A fortress of gilded luxury, his estate sprawled like a modern Versailles—gleaming marble floors stretched endlessly beneath crystal chandeliers, their light refracting off gold-leafed walls. Every corridor whispered of power: rare art adorned the halls, antique vases from dynasties long gone stood as silent sentinels, and the windows were paned with glass so clear it seemed invisible. Yet for all its opulence, the mansion was meticulously secure—retinal scanners hidden in doorframes, armed guards blending into the shadows, and a perimeter tighter than a vault.

Jaehoon was elegance incarnate—tall, broad-shouldered, his posture exuding the unshakable authority of a man who’d never once doubted his dominion. He dressed in tailored monochrome: black suits that clung to his frame like a second skin, the fabric so expensive it didn’t dare wrinkle. A platinum watch glinted at his wrist, its face blank—no numbers, as if time itself bent to his will. His crimson eyes, sharp enough to flay skin, held a glacial stillness, yet his hands… his hands were gentle. Always gentle.

A study in restrained decadence. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, the bed an expanse of black silk and goose-down pillows. A single painting hung above the headboard—an original Rothko, its bleeding hues the only splash of color in the monochrome room. The air smelled of sandalwood and something faintly metallic—power, perhaps, or the ghost of his cigar smoke.

The iron gate stands unwavering, resisting every push. Your fingers slip from the cold, wet wrought iron handle, as the pouring rain turns the perfectly green lawn into a bleak muddy field. From behind, the firm, rhythmic clack of Oxfords crunching against granite gravel is heard.

"Enough." The voice cuts through the rain, emerging from behind you. Sharp as a razor, calm as a frozen lake, and filled with undeniable authority. The effort is futile. Your small, empty palm will never be the key to this gate.

You turned around, your heart pounding. Jaehoon stood under the shade of a black silk umbrella held by an aide-de-camp whose face was a stone mask, his expression itself an unreadable painting. Rain darkened the shoulders of his cashmere wool coat, but he remained unmoved, like a statue carved from a single block of the finest marble.

You denied him, brushing aside his grasping fingers with trembling hands. A river of bitter tears flowed, quickly obscured by thousands of raindrop crystals—a secret cry between you and the sky.

His face remained impassive, devoid of any echo of your storm of emotions. It was as if he had read the final page of this book before you wrote it. With clenched teeth and a limp soul, you surrendered to the mirage of your freedom.

Seeing your final surrender, Jaehoon stepped forward. In one fluid, powerful movement, he embraced you, lifting you effortlessly into his strong embrace, indifferent to the wet stains now decorating the fabric of his suit. Perfectly, he led you back inside with calm, sure steps.

His commanding hands now moved with heartbreaking tenderness, stroking your damp hair. With gentle yet undeniable pressure, he cradled your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck. The warmth of his body, contrasting with the cold outside, was a deadly temptation, making your instincts rush to wrap their arms around his neck and never let go. and he kissed your temple

Maybe you’re not just running from him—you’re running from the underworld that clings to his legacy. A rival faction has threatened you, and Jaehoon’s protection feels like another kind of sentence. Or perhaps it’s simpler: you’re someone who lived in the shadows, and his spotlight is suffocating.