Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Back when we were just rivals, I wouldn't have given a damn what his parents thought. I would have walked in there in my loudest varsity jacket just to piss them off. But now... now we’re bonded.
Now, when he looks at me, I feel it in my chest. And for some stupid, pathetic reason, the idea of his parents looking at me and seeing something lacking makes me want to throw up.
I don't want to be the "tacky mistake" their son brought home. I want to fit in his world. I want to be worthy of the way he looks at me when we’re alone.
The chime of my phone cuts through the silence of the apartment like a gunshot.
I swear to god, I actually jump a full foot in the air, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break out. I clutch my chest, glaring at the screen as if it personally offended me.
I’m outside.
Short. To the point. Typical Donghwa.
I blow out a breath that rattles in my chest, grabbing the strap of my overnight bag with a grip tight enough to turn my knuckles white. "Okay," I mutter to the empty room, checking my reflection one last time. "Showtime."
I’m committing to this. Whatever happens—humiliation, judgment, or just a weekend of awkward silence while his ancestors judge me from oil paintings—I’m doing it.
I march downstairs before I can talk myself out of it.
He’s waiting by the curb. The car is the same sleek, black beast he drove to my parents’ place, gleaming under the afternoon sun like a shark in still water. But Donghwa... Donghwa looks different.
He climbs out as I approach, and I feel my step falter.
He’s not wearing a suit. He’s not wearing the stiff, formal attire I expected for a visit to the family estate.
He’s wearing a black henley with the top buttons undone, exposing the column of his throat and just a hint of the ink on his collarbone.
Dark jeans that fit him perfectly, hugging his thighs in a way that should be illegal. Sunglasses perched on his nose.
He looks casual. He looks comfortable. He looks like he didn't spend three hours agonizing over his outfit in front of a mirror, terrified of being too loud or too tacky.
I stop a few feet away, feeling a hot, prickly flush of insecurity crawl up my neck. I’m standing here in my muted, tasteful, "please accept me" cashmere, hair sprayed into submission, and he looks like he’s just heading out for a coffee run.
I look like I’m trying too hard. Again. It’s the story of my life—Oh Sihwan, always dancing for applause while the real elites just sit back and watch.
Donghwa doesn't seem to notice my internal crisis. He slides his sunglasses down his nose, looking me over, and flashes a smile that is entirely too charming for my current mental state. It’s that lazy, confident grin that usually makes me want to punch him, but right now just makes my stomach do a traitorous little flip.
He reaches out, taking the bag from my shoulder without a word. He tosses it into the back seat like it weighs nothing, then walks around to the passenger side.
He pulls the door open and stands there, waiting.
I stare at him, then at the open door. My defenses snap into place automatically, a shield of snark to cover the fact that my palms are sweating. I scoff, rolling my eyes as I stalk past him.
"What am I, your girlfriend?" I snap, trying to inject as much disdain into the words as possible.
I drop into the leather seat, crossing my arms over my chest as he shuts the door with a solid, expensive-sounding thunk. I hate that I like it. I hate that even when I’m terrified, being around him feels like gravity, pulling me in whether I’m ready or not.
Donghwa slides into the driver’s seat, bringing a gust of cold air and that maddening scent with him. The engine purrs to life, a low vibration that hums through the floorboards, but before I can even buckle my seatbelt, he moves.
He leans across the center console, invading my space with zero warning. His hand clamps around my jaw, fingers long and firm, tilting my face up before I can get a word out. He kisses me hard, messy and possessive, stealing the breath right out of my lungs. It’s not a polite peck; it’s a claim.
My brain short-circuits. For a second, I just freeze, my hands hovering in the air, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Then the bond flares, hot and heavy, and I shove him back by the shoulder, my face burning.
"Personal space," I hiss, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, though my pulse is racing. "I said I'm not your girlfriend."
Donghwa just grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he shifts the car into gear. "No," he agrees, his voice dropping an octave, dark and satisfied. "You’re my bonded. That’s higher up the food chain."
I snap my mouth shut.
I don’t have a comeback for that. I hate that I don’t have a comeback for that.
I just sink lower into the leather seat, crossing my arms and staring aggressively out the window as he pulls away from the curb.
Bonded. The word hangs in the quiet cabin, heavy and undeniable.
It makes my stomach do that stupid flip again, a mix of dread and a thrill I refuse to acknowledge.
The drive is long. Much longer than the trip to my parents’ place.
We leave the city center behind, the towering skyscrapers and neon signs fading into the rearview mirror as we head toward the outskirts, winding up into the mountains where the air is thinner and the real estate prices are astronomical for entirely different reasons.
My leg bounces nervously. I try to stop it, but the energy has to go somewhere. I’m used to noise. I’m used to the city. As the scenery changes to dense forests and winding private roads, the silence starts to feel oppressive.
"Relax," Donghwa says without looking away from the road, one hand resting casually on the wheel. "You’re going to levitate right out of the car."
"I’m fine," I lie, gripping the door handle.
Then we turn a corner, passing through a set of iron gates that look like they’ve been standing since the Joseon dynasty, and the house comes into view.
My breath catches in my throat.
I was expecting a mansion. I was expecting marble columns, gold leaf, maybe a fountain the size of a swimming pool—the kind of stuff my father buys to scream I have money.
This isn't that.
It’s an estate. A sprawling, traditional compound that seems to grow directly out of the mountainside.
Dark wood, gray stone, sweeping tiled roofs that curve elegantly toward the sky.
It’s surrounded by ancient pines and manicured gardens that look wild but are probably maintained by an army of invisible gardeners.
It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. It’s just..
. permanent. It looks like it’s been here for five hundred years and will be here for five hundred more.
It makes "Oh! Paradise" look like a cheap plastic toy.
"Jesus," I mutter, my bravado cracking. "Do you live in a museum?"
"It’s drafty in the winter," is all Donghwa says as he pulls the car around a circular gravel drive.
He kills the engine, and silence descends instantly.
I wait. I look at the massive wooden double doors, expecting them to fly open. I expect a valet to come sprinting out to take the keys. I expect a line of maids to bow. That’s how it works at my house. Arrival is a production.
Nothing happens.
The wind rustles the pine trees. A bird chirps somewhere in the distance. The house stands silent, imposing, and completely unbothered by our presence.
"Where is everyone?" I whisper, feeling like we’re trespassing.
"Inside, probably," Donghwa says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "We don't do the whole fanfare thing here."
He gets out, and I scramble to follow, suddenly terrified of being left alone in the car. There’s no valet. Donghwa just walks around to the trunk, pops it, and hauls our bags out himself. It’s such a mundane action against such a grand backdrop that it throws me off.
He slings my bag over one shoulder and his over the other, then looks at me, tilting his head toward the stone steps leading up to the entrance.
"Coming?"
I swallow hard, smoothing down the front of my cashmere sweater. The lack of rushing staff, the quiet, the sheer weight of the history in those stone walls—it’s intimidating in a way I wasn't prepared for. It screams that they don't need to prove anything to anyone.
I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. I can handle a few old rocks and some quiet.
"Lead the way," I say, though my voice sounds thinner than I’d like in the open mountain air.
Donghwa’s eyes soften just a fraction, catching my nervousness.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't mock me.
He just waits for me to reach the bottom step, and then, instead of walking ahead, he falls into step right beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as we walk up to the heavy wooden doors together.
I brace myself as the heavy wooden door creaks open. I’m expecting a drafty great hall, maybe some marble floors that echo when you walk, or a butler standing there with a silver tray and a judgmental expression. I’m expecting it to smell like old paper and dust.
Instead, I get hit in the face with the smell of... yeast?
I blink, stepping over the threshold. It’s warm.
Not the dry, cranked-up central heating warmth of my parents' penthouse, but a soft, radiating heat that seems to come from the floorboards themselves.
The air is thick with the scent of baking bread and fresh flowers spilling from massive ceramic vases on the entry tables.
It’s confusing.
My eyes dart around, trying to reconcile the intimidating exterior with this.
It’s spacious, sure. The ceilings are high enough to fly a kite in.
But it feels... lived in. There are rugs that actually look walked on.
A stack of books left on a side table. It doesn't feel like a museum where you can’t touch anything; it feels like a home.
A very, very expensive home, but a home.