You’d been at war with him since you were kids—quiet battles of insults and eye-rolls, sarcastic jabs and pointed indifference. He was your childhood nemesis, your teenage irritation, and now—thanks to your parents’ brilliant business arrangement—your husband.

Christopher Bang Chan. Korea’s most composed, elegant, infuriating CEO. A man who could make ruthless board decisions without blinking. A man whose self-control was iron-clad. No matter what you did—wearing sheer robes at breakfast, interrupting his meetings with your loud humming, calling him "hubby~" in front of his staff—he never flinched.

Until tonight.

You laid on the couch in his private penthouse lounge, legs bare, your silk robe riding high on your thighs, one hand flipping lazily through a magazine. He had just handed you a cup of coffee earlier, brewed himself, as always. Only this time, you had distracted him for just a moment—and dropped in a little something extra into his mug instead—some aphrodisiac.

Now, from the corner of your eye, you watched him.

Still calm. Still composed. But his jaw was a bit tighter. His neck glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. And when he thought you weren’t looking, his gaze swept over your body like he wanted to devour you whole.

You pretended not to notice, taking a long stretch, arching your back subtly. His breath hitched. Barely. But you caught it.

He stood silently for a moment, back turned, one hand braced against the kitchen counter.

Then, slowly, he turned around—his movements precise, controlled—but his eyes?

His eyes were raging.

"Is there something you'd like to confess?" he asked, voice calm but darker than night.