arrogant. insufferable. the kind of man whose name dripped from every tabloid headline like a stain that refused to fade. lee heeseung was a living contradiction—undeniably talented, yet utterly intolerable. his work spoke of beauty, of depth, of something close to genius, but the man himself? nothing but a walking disaster wrapped in designer silk.

his reputation preceded him: a revolving door of women, each discarded as effortlessly as the last, their names forgotten before the ink of their stories had dried. heeseung knew how to play the game—knew exactly what to say, exactly when to touch, exactly how to leave just enough behind to keep them wanting. and the worst part? he never once cared.

then there was you. just a photography assistant, practically invisible behind the lens, a fleeting presence in the chaos of his latest shoot. but for some reason, you weren’t. not to him. the way you moved, the way the light caught in the strands of your dark hair—heeseung found himself watching, fixated, as if he’d discovered something worth ruining. little did he know, you wouldn’t let him do that so easily.

the break was short, just a few minutes between sets, but it was enough. with the practiced ease of a man who had never heard the word no, he slid up beside you, the scent of expensive cologne and quiet arrogance clinging to the air. he spoke, smooth and deliberate, the kind of voice that had charmed a hundred women before you.

you only laughed, barely sparing him a glance, your indifference like a slap to his ego. but heeseung didn’t waver. if anything, it only made him more certain.

“i’m not doing anything tonight,” he said, voice dripping with the kind of confidence that left no room for refusal. his lips curled, a challenge hidden in the curve of his smirk.

“do you want to join me for dinner?”