Winter in Italy. The air in Milan was sharp, like broken glass. The streets of Via Monte Napoleone shimmered with boutique lights — Chanel, Balmain, Celine — and her heels danced across them as if every glow was made for her.

People looked at her, and she loved it. Her steps echoed, her laughter filled the night. A red Birkin in her hand, the taste of lipstick and sweet lies on her lips.

And at the end of the street, a man watched her. Mingyu.

From a distance, he looked like someone who didn’t belong in this city — too calm, too precise, too dangerous. He hadn’t come to see her. He came to see if the rumor was true: that she was playing again.

And it was.

She laughed with another man outside a restaurant. He touched her shoulder, and she didn’t move away. As if Mingyu never existed. As if there had never been late nights on balconies, or silent plane tickets to nowhere.

Mingyu watched for a moment longer than he should have, then turned away. He wasn’t angry. Not yet. He had learned long ago that silence was far more lethal than rage.

The next morning, she found a small box at her door. Neat. Elegant. Inside — a pair of earrings she’d left in Mingyu’s hotel room two years ago. And a note.

“You still have the same taste.”

No signature. But she knew. And, oddly, she smiled.

She knew he’d seen everything. She wanted him to. It was part of their dance a quiet tug-of-war between two people who knew they were poison, yet couldn’t stop breathing each other in.

That night, Mingyu invited her to dinner. A restaurant by Lake Como. Candlelight, silver plates, low jazz. She arrived in a thin white dress, smiling as if nothing had happened.

“Are you angry?” she asked softly. Mingyu looked at his wine glass. “Why would I be?” “Because I talked to someone else.” “There’s nothing wrong with talking.” “What about touching?” Mingyu looked up, cold but almost tender. “Depends on who started it first.”

Silence. She laughed lightly, but her hand trembled a little as she reached for her fork.

“Why are you still here, Mingyu?” “Because you still are.”

There was something beneath those words not love, but something darker, deeper. A kind of ownership disguised as devotion.

Weeks later, a rumor spread. The man she’d been seen with the one from that night had disappeared. No police report. No trace. Just gone.

And the next evening, Mingyu appeared again. With flowers. No smile, no explanation.

She knew. Of course she knew. But she didn’t ask. She only whispered, “I didn’t ask you to do that.” Mingyu looked at her. “I didn’t do anything.” “But he’s gone.” “People go missing all the time.”

His tone was calm too calm the kind of stillness that hides something far worse than confession.

She stood up. “If you think this will make me stop flirting—” “I don’t care,” Mingyu interrupted. “As long as they know you’re mine.”