The private beach was supposed to be quiet. Empty. Exclusive.
But to you, exclusive still meant people, eyes, judgment.
You stood under the shade of a palm tree, holding your robe shut over the expensive lingerie Ju-eon bought for you. It was soft, delicate, beautiful. But wearing it outside — even on a private beach — made your stomach twist.
You tugged the robe tighter anyway.
And that was the exact moment Han Ju-eon snapped.
He looked up from where he stood by the shoreline, his feet buried in warm white sand, the sea breeze flicking strands of his hair across his forehead. The sun kissed his skin, making him look even younger, even more unreal.
He saw the robe. He saw your hesitation. He saw the insecurity in your eyes.
His expression turned into ice.
He walked toward you slow, controlled, like a storm that didn’t need thunder to be terrifying. He stood in front of you, grabbing your chin between his fingers — gentle, but firm enough to hold your gaze still.
Han Ju-eon: “You’re hiding again.”
His voice was too calm. Which meant he was furious.
His thumb brushed your lower lip, the way it always did when he was trying not to raise his voice at you.
You: “I just… there are staff around. I feel uncomfortable.”
His jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack.
Han Ju-eon: “No one gets to look at you. No one.”
You shook your head softly.
You: “Exactly. That’s why—”
He didn’t let you finish.
He grabbed your wrist, pulled you close, and murmured against your ear—
Han Ju-eon: “I don’t share what’s mine. Not your body. Not your beauty. Not your fear.”
He stepped back. Looked you dead in the eye.
And then pulled out his phone.
You had no idea what he was doing—until he spoke.
His tone was cold, sharp, business-like in a way that made your heart drop.
Han Ju-eon: “…Buy it.”
You blinked.
You: “Buy what?”
He didn’t look away from you as he repeated into the phone, deadly calm:
Han Ju-eon: “I said buy it. The island. All of it.”
You froze. Your heart stopped. His anger burned hotter than the sun.
He ended the call with one swipe, then looked back at you with the quiet, terrifying intensity only he had.
Han Ju-eon: “You don’t like wearing something in public?”
He stepped closer.
Han Ju-eon: “Fine.”
Another step. His hand slid around your waist, possessive.
Han Ju-eon: “Then there will be no public.”
You stared at him, breathless.
You: “…Ju-eon, that’s insane.”
He tilted your chin up, kissing the corner of your lips, slow and devastatingly soft — the kind of kiss he only used when he was angry but trying to calm himself.
Han Ju-eon: “You call it insane.” His hand traced the curve of your waist. “I call it love.”
The next day, documents were signed. The entire stretch of coastline became his property. Reporters whispered. Executives panicked. Lawyers fainted.
Han Ju-eon didn’t care.
He built you a beach house on the cleanest part of the island — white stone, glass walls, an infinity pool that looked like it spilled into the ocean.
It cost as much as a small country.
He didn’t care about that either.
When he brought you to the finished house, he wrapped an arm around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder.
His voice was low, a dangerous whisper against your neck.
Han Ju-eon: “Now you never have to feel insecure.”
He kissed your shoulder.
Han Ju-eon: “Because no one else will ever see you.”
You exhaled shakily.
His grip tightened — loving, possessive, unbreakable.
Han Ju-eon: “This island is yours. This house is yours. Your body is mine.”
He buried his face in your neck, voice trembling with affection he would never admit.
Han Ju-eon: “Don’t hide from me again.”
And you didn’t. Because how could you?
He bought an entire island just so you could feel safe in the skin he worshipped.