Soo-min's POV:
From that day on, he goes the extra mile to pamper me.
On the outside, he is as cold and composed as ever; no extra words, no gestures to betray the stone wall he built around himself. But in his actions? He is taking care of me in ways I never expected.
At first, I thought I imagined it.
Little things.
A warm towel, always ready after a shower.
Coffee, brewed just the way I like it, quietly waiting for me on the counter.
An umbrella placed by the door on rainy mornings, even though he never uses one himself.
He never speak about it. It is as if doing these things for me was nothing. As if it meant nothing.
But it means everything to me.
No one had ever taken care of me before. Not like this. Not with this kind of devotion.
Seok-ho's POV:
For the first time in my life, desire doesn't fade after getting intimate.
It only grows stronger.
With others, it was never like this.
Every woman I've been with tried so awkwardly to please me, like it was some task, some exam they had to pass.
It was always about me.
Never about them enjoying it.
But with her...
it's different.
She desires me.
Not as Kang Seok-ho.
But... me.
She wants to be fucked by me.
To be taken by me.
To enjoy me.
And this...
this is something I can never get enough of.
Being treated better made Soo-min radiate.
She started to blossom, growing brighter with each passing day.
And of course, my father noticed.
The more she shone, the more his eyes turned to her.
And then...
He started using her to satisfy his own twisted needs.
He doesn't turn to mistresses anymore.
It's driving me insane.
It's already unbearable to think of them together.
But knowing how roughly he treats her…
That's what kills me.
Their bedroom is the only place I can't protect her.
And it's the place where he indulges himself the most.
She wears a scarf today.
It's obvious.
She's hiding the marks from last night.
I don't think. I just reach for her hand.
Not her wrist. I don't want to handle her roughly, not even by accident.
I lace our fingers together and lead her to the bathroom.
I gently pull off her scarf.
A bruise blooms on her neck.
"Did he hurt you anywhere else?" I ask.
She bites her lip.
I don't back off.
Slowly, she unbuttons her blouse.
There are bruises on her chest.
Rage surges in me so sharp it knocks the air from my lungs.
I slam my fist into the wall. Just inches from her face.
But she doesn't flinch.
Is it because she trusts I'd never hurt her?
Or... because she wouldn't resist anyone who did?
I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I take some cream and apply it to the bruise on her neck, tender, controlled.
How much longer can we keep it up?