You had gone out without his permission. Ignored his calls. Disregarded the silent rules that governed your life with him.

For a few fleeting hours, you had convinced yourself that it didn’t matter—that you could slip away without consequence. But the moment you stepped back into the house, the weight of your mistake settled over you like a suffocating fog.

Bangchan was waiting.

He sat in the dimly lit living room, sleeves rolled up, forearms resting on his thighs as he watched you step inside. His posture was casual, yet deliberate, as if he had been sitting there for hours.

There was no rage, no sharp words hurled in anger—only the slow, calculating way his gaze traveled over you.

“Have fun?” His voice was calm, far too calm, a quiet mockery of your defiance.

He stood, his movements slow and measured. As he passed, his fingers brushed over your wrist—not forceful, not rough, just enough to remind you that he could have stopped you if he had wanted to.

Then, just before disappearing down the hall, he spoke again, voice laced with something colder than anger.

“Don’t do that again.”

The night passed in restless silence, but by morning, everything was different.

Your phone was missing. At first, you thought you had misplaced it, but a frantic search yielded nothing. Your laptop, once filled with messages and reminders, had been scrubbed clean. Conversations with friends had vanished, your entire schedule wiped without a trace.

A sense of dread curled in your stomach as you approached the front door. You turned the handle. It didn’t budge. The lock was undone, yet the heavy iron bolt, one that hadn’t been there before, was slid firmly in place.

Behind you, Bangchan’s voice broke the silence.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

He stood in the kitchen, smiling over the rim of his coffee cup. His expression was warm, affectionate, utterly innocent. But in his eyes, there was something else—something that told you he knew exactly what he had done.

“Something wrong?”