Bangchan was not a man easily shaken. The name alone—Christopher Bahng—meant something in every corner of the financial world: calculated, brutal precision wrapped in pristine tailoring. Cold, untouchable, and busy to the point of inhuman—it made sense, in some twisted, strategic way, that your families had arranged the marriage.
His reputation needed softening. Yours needed stability.
It had been three months since the engagement. Two weeks till the wedding. And you hated every second.
He had given you a room in his massive estate—too grand to be warm, too beautiful to be lived in. His routines were unshakable. He left at dawn, returned by nine, spent most of his nights poring over portfolios in silence. Not cruel. Just cold.
Like your presence was something he had already accounted for and shelved. The problem was, he didn’t give you anything to work with—no buttons to push, no anger to ignite. So you had to get creative.
He had handed you a black Amex card a week ago, tossing it onto the marble kitchen island without a second glance.
“Buy something you like,” he had said, bored, loosening his cufflinks. “Might help us feel like a couple.”
You took that suggestion very seriously.
While he sat in his glass-walled office, speaking in clipped, ruthless tones to directors trembling through phone lines, his phone lit up with a number from his bank. He answered without looking, fingers still tapping out the tail-end of an email.
“Mr. Bahng, this is Simji from First Sovereign Private Banking. I apologize for interrupting your day, sir, but we’ve flagged a series of large transactions on your account and wanted to confirm them with you directly.”
His hand paused above the keyboard. “…Go on.”
“Yes, sir. We have a 142,000 dollar charge at Cartier, timestamped earlier this afternoon. Shortly after, a 200,000 dollar transaction at Versace. Another 86,000 dollars at Gucci. Then an additional 150,000 dollars at Van Cleef.”
A pause.
“Would you like us to temporarily freeze the card?”
His silence was long, spine straightening as he leaned back in his chair. The cold morning skyline framed his silhouette as his gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked glass wall of his office. Something clicked.
“No,” he said finally. His voice dropped, calm and amused in a way that made his secretary on the other side of the office flinch. “No need to freeze it.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Positive.” His lips twitched—not quite a smile, more like something bitter he found amusing.
“It’s just my fiancée,” he said, voice coated in something unreadable. “Throwing a tantrum.”
By the time you returned to the estate, it was late. The driveway was lit with warm garden lights, reflecting off black car hoods and polished stone. Behind you, a trail of servants strained under the weight of high-end bags, velvet boxes, and delicate paper packaging—all paraded through the marble foyer like the spoils of war.
Bangchan was by the bar when you entered.
The top buttons of his shirt were undone, sleeves lazily rolled to his elbows. He stood with one hand resting against the edge of the bar counter, his other slowly swirling a glass of aged whiskey. Broad. Composed. Not a single muscle taut with rage. He hadn’t even loosened his tie.
His eyes flicked over the towers of bags without urgency. One long, deliberate sip. Then he set the glass down, the sound a soft tap against the granite.
“You should have spent more.”
He leaned forward just enough to pour himself another drink, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world. The whiskey sloshed golden in the glass. He didn’t look at you when he spoke next.
“If you were trying to provoke me,” he said, voice still maddeningly mild, “you’ll have to do better than a shopping spree.”
Then, as if he hadn’t just witnessed a small fortune walk through his front doors, he raised the drink to his lips again. A quiet, satisfied breath left him.
“Next time, try wrecking one of my jets.”