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Ji-hyun finally broke the silence, her voice low but deliberate.
"Tell me…" she said, eyes cast downward, lashes veiling the storm within, "What kind of man is Min-soo?"
The head maid hesitated. Then she gave a small, dry scoff—an exhale laced with something too bitter to be humor.
"He is a man of his word," she said at last, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in Ji-hyun's dress. "When he says he loves you… he means it. He will cross oceans and graves for you. He'll burn cities if he must."
Ji-hyun's pulse quickened.
The maid's gaze flicked to the door, voice lowering to something just above a whisper. "He commands obedience, not through rage… but precision. He sees through masks. He plays no games. And if you try to deceive him…" She trailed off. "Let's just say, Miss Ji-hyun, he doesn't punish like a man. He punishes like a god."
Ji-hyun's mouth felt dry. Still, she pulled a smile across her face, brittle and bright.
"I think I'm hungry," she said with forced cheer. "Let's go to the dining room."
The head maid bowed, and in fluid choreography, the maids fell in behind her. Ji-hyun moved forward, each step a performance, her heartbeat a drumbeat of dread. The staircase loomed ahead like a throne carved from shadow.
And then—him.
Min-soo stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting.
He wasn't dressed in one of his usual sharp suits or extravagant silks. Today, he wore a simple white linen shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms, the top button undone. Dark slacks, clean and fitted. A black leather watch on one wrist. His look was modest—almost understated—but it did nothing to soften him.
If anything, it made him more dangerous.
He wasn't hiding behind wealth or power.
He didn't have to.
His presence was enough.
Min-soo's eyes met hers as she descended, calm and calculating. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips—warm in appearance, but hollow beneath. His gaze swept over her slowly, the red silk, the carefully styled hair, the trembling resolve hidden behind crimson-painted lips.
Approval flickered in his eyes.
He extended a hand.
Ji-hyun hesitated, only for a second. Then, with fingers that barely stopped shaking, she placed her hand in his.
His touch was warm. Firm. Possessive.
"Good morning, Ji-hyun," he said, voice soft, casual—as if nothing in the world had changed. "You look stunning."
Her smile didn't falter. Not yet.
"Thank you."
He leaned closer, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.
"You're adjusting well. I'm pleased."
Ji-hyun nodded mutely.
They walked side by side down the long corridor, her arm tucked lightly under his, followed by the quiet rustle of her maid-guard. As they passed gilded mirrors and hanging portraits, her reflection watched her from every wall.
She didn't recognize herself.
But she recognized the fear.
And at Min-soo's side, dressed not as a tyrant but as a man—simple, relaxed, confident—he looked exactly as he wanted to appear.
But Ji-hyun knew better.
She kept her eyes forward, steps steady.
Because beneath the mild shirt and quiet smile, Min-soo was still the man whose hands had once been wet with blood.
The dining room unfolded in silence.
White marble floors stretched beneath her feet, polished to a sterile gleam. The chandeliers above glowed like a crown of thorns. At the far end of the long, linen-draped table sat Min-soo—alone, still, waiting like a statue carved in ice.
He rose as she entered, not out of kindness, but protocol. Every move measured. Mechanical.
Ji-hyun approached.
He pulled out her chair without a word.
She sat.
Their eyes did not meet.
The staff emerged like shadows, soundless, and placed a single plate in front of her. Then vanished.
She looked down.
Kimchi toast.
Perfectly browned. The edges crisp, the egg yolk trembling in the center. It looked… warm. Familiar. Wrong.
She didn't speak.
Min-soo finally did. His voice was flat. Low. Icy smooth.
"You're not very talkative this morning."
Still, she said nothing.
"I had this made for you," he continued, gaze fixed on her hands. "It's your favorite."
A pause.
Her fingers twitched.
"I never told you that," she said quietly.
His eyes met hers. Dark, unreadable.
"No. You didn't."
A beat passed in suffocating silence.
She waited for an explanation.
He gave none.
When he spoke again, his tone didn't shift—not even to mimic warmth.
"I have my ways."
Ji-hyun didn't react.
She didn't blink. Didn't question. Just cut a piece of the toast with clinical calm and brought it to her mouth.
The taste struck her like a memory shoved through a locked door—familiar, sacred. Her father's Sunday mornings. Old aprons. Humble joy.
It made her want to cry.
But her face didn't move.
Across the table, Min-soo watched her eat.
He said nothing for a long time.
Then: "You should be grateful. I've gone to great lengths."
There was no affection in his words.
Only calculation.
Ji-hyun set her fork down. Quietly.
Her voice was barely audible. "Why are you doing this?"
Min-soo didn't hesitate.
"Because I can, and I want to, I've been longing for you, since the day I first saw you in the park."
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