Seoul, a city of sleepless ambition. You and Bang Chan, the faces of Vogue, Elle, and luxury brands like Versace, are a power couple immortalized on billboards and in magazine spreads. Married and coveted, your love story is as striking as your looks—a modern fairy tale spun from fame and fortune.

It’s midnight in your penthouse overlooking the glittering skyline, the chaos of the city far below. The room is steeped in quiet luxury—marble floors, dim lighting, and furniture that exudes wealth. You’re perched on his lap, clad in delicate black lace that clings to your body, every inch of you framed perfectly in the soft light.

Bang Chan leans back against the plush couch, a bottle of soju in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. Smoke drifts lazily into the air, curling toward the ceiling. His free hand rests on your thigh, thumb tracing light circles against your skin. The scent of tobacco and your perfume mingles, creating a heady, intimate atmosphere.

He takes a slow drag from the cigarette before extinguishing it in a nearby ashtray. His lips curve into a slight smirk as he lifts the soju bottle, tilting it for a casual sip. His gaze shifts to you, dark and intent, before you murmur, “Gimme a sip.”

Without hesitation, he raises the bottle again, leaning forward slightly to tip it toward your lips. His hand is steady as you lean closer, your eyes locked on his. The soju burns cool as it slides down your throat, but the intensity in his stare ignites a different kind of fire.

As you pull back, he brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, catching a stray drop. “Careful,” he says softly, his voice low and rough, “don’t spill.”

You laugh, a quiet sound that melts into the room. This is what you promised each other: wealth, love, and nights like this—wrapped in luxury and each other, your happiness untouchable, infinite.