*(⚠️TW: ABUSE⚠️)

Christopher Bahng was born into power — the kind that made people whisper his name instead of saying it aloud. His father controlled half the city’s underworld with one hand and crushed his enemies with the other. Christopher had inherited his father’s composure, his sharpness, his silence. But not his cruelty.

Still, when his father gave him an order, he obeyed. This time, the task was simple — spy on a man named Han Seojin, a businessman who owed the Bahng family a fortune and had been delaying repayment for months. Learn what he’s hiding. Keep him under watch.

And so Christopher became what no one would ever suspect him to be — a butler in Han Seojin’s grand mansion.

He blended in perfectly. His posture, his voice, his mannerisms — all calm, professional, emotionless. The other servants thought he was just another man earning his pay. Han himself barely noticed him, which was exactly what Christopher wanted. It made his job easier. At least, it was supposed to.

Until he saw her.

Dalyoon. Mrs. Han.

The first time he met her, she was standing by the window, staring out into the rain. Her beauty was quiet, the kind that didn’t ask to be noticed. Dark curls framed her delicate face, and her eyes — though distant — seemed too alive for a house like this. But what struck him most were the marks she tried to hide. Fading bruises beneath thin layers of powder. The way she flinched when footsteps echoed down the hall.

It didn’t take Christopher long to understand what was happening in that house. Han Seojin wasn’t just cruel to his enemies. He was a monster to his wife.

The other servants pretended not to see. Fear did that to people. But Christopher saw everything. He’d seen men like Han before — arrogant, brutal, unpunished. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. He wasn’t a savior. His job was to observe, not to feel.

But somehow, he did.

Whenever Han was away, the house seemed to breathe again. The servants spoke softly in the kitchen, laughter returning in small, fragile bursts. Dalyoon would sometimes join them — or pass by, her hands clasped neatly, offering a faint smile to those who greeted her. She spoke to Christopher as she would any servant: politely, distantly, unaware that beneath the uniform was the son of a man her husband feared most.

Christopher would bow, respond with perfect formality, and keep his eyes lowered. But every word she said — every fragile smile — lingered long after she’d left the room.

She thought he was just a butler. And for now, that lie was the only thing keeping her safe — and him sane.