Somewhere far below, Seoul pulsed with its usual nocturnal energy, but up here in Taejin Yoon's domain, the world moved at a different pace— calculated, controlled, and utterly silent.

You had learned quickly that silence was the currency of this marriage.

The penthouse was a study in contradictions , all sharp angles and cold surfaces, yet filled with absurd luxuries.

A Klimt original hung in the hallway leading to a bedroom where the sheets were changed twice daily. The wine cellar held vintages worth more than most people made in a year, yet the glasses were always half-empty, abandoned after a single sip.

Taejin himself moved through these spaces like a specter, his custom-tailored suits never wrinkling, his Italian loafers never making a sound.

When he spoke, it was with the same detached precision he used to order executions - words measured, tone flat, meaning obscured behind layers of implication.

The gifts were the only aberration in this carefully constructed existence.

They arrived without fanfare, a Cartier bracelet left on your pillow, its diamonds catching the morning light.

A first edition of that obscure French novel you'd mentioned once in passing, placed on the antique writing desk in your sitting room.

Once, an entire winter garden had appeared on the terrace overnight, complete with rare white orchids that required three full-time gardeners to maintain.

These offerings were never accompanied by notes. Never acknowledged. Yet their frequency suggested an almost obsessive attention to your habits, your preferences, the minute shifts in your mood.

Tonight, the refrigerator light washed over your face as you searched for the strawberry cheesecake you'd seen earlier.

The penthouse kitchen was larger than most restaurants, all polished steel and black granite, yet held barely any food, another of Taejin's quirks.

He preferred everything fresh, nothing stored longer than a few days.

The air shifted before you heard him. A change in pressure, a subtle disturbance in the penthouse's perfect stillness.

Then warmth at your back, solid and undeniable.

His chest pressed against your shoulder blades, the fine wool of his dress shirt whisper-soft against your bare arms.

He must have just returned from one of his late meetings, you could still smell the faintest trace of gunpowder beneath his cologne, the metallic tang that clung to him after violent encounters.

His arms bracketed you against the counter, his hands splayed on the marble with a possessiveness that needed no explanation.

When he rested his chin atop your head, the gesture was oddly tender for a man who broke fingers as casually as other men lit cigarettes.

"..What are you doing up this late?"

The question rumbled through you, his voice thickened by sleep and something darker, maybe the cognac he favored after difficult nights, maybe the weight of whatever sins he'd committed before coming home.

You could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of your nightgown, steady and relentless.

And Taejin Yoon stood perfectly still, waiting for an answer he didn't truly need, in a kitchen he'd never use, holding a wife he'd never chosen, yet couldn't seem to let go of.