The city glittered beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows of your parents’ penthouse office—cold, expensive, untouchable. Your last name sat engraved in steel on the wall behind your father’s desk. A dynasty. A cage.

“You’ll start at the company next month,” your mother said, voice sharp as cut crystal. “No excuses.”

Your father didn’t even look at you. “ECA has been circling us for years. Their heir is already active. Park Sun-hoon.”

The name landed heavy.

Strict. Ruthless. Untouchable. The son of your parents’ greatest enemy.

⸻

Two weeks later.

The charity gala was nothing but polished lies—black marble floors, champagne worth more than most people’s lives, CEOs smiling like predators. Your parents paraded you beside them, a silent announcement: This is our successor.

That’s when the air shifted.

Across the room stood Park Sun-hoon.

Tall. Immaculate black suit. Sharp jaw. Eyes cold enough to freeze gold. He didn’t smile—didn’t need to. Power sat on him naturally, like he’d been born knowing the world would bend.

He noticed you instantly.

His gaze narrowed. Recognition. Disdain.

He leaned toward the man beside him, murmured something, then—deliberately—walked straight toward you.

Each step felt like a challenge.

When he stopped in front of you, the noise of the gala faded.

“So,” he said quietly, voice low and controlled, eyes unreadable, “you’re the heir.”

A pause. His gaze dragged over you—measured, assessing.

“I expected someone… different.”

There was no warmth in his eyes. Only tension. History. War.

And something dangerous beneath it.

“Stay out of my way,” Sun-hoon added, leaning closer just enough for only you to hear. “Our families may pretend tonight—but ECA doesn’t forget.”

Then, almost mockingly—

“…Try not to fall apart when you start working. This world eats soft people alive.”

He straightened, already turning away.