Chapter Twenty-Five #3
"Shoes," Donghwa says, toeing his boots off by the door.
I follow his lead, lining my loafers up next to his boots, feeling weirdly exposed in just my socks on the polished wood.
I wander further in while Donghwa deals with the bags, my attention snagging on the walls. At my house, the walls are reserved for "investments"—modern art my mother bought at auction because a consultant told her it would appreciate in value. Here, the walls are covered in frames.
Hundreds of them.
I step closer to a cluster near the stairs. It’s a timeline. I see three kids in various stages of growth—two girls and a boy. The boy is obviously Donghwa. I stare at a picture of him as a toddler, looking grumpy even then, clutching a toy tiger.
"Cute," I mutter, though I’d die before saying it loud enough for him to hear.
But it’s not just the polished studio shots. There are candid ones, blurry ones, and—I lean in, squinting—honest-to-god cheesy costume photos. There’s a sepia-toned one of the whole family dressed like 1920s gangsters, Donghwa looking about twelve and absolutely mortified in a fedora.
My mother would rather burn the house down than let a photo like that exist on a wall where guests could see it. She’d say it lacks dignity. But here it is, framed in mahogany, right next to a photo of what looks like a Superior Court Justice.
It’s a flex. A massive, silent flex. They’re so secure in their status they don’t even have to curate it.
I drift toward a long hallway stretching off to the right, and the vibe shifts. The candid photos give way to oil paintings. Serious ones. Men in traditional robes, women in intricate hanbok, stern-faced men in early 20th-century suits.
Generations.
I swallow hard, the knot in my stomach tightening.
This is the difference between us. My family’s history goes back to a construction site in the 80s where my dad got lucky with a land deal.
Donghwa’s history goes back to... well, probably to the people who owned the land before money even existed.
It’s heavy. It’s a weight I can feel in the air, a silent reminder that no matter how much money my dad makes, we can’t buy this.
I’m staring at a portrait of a guy who looks disturbingly like Donghwa but with a mustache when a booming voice makes me jump out of my skin.
"HELLO?"
I spin around. Donghwa is standing at the base of the main banister, one hand cupped around his mouth, bellowing up the stairs like a barbarian at the gates.
"HAS EVERYONE DIED?" he shouts, his deep voice echoing off the high beams, shattering the reverent silence I’d been drowning in. "OR IS THE HOUSE JUST ABANDONED?"
I stare at him, wide-eyed. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
Donghwa just grins, dropping his hand. "They're probably in the kitchen. Or the garden. You have to be loud to be heard over the ghosts."
I barely have time to process his shouting before the house answers back.
Somewhere on the second floor, double doors are thrown open with a force that rattles the chandelier above my head. It sounds like a prison break.
"DONGHWA-YA!"
I snap my head up just in time to see two figures materialize at the top of the grand staircase.
They’re women, both tall, both striking, and both possessing the exact same sharp, feline eyes as the man standing next to me.
But unlike Donghwa, who moves with a sort of lethal, slow-motion grace, these two are vibrating with kinetic energy.
They shriek. In unison. It’s a sound that defies the laws of acoustics in a house this expensive.
"Oh god," Donghwa mutters. He glances at me, rolling his eyes so hard I see the whites, and mouths two words: Brace yourself.
Before I can ask what I’m bracing for, the thunder starts.
They come pounding down the stairs—not walking, not gliding like elegant heiresses, but actually pounding down the steps in a tornado of expensive fabric and flailing limbs. It’s a stampede. A very coordinated, very loud stampede.
"He’s alive!" one of them screams.
"Get him!" the other yells.
Donghwa doesn't even try to run. He just sighs, bracing his legs like he’s preparing for a rugby tackle, which turns out to be the correct strategy because a second later, the Wonder Twins collide with him at full speed.
"Oof—hey! Watch the ribs!" Donghwa grunts as he’s engulfed.
It’s a mauling. There’s no other word for it.
The stoic, terrifyingly cool freshman who makes Alphas cross the street to avoid him is currently being manhandled by two women in matching silk loungewear.
They’re everywhere at once—pinching his cheeks, ruffling his hair until it stands up on end, yanking at his henley to check if he’s been eating.
"Look at you! You look skinny!" one of them cries, grabbing a handful of his bicep and shaking it. "Are you eating? Is he eating? He looks pale."
"He’s always pale, Dohwa, he’s a vampire," the other one retorts, smacking Donghwa’s shoulder hard enough to echo. "Why didn't you call first? Mom’s been pacing for an hour!"
"I just walked in the door!" Donghwa snarls, trying to bat their hands away like he’s fighting off a swarm of bees. He wriggles between them, looking genuinely harassed. "Get off! Stop pinching me! I’m not five!"
"Then stop acting like a brat and visit more!" the first one—Dohwa, I assume—counters, grabbing his face in both hands and squishing his cheeks together until his lips pucker like a fish. "We wouldn't have to fuss if we saw your ugly face more than twice a semester!"
"I don't visit because you do this!" Donghwa gripes, his voice distorted by the cheek-squishing.
He finally manages to pry her hands off, shoving them away with a scowl that would usually terrify people but just makes these two laugh.
"Every time! It’s like being attacked by raptors.
Can I have five seconds of peace? Just five? "
The sisters scoff in perfect synchronization. It’s terrifying.
"Can you believe this guy?" The second sister turns to the first, crossing her arms. "We change his diapers, we teach him how to walk, and this is the thanks we get? 'Get off me, Noona.' The disrespect."
"Ungrateful," the first agrees, shaking her head. "Is that any way to speak to your big sisters? After we defended you when Dad found out about the motorcycle?"
I’m standing there, clutching the strap of my overnight bag, completely paralyzed.
My brain is trying to reconcile the image of the "Intellectual Elite" family I had in my head—sipping tea in silence, discussing philosophy—with this chaotic mosh pit.
My own house is quieter than this during a funeral.
My mother would have an aneurysm if I sprinted down the stairs.
I must make a sound, or maybe I just shift my weight, because suddenly the chaotic energy in the room halts.
The sister on the left whips her head around. Her eyes, dark and sharp just like Donghwa’s, lock onto me. Her expression shifts instantly from feral sibling aggression to bright, predatory curiosity.
"Oh," she says, her eyebrows shooting up. A slow, delighted smile spreads across her face. "Hello."
The other sister spins around, following her gaze. "Ooh. And who is this?"
Donghwa finally manages to peel the human octopus act off his body, shoving the sister on his left away by the forehead.
He takes a step back, smoothing down his rumpled henley with an air of long-suffering dignity that is completely ruined by the fact that his hair is now sticking up in three different directions.
He clears his throat, gesturing vaguely in my direction with a hand that still looks like he’s ready to fend off another attack.
"Stop mauling me," he grumbles. "You’re scaring the guest. Sihwan these two harpies are my sisters, Dohwa and Dohwi. This is Sihwan."
I straighten my spine, preparing my best, most charming 'I am a respectable business heir' smile. I’m ready to be introduced as his boyfriend, his partner, maybe even just his 'friend' if he wants to play it safe with the older generation.
Donghwa pauses, his dark eyes flicking to me, and then adds, with zero hesitation and absolutely no warning:
"My bonded."
My head whips around so fast I feel a distinct crack in my neck. I stare at him, my jaw practically unhinging.
Bonded?
He just dropped the B-word. To his family. Within thirty seconds of entering the house.
We aren’t just "dating." We aren’t "seeing each other." He just announced to the scions of the Kang dynasty that we are biologically, permanently, irreversibly tethered. He just told his sisters, effectively, 'I bit this guy and knotted him, and now we’re stuck together for life.'
I’m paralyzed. I’m waiting for the gasps. I’m waiting for the awkward silence. I’m waiting for them to look at me—the loud, new-money Alpha with the dyed hair—and ask their brother why he tied himself to that.
Instead, the sisters squeal.
It’s a high-pitched, delighted sound that vibrates right through my teeth. They turn on me in unison, their eyes lighting up like they’ve just spotted a sale at Hermes.
"Bonded!" the one on the right gasps, clapping her hands together. "Finally! We thought he was going to die alone with his paintings and his angst!"
"And look at him!" The other sister steps forward, ignoring my shell-shocked expression as she looks me up and down with the scrutiny of a diamond appraiser. "Oh, Donghwa. You did good."
"Right?" The first sister joins her, tilting her head. "He’s gorgeous. Look at that jawline. You could cut glass with that."
"And the shoulders!" The second sister reaches out, hovering a hand near my arm like she wants to squeeze but is restraining herself.
"Broad. Strong. A man who actually looks like he can lift something heavier than a paintbrush. Thank god. We were worried you’d bring home one of those waifish art students who cry if you look at them too hard. "