Chapter Eight #2
Hyunwoo nods, his confidence unshaken. “Yes, of course it’ll work.
My guy is thorough. Everything will look properly filed.
And once the baby is born and the inheritance is secured, none of them will look too closely at the claiming paperwork anyway—they’ll be too focused on the grandchild.
” He’s already pulling his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his contacts with his thumb.
“I’ll give him a call right now. You’ll see, Yuggie. It’s going to be fine.”
He heads toward the living room, phone pressed to his ear, and calls back over his shoulder without turning around. “Whatever you’re making, I hope there’s enough for two. I’m starving.”
“It’s a pregnancy diet recipe,” I call after him.
“Great,” he calls back cheerfully, his voice already fading down the hallway. “I could use the extra nutrients too, with all the stress my family’s putting me through.”
I stand alone in the kitchen, Machete still pressed against my leg, Kal watching me from the hallway with his head tilted. The soup bubbles on the stove behind me. I press my hand against my lower belly—flat, unchanged, no evidence of anything at all—and try to ignore the knot forming in my gut.
Two days later, Hyunwoo comes to pick me up from work, pulling up outside the gym in the Maserati at seven sharp.
The engine purrs at the curb as I push through the front doors, my gym bag slung over one shoulder, my body aching pleasantly from a full day of training clients.
I changed out of my work polo and into a plain t-shirt and joggers before clocking out, and my hair is still damp from the quick rinse I took in the staff shower.
I climb into the passenger seat and toss my bag into the back, the leather creaking under me as I settle in. The car smells like Hyunwoo’s cologne and the faint, warm undertone of his alpha scent. I reach for my seatbelt and immediately clock that something is off.
Hyunwoo is grinning, but it isn’t his usual casual smirk, the one he wears like a default setting, but a full, self-satisfied grin that radiates smugness.
It stretches across his face and crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in a rapid, excited rhythm that makes his gold rings click against the leather.
He looks like a kid who just got away with something spectacular and can’t wait to tell someone about it.
I eye him warily as I click my seatbelt into place. “What are you so giddy about?”
“We have an appointment,” he says, pulling away from the curb and merging into traffic with his usual aggressive confidence, cutting off a taxi that honks at us furiously.
I frown. “An appointment? I don’t remember scheduling anything.”
“That’s because I scheduled it.” He winks at me without taking his eyes off the road, which is a talent I’ve never understood and find mildly terrifying. “Just trust me.”
“The last time you said ‘just trust me’ I ended up with a chopstick in my ass.”
Hyunwoo barks out a loud laugh, his head tipping back against the headrest. “And look how well that turned out. You’re pregnant.”
I don’t have a good comeback for that, so I cross my arms and watch the city slide past the tinted windows as Hyunwoo navigates through the evening traffic.
He refuses to elaborate no matter how many times I ask, just keeps grinning and humming along to the radio, his fingers tapping the wheel.
I give up after the fourth attempt and resign myself to being surprised.
We arrive at an office building in Gangnam—one of those sleek, glass-fronted towers that doesn’t need a sign out front because the kind of people who come here already know what’s inside.
The lobby is manned by a uniformed security guard behind a curved reception desk who nods at Hyunwoo by name as we pass.
We take the elevator up to the fourteenth floor in silence, the mirrored walls reflecting our contrasting appearances back at us—Hyunwoo in a fitted navy blazer over a white shirt with the top two buttons undone as always, his gold chain catching the overhead light, looking like he stepped out of a magazine editorial.
Me in a wrinkled t-shirt and joggers with a faded gym logo, my hair air-drying into whatever shape it wants because I forgot to bring product.
We look like a before-and-after ad for a personal stylist.
The elevator doors open onto a quiet hallway with thick carpet and warm lighting.
The names on the doors tell me immediately where we are—polished brass nameplates with titles like “Attorney at Law” and “Legal Counsel” etched into them, heavy wooden doors with frosted glass panels, the hushed atmosphere of money and discretion that I associate with places I don’t belong. My stomach tightens.
“Hyunwoo,” I say, slowing my pace. “Why are we at a law office?”
“You’ll see.” He puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me forward, and I let him because I’ve apparently lost the ability to refuse this man anything, which is a problem I should probably address at some point but not right now.
We stop at the only office on the floor that still has its lights on at this hour. The door is ajar, warm light spilling out into the hallway, and Hyunwoo knocks twice on the frame before pushing it open and walking in.
The office is exactly what I’d expect from a Gangnam lawyer—mahogany desk the size of a small boat, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with leather-bound legal volumes, a sitting area with dark leather chairs, and windows that look out over the glittering cityscape.
A middle-aged alpha in a well-tailored charcoal suit rises from behind the desk to meet us, his silver-streaked hair combed neatly back and his posture carrying easy authority.
He bows formally and shakes Hyunwoo’s hand familiarly, their grip lingering a beat longer than a standard business handshake. “Hyunwoo,” he says, his deep voice carrying a note of genuine fondness. “It’s been too long. How’s your mother?”
“Driving me insane, as always,” Hyunwoo replies with a grin. “Hyung, this is my friend Yugyeom. Yugyeom, this is Mr. Lim—he was a few years ahead of me at Yonsei. We were in the same alumni network, and he’s helped my family with various legal matters over the years.”
Mr. Lim turns to me and bows politely, his expression shifting to professionally neutral—pleasant but unreadable, the kind of face that gives nothing away. “It’s nice to meet you, Yugyeom,” he says, and gestures toward the chairs facing his desk. “Please, both of you, sit.”
I lower myself into one of the leather chairs, which is so deep and soft I practically sink into it, and Hyunwoo drops into the one beside me with his usual loose-limbed confidence, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and draping his arm along the back of my chair.
Mr. Lim settles behind his desk and opens a drawer, pulling out a manila folder that he sets on the polished surface between us.
He opens the folder and spreads papers out across the desk—crisp, official-looking documents with watermarks visible through the heavy paper stock and embossed seals pressed into the corners.
I lean forward in my chair to get a better look, and my stomach drops straight through the floor when I recognize what they are.
Claim paperwork. Official alpha-omega claiming documentation, formatted exactly like the real thing.
Government letterhead across the top in the familiar navy and gold of the Ministry of Family and Gender Affairs.
Registration numbers printed in the upper right corner.
Spaces for designation verification, witness signatures, and notary authentication.
The layout is identical to the claiming documents I’ve seen reproduced in news articles and omega rights pamphlets—the ones I always skimmed past with a vague sense of unease, secure in the knowledge that they’d never apply to me.
My name is printed below the alpha line where Hyunwoo’s name sits, the characters stark and black against the white paper.
Claiming Alpha — Seo Hyunwoo.
Claimed Omega — Sung Yugyeom.
I stare at the words. My own name looks foreign to me in this context, sitting in a box labeled “Claimed Omega” like it belongs there, like it’s a natural and inevitable thing. My fingers grip the armrests of the leather chair.
I glance at Hyunwoo, who is sitting beside me looking tremendously proud of himself. He catches my eye and wiggles his eyebrows, jerking his chin toward the documents on the desk.
“Looks official, doesn’t it?” he says, grinning wide enough to show his canines.
“I told you my guy was the best.” He leans forward and taps the signature line below my printed name with his index finger, his gold ring clicking against the desk surface.
“All you need to do is sign right there and we’re golden. ”
I pull my gaze away from Hyunwoo’s grinning face and look at the papers again, more carefully this time.
I pick up the top sheet and hold it closer, examining the details.
The watermark is visible when I tilt the page toward the light—the Ministry seal, faintly embossed into the paper itself, not just printed on top.
The registration numbers in the corner follow the correct format I’ve seen on government documents before, a string of digits preceded by a regional code.
The notary section at the bottom already has a stamp pressed into it—a circular seal with text around the border and what looks like an official registration number in the center.
Even the font is right, that serif typeface the government uses on all its legal forms.