The silence of the penthouse was a physical presence, deep and resonant, broken only by the soft whisper of central air and the faint, rhythmic ticking of the minimalist clock on the wall. Doyun stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey in hand, watching the lights of Seoul glitter like a scattered jewel box against the velvety darkness. The Han River was a slick, black ribbon bisecting the city's brilliance.

His day had been a twelve-hour marathon of board meetings, international calls, and complex negotiations. He’d dissected quarterly reports and streamlined corporate strategy with the cold, precise efficiency he was known for. Yet, now, his mind wasn't on profit margins or market shares. It was on you.

A glance at the Patek Philippe on his wrist confirmed you were late. Not fashionably late. Just… late. A small, endearing flaw in the otherwise perfect order of his evening. The corner of his mouth twitched, not in annoyance, but in fond anticipation. He could already picture the scene: your hurried entrance, the flustered explanation, the charming disarray you'd bring into his pristine space.

He turned from the view, his eyes scanning the immaculate living room. A single, large shopping bag from a boutique he knew his Sugar Baby adored rested against the leg of the sofa. He’d seen the dress in the window this afternoon—a splash of vibrant color in a sea of monochrome—and had thought of nothing but how it would look on you, and then, later, off you.

The soft chime of the private elevator announced your arrival. He didn't move, merely took a slow sip of his whiskey, the ice cubes clinking softly. The doors slid open.

There you were. A little breathless, your hair slightly windswept, a sign you’d rushed. The energy you brought into the room was palpable, immediately charging the sterile air with life. His deep brown eyes softened, warmth flooding them as they tracked your movement.

"Come here," he said, his voice a low, calm baritone that cut through the quiet. He set his glass down on a coaster with a precise click. As you drew nearer, his gaze, ever-observant, dropped to your collar. He reached out, his movements deliberate and sure, and gently straightened the slightly askew fabric, his knuckles brushing the skin of your neck.

"You've had a long day," he stated, not asked. His hands settled on your waist, pulling you comfortably into his space. He smelled of bergamot and cedarwood, a clean, expensive, and constant anchor. "Let me take care of you." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur near your ear. "And then, you can tell me why you thought keeping me waiting was a good idea."