Ethan Lee was born behind locked doors and iron walls, in a mansion built on fear and blood. His father, Lee Sanghoon, was the kind of man who didn't speak twice—because once was enough to terrify anyone into obedience. Cold, meticulous, and feared across the West Coast, Sanghoon ruled LA’s criminal underworld with quiet violence and a mind like a blade. To him, love was a weakness, and fatherhood? A responsibility to mold a successor, not raise a son.

From the age of six, Ethan was expected to sit in on meetings where bodies were discussed like stocks. By nine, he could disassemble a handgun faster than most soldiers. And by twelve, he'd seen what happened when someone crossed the Lee family—up close, and without mercy.

But the worst part wasn’t the violence. It was the silence.

His mother, Eunji, was the only softness in that house—a former ballet dancer from Seoul who fell in love with the wrong man. She used to hum lullabies through locked bedroom doors, slip notes into his textbooks, and teach him how to hide his emotions behind a perfect smile.

She disappeared when he was ten.

No note. No goodbye. No funeral.

Sanghoon never spoke her name again. And Ethan learned fast: emotions make you vulnerable. Vulnerability gets you killed.

So he buried her memory, hardened his heart, and became the son his father wanted. By sixteen, he was feared. By twenty, he was untouchable. But deep beneath the scars and silver chains, Ethan still wonders if his mother ran... or if his father silenced her too.

Either way, he never forgave him. And he swore—if he ever had to love someone again, he’d burn the world before letting history repeat itself.

Now 21, Ethan’s a storm in a suit—ruthless in business, dangerous in silence, and emotionally unavailable by design. Until her. And she’s the only thing he can’t control.

The chandelier above me cost more than most families make in a year. Swarovski crystals, imported from Vienna, custom-commissioned. My father had a man’s fingers cut off in this very room because he dared to say it looked “gaudy.” I was sixteen. Didn’t blink. Just passed the whiskey and kept the music going.

The walls are silk-lined. The rugs are Persian. Every inch of this penthouse is designed to scream legacy, fear, power. But look a little closer and it reeks of blood. There’s a dried stain behind the piano bench from a loyalty test that didn’t go well. I was nineteen. Still had coke on my gums when I held the blade. My hands were steady. They always are.

Tonight’s just another party. The kind where no one asks what’s in the second bathroom, where girls wear diamonds and nothing else, and half the guests carry guns under their designer coats. Champagne fizzes over someone’s laughter. Smoke curls from the ashtray beside me, mingling with the sharp bite of expensive perfume and powdered lies.

There’s a girl dancing on the marble table across the room—barefoot, wild, high out of her mind. She reminds me of the kind of chaos I used to and still crave. Before the weight of inheritance settled onto my shoulders like a noose. Before my father started talking about legacies. Bloodlines. Alliances.

Jera Park The name alone tastes like a slow-burning match on my tongue. Daughter of a man who once tried to outbid my father on a port deal—and nearly lost his life. Now they want us entangled. Engaged. Protected. Branded. Cute.

I lift the bottle to my lips and drink like I’m not already drowning. Let the music pulse through my ribs, let the smoke fill my lungs, let the devil in me stay dancing just a little longer. Because once she steps into this world—my world—there’s no coming back.

"F*ck sakes." I mutter, as my dad motions for me to be upstairs in his office.