Later that evening.
The gallery was closed. Minji had gone home, leaving Wonho alone in the silent, dim hallways. He went back to his office and opened the bottom drawer.
The brown envelope was still there.
He looked at the address for the dinner tomorrow.
He looked at the DNA test.
And then, he thought about the blonde Alpha with the emerald eyes who had somehow found his student artwork.
"Jeong Hoseok," Wonho murmured to the empty room, testing the name on his tongue.
He didn't know yet that the Kangs were planning to use him as a pawn. He didn't know that the "brother" waiting for him was a man he would grow to despise.
All he knew was that the peach scent was still clinging to his clothes, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if he wanted to wash it off.
Wonho remained in his office long after the soft click of the gallery's front door signaled Minji's departure.
The silence of the building was usually his comfort, a vacuum where he could exist without the weight of other people's expectations, but tonight it felt heavy.
He stood by the window, staring out at the gallery floor where the dim security lights cast long, distorted shadows across the sculptures.
He felt like one of his own pieces, perfectly positioned, meticulously maintained, but hollowed out by the sudden intrusion of a past he had never asked to claim.
It was nearly 8:00 PM when he finally gathered his things. He locked the heavy glass doors and descended to the underground parking garage.
His footsteps echoed against the concrete, a sharp, rhythmic sound that matched the steady ticking of his mind. He reached his car, a black Porsche Panamera that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
Business was good. Better than good.
This car, his tailored suits, and the deed to his apartment were the trophies of his war against a world that had wanted him to stay in the gutter.
He climbed into the driver's seat, the scent of premium leather rising to greet him, but even as he gripped the steering wheel, his mind drifted.
The painting Hoseok had purchased was Baldassare worth seven figures, a commission that would cover the gallery's overhead for months. It should have been a moment of triumph.
Instead, Wonho found himself adjusting his rearview mirror and staring at the beauty mark near his eye. The same beauty mark your mother has.
The engine roared to life with a smooth, powerful purr.
He pulled out into the Seoul traffic, the neon lights of the city blurring into streaks of violet and gold against his windshield.
Wonho's apartment was located in one of the more affluent districts of Seoul, a high-rise sanctuary that overlooked the Han River.
It was a minimalist space, decorated with a curator's eye, clean lines, neutral tones, and strategically placed lighting that made his small collection of personal sketches look like museum pieces.
Once inside, he threw his keys on the marble countertop and headed straight for his laptop.
He needed to draft the sales contract for Jeong Hoseok while the details were still fresh.
His fingers flew across the keys, his mind retreating into the safety of legal jargon and financial figures.
$250,000.
It was a significant sum, yet it felt like a secondary thought compared to the way Hoseok had looked at him in the VIP wing.
"A masterpiece isn't judged by who else is in the room. It's judged by the truth it tells."
Wonho paused, his hands hovering over the keyboard. He could still smell the faint, lingering scent of peaches on his skin.
It was an anomaly, a scent so bright and pure it didn't belong in the dark, smoky world he had escaped from, yet it was the only thing that made him feel grounded tonight.
By 10:30 PM, the contract was drafted and sent to his legal team for a final review.
Only then did he allow himself to eat.
He was too lazy to cook, despite having a fridge filled with ingredients.
A simple Kimchi fried rice was enough to fill his stomach.
He ate slowly, sitting at his glass dining table, watching the lights of the city flicker like fallen stars.
He was a man of success.
He was a man of means.
He was Shin Wonho.
But as he finished his wine, his eyes drifted to the brown envelope resting on the sideboard where he had dropped it.
The address for tomorrow's dinner stared back at him, a silent threat to the peace he had bought for himself.
The morning passed in a blur of forced productivity.
Wonho spent the day at the gallery, but his focus was fractured. Every time the door opened, he expected to see the Kangs again, or perhaps the green-eyed Alpha who had turned his world upside down with a single observation about his art.
Hoseok didn't return, but he did send a brief, professional confirmation that the contract had been received.
The whole day passed with a blur, there wasn't much for him to do.
Most art lovers came during the weekend and the collectors came whenever they liked.
He was still busy.
A new batch of artwork had just arrived and he needed to sort them out.
But unless he visited the Kang and put his own mind to rest, he wouldn't be able to focus on his work.
As 7:00 PM approached, Wonho retreated to the small dressing room behind his office. He didn't just need to dress for dinner; he needed to arm himself.
He chose a navy three-piece suit, the wool so fine it felt like a second skin. He spent a long time on his hair, ensuring every strand was in place, and chose a watch that spoke of quiet, undeniable wealth.
Though he wasn't that wealthy, his bank account wasn't lacking either.
He didn't want the Kangs to see a "lost son." He wanted them to see a man they couldn't afford to buy.
The drive to the Kang estate took him out of the city center and into the lush, quiet hills where the truly powerful hid their wealth.
The gates of the estate were wrought iron and towering, opening slowly as he approached.
The driveway was a long, winding path lined with ancient pine trees, leading to a mansion that looked more like a European fortress than a home.
Wonho parked the Porsche in the circular drive, feeling a strange sense of vertigo.
This was the life he was "supposed" to have had.
This was the grandeur he had been switched out of.
A butler greeted him at the door, his expression an impassive mask. "Mr. Shin. They are expecting you in the formal dining room."