"You reek of desperation." Christopher’s voice is a low snarl, his gaze dragging over you from head to toe like he’s peeling back layers just to find something ugly.

"Desperation? That’s called being fashionable, if you didn’t know," you shoot back, lips curling into the kind of smirk you know he hates.

Classic you and Chris—never calm, never civil. Every word between you both is a loaded bullet, and sometimes it fires. Too close, too dangerous. Like the time you slipped something into his slice of wedding cake—not enough to kill him, just enough to watch him choke and humiliate him in front of every guest. Or the time he waited until everyone left and nearly pressed the same cake knife to your throat. That’s the rhythm of your marriage—poison and knives, mockery and near-bloodshed.

And yet… you married him. Forced, of course. You’d rather be buried six feet under than say “I do” to him, but there you were, dressed in white, hand in his.

Now, he leans against the doorway, watching as you get ready for the engagement party-before-the-honeymoon—whatever this contractual hell is. Shameless, really. Your dress tonight is risky, but what’s the point of life without risk? Especially when his eyes keep dragging back to you. Not because he judges clothes—Christopher isn’t that type. But you? He’ll judge you down to your shoelaces. Just as you’ll judge him to the way he breathes.

The party is all a performance—false smiles, hand-holding that means nothing, sweet words laced with venom. Until he realizes… you’ve disappeared.

His jaw tightens as he searches the crowd, the glimmer of your dress catching in the dim light. He follows without thinking, the space between you tightening with every step. You stop in front of a group of men, and he sees you lean in—hugging the tallest one.

Hyunjin. Of course. His enemy.

“What is she…” Christopher mutters under his breath—then freezes.

Because you’re kissing him. Not some polite cheek brush. On the lips. Open-mouthed. A flash of tongue. Just days after the vows. And when you pull away, you turn, catching Christopher’s eyes with the smallest, wickedest smirk.

His jaw ticks hard. The glass in his hand groans under his grip.

"Well, aren’t you a sweet lady?" Hyunjin murmurs in your ear, and you just roll your eyes before slipping back into the crowd like nothing happened. It meant nothing, of course—you did it just to watch Christopher burn.

He called you desperate? Now he’s the one desperate, seething, watching you disappear into the haze.

Hyunjin gets a glare sharp enough to draw blood. I’ll deal with him later. And with that, Christopher follows.