Chapter 4: Threads of Deception
The elevator hummed as it ascended to the 45th floor of Golden Media Group's towering headquarters. Lee stood at the center, a clipboard clutched tightly in his hands, gaze focused on the digital numbers blinking overhead. His stomach churned. Not because of nerves, he was long past being nervous but because of them.
The CEO.His daughter.And now… Leejoon.
All three pulling him in different directions. All three chasing a version of him they didn't truly know.
The elevator doors slid open.
"Lee," came a deep, familiar voice.
Han Doyun, the CEO, stood at the end of the corridor, arms folded, his usual pristine suit slightly wrinkled, a rare sight. His tie was loosened, a few strands of salt-and-pepper hair falling onto his forehead. He looked tired, but his eyes gleamed with something else. Something unsettling.
"I've assigned you to assist me directly today," he said without waiting for a response. "You'll shadow me."
Lee blinked. "Sir, I wasn't informed"
"I don't recall asking if you were," Han Doyun cut in smoothly.
Lee forced a polite bow and followed him inside. The man's office smelled like musk, expensive whiskey, and power. Photographs of high-end campaigns lined the walls, alongside a shelf of old records and leather-bound books, classy, timeless, cold.
"You've been working here for what, seven months now?" Han asked, pouring himself a drink. "Yet you still avoid eye contact like a child."
Lee stiffened.
"Tell me something, Lee." He sipped. "Why do you hide behind other people's beauty when you clearly possess your own?"
Lee's throat went dry. "I'm just a stylist."
Han Doyun moved closer, gaze intense. "You're more than that. I can see it. And I can see how my daughter looks at you, too."
Lee stepped back. "Sir, I..."
"She has good taste. But she's naïve." A long pause. "Unlike me."
The weight of the words lingered in the room like static. Before Lee could answer, the office door burst open.
"Dad, don't scare him," Minah said, rolling her eyes. "He's my assistant, not your obsession."
Han Doyun's jaw tightened. But he said nothing. Just turned away and sat behind his desk.
Lee exhaled quietly. Minah had no idea she'd just pulled him from a fire.
Later that evening, the city turned gold under the setting sun. Lee changed into Lia in the safety of his apartment, his true armor, ironically. He was scheduled to model at an underground art exhibition for a rising designer. It wasn't a big event, but it paid well. And it kept him in motion, away from questions, away from entanglements.
The gallery was hidden inside an old industrial building. Concrete walls, exposed steel beams, and the faint smell of oil paint and perfume filled the space. Models glided between installations, photographers whispered to one another, and artists gestured wildly at their displays.
Lee walked in, heels clicking, hair pinned elegantly, a black dress hugging his frame like silk on fire.
But someone was already watching.
Leejoon.
He leaned against a far pillar, dressed in a designer leather jacket, all black, a wolf in a room full of doves. He hadn't been invited, but no one would dare ask him to leave. His eyes didn't move, locked on her.
On him.
Lee froze mid-step. Part of him wanted to run. Another part wanted to walk straight into those arms and ask a question he didn't dare voice.
Why me?
Leejoon finally moved.
"You clean up well," he said, voice smooth and low.
"I thought you only liked blood on silk," Lia replied coldly.
A smirk touched his lips. "Who says I can't like both?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Why are you here?"
"Security." He stepped closer. "Someone made a threat against one of the guests. I don't ignore threats."
Lee's brow furrowed. "You're working security for fashion shows now?"
"I'm watching you," he said, softer this time.
The words hit like a punch.
Before Lee could respond, shouting broke out near the rear gallery. A man in a ski mask had pushed past security, waving something, an object that glinted under the lights. Screams erupted. Chaos spun through the room.
And Leejoon vanished.
Within seconds, the intruder was disarmed, pinned to the floor. Leejoon knelt on top of him, one knee pressed to his spine, the blade in the man's hand now glistening in his.
The crowd stared in stunned silence as Leejoon stood, expression blank, shirt stained with blood that wasn't his.
Someone finally spoke. "Who is he?"
Another answered in a whisper. "I think… he's mafia."
Lee turned, heart racing. A thousand thoughts collided. He knew Leejoon was dangerous. But to see it, to witness the casual violence, the brutal precision—it shook something loose inside him.
And yet…
When Leejoon's eyes met his again, Lee didn't move.
He didn't run.
Backstage, after the chaos had quieted, Leejoon leaned against the mirror while Lee sat nearby, still dressed as Lia. They were alone.
"You're hurt," Lee said, nodding to a cut on his hand.
"I've had worse," Leejoon replied. "Are you scared of me now?"
Lee looked up slowly. "Should I be?"
Leejoon didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled something from his jacket pocket, a necklace. Simple. Silver. Elegant. "I had it made," he said. "For you."
Lee stared at it. "Why?"
"Because when I look at you," he said quietly, "I see something I haven't seen in a long time."
"What's that?"
"A reason to stop killing."
Lee's breath caught.
Leejoon set the necklace beside him and stood. "But I don't know who you really are, and that scares me."
Lee turned away, voice trembling. "Then maybe it's better you don't."
"You're wrong," Leejoon replied. "The truth never scared me. But losing control… that does."
And with that, he left leaving behind a necklace, a mess of emotions, and a heart that beat too fast for its own safety.
Back in his apartment, Lee pulled off his makeup slowly. The night clung to his skin, the memory of Leejoon's words echoing in his mind.
He touched the necklace, fingers trembling.
He was falling.
And he didn't know if he'd ever be able to stop.
To be continued…