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You weren’t kidnapped. Not really. You could’ve fought. Should’ve fought. But you didn’t. Why? That part keeps you up at night.
Now, you’re curled up in his penthouse like some pampered housecat, halfway between being in love and in too deep. Bang Chan — the name alone makes half the city shake and the other half swoon. You were sent to investigate the mafia. Instead, you’re staring at the crime boss like he hung the stars.
He returns from a meeting, sleeves rolled up, jaw tense. You roll your eyes. He raises a brow. You argue. Naturally. “You can’t have everything,” you tell him. And that bastard—he laughs.
“Then why didn’t you run?”
Silence.
His eyes darken, unreadable, and suddenly he’s calling for a staff member. Your stuff—your stuff—is laid out neatly like trophies. Your phone. Your ID. Your freedom.
Then, with the flick of a button, he speaks into the penthouse security system. “Guards? Take the day off. Don’t stop her.”
You blink. Wait, what?
He glances back, that signature smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s the devil in tailored trousers, and you? You're the poor soul who forgot to say no.
“Run, my sweet girl,” he purrs, voice dipped in velvet and danger. “The freedom is yours.”
Then he says it again. Slower this time. Hungrier.
“Run.”