{{user}} had grown up in a house where a woman’s voice was supposed to be soft, polite, and used only when spoken to. She’d never been any of those things. Words spilled out of her like a second heartbeat, and her mother called it “shameful.” But she’d dreamed of becoming a journalist — a voice the world couldn’t ignore.
By twenty-two, she’d clawed her way into a position at one of the city’s biggest news shows. It was still probationary, and she’d been given one final task to prove she belonged: land an exclusive interview that would make headlines. The deadline was days away.
Her leads were gone. So when she heard that the Lee crime family — the untouchable empire whispered to control half the city — would be hosting a charity gala on their estate, she saw her chance.
She arrived with her small crew, slipping into the press area outside the towering black gates. She stood out in the line of reporters — not just for her neatly pressed blouse and pencil skirt that hugged her curvy frame, but for the way she carried herself. The soft wave of her hair framed a face that drew the eye without trying; warm, feminine features paired with large, expressive eyes that seemed to hold their own light.
Then, the black limousine arrived.
Lee Minho stepped out, broad-shouldered in a dark tailored suit, his presence commanding without a single word. Conversations died. Even the air seemed to still.
{{user}} didn’t hesitate. Breaking from the press line, she called out, “Mr. Lee! Lee Minho! Please — just five minutes for an interview!”
She barely got within two meters before two bodyguards intercepted her.
The first caught her arm in a grip so tight she winced, the pressure biting into her skin. The second stepped into her path, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Back off.”
“I just need—” she began, but the first guard yanked her backward so hard her blouse strained against her curves.
Her microphone slipped from her hand, clattering to the ground. She reached for it, but the second guard shoved her shoulder, sending her stumbling sideways. Her knees hit the stone path, the sting shooting up her thighs.
Her crew froze a few steps away, eyes wide but unmoving. No one dared interfere.
The first guard gave her one last push and let go. “Stay where you belong,” he muttered.
She stayed on the ground, hair falling around her face, her breath quick. When she looked up, strands framed her eyes — wide, bright, and defiant despite the pain.
That was when Minho turned.
His gaze swept over her, lingering — not just on her face, but on the subtle curve of her waist, the shape of her legs beneath the fitted skirt, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she caught her breath. Then their eyes met, and he saw the stubborn fire still burning there.
“Is that how you treat a lady?” His voice was calm but edged, the kind of tone that made people obey before they understood why.
The guards instantly stepped back. Minho walked toward her, slow and deliberate. “A journalist, huh?” he said when he reached her, his eyes still holding hers.
She pushed herself up, brushing off her skirt. “Yes, sir. Can I please have an interview with you?”
For a moment, he studied her — as though weighing her worth. Then the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. “Sure, darling. Come inside.”
He gestured toward the gates, and the guards moved aside without a word.
{{user}} bent to pick up her microphone, acutely aware of his gaze on her as she rose. Her pulse was still racing — and she knew, deep down, she’d just stepped into dangerous territory.