Chapter Seven
Donghwa
The bass in this apartment is vibrating my ribcage, and not in a good way.
I’m nursing a lukewarm Coke, mostly because I refuse to drink the jungle juice Jihyun mixed in a plastic trash can, and watching the chaos of the Visual Design department’s "bonding experience." It smells like gasoline.
I shouldn't be here. I could be developing the film from my ride last weekend. I could be sleeping. Hell, I could be staring at a blank wall, and it would be more stimulating than this.
"Just sit there and look brooding," Jihyun had begged me earlier, practically on his knees. "You're the bait, Donghwa. You attract them, you reject them, and I swoop in to comfort them. It’s the circle of life."
I owed him for covering for me in Art History, so here I am. The designated Omega Bait.
It’s exhausting. Truly. I don’t get the appeal of this—the mindless grinding, the pheromones so thick they coat your tongue.
Everyone assumes that because I’m a Dominant Alpha, I should be trying to knot anything with a pulse.
But biology is boring. Pheromones are just chemical shouting matches.
I don’t care if you smell like vanilla and sunshine; if you can’t hold a conversation about something other than my family’s money or your heat cycle, I’m not interested.
I like a challenge. I like friction. I like things that don’t make sense.
I’m ninety percent sure the Basquiat print on the wall is from a gas station.
The lines are wrong. The color saturation is off. It’s offensive to my eyes, and I’m debating ripping it off the plaster to check for a barcode when the cushion beside me sinks under the weight of another body.
Yoon Heesung.
I don’t need an introduction. Our parents play golf at the same country club, and I’ve heard the horror stories.
My cousin dated him for three months and is still paying off the credit card debt.
Heesung is the "Perfect Omega" on paper—pale, slender, graceful—but in reality, he’s a high-maintenance black hole that consumes attention and spits out empty wallets.
He slides into my personal space like he’s parking a luxury sedan, thigh pressing deliberately against mine.
Then the smell hits.
Peaches and cream. It’s heavy, cloying, and directed entirely at me. He’s not just leaking pheromones; he’s weaponizing them. It’s the olfactory equivalent of a desperate billboard. I hold my breath for a second, trying not to gag on the sudden influx of artificial sweetness.
"You look lonely over here, Donghwa," he purrs, his voice pitched to that breathy, innocent tone that usually makes Alphas lose their minds.
I take a sip of my warm Coke to avoid answering immediately. I’m not lonely. I’m bored. There’s a difference.
"So, I heard your father is in charge of the Choi merger?" Heesung asks, his voice dropping an octave. He’s doing that thing where he tilts his head to expose the pale line of his throat. It’s textbook Omega seduction, page four.
"My dad says it’s going to be the biggest shift in the market this year. "
I nod. Just once. Minimal effort. "It's a merger. They happen."
Heesung giggles. It sounds like wind chimes in a horror movie. "You’re so serious, Donghwa. It’s kind of intense."
His hand creeps up my arm, fingers tracing the seam of my jacket.
He’s trying to find skin, trying to mix his scent with mine.
The peach smell is getting denser, turning into a heavy syrup that coats the back of my throat.
It’s nauseatingly sweet. I take shallow breaths through my mouth, trying to filter the air, but it’s like drowning in a fruit cup.
I keep my face blank, staring at a snag in the carpet while he prattles on about summer homes and gala invites.
"I'm just tired," I lie. I’m not tired. I’m bored.
"Maybe we could go somewhere quieter?" he suggests, batting his lashes. "I know a place—"
Then I smell it.
It hits me like a splash of ice water, cutting right through the sticky haze of peaches. It’s sharp. Aggressive. Spiced rum and something that smells like burning wood. It’s loud and obnoxious and completely unmistakable.
My spine straightens on instinct. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I turn my head, ignoring Heesung mid-sentence, and scan the crowd. It doesn't take long to find the source.
Oh Sihwan.
He’s standing near the makeshift bar, surrounded by his usual court of sycophants, but he’s not paying attention to them. He’s looking right at me.
His eyes are dark, narrowed into a glare that could peel paint. His jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle twitching from here. He looks furious. He looks like he wants to march over here and punch me in the teeth.
Finally. Something interesting.
God, he’s easy.
Most people would look at Oh Sihwan right now—face flushed a blotchy, furious red, fists clenched at his sides, pheromones radiating off him like heat waves from asphalt—and see a threat. They’d see the "Campus King" about to snap a blood vessel.
I just see the best entertainment I’ve had since I got back to Korea.
It’s almost endearing how much space I take up in his head. I haven't said a word to him all night. I haven't even looked in his direction until this exact moment. And yet, there he is, practically boiling over because I exist in the same ten-mile radius.
Heesung is still talking. Something about his skincare routine or maybe his dad’s stock portfolio—I stopped listening three paragraphs ago.
But I don’t pull away. In fact, I lean back into the cushions, deliberately relaxing my posture, letting my arm drape casually along the back of the sofa just inches from Heesung’s shoulder.
This whole "war" Sihwan thinks we’re in is hilarious. From the moment I walked into that lecture hall, he’s been circling me like a territorial dog who just realized someone peed on his favorite fire hydrant.
He’s so deeply, painfully insecure about his status that my mere presence feels like a personal attack to him.
And honestly? It’s flattering.
Sihwan doesn’t bother with the Betas. He barely tolerates the other Alphas unless they’re kissing his ass.
But me? He’s obsessed. He spends all his energy trying to intimidate me, trying to prove he’s bigger, louder, stronger.
By trying so hard to crush me, he’s admitting the one thing he’d never say out loud: he sees me as his equal. Maybe even his better.
If I were a nobody, he’d ignore me. But he knows I’m not a nobody.
I think about the soccer game last week.
He really thought that gym-sculpted bulk of his was going to translate to the field.
It was cute. He spent the first half checking me, throwing his weight around, trying to bruise my ego along with my ribs.
He didn't realize that while he was doing bicep curls in front of a mirror for the aesthetic, I was swimming laps until my lungs burned just to feel something other than boredom.
The look on his face when I finally stopped being polite and put him in the dirt? Priceless. He looked like a glitching computer. He couldn't compute that someone leaner than him could use leverage to fold him like a lawn chair.
And the grape incident in the canteen? Pure comedy. He’s so petty. Who knocks a tray over in college? It’s something a middle school bully does because he doesn't know how to process his feelings.
"Donghwa? Are you listening?" Heesung’s voice whines, dragging me back to the present.
I blink, shifting my gaze from the fuming Alpha across the room back to the Omega beside me. Heesung is pouting. He thinks it’s cute. It looks like a muscle spasm.
"I'm listening," I lie smoothly. "You were saying something about... Paris?"
Heesung beams, launching back into his monologue. "Exactly! I was saying we should go for winter break. The shopping is to die for."
I hum noncommittally, but my attention drifts.
I watch Sihwan across the room, swirling the flat soda in my cup. He looks like he’s about to chew through his own tongue.
I’m used to the glaring. Since the soccer game, it’s basically become his default setting whenever I walk into a room.
But this is different. This isn’t just the usual "how dare you exist and be taller than me" animosity. This is specific. It’s sharp. He’s vibrating with it, his eyes tracking something with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile. What's got him worked up now, I wonder?
I follow his gaze. He’s not looking at my face. He’s looking at my shoulder.
Specifically, he’s staring at Heesung’s hand, which has migrated from my bicep to rest possessively on my collarbone.
Heesung laughs at his own joke—something about a professor’s bad haircut—and leans in closer, his breath fanning hot and peachy against my neck. "Don't you think so, Donghwa?"
I don't answer immediately. I look back at Sihwan.
The moment Heesung leans in, Sihwan’s expression crumples. His jaw muscles bunch so hard I’m surprised his teeth don't crack. He takes a step forward, then stops himself, his hands flexing into fists at his sides. The scent of scorched earth and rum spikes in the air, bitter and jealous.
Click.
The puzzle pieces slot together so fast it’s almost embarrassing I didn’t see it sooner.
Of course.
I look at Heesung—perfect hair, designer clothes, the kind of face that gets plastered on university brochures to prove the student body is attractive.
He’s a walking, talking status symbol. He’s the limited-edition accessory every insecure Alpha thinks they need to prove they’ve made it to the top of the food chain.
And Sihwan? Sihwan is nothing if not obsessed with the aesthetic of power.
He doesn't just want to be the Campus King; he wants the Queen to match. He wants the power couple photo op. He wants to walk into the cafeteria with Heesung on his arm so everyone can see that he, Oh Sihwan, won the prize. It’s so painfully predictable, so on-brand for a guy who treats his social life like a marketing campaign, that I almost want to laugh.