Chapter Twenty-Three
Donghwa
Iusually prefer the bike. There’s something about the wind chill and the risk of road rash that clears my head better than any climate control system ever could. But tonight is about theater, and if I’m going to walk into the lion’s den of "New Money" insecurity, I need to speak their language.
And their language is obnoxiously expensive German engineering.
I tap my fingers against the leather-wrapped steering wheel of the matte black coupe, the engine purring with a low, menacing rumble that vibrates through the soles of my boots.
It’s one of the few toys from my father’s garage I actually tolerate—mostly because it looks like something a villain would drive, and less like the rolling billboards Sihwan usually drools over.
I check my phone. Read.
He’s stalling.
I shift in the leather seat, adjusting the cuffs of my black button down.
I didn't bother with a tie. My family name does enough heavy lifting that I don't need to choke myself with silk to prove I belong at a dinner table.
Sihwan, on the other hand, is probably hyperventilating in front of a mirror right now, trying to decide which watch makes him look most like a CEO in training.
A minute later, the glass doors of the apartment building swing open.
I stop tapping.
Oh, he tried. He really tried.
Sihwan steps out onto the pavement, and for a second, I actually forget to be annoyed.
He’s ditched the neon hypebeast garbage for a navy suit that fits him like a second skin.
It’s cut aggressively slim, highlighting the thick taper of his waist and the heavy shelf of his chest. His hair is styled back, not a single strand out of place, exposing that strong, stubborn forehead and the sharp cut of his jaw.
He looks polished, expensive, and absolutely terrified.
He’s looking around for a taxi, or maybe my bike, clutching a leather overnight bag like a shield.
I let him look for a second longer, enjoying the way he chews on his bottom lip—a habit he thinks makes him look pensive but really just makes me want to bite it for him.
I press the horn.
It’s not a polite beep. It’s a deep, resonant blare that makes Sihwan jump about a foot in the air. His head snaps toward me, eyes wide, ready to curse out whoever dared to startle him.
I hit the button, and the tinted window glides down smoothly.
The transformation on his face is poetry.
He goes from irritation to confusion, and then, as his eyes rake over the sleek lines of the car, the low profile, and the emblem on the hood, his jaw practically unhinges.
He loves money. It’s his fatal flaw, really.
He loves status symbols, and I’m currently sitting inside a very loud, very fast one.
He stares at the car, then at me, then back at the car, looking personally offended that I own it.
"You getting in or what?" I call out, resting my arm on the door frame.
Sihwan blinks, snapping out of his trance, and stomps over to the curb. He bends down to look through the window, his scent—anxious spice and burnt sugar—wafting in.
"Well? You waiting for a written invitation?" I nod toward the back seat. "Throw your shit in the back."
Sihwan blinks, shaking off his stupor. He opens the rear door carefully, treating the handle like it might shatter if he grips it with his usual gym-bro enthusiasm, and stows his bag.
When he slides into the passenger seat, the scent of expensive leather mixes with his nervous, spicy pheromones.
He runs a hand over the dashboard, eyes wide as he takes in the carbon fiber trim and the digital console.
I suppress a smirk as I shift into gear and pull away from the curb, the engine giving a throaty growl that makes Sihwan’s breath hitch.
"What's with the face?" I ask, glancing over as we merge into traffic. "Not the model you thought I'd pick?"
Sihwan snorts, sinking deeper into the bucket seat. "Honestly? I half-expected you to pick me up on your motorcycle."
I muse, tapping the turn signal. "That would make an interesting first impression on your parents I'm sure."
I feel his eyes on me, heavy and scrutinizing. He’s not looking at the road; he’s examining my outfit, probably calculating the cost of my shirt versus his entire wardrobe. I take the opportunity to do a little inspection of my own at the next red light.
"I didn't know you owned anything but athletic clothing," I say, letting my eyes drag over the navy fabric stretching tight across his chest. "No Under Armed logo? No varsity lettering? I’m shocked."
He actually went to the trouble of styling his hair back, too. It’s gelled, but not in that stiff, over-processed way he usually does for school to look 'cool.' This is severe. Neat. It exposes his forehead and makes him look older, sharper.
Sihwan blows out a harsh breath and yanks down the visor mirror, frowning at his reflection. He turns his head side to side, critically examining the cut.
"Doesn't matter," he mutters, smoothing a hand over the side of his head. "My parents are probably just going to complain about my hair color. Or say it's too long. They always find something."
I keep my eyes on the road, merging smoothly into the right lane, but my attention is entirely on the passenger seat. Sihwan is emitting nervous energy, picking at his trousers. The anxiety rolling off him is souring the air in the cabin, spiking through the leather and climate control.
"I like the color," I say, breaking the silence. I keep my voice flat, casual. "The chestnut. It works well with your skin tone. Makes you look warm."
The fidgeting stops instantly.
The silence stretches out, heavy and weird, until I actually have to glance over to make sure he hasn't had a stroke. Sihwan is staring at me, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion, like I just started speaking French.
I arch a brow, glancing back at traffic. "What?"
Sihwan blinks rapidly, shaking his head a little. "Nothing. I just... I figured you’d say something more high-brow. That the dye is too flashy or tacky or something."
I let out a short, incredulous snort. "Sihwan, I literally have a tiger and a demon tattooed across my chest and shoulders. I’m hardly the poster child for conservative aesthetics."
"Yeah, but you keep yours covered by ridiculous coats and turtlenecks at all times," he points out, gesturing vaguely at my button-down. "You look like a priest half the time."
"I wear the coats because I like them, not to hide anything," I correct him, tapping the wheel. "And I got the ink because I liked the art. It was for me. Not for attention."
I glance at him again. The streetlights flicker over his face, catching the warm brown of his hair.
"I figure the hair is your version of that," I say with a shrug. "It’s self-expression. I can hardly look down on that when I’m walking around with permanent ink on half my torso."
Sihwan stares at me for a beat longer, his mouth slightly open, before he slowly closes it.
He sinks back into the leather seat, the rigid tension in his shoulders dropping an inch.
The air in the car shifts, settling into something less suffocating.
He looks... unsettled. Like he prepared for a fight and found an open door instead.
The silence for the rest of the drive isn't uncomfortable. At least, not for me. Sihwan spends the remaining twenty minutes staring out the window, vibrating with a frequency that would probably shatter glass if we were in a smaller vehicle. I just enjoy the quiet and the occasional glance at his reflection in the glass, watching him chew on his lip until it’s a swollen shade of red.
It’s cute. In a pathetic sort of way.
We hit the outskirts of the city, winding up into the hills where the "New Money" likes to congregate. When the Oh estate finally comes into view, I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
It’s exactly what I expected.
If my family’s home is a library—quiet, old, smelling of dust and history—this place is a casino.
It’s massive, sprawling across the hillside with zero regard for the landscape.
White marble columns that have no business being on a modern structure, gold-leaf accents on the gates, and a fountain in the driveway that’s probably big enough to swim laps in.
It screams wealth. It screams, “Please look at me, I promise I’m important. ”
It fits Sihwan perfectly.
I pull the coupe up to the front steps, the gravel crunching satisfyingly under the tires. Before the engine even cuts out, a valet in a uniform that looks more expensive than my first car is scrambling down the stairs to open my door.
I step out, buttoning my jacket. The air up here smells like manicured grass and chlorine.
"Welcome, sir," the valet breathes, eyeing the car with a mix of reverence and terror.
I toss him the keys without looking.
Sihwan is already out on the curb, smoothing down his suit jacket with frantic, jerky movements. He looks like he’s about to walk into a firing squad rather than a family dinner. He reaches for the trunk release, but I beat him to it.
"Relax," I mutter, stepping around him.
I pop the trunk and haul out his leather overnight bag, slinging the strap over my shoulder. Then I grab the shopping bags—expensive whiskey and a set of premium wild ginseng I picked up on the way. Standard courting gifts. Or apology gifts. Whatever this is.
Sihwan reaches for the handles. "I can get those—"
"I've got it," I say, shifting the weight easily. I shut the trunk with a solid thud.
I turn to face him. The image is almost comical. Here he is, the 'King of the Campus,' the son of this marble monstrosity, standing on his own front porch with his hands empty and useless at his sides. He looks stripped down, stripped of his usual bluster.
I, on the other hand, am holding his luggage and the gifts, looking for all the world like the one in charge.
"Lead the way," I say, jerking my chin toward the massive double doors.