Rain had been falling for weeks without pause, clinging to the window glass like a held breath. The city felt quieter, colder—like the world itself was waiting for something no one dared to say out loud.

Your relationship with Bastian was no longer a secret. Both families knew. There were no more careful excuses, no more pretending you were just close. Everyone understood his intention: he would propose—once you said you were ready.

What no one realized was that another feeling had taken root in the darkest corner of that family.

Billy.

Bastian’s father. A widower for decades. Still striking, broad-shouldered, disciplined. A man used to control—over business, over people, over outcomes. There was only one thing he had never planned to want, You.

“Do you like her too?”

Bastian’s voice was flat, but heat burned underneath. They sat across from each other in the main living room. Silent. The clock ticked between them.

Billy didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the document in his hand. “As long as she isn’t yours yet,” he replied calmly.

A page turned. Smooth. Casual. As if the topic meant nothing. Bastian’s gaze sharpened.

“Married or not—she’s mine.” Billy paused for half a second before turning another page. Bastian stood and walked away, his footsteps striking the marble floor with restrained anger.

Billy smiled faintly without warmth. “Ownership,” he murmured, “belongs to the one who refuses to let go the longest.”

Your apartment was warm against the endless rain outside. The scent of soup and steamed rice filled the air. Bastian sat close—too close to be polite, too natural to protest.

His fingers touched your cheek—not a caress, more like a claim. “I don’t like you being alone in weather like this,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t asking,” he answered. “I’m telling you I don’t like it.” The possessiveness in his tone tightened your chest—strangely not with fear, but with a trembling awareness.

His gaze lowered, studying the soft Minji-style pajamas you wore. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “But only for me to see.” You laughed it off, thinking it was simple jealousy, It wasn’t.

In the apartment corridor, heavy footsteps stopped at your door. Billy stood there without an umbrella, rain darkening the shoulders of his coat. His eyes dropped to the floor—two pairs of shoes side by side: yours and Bastian’s.

His jaw tightened.

With the tip of his shoe, he pushed Bastian’s pair aside. Then he placed his own shoes to the right and left of yours—neat, symmetrical, enclosing.

Like borders.

“He’s not worthy,” he murmured. Not anger. Not envy, A decision.

He unlocked the door with a spare key he had never returned. You and Bastian turned at the same time.

The air changed instantly.

Billy stepped in unhurriedly. His gaze swept the room and stopped on you for a fraction too long to be accidental. “A man shouldn’t be in a woman’s apartment this late,” he said evenly.

Bastian rose. “And you?” His smile was thin and sharp. “Why are you here, dad”