Chapter Twenty-Three #3
It’s a high-end replica. A very expensive, very convincing fake. Probably cost them a fortune, but it’s soulless. Just like the house.
"It’s breathtaking, isn't it?" Mrs. Oh asks, stepping up beside me, a smug little smile playing on her lips. "The raw emotion. It really speaks to the legacy of this family."
I glance at Sihwan. He’s standing by the doorway, looking at the painting with a blank expression. He doesn't know it’s fake. He probably thinks it’s the most valuable thing in the room. He looks miserable.
I could do it. I could point out the brushwork. I could mention the estate laws. It would be easy. It would be funny. It would crush Mrs. Oh’s ego flat.
But then I look at Sihwan’s hands, clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"It certainly makes a statement," I say, turning to Mrs. Oh with a polite, closed-lip smile. "The color palette is an excellent choice for this room. It draws the eye immediately."
Sihwan exhales, a soft sound of relief that I’m sure only I can hear.
Mrs. Oh preens, smoothing down the lapel of her cream suit. "You have a good eye, Donghwa. I knew you would appreciate it. Sihwan never really looks at it. He says it gives him a headache." She casts a disparaging look over her shoulder at her son. "No appreciation for the finer things."
Sihwan flinches, his jaw tightening. "I just said it was loud, Mom."
"Art is supposed to be loud, Sihwan," she snaps, turning away from the canvas. "If you spent less time in that chlorine water and more time in a gallery, you might understand that."
She checks her diamond-encrusted watch.
"Come. We're supposed to meet your father in the dining room. We shouldn't keep him. You know how he gets about punctuality."
She breezes past us, leaving a trail of lily scent in her wake.
I hang back for a second as Sihwan starts to follow. As he passes me, I reach out and snag his elbow. He jumps, looking at me with wide, startled eyes.
"It's a fake," I murmur, low enough that only he can hear.
Sihwan blinks. "What?"
"The painting," I say, tilting my head toward the monstrosity on the wall. "It's a replica. A good one, but a fake."
Sihwan stares at the painting, then back at me, a flicker of confusion warring with the shame in his eyes. "But... she said..."
"I know what she said," I interrupt, letting go of his arm. I shove my hands into my pockets. "Don't let her make you feel stupid about art she bought to impress people she doesn't like. It’s just canvas and paint, Sihwan. And in this case, it’s not even the real thing."
I wink at him—a quick, conspiratorial gesture—and turn to follow his mother.
"Coming?" I call back over my shoulder.
Sihwan stands there for a moment longer, staring at the painting with a new expression. Not awe. Not boredom. But something like vindication.
He hurries to catch up, his footsteps a little lighter than before. But as we approach the dining room, the air grows heavy again.
Sihwan goes quiet again, his brief moment of relief vanishing as we step through the archway.
The dining room is, predictably, a mausoleum dedicated to the death of intimacy.
The table is a slab of dark, polished mahogany long enough to land a small aircraft on.
Sihwan and I are seated on one side, his mother opposite us, leaving the head of the table empty and looming like a throne.
The silence is heavy, broken only by the clink of silver against china as servers pour water with terrified reverence.
Sihwan is restless again. I can feel it radiating off him, a low-frequency tremor that travels through the floorboards and up my chair leg. He’s staring at the empty seat at the head of the table, his knuckles white where he’s gripping his napkin.
"He'll be here in a moment," Mrs. Oh says, smoothing her napkin over her lap. "Business calls. You understand."
"Of course," I say, keeping my voice smooth.
Then, the double doors at the far end of the room swing open.
Oh Byungho doesn't walk; he occupies space. He’s a large man, broad in the way that suggests former muscle turned to expensive bulk. He enters the room with his chin tilted up, checking the perimeter like a general surveying a battlefield he’s already conquered.
Sihwan shoots to his feet so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. I follow suit, rising with a bit more calm grace, buttoning my jacket.
"Father," Sihwan says. His voice cracks. Just a fracture, but it’s there.
Byungho ignores him. His eyes lock onto me immediately, dark and assessing, sweeping over my frame with the subtlety of a spotlight.
"So," he booms, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that echoes off the vaulted ceiling. "This is the Kang boy."
He crosses the distance in three long strides, bypassing his wife and son to stop directly in front of me. He’s tall, but I have him by an inch or two. He doesn't seem to like that. He compensates by puffing out his chest, invading my personal space.
"Kang Donghwa, sir," I say, extending a hand. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."
He grabs my hand. It’s not a handshake; it’s a vice grip. He squeezes, his thick fingers digging into my palm, testing the bone structure, testing my tolerance. It’s the classic insecure Alpha power move—try to crush the other guy’s hand to prove you’re the one with the testosterone.
I don't flinch. I don't squeeze back, either. I just hold his gaze, keeping my hand firm but relaxed, letting him exert all that energy for nothing.
"Strong grip," he grunts, though his eyes narrow slightly when I don't wince. "Good. I hate a limp handshake. Tells you everything you need to know about a man’s character."
Then, it hits me.
It’s not a smell; it’s a physical assault.
Byungho flares his pheromones. It’s deliberate, a heavy, suffocating wave of musk, burnt tobacco, and something sharp like cheap brandy. It washes over the table, thick and aggressive, designed to make everyone in the room lower their heads and bare their necks. It’s a command. Submit.
Beside me, Sihwan wilts. I hear his breath hitch, his shoulders curling inward instinctively as his biology screams at him. Instincts of a dominant alpha telling him to fight while his brain grapples with the knowledge not to challenge his father.
I, on the other hand, have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from curling my lip in disgust.
It’s potent, sure. To a Beta or an Omega, it would be overwhelming. But to me? It feels like a damp towel to the face. It’s annoying. It’s posturing.
And it tells me everything I need to know: Sihwan didn't tell them.
He didn't tell his parents I’m a Dominant Alpha.
If he had, his father wouldn't be trying this. You don't try to cow a Dominant with pheromones unless you’re looking for a bloodbath. Byungho thinks I’m just a regular Alpha, someone he can bully into submission to establish the hierarchy right out of the gate.
My own instincts roar to life in response. My scent—the cold, biting winter air—wants to snap out and crush him. It wants to fill the room, freeze the air in his lungs, and force him to his knees for daring to try and dominate me. The urge to challenge him is a sharp, violent spike in my chest.
I lock it down.
It takes effort. I have to physically tense my core, forcing the aggression back down, keeping my scent tightly coiled under my skin.
If I let it slip, even a little, this dinner ends with the table flipped and the patriarch of the Oh family humiliated in his own dining room.
And while that would be entertaining, it wouldn't help Sihwan.
So I smile. It’s tight, and it doesn't reach my eyes, but it passes for polite.
"Thank you, sir," I say, my voice steady, unaffected.
Byungho blinks. He looks confused for a split second, likely wondering why I’m not looking at the floor or sweating. He flares his scent again, harder this time, searching for the crack in my armor.
I just widen my smile, bordering on condescending.
He releases my hand abruptly, clearing his throat. The confusion in his eyes shifts to irritation. He can't figure out why his party trick didn't work, but he’s too proud to acknowledge it.
"Sit," he barks, turning his back on me to march to the head of the table. "Let’s eat. I’m starving."
Sihwan practically collapses into his chair, looking pale. I sit slowly, adjusting my cuffs, and shoot a glance at the older man.
This is going to be a long night.
The first course is a clear consommé with a literal flake of gold floating in it. It's insufferably pretentious.
I eat it with good grace, keeping my posture perfect, my elbows tucked, and my expression politely engaged. Across from me, Sihwan is staring at his bowl like he’s waiting for the gold flake to drown him. He hasn't said a word since we sat down.
He doesn't have to. His parents are doing enough talking for all of us.
"I heard your grandfather was recently appointed to the Cultural Heritage Committee," Mrs. Oh says, beaming at me over the rim of her wine glass. She’s trying to look casual, but her eyes are hungry.
"We’ve been looking to make a donation to the preservation fund. Perhaps you could put in a good word?"
"I'm sure he would appreciate the gesture," I say smoothly, cutting a piece of bread. "He’s very passionate about legacy."
"Legacy is everything," Byungho grunts from the head of the table. He’s already on his second glass of red, and the alcohol is making his scent—that choking mix of musk and burnt sugar—heavier.
He ignores his wife, ignores his son, and locks those beady, assessing eyes on me.
"Your father understands that. I ran into him at the Economic Forum last quarter. Sharp man. Ruthless."
He says ruthless like it’s the highest compliment a human being can receive.
"He has his moments," I agree dryly.