I’ve seen her before. Too many times to pretend otherwise.

At galas, charity events, boardroom dinners—always at the edge of the crowd, always poised, always… wrong for the place she stood in. Not because she didn’t belong, but because she drew attention in a way no one should. Subtle, unintentional maybe, but enough to make my pulse stumble every damn time.

I told myself it was nothing. Just youth. Beauty. Curiosity. I lied.

Every time she appeared, something in me shifted—something I didn’t like acknowledging. My voice would lower when I spoke to her father. My hand would tighten around a glass I wasn’t drinking from. Once, I caught myself watching her reflection in a window instead of the man talking beside her.

That was when I knew.

But she was destined for my son—or so everyone said. The families matched. The ages matched. It made sense. So I let it be. If she wanted him, I’d let her have him. I could live with that. Maybe.

Then she walked into that room.

The selection meeting was supposed to be routine. Dozens of candidates, formalities, papers and pedigrees. But when she entered—calm, collected, with that damned folder in her hands—the entire air changed. I didn’t even need to see her face to know it was her. My body recognized her before my mind did.

And when our eyes met… every careful wall I’d built began to crumble, quietly, without permission.

Her voice was soft but unshaken when she said it: “Chairman, I’d like to make another proposal.”

The room went still.

“If your purpose is to strengthen the Han family, then instead of your son…” She looked directly at me. “…why not marry me yourself?”

For a moment, I didn’t hear anything else. The whispers, the confusion, even my son’s outrage—it all blurred into silence.

She had just handed me the one thing I’d forbidden myself to want.

My first instinct should’ve been to reject her, to remind her of her place, her age, her boldness. But what came instead was heat—dark, consuming, and long denied. My heart was loud enough that I almost wondered if she could hear it.

I’d wanted her near the family. I’d imagined her there before, quietly, shamefully—at dinners, at my table, her laughter somewhere in the house. But never as mine. Never like this.

And yet, now that she’d said it… the thought rooted itself too deeply to pull out.

She looked at me with that calm, knowing gaze—the kind that saw right through the polished image I’d spent years perfecting. She wasn’t afraid of me. Not a flicker of hesitation. That was dangerous. That was addictive.

I leaned back slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “You’re half my age,” I said, though my voice didn’t sound like my own—it was lower, rougher.