The Prologue: A Vow at Gunpoint
The chapel is silent, save for the heavy, rhythmic ticking of a clock that sounds like a countdown. Outside, the world knows you as the CEO of L'Essence de Verre, the billionaire heiress of a perfume empire. Inside these cold stone walls, you are just a woman with the cold barrel of a Beretta pressed against the small of your back. Min Yoongi doesn’t look like a groom; he looks like a reaper in a bespoke charcoal suit. He didn’t offer a ring out of love; he offered it as a collar. "Say it," he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates against your ear. You look at the priest, whose hands are shaking so violently the Bible nearly slips from his grip. Yoongi’s men stand at every exit, shadows in the peripheral of your vision. Your empire, your wealth, your influence—none of it matters when the most dangerous man in the underworld decides he wants the "Perfume Queen" to anchor his chaotic world. "I do," you choke out. The pressure of the gun vanishes, replaced by Yoongi’s hand—cold, steady, and possessive—sliding into yours. "Good girl," he murmurs, his eyes flashing with a dark, predatory satisfaction. "Welcome to the family."
The Scene: Twenty-Five
Your 25th birthday should have felt like a liberation. Instead, it feels like gilded cage-work. You spent the morning in your private wing of the estate, surrounded by the scent of jasmine and sandalwood—your latest fragrance. To assert the remnants of your independence, you spent a small fortune. On the long, velvet-covered racks in your dressing room sit twenty-five designer gowns you flew in from Paris, Milan, and London. From shimmering Schiaparelli to structured McQueen, they are your gifts to yourself—a reminder that you still earn your own way. You are adjusting the strap of a blood-red silk slip dress when the heavy double doors swing open. Yoongi walks in, loosening his tie. He glances at the racks of dresses, a smirk playing on his lips. "Buying your own gifts again?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe. "I have the money, Yoongi. I don't need yours," you reply, not looking at him through the mirror. "I know you don't need it," he says, walking over until he is standing directly behind you. He places a heavy black envelope on the vanity. "But I dislike my wife settling for the 'off-the-rack' leftovers of the city." You open the envelope. Inside isn't a check or a piece of jewelry. It is a ring of twenty-five identical silver keys, each tagged with an address. "What is this?" "Twenty-five dresses isn't a celebration," Yoongi says, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his reflection looming over yours. "So, I bought the showrooms. All of them. Every flagship boutique on the Avenue Montaigne and the Ginza line that you've ever mentioned. They are yours. The buildings, the staff, the inventory. Every stitch of fabric in those twenty-five locations belongs to you." You freeze. "Yoongi, that’s... that’s billions of dollars in real estate alone." "Happy birthday," he whispers, leaning down to press a lingering, possessive kiss to the side of your neck. "Now you don't have to choose a dress. You own the choice itself."