#2 in fanfiction🏅
𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗙𝗜𝗔 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗗 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘
'𝘼𝙨 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙨 𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙎𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣'
Kim Y/n was meant to be a leverage, an arranged bride offered to the Ko...
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Y/n didn't respond.
I don't blame her.
I spent the rest of the week pretending she didn't exist, as if that would erase the taste of her name from my mouth or the scent of her skin from my memory.
It didn't.
Days at Nova. Nights at Opulent.
I bathed in self-loathing and regret like they could cleanse me, but they didn't.
Tomorrow, I'm supposed to stand beside the most innocent woman I've ever met, look into her eyes, those goddamn eyes and let them strip me bare.
She doesn't know it yet, but she's staring straight into my soul.
She wants a prince. A fairy tale.
I can't give her that.
I can't give her anything but the weight of my shadow. Ian.
She belongs to me and yet every time I look at her, I feel him.
He stirs when I see her, claws at the surface of my skin like he's ready to break free, to take and consume.
Being near her makes me feel the same as when I pull the trigger, or carve a knife into skin, like the world slows and sharpens, like the kill is inevitable.
But she isn't a target. She's everything else.
I watched her anyway. Watched the little blue dot on the tracker app drift across the city.
Yeonjun trailed her, invisible but close. I couldn't keep away, not even from a distance.
Obsessed.
That's what I am.
A man infatuated with something fragile and beautiful, something that will shatter the second I lay my hands on it.
So, I won't.
A glass slams onto the table, shattering the thought.
Jimin laughs, leaning back against the leather of the booth.
"Another round!" He shouts over the music at Opulent. We have a booth in the back, I hate being close to the stage so reluctantly Jimin agreed to the booth in VIP.
Opulent was my father's vision of a gentlemen's club. Jimin, ever the blunt one, calls it a strip club with taste. Our bottle service girls wear what they please, as long as it's black or red.
The dancers on stage don't just spin around poles—they command attention, dictate their own performances, and walk away with their own money.
The golden rule? No touching.
Anyone who lays so much as a fingertip on them takes a one-way trip to the basement.
That is where I've spent my nights here, in the basement serving punishment to those that dare to break our golden rule.
