Chapter Twenty-Five
Ilook like absolute shit.
That’s the first thought I have when I catch my reflection in the darkened window of the lecture hall.
My hair is flat, my skin looks gray under the lights, and there are bags under my eyes big enough to carry my textbooks.
I’m running on four hours of sleep, three shots of espresso, and the sheer, panic-induced terror of failing Brand Management.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again.
I don’t even have to look to know who it is. Donghwa has been blowing up my phone for two days.
Come over.
I ordered spicy chicken.
You need a break.
I ignore it. I shove the phone deeper into my pocket and focus on the professor’s monotonous voice.
I can’t go over there. If I go to Donghwa’s, we aren’t going to study.
We’re going to end up naked, sweaty, and exhausted, and while that sounds like heaven, it’s not going to help me pass this final.
My father has already threatened to cut my card if my GPA dips even a fraction of a point.
I can’t afford distractions, especially not six-foot-three distractions that smell like heaven and taste like sin.
The lecture ends, and I’m the first one out of my seat. I need to get to the library before the good tables are taken. I shove my iPad into my bag, swing it over my shoulder, and turn toward the door—only to slam chest-first into a wall of black wool.
"Going somewhere?"
I stumble back, blinking. Donghwa is standing there, blocking the aisle like a gothic monolith. He looks annoyingly fresh. No dark circles. No stress lines. Just cool, unbothered perfection.
"Move, Donghwa," I snap, trying to step around him. "I have to study."
He steps with me, blocking my path again. "You’ve been ghosting me."
"I’ve been studying," I correct him, clutching my bag strap. "Some of us actually have to try to get good grades."
Donghwa narrows his eyes, scanning my face. I hate that look. It feels like he’s peeling back my skin and looking at the messy wiring underneath. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the pulse point on my wrist.
The contact hits me instantly. The bond flares up, a warm, soothing wave that crashes against my high-strung nerves. My shoulders drop two inches. My headache recedes. It’s infuriating how much my body wants him.
"You’re running on fumes," he says, his voice low. "You’re vibrating."
"It’s the caffeine," I lie, though I lean into his touch for a split second before jerking my hand away. "Seriously, I don't have time for a quickie in the bathroom or whatever you’re planning. I have a paper due on Monday."
"I’m not looking for a quickie," he says, sounding offended. He grabs my elbow and steers me out of the flow of students, pulling me into a quiet alcove near the stairwell. "I’m looking for a solution. We’re both burnt out."
I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. "Okay, Dr. Phil. What’s the diagnosis?"
"We need to leave."
I blink. "Leave? Like, drop out?"
"Leave Seoul," he says. "For the weekend. My parents want me to come home to the estate. They think the city air is 'stifling' during exam season." He rolls his eyes, clearly thinking it’s ridiculous, but then he looks at me pointedly. "I want you to come with me."
I stare at him. "You want me to go to your parents' house? The spooky Old Money castle?"
"It’s not a castle. It’s a traditional estate."
"Same thing." I shake my head. "No way. I can’t lose a whole weekend. I need my books, I need my notes—"
"It’s quiet there," Donghwa interrupts. "We have a library bigger than this department's.
No noise. A chef who will make you whatever you want.
And..." He steps closer, boxing me in against the wall.
His scent wraps around me, drowning out the smell of stale coffee and floor wax. "You won’t have to sleep alone."
My resolve wavers. A weekend of actual sleep? Good food? Donghwa’s body heat without limitations?
"Why?" I ask, suspicious. "Why bring me?"
"Fair exchange," he says simply. "I survived dinner with your parents. You owe me."
I groan, tilting my head back against the concrete wall. He has a point. He sat through the agony of my parents.
"Also," Donghwa adds, as casually as if he’s telling me there’s a sale on turtlenecks, "my rut is due to hit sometime this weekend."
I choke on my own spit. I actually cough, hacking into my fist while he watches with that infuriatingly calm expression.
"You want to go through your rut at your parents’ house?" I hiss, keeping my voice down so the students passing by don’t hear that we’re discussing his biological sex schedule. "Are you a psychopath? Who does that?"
I’m picturing my own house—thin walls, nosy staff, my mother’s hawk-like hearing. The idea of sweating through a fever and railing someone while my parents are watching TV downstairs is the stuff of nightmares.
"It’s not like that," Donghwa says, leaning a shoulder against the wall.
He looks amused by my horror. "The estate is... equipped for it. We have a detached annex. It’s traditional.
Soundproofed, private, separate from the main house.
The staff knows the drill. They leave food at the door and don't ask questions. "
"Equipped for it," I repeat, staring at him. "You make it sound like a medical procedure."
"It’s just routine," he says, and then catches himself, smirking. "It’s comfortable. Better than cramping up in my apartment or worrying about your mom walking in on us again."
I flush hot at the reminder. "Low blow."
"Just facts, hyung." He steps closer, dropping his voice to a register that vibrates right down my spine.
"Think about it. One dinner. You put on a nice shirt, charm my mother—which I know you can do because you’re terrifyingly good at fake-smiling—and then we disappear.
No studying, no phone calls, no stress. just me, you, and a very large bed in a very private room for two days. "
I bite the inside of my cheek, warring with myself.
On one hand, this sounds like a trap. Going into the lion's den of the Intellectual Elite sounds exhausting.
I know how these Old Money types look at people like me—new money, loud, "tacky." I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove I belong at their table, and now I’m voluntarily walking in to be judged by the final bosses of Korean high society.
On the other hand... I’m dying to know.
I’ve seen the way Donghwa carries himself.
I’ve seen the casual way he dismisses things that cost more than my car.
I want to see where he comes from. I want to see the environment that created Kang Donghwa.
And, if I’m being honest with myself—which I hate doing—the bond is already reacting to the news of his rut.
My stomach gives a traitorous little flip of anticipation.
My body remembers exactly what happened during his last rut, and despite my brain screaming danger, my skin is prickling with the need to be close to him when it happens.
Plus, the idea of someone else cooking for me and not having to think about Brand Management for forty-eight hours sounds like bliss.
"One dinner?" I verify, narrowing my eyes. "I don't have to talk politics or art history or whatever you people talk about for the whole weekend?"
"Just Friday night," he promises. "After that, the annex is ours. My parents value privacy above everything. They won't bother us."
I let out a long, ragged sigh, letting my head thump back against the wall. I’m going to regret this. I’m absolutely going to regret this.
"Fine," I grumble, avoiding his triumphant grin. "But if your dad makes a comment about my hair, I’m stealing the silverware."
Donghwa laughs, a low, rich sound that makes my chest tight. "Deal. Pick you up at five on Friday. Bring something nice, but pack light." He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my knees weak. "You won't be wearing clothes for most of the weekend anyway."
He pulls back before I can punch him, winks, and saunters off down the hall, leaving me flushed, annoyed, and terrifyingly excited.
I have changed my shirt five times.
Five.
The current winner—or loser, depending on how this night goes—is a charcoal cashmere sweater that cost most of my closet combined. It’s soft, it’s understated, and it has absolutely no logos on it. It makes me feel naked.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my hallway, smoothing the fabric over my chest for the hundredth time.
Usually, I like my clothes to scream. I want people to know exactly what brand I’m wearing and how much it cost from fifty feet away.
That’s how my mother raised me: if it doesn’t have a label, did you even buy it?
But tonight isn’t about volume. It’s about... heritage. Or whatever the hell Donghwa’s family has.
"I look like a librarian," I mutter to my reflection, turning to check my profile. "A very expensive, very muscular librarian."
I grab a bottle of cologne and then freeze.
Donghwa said his parents hate strong scents.
Natural is better. I curse and put the bottle down, settling for just a dab of unscented deodorant.
I feel stripped. No logos, no scent, hair styled back instead of up.
I’m trying to erase the "Oh! Paradise Hotel" tackiness that’s been bred into my bones, but I’m terrified that the moment I walk through their door, they’re going to smell the new money on me like cheap hairspray.
I pace the length of my living room, my overnight bag heavy on my shoulder.
Why am I sweating this much? I’ve met rich people before. Hell, I am rich people. I’ve shaken hands with CEOs and investors since I was six years old.
But this feels different.
I stop by the window, looking down at the street, waiting for Donghwa’s car. The anxiety churning in my gut isn't just about social climbing. It’s about him.