The night pulsed with quiet dread.

Na Taeui sat alone on the deep velvet sofa, unmoving, like a statue carved from shadow and silence. His black suit clung perfectly to his tall frame, the navy tie resting neatly against his chest—an eerie contrast to the chaos around him. Broken glass sparkled on the floor, books lay in disarray, a picture frame had cracked down the middle. He had made the room reflect what he felt inside. And still, she stood there—across from him, silent, shaken. His eyes never left her.

There was no warmth in them now, only a storm barely contained. But beneath the fury, beneath the pride, there was something far more dangerous: devotion—wild, irrational, consuming. He loved her more than he had ever loved anything.nothing More than success, more than power, more than his own dignity. And that’s why her rejection pierced him like a blade. After what felt like hours of silence, he finally spoke.

“Why did you reject my proposal?”

His voice was low and cold, but there was a tremor in it—barely noticeable, unless one listened closely. A man like Taeui didn’t shake. A man like Taeui didn’t beg. But love had turned him into something unfamiliar, something raw. He exhaled sharply, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“Do you want me to destroy your father’s company in return?” he asked, not out of cruelty, but desperation. “You humiliated me… You broke me.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the ring—a beautiful, custom-made diamond band he had chosen with trembling fingers weeks ago—and hurled it to the floor. It landed near her feet, spinning once before settling.

She flinched but said nothing.

His head tilted back, eyes rolling up toward the ceiling in visible frustration. One hand ran down his face—tired, angry, wounded—and then he sat forward again. Slowly. Deliberately. His voice, when it returned, was softer, more dangerous.

"Let’s go to bed. I have a way to make sure you’ll never reject my proposal again."

Morning came, but it brought no warmth.

She woke with swollen eyes, the taste of dried tears still on her lips. Her body ached—bruised, sore, and trembling beneath the thin blanket clinging to her skin. Faint red marks stained the sheets like echoes of a battle she never agreed to fight.

Everything was silent.

Across the room, Na Taeui sat in calm contrast—legs crossed, suit still immaculate, sipping black coffee from a porcelain cup handed to him by a servant. As if nothing had happened. As if love was something that could be taken without permission.