her voice cutting through the girl's romantic haze like a splash of ice water. She gripped the newbie's arm, pulling her toward the kitchen. "You did not survive because he is sweet. You survived because the Sovereign's god smiled on you today. Now move, before the master remembers your face."
The superior maid turned her gaze back toward the massive, silent doors of the master suite, her expression hard as flint.
"Listen to me carefully," she whispered, her voice dropping into a register of absolute, terrifying seriousness. "In this house, as long as Master Win is happy, the air stays clear. If he smiles, we breathe. If he is hurt—we don't even deserve the oxygen to survive. Do you understand the gravity of what you just escaped?"
The newbie shrank back, the romantic stars instantly evaporating from her eyes as the cold weight of reality finally settled into her bones.
"From this exact moment onward," the superior maid continued, her tone delivering an unbreakable decree, "you are permanently banned from the master's wing. You are not allowed to serve them. You are not allowed to be seen by them. You will stay confined to the deep kitchen, hidden away where the Sovereign's shadow will never fall on you. You will wash the copper and scrub the utensils. Understood?"
"Understood," the newbie whispered, nodding frantically.
Her spirit entirely subdued, she turned and hurried toward the kitchen wing, her shoulders hunched and her footsteps quick. She vanished into the steam and the clatter of the back house, deeply grateful for the dark security of the dishwashing station—fully aware that a sink full of dirty water was infinitely better than a grave.
The superior maid stood entirely alone in the vast corridor for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the heavy, silent doors of the master suite.
She knew the history. Everyone in the underworld knew the absolute, terrifying power of the Mathew name, and the bloody consequences of crossing them. Yet, she possessed a deeper, far more dangerous truth—the Master's absolute power was absolutely nothing in front of Master Win.
Her mind drifted back to the dark, suffocating years when Win wasn't around Mark. She remembered the raw, clinical insanity that had consumed Mark; the way the Sovereign had turned into a mad god, tearing the city apart brick by brick, ready to butcher anyone who stood between him and his lost prize. The newbie maid had no idea how close she had come to annihilation. The girl wasn't just lucky; she had been saved by the only deity this house worshipped. If Master Win hadn't stepped out in that silk robe, the hall would have been repainted in red by sunset.
Turning away from the heavy doors, the superior maid walked over to the side sofa where Meera was still quietly blinking at the television screen, her panda plushie tucked under her tiny arm.
With a soft, carefully practiced smile, the maid gently scooped up the little princess, lifting her away from the residual tension of the hall. She carried Meera up toward the safety of the upper residential floor, stepping away from the heavy shadows of the throne room. For now, the storm had passed. The air was clear, the sanctuary was preserved, and the empire was at peace—all because the Treasure had decided to be merciful.
..
While the world around David collapsed under the weight of high-stakes love and suffocating obsession, he remained fiercely, violently stubborn. He retreated into the shadows, hiding his unraveling composure from everyone around him. But isolation offered no sanctuary. The memory of the kiss from Bryan was permanently branded into his mind—looping behind his eyelids, an intrusive, burning weight. The worst part wasn't the memory itself; it was the total paralysis of his survival instincts. For the first time in his life, David had absolutely no idea what to do, how to act, or how to survive the aftermath of that touch.
And then, there was Bryan.
Bryan had always been the epitome of effortless, ice-cold detachment. He had spent his entire life living on the surface, never truly giving a damn about anything or anyone. Even his sudden takeover at the company had been born out of nothing more than cynical boredom—a wealthy playboy looking for a new toy to distract him.
But now, the games were entirely over.
The lingering ghost of that kiss had dragged a terrifying seriousness out of him. Sitting alone in his high-rise corporate office, ignoring the millions of dollars moving across his desk, Bryan's mind kept glitching on a single truth. He had spent years effortlessly flirting with women, navigating the easy, predictable rhythm of shallow attraction. He had never once looked at a man. Yet his thoughts refused to break character—they kept looping, reminding him with brutal clarity that what he had done to David was not an accident, not a mistake, and absolutely nothing he could ever forget.
For seven agonizing months, Bryan had lived like a ghost. It wasn't just that he was ignoring David; he was actively, meticulously hiding from the entire Mathew dynasty and the terrifying truth of his own feelings. He had locked himself away in his high-rise sanctuary, running from the echo of a single kiss. But today, the isolation had to break. It was the wedding day of a close friend—an obligation he couldn't dodge.
When he finally stepped out into the crisp morning air, he looked utterly striking. He had traded his usual dark, imposing corporate attire for a tailored beige suit that fit his lean, athletic frame perfectly. The light fabric caught the sun, making him look effortlessly sophisticated and breathtakingly handsome, even if his mind was still a chaotic storm.
The city traffic was a gridlocked nightmare, horns blaring and engines idling in a sea of exhaust. Needing a breath of air and a proper wedding gift, Bryan pulled his sports car tightly against the curb, stepping out near a quaint, overflowing sidewalk florist.
"A bouquet of sunflowers, please," he requested, his eyes drifting over the vibrant, golden petals. He asked the elderly shop owner to wrap them beautifully, wanting something bright to cut through his own internal gloom.
Bryan waited, tapping his fingers against the wooden counter as the horns echoed from the street behind him. But when the curtain at the back of the shop rustled open, it wasn't the elderly owner who stepped out into the light. Instead, a young woman—her daughter—emerged, holding the freshly bound bundle of gold and twine, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the stunning stranger standing in her family's small shop.
But Bryan wasn't the only one trapped in the suffocating gridlock of the city morning. Just a few cars back, dark tint hiding his features, David sat behind the wheel of his own vehicle.
From his vantage point, the innocence of the scene was completely lost. He hadn't seen Bryan casually ordering flowers from an elderly shopkeeper. He didn't know about the wedding. All David saw, framed perfectly through the chaotic gap in the traffic, was Bryan—looking effortlessly, breathtakingly beautiful in a tailored beige suit—receiving a vibrant bouquet from a young, smiling girl. And worst of all, he saw the genuine, wide smile Bryan offered her in return.
In an instant, something violently snapped inside David's chest. A toxic, burning jealousy flared to life, obliterating seven months of stubborn silence.
His hand slammed onto the gear shift. With a dark, lethal glare fixed ahead, David slammed his foot onto the accelerator. The high-end sports engine roared to life with a deafening, aggressive scream, the tires screeching against the asphalt as he violently cut through the traffic lanes, tearing down the boulevard toward the corporate sanctuary of the Mathew headquarters.
The moment David stepped through the glass doors of the company tower, the atmosphere in the lobby froze. He marched past security like a moving thunderstorm, his long strides carrying a terrifying weight.
He didn't even wait to reach his inner office. The second he passed his secretary's desk, he stopped, his posture rigid and his eyes dark with an unreadable, dangerous fire.
"Call Bryan," David commanded, his voice dropping into a low, icy register that made the secretary freeze mid-keystroke. "Tell him to get his ass up to my office immediately. If he isn't here in ten minutes, tell him my mood changes—and he won't like the consequences."
Even after delivering the cold ultimatum to his secretary, the air inside David's private office offered no relief. He paced behind his massive desk, his chest tight, his mind stubbornly anchored back at that damn sidewalk flower shop. His brain was violently twisting reality, creating toxic illusions out of a simple bouquet and a wide smile, torturing him with images he couldn't erase. He was still entirely blind to himself—completely detached from the terrifying reality of his own feelings.
David had never known how to navigate the messy, unpredictable world of emotion. Throughout his entire academic life, he had been a ghost—brilliant, flawless in his studies, but entirely isolated. He never participated in the loud, vibrant social circles or the cultural events. He stayed in the shadows.
Yet, he had a secret, unconfessed habit. Every single time Bryan had walked past him down those crowded university hallways, David's head had instinctively, invariably risen.
For years, he had watched Bryan effortlessly charm the world. David had despised it. He had loathed the way Bryan flirted with girls, the way he moved with such careless ease. But because David didn't understand the heavy, suffocating gravity pulling him toward another man, he gave it a different name. He called it hatred. He called it anger, disdain, and contempt.
But then came the kiss.
That sudden, forced collision of their lips had shattered David's carefully constructed defenses. It had left him furious, highly irritated, and completely unraveled. But standing by the window of his office, staring down at the city below, the truth was finally clawing its way to the surface. It wasn't just irritation. It was a volatile, agonizing cocktail of bitter annoyance and a profound, possessive jealousy—a realization that the playboy who had finally touched him was out in the world, smiling at someone else.
..
The moment the secretary's frantic message cut through the line, the world vanished around Bryan. He didn't just drive; he navigated the city streets like a man running out of oxygen, pushing his engine to its absolute limits. In his chaotic mind, this sudden, aggressive summons wasn't a trap—it was an opportunity. A desperate, long-awaited chance to finally look David in the eye and say sorry for the kiss that had haunted his dreams for seven months.
When he threw open the glass doors of the Mathew headquarters, he didn't even glance toward the elevators. He couldn't afford the agonizing seconds of the wait. Instead, he slammed his weight into the heavy fire door of the stairwell and sprinted upward, his leather shoes slamming against the concrete steps as he took them three at a time.
By the time he reached the top executive floor, his chest was heaving violently, his lungs burning as he fought for breath. He stood right before the massive, polished mahogany door of David's private office. He reached for the handle, ready to burst inside—but a sudden, paralyzing hesitation locked his muscles.
His heart pounded against his ribs, a heavy, deafening rhythm. It wasn't simple nervousness. It was the visceral terror of the Mathew name—the realization of whose territory he was stepping into.
Forcing his shaking hand to cooperate, Bryan knocked twice. A heavy, suffocating silence answered him. Taking a ragged breath, he pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
Inside, the atmosphere was frozen. David sat behind his sweeping glass desk, bathed in the sharp morning light. He didn't even raise his eyes. With absolute, agonizing deliberation, David was signing a stack of corporate files, the gold nib of his fountain pen scratching sharply against the heavy paper. He put on a flawless, ice-cold performance—acting as though Bryan were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a mere object occupying space in his grand office.
But beneath that calm, clinical mask, David's blood was boiling. Every stroke of his pen was fueled by a toxic, violent jealousy, his mind still viciously looping the image of Bryan looking breathtakingly handsome in his beige suit, offering a wide, radiant smile to another woman.
The heavy silence was suddenly punctured by a sharp, crisp knock. The mahogany door swung open, and David's secretary stepped across the threshold, a thick stack of urgent quarterly reports held against her chest. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words never had the chance to leave her lips.
"I am busy now," David cut in, his voice dropping like an iron guillotine. He didn't look up from his desk. "Leave the files. We will handle the review during the lunch hour."
The secretary blinked in sheer astonishment, murmured a quick apology, and beat a hasty retreat, pulling the heavy door shut behind her.
Bryan's eyes widened, a sudden bolt of shock running straight down his spine. He had known David for years, and if there was one unbreakable law in the Mathew Empire, it was that work always came first. David never delayed a meeting. He never postponed a deadline. Yet, he had just thrown his entire schedule out the window just to keep the room clear. Bryan's throat went entirely dry as a dark, suffocating thought gripped his mind: He isn't delaying the work. He's clearing the room. He must want to execute me for what I did.
Forcing the cold air into his burning lungs, Bryan swallowed his pride and anchored his feet to the floorboards. He forced himself to summon every ounce of remaining courage, his voice slightly rough as he broke the clinical silence.
"Did you... call for me?"
The gold nib of David's fountain pen scratched aggressively against the parchment, completing a flawless, elegant signature before he spoke.
"Yes."
The single word fell between them like a stone, heavy and devoid of any warmth. David still hadn't raised his eyes, treating the playboy in the beige suit like a piece of office furniture, though his knuckles were turning white against the pen.
Bryan took a half-step forward, his heart hammering against his ribs as he pu
shed past the terrifying weight of the Mathew name, demanding an answer to the suspense that was killing him.
"Why?"