Chapter Twenty-Three #4
"He told me you were taking a gap year," Byungho continues, leaning back and spreading his arms, taking up as much space as possible. "Traveling. Finding yourself. I told him it was a waste of time, but seeing you now? You carry yourself well. Better than some."
His eyes slide, for the first time, to his right. To Sihwan.
Sihwan stiffens instantly, his spoon freezing halfway to his mouth.
"Sihwan," Byungho barks. "Sit up straight. You’re hunching over your bowl like a dog."
Sihwan’s spine snaps straight so fast I hear a pop. "Sorry, Father."
"And what is that on your face?" Byungho gestures vaguely at Sihwan’s jaw with his fork. "You missed a spot shaving. Sloppy. Details matter, Sihwan. If you can't manage your own face, how do you expect to manage a hotel chain?"
I glance at Sihwan’s jaw. It’s perfectly smooth. There’s nothing there. It’s a criticism for the sake of criticism, a power play to remind the boy who holds the leash.
"I was rushing," Sihwan mumbles, his gaze dropping to the tablecloth.
"You're always rushing," Byungho scoffs, turning back to me with a conspiratorial roll of his eyes. "He lacks discipline. I sent him to the best prep schools, got him the best tutors, and he still insists on pursuing this... art degree."
He says art the way one might say syphilis.
"Visual Communication Design," Sihwan corrects quietly. "It’s brand management. It’s relevant to the business."
"It's drawing pictures," Byungho snaps, slamming his hand down on the table.
The silver jumps. "I need a CEO, not a graphic designer. I need someone who can walk into a boardroom and command respect. Look at Donghwa. He’s a freshman, younger than you, and he has more gravity in his little finger than you have in your entire bulked-up body. "
I pause, my wine glass halfway to my lips.
The irony is almost suffocating. If Byungho knew exactly what I’ve been doing with his son—how I’ve been bending that "bulked-up body" over his own furniture, how I’ve been the one stripping that command away from him—he’d probably have a stroke right here in the consommé.
But looking at Sihwan, the humor dies a quick death.
He looks small.
It’s a strange thing to think about a guy who is six-foot-one and built like a linebacker, but he looks tiny. He’s shrinking into himself, absorbing the insults like he’s heard them a thousand times before. And suddenly, the loud, obnoxious, attention-seeking behavior at school makes perfect sense.
Sihwan isn't an egomaniac because he thinks he’s God’s gift to the world. He’s an egomaniac because in this house, he’s nothing. He screams for attention out there because in here, he’s invisible until he makes a mistake.
"I'm doing well in my classes," Sihwan tries, his voice tight. "My GPA is a 3.8."
"And yet I hear you're wasting time on social clubs," Mrs. Oh chimes in, not to defend him, but to pile on. She picks at her salad delicately. "I saw the photos from that mixer last week. You looked drunk, Sihwan. Red-faced and sweaty. It’s unbecoming. People talk."
"It was a department party," Sihwan argues, his hands clenching in his lap. "I have to network."
"You call that networking?" Byungho sneers. "You call chasing after skirts and acting like a frat boy networking? Real Alphas don't need to chase, Sihwan. They attract. They dominate."
I watch Sihwan cut his steak.
It’s a mechanical action. He keeps his elbows tucked tight against his ribs, his head bowed slightly, slicing the meat into uniform, bite-sized squares before he even takes a bite.
It’s the behavior of a child trying to be invisible, trying to minimize the space he takes up at the table so he doesn't draw fire.
And suddenly, the loud jackets, the aggressive cologne, the desperate need to be the "King" of the campus—it all clicks into place.
It’s not vanity. It’s not even ego, really. It’s a survival mechanism.
Out there, he screams for attention because in here, he’s starving for it.
He built that "Alpha God" persona out of necessity, a frantic, glittering armor to protect the soft, bruised thing sitting across from me.
He has to be the best, the loudest, the most physically imposing, because if he isn't, he’s just..
. this. A disappointment in a tailored suit.
The realization leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
"Of course," Byungho says, waving a forkful of beef in the air, "we always imagined Sihwan would settle down with a nice Omega. Someone from the Kim or Lee families. Good breeding stock. Someone to give us heirs and keep the house quiet."
Sihwan flinches. He doesn't look up from his plate, but his jaw tightens until the muscle jumps.
"But," Byungho continues, turning those beady, assessing eyes on me, "I suppose we have to be realistic about Sihwan’s... limitations. He’s always been a bit soft. Lacking that killer instinct."
He chuckles, a wet, grating sound.
"Bringing you into the fold, though? That’s a strategic move. I have to give the boy credit for that. Your bloodline is impeccable, Donghwa. The Kang family intellect, the political connections... it balances out Sihwan’s deficiencies."
He leans forward, his pheromones rolling across the table in a smug, suffocating wave.
"Ideally, we’d want grandchildren, but having a partner of your caliber? It elevates him. Maybe some of that dignity will rub off on him. God knows he needs someone to steer the ship, since he can't seem to do it himself."
The air in the room goes stagnant.
Sihwan has stopped eating. He’s staring at the tablecloth, his face drained of color, looking like he’s waiting for a hit. He’s accepting it. He’s accepting that he is a defect that needs to be fixed, and that I am the patch job.
My grip on my steak knife tightens. The metal bites into my palm.
I don't like bullies. I never have. But I especially don't like it when someone tries to devalue something that belongs to me. And right now, for better or worse, this idiot is mine.
I set my knife down. It makes a sharp clack against the china that cuts through Byungho’s rambling.
"I think you’re confused," I say.
My voice is low, calm, but it carries. Byungho stops chewing. Mrs. Oh blinks, looking up from her salad.
"Excuse me?" Byungho grunts, frowning.
I pick up my napkin and dab the corner of my mouth, taking my time. I look him dead in the eye, letting a fraction of my own scent—cold, sharp, biting winter air—bleed into the room. Just enough to drop the temperature. Just enough to make the hair on his arms stand up.
"You seem to be under the impression that I’m doing Sihwan a favor," I say, my tone bored but dangerous. "Or that I’m here to 'fix' him."
I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, looking at the patriarch of the Oh family like he’s a particularly slow student.
"I don't take on projects, Mr. Oh. I don't have the patience for charity cases, and I certainly don't waste my time on people who lack 'dignity.'"
I turn my head slowly, locking eyes with Sihwan. He’s looking at me now, his eyes wide, terrified and confused.
"I am an extremely particular person," I continue, holding Sihwan’s gaze. "I have very high standards. I don't settle for anything less than exceptional. If I am with your son, it is because he is extraordinary."
Byungho’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks like I just slapped him with a wet fish.
"He has a drive and a vitality that most of the 'elites' I grew up with lost generations ago," I lie smoothly—well, mostly lie. "He is powerful, he is relentless, and he is the only person in that entire university who managed to catch my interest. So, suggesting that he is somehow 'deficient'..."
I turn back to Byungho, my eyes narrowing slightly.
"...insults my taste. And I really don't like having my judgment questioned."
Silence descends on the table. Absolute, ringing silence.
Mrs. Oh looks like she’s swallowed a lemon. Byungho is turning a mottled shade of red, his Alpha pride warring with the realization that he can't snap back at a Kang without starting a war he can't afford.
But I don't care about them.
I look at Sihwan.
His mouth is slightly open. He’s staring at me with an expression I’ve never seen on him before. It’s not the lust from the rut, or the anger from our rivalry. It’s pure, unadulterated shock. He looks at me like I just grew wings and blocked out the sun.
For the first time all night, he doesn't look small. He looks seen.
I pick up my fork again, spearing a piece of potato.
"This beef is excellent," I say to the room at large. "Please, continue."
The exit is just as theatrical as the entrance, though the tension has shifted. Before, the air was thick with Sihwan’s impending execution. Now, it’s thick with the suffocating politeness of people who desperately want to scream but can’t afford the social fallout.
We stand in the cavernous foyer, the marble floor amplifying the sound of the butler retrieving our coats.
Byungho stands by the stairs, his face a mottled shade of purple that clashes horribly with the gold wallpaper.
He looks like a man who has eaten something sour and is being forced to smile through the indigestion.
Beside him, Mrs. Oh is frozen in that same icy, porcelain perfection, though her eyes keep darting to me with a mixture of wariness and calculation.
They hate it.
I can smell it on them—the sharp, acrid tang of disapproval spiking through their heavy perfumes.
They hate that their son, their "heir," is leaving with another Alpha.
They hate the implication of what we do behind closed doors.
In their world, an Alpha pairing is a dead end.
No biological heirs, no traditional lineage, just a surplus of testosterone and "wasted" potential.
But they can’t say a word.