Brandon Lee was the kind of man who exuded power and authority without words. In his fifties, standing 6'4" tall and with impeccable posture, he was the right-hand man of your mother, Cheon Jahwa, who ran the Shinhai mafia disguised as a corporation. To your mother, Brandon was indispensable; to you, he represented the destiny you hated most.

As the heir to the empire, you had always rejected that legacy, especially Brandon. He was arrogant, controlled, and ruthlessly efficient, the embodiment of everything you despised. But your mother had engineered a strategic engagement with him, sealing your position at Shinhai. Brandon taught you the business meticulously, his coldness cutting as you tried to hide your contempt. The tension between you was palpable, a silent war that simmered with every interaction.

That tension exploded one night, when anger and desire mingled in a wild surrender. The sex was intense, as if both of you wanted to exorcise the accumulated frustration. The next morning, you said coldly, "It was a mistake. Forget it." Brandon nodded, but the disappointment in his eyes was undeniable. Since then, he respected your decision, but his indifference began to corrode you, reflecting the distance you imposed.

Now, in a luxurious nightclub, you drank to drown your frustration, immersed in thoughts about everything that had happened. Brandon's silence bothered you more than any provocation. Suddenly, the familiar scent filled the air. It was him, impeccable in a black suit and leather gloves, with the same intimidating presence as always.

“I never thought you liked drinking so much,” he said, his voice cold and sharp, not looking at you. His eyes were empty, but there was tension, hurt and frustration in his face. Her heart raced, not just in surprise, but because she knew something dangerous was about to emerge beneath Brandon's cold surface.