The atmosphere in the Lee dining hall the next morning was thicker and heavier than the day before. The clinking of silverware was the only sound, a stark contrast to the silent anxiety gripping everyone.
Rinwoo still hadn't woken up.
Mr. Lee sat at the head of the table, his expression a dark cloud. The doctor had visited again at dawn, his prognosis unchanged: severe physical and emotional exhaustion, requiring rest and careful monitoring. To the patriarch, it sounded like a feeble excuse.
"A grown man," Mr. Lee stated, his voice cold and dismissive as he stirred his tea. "Fainting like a delicate flower. Nosebleeds. It's a lack of fortitude. What if he is simply using this as a way to shirk his duties? To avoid the responsibilities of this household?"
Across the table, Daon's grip on his chopsticks tightened. Each word from his father was like a needle, poking at the deep worry he felt for both Rinwoo and for Eunjae, who had refused to leave Rinwoo's side all night. Taekyun sat silently, pushing food around his plate, his own thoughts a turbulent mess he refused to voice.
Taemin was absent, finally asleep in his room after a fruitless night scouring security footage.
Mr. Lee continued his lecture on weakness and duty, his voice a monotonous drone of disapproval.
Suddenly, Daon pushed his chair back. The sound cut through his father's speech. He stood up.
"Where do you think you are going?" Mr. Lee's voice was icy, his glare fixed on his middle son. "I am still speaking."
Daon met his father's gaze. For a moment, the old fear of defiance flickered in his eyes. But then he thought of Eunjae's exhausted, worried face, of the doctor's warning about stress, of his own promise to be better.
He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect, but his voice was firm. "I apologize, Father. But I must take breakfast to Eunjae. He has not eaten, and he will not leave Rinwoo's side." He straightened, looking his father directly in the eye. "I cannot let my husband get sick as well."
The word husband hung in the air, a declaration of priority. Without waiting for further permission, Daon turned. He walked to the sideboard where a servant had already prepared a tray of food for Eunjae. He picked it up, his movements deliberate and final.
He left the dining room, carrying the tray upstairs, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. Mr. Lee stared after him, his mouth slightly agape, the first cracks appearing in his absolute authority. Daon had chosen. And he had chosen Eunjae.
Mr. Lee sat in simmering silence after Daon's departure. The image of his son—usually so disciplined, so obedient—openly prioritizing his husband's well-being over his father's authority was a profound shock. It was a crack in the foundation of his control. His eyes flicked to Taekyun, who was staring blankly at his congealing food, a portrait of detached misery.
A cold dread coiled in Mr. Lee's stomach. What if that brat Eunjae takes my son away from me completely? The thought was intolerable. Today it was skipping a lecture to bring him breakfast; what would it be tomorrow? Defying a direct order? Leaving the company? He clenched his jaw, his mind already whirring with strategies to reassert his dominance, to drive a wedge between Daon and the disruptive influence of his spouse. He would not let his heir be stolen.
The tense silence was broken by Taekyun. Seeking to divert his father's brewing storm, he grasped for the most neutral topic he could find. "Father," he began, his voice flat. "The dinner tonight. With the Choi family. Regarding Taemin's… match. What are the arrangements?"
Mr. Lee was pulled from his dark thoughts. He took a moment, composing himself. "We will leave at seven," he stated, his tone returning to its usual commanding bark. "Punctuality is paramount. I will not have us appear disrespectful."
Taekyun gave a curt nod. "Understood. I will ensure Taemin is ready." It was a duty, a task to focus on, something to momentarily eclipse the worry for Rinwoo and the confusing turmoil in his own chest.
With a final, displeased grunt, Mr. Lee stood and left the dining room, his plans for dealing with Eunjae taking concrete shape in his mind.
Alone, Taekyun released a heavy sigh, dropping his head into his hands. A dull throb had taken root behind his temples, a physical manifestation of the chaos—Rinwoo's collapse, his father's fury, the mysterious threat that had caused it all. He pushed his untouched plate away and stood, his own appetite nonexistent. He needed the sterile, predictable environment of his office. He needed to work, to control something, anything.
---
Upstairs, Taemin was finally deep in an exhausted sleep, the stress of the previous night finally overriding his anxiety. His phone, left on vibrate on his nightstand, buzzed insistently. Once, twice. On the third buzz, his hand flailed out, grabbing it blindly. He squinted at the screen, his brain foggy with sleep.
Head of Security.
The name jolted him awake. He sat up quickly, answering the call. "What is it? Did you find something?"
The voice on the other end was tense, urgent. "Young Master Taemin. We've reviewed the traffic camera footage from the streets surrounding the estate at the estimated time. We found the vehicle. A black sedan. We tracked its route. It went to a VIP restaurant downtown. The Golden Pheasant."
Taemin's heart began to race. "And? Who got out? Who was he with?"
There was a pause. "That's the problem, Sir. The restaurant's private parking entrance has no public camera coverage. The car entered, and we lost it. We have no visual on who Young Master Rinwoo met there."
Taemin's hope deflated as quickly as it had risen. A dead end. But it was a location. A place to start.
"Send me the address," Taemin said, his voice grim. "Now."
The air in Rinwoo's room was still and heavy, thick with worry. Eunjae sat slumped in the chair he'd barely left, his eyes fixed on Rinwoo's unnervingly pale face. The tray of food Daon had brought sat untouched on the nightstand.
"Eunjae, you need to eat something," Daon said, his voice a low, persistent rumble of concern. He'd been trying for the last ten minutes.
"I'm not hungry," Eunjae murmured, not tearing his gaze away from Rinwoo. His voice was hollow, devoid of its usual dramatic flair.
Daon watched him, his own frustration and fear mounting. He couldn't fix Rinwoo, but he could damn well take care of Eunjae. He moved to stand directly in front of the chair, blocking Eunjae's view of the bed. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, Eunjae's eyes lifted to meet his. They were red-rimmed and exhausted.
"If you don't eat," Daon stated, his tone leaving no room for argument, "then how are you going to have the energy to take care of him? Hmm? Who else is going to sit here and make sure he's okay? You have to stay strong for him."
The logic was sound, but Eunjae's despair ran deeper. He looked down again, shaking his head. "I'm serious, Daon. I have no appetite. I can't."
Daon let out a long, slow sigh. Reasoning wasn't working. He looked at the stubborn set of Eunjae's jaw, the way his shoulders were hunched in defeat. Without another word, Daon sat on the edge of the bed, right beside Eunjae's chair. He picked up the bowl of warm soup from the tray.
He scooped up a spoonful and held it out to Eunjae's lips.
Eunjae's eyes widened in surprise, then he frowned, turning his head away. "What are you doing? I said I'm not—"
"Eunjae," Daon's voice cut in, sharp and commanding. It was the Vice President voice, the one that expected to be obeyed. "Eat."
He held the spoon steady, his gaze unwavering.
Eunjae glared at him for a moment, a flicker of his old defiance returning. But the fight was weak. The sight of the spoon, Daon's unexpected, stubborn care… it chipped away at his resistance. With a resigned, barely audible sigh, he reluctantly parted his lips.
Daon carefully fed him the spoonful of soup.
He did it again. And again. In stubborn, silent, spoonfuls, Daon managed to get him to eat. It wasn't about hunger; it was about sustenance. It was a ritual of care, a quiet promise that even when one of them was breaking, the other would be there to hold the pieces together, one stubborn spoonful at a time.
Taemin's motorcycle screeched to a halt in front of The Golden Pheasant, the engine's roar a blatant violation of the restaurant's hushed, luxurious aura. He'd blown through every red light, his conversation with the security head replaying in his mind. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
He stormed inside, the sleek, modern decor doing nothing to calm his frayed nerves. He marched straight up to the hostess stand, where a poised woman in a sharp black suit—the manager—was reviewing a reservation book.
"I need to speak with you. Now," Taemin demanded, his voice tight with urgency.
The manager looked up, her expression professionally neutral but firm. "How may I help you, Sir?"
"Yesterday afternoon. A black sedan. Who was the guest in the private dining room? I need to know who they met."
The manager's smile was polite but icy. "I'm afraid that is confidential guest information, Sir. We value our patrons' privacy above all else." Her tone made it clear this was non-negotiable.
Taemin's patience, already thin, snapped. "Look, I don't care about your privacy policy! This is important! A member of my family is in the hospital because of whoever was here! Name your price. I'll pay it. Just tell me who it was!"
Her expression didn't flicker. "There is no price, Sir. Now, if you will not be dining, I must ask you to leave. You are disturbing the ambiance."
Taemin was about to explode, ready to cause a scene that would definitely get him thrown out, when the main doors swung open again.
All conversation in the restaurant's foyer momentarily ceased.
Mingyu entered, and his entry was nothing short of dramatic. He was Taemin's oldest friend, and he operated on an entirely different frequency. Where Taemin was all restless energy and impulsive action, Mingyu was calculated, magnetic confidence. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored designer suit that screamed old money and new influence, his sunglasses pushed up on his head despite the indoor lighting. He moved with a lazy, predatory grace that instantly commanded the room.
His eyes scanned the tense scene—Taemin looking like he was two seconds from vaulting the hostess stand, and the manager standing her ground with frosty resolve.
A slow, charming smile spread across Mingyu's face as he ambled over. He completely ignored Taemin for a moment, focusing all his considerable charm on the manager.
"Well, hello," he purred, his voice a smooth, deep baritone. He leaned an elbow casually on the hostess stand, invading her space in a way that was somehow appealing rather than offensive. "Having a bit of a problem here?"
The manager, who had been a stone wall for Taemin, blinked, a faint blush touching her cheeks. "This gentleman is demanding private guest information," she said, her voice noticeably less icy.
Mingyu chuckled, a rich, warm sound. He finally glanced at Taemin. "Ah, him. Don't mind my little friend here. He's all bark." He turned his full wattage smile back on the manager. "But you see, his problem is my problem. And I really hate having problems."
He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "How about we make this problem disappear? For everyone." His meaning was clear, backed by the unspoken weight of his family's name and his own formidable presence.
Where Taemin's offer of money had been a blunt instrument, Mingyu's approach was a scalpel. He wasn't buying information; he was offering a mutually beneficial end to an unpleasant situation. The manager looked from Mingyu's compelling gaze to Taemin's desperate one, the fortress of her professionalism beginning to crack under the force of a charm offensive she was utterly unprepared for.
The manager's professional resolve didn't just crack; it vaporized. Under the heat of Mingyu's thousand-watt smile, she became a puddle of goo. While Mingyu was casually suggesting making problems disappear, she subtly slid a cocktail napkin across the hostess stand. On it, written in elegant script, was her phone number.
"For… for any further inquiries," she said, her voice suddenly a breathy octave higher. She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes fixed on the first three buttons of Mingyu's shirt, which were conveniently—or strategically—undone.
Mingyu's smirk widened. He slowly slid his sunglasses down his nose just enough to peer over the rims, giving her a deliberate, appreciative once-over that made her grip the reservation book a little tighter. "I'll be sure to inquire… thoroughly," he purred, pocketing the napkin with a fluid motion. "You know, I'm a very impatient man. What are you doing tonight? My club could use a woman with such… impeccable taste."
The other staff members, who were pretending to be very busy, were in fact not busy at all. A young busboy dropped a spoon with a clatter, his mouth agape. A waitress was fanning herself with a menu.
Taemin, who was vibrating with impatience next to his ridiculously effective friend, had had enough. He reached out and pinched Mingyu's side, hard.
"Yowch!" Mingyu yelped, his suave persona breaking for a second. He rubbed his side and shot Taemin a dramatic, wounded pout. "Rude. I'm conducting important business here."
"The business is my brother's potential murderer, not your dating life!" Taemin hissed through gritted teeth.
Mingyu sighed, as if greatly put upon. "Fine, fine. Always so dramatic." He turned his attention back to the manager, who looked disappointed the flirtation was over. "Darling, the information? The private room? Yesterday?"
Slightly dazed but now compliant, the manager didn't even hesitate. She flipped open the reservation book, her finger tracing down the page. "The Jasmine Room. It was booked under the name…" she squinted, "…Jake. No surname. Paid in cash."
The name hit the air. Jake.
Taemin's eyes widened. He didn't know a Jake. But it was a name. A real, concrete lead.
Mingyu, ever the opportunist, gave the manager a final, dazzling smile. "You've been perfect. I'll call you." He winked.
Then, he slung an arm around a stunned Taemin's shoulders and steered him toward the exit, leaving a star-struck restaurant staff in their wake.
"Jake," Taemin muttered, the name feeling foreign and dangerous on his tongue.
"See?" Mingyu said, adjusting his sunglasses as they stepped back into the sunlight. "All you needed was a little charm and a few open buttons. Now, who the hell is Jake?"
Taemin's mind was a frantic Rolodex of business rivals, disgruntled ex-employees, and anyone who might hold a grudge against the Lee family. Jake. Jake. Jake. The name drew a complete blank. It was too common, too anonymous.
Frustrated, he turned to his walking, talking solution to all problems involving the opposite sex. "Mingyu," he said, his voice tight. "Go back in there. Use your… charms. We need the security footage from their VIP parking lot. We need to see this Jake's face."
Mingyu, who had been preening slightly from his earlier success, let out a long, suffering sigh. He sauntered closer to Taemin, closing the distance until he was way inside Taemin's personal space. He pressed a hand against Taemin's chest, his expression a masterpiece of faux hurt.
"Yah, Taemin-ah," he purred, his voice dropping. "I helped you for free. I didn't even get to sleep with her. Or," his eyes glinted with mischief, "with you. And now you want more favors? My charm is a limited resource, you know."
Taemin's eye twitched. He shoved Mingyu's hand away, glaring. "This isn't the time for your fun and games, you idiot! This is serious!"
Mingyu pouted, a spectacularly exaggerated expression on his handsome face. "You're no fun anymore. All work and no play makes Taemin a dull boy." He sighed dramatically, straightening his suit jacket. "Fine. But you owe me. Big time. And I'm collecting." With a final, lingering smirk, he turned and strutted back into the restaurant, ready to deploy his weapons-grade charm once more.
---
Across the city, in the sterile quiet of his corporate office, Taekyun found himself in a rare and unsettling situation. He was staring at his phone.
The screen was dark. No new notifications. No texts. No missed calls.
It had been over twenty-four hours since he'd issued his ultimatum to Yuna. And for the first time in their entire tumultuous relationship, there was only silence.
No angry rants. No tearful, manipulative pleas. No pouting selfies. Nothing.
A deep frown etched itself onto Taekyun's face. Is she… mad at me? The thought was so foreign it was almost laughable. Yuna didn't get mad; she performed anger to get what she wanted. She'd never just… gone quiet.
Her silence was more disconcerting than any of her dramatic outbursts. It felt calculated. Ominous. It was a deviation from the script he knew, and in Taekyun's controlled world, any deviation was a potential threat. He tossed his phone onto the desk, the silence from it suddenly feeling louder than any ringtone.
The security office of The Golden Pheasant was a small, cramped room, a stark contrast to the restaurant's opulent dining area. The manager, now completely under Mingyu's spell, stood guard at the door, shooing away any curious staff with a flick of her wrist.
Inside, Mingyu leaned over the shoulder of a flustered security technician, his presence making the man sweat more than the complex console of monitors. "A little to the left, darling," Mingyu purred, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at a screen. "We're looking for a certain... Jake."
Taemin paced behind them, a live wire of impatient energy. "Just find the car. Black sedan. Yesterday afternoon."
After several minutes of fast-forwarding through hours of bland footage of luxury cars coming and going, the technician finally paused the tape. "There. That's the one you described."
On the screen, a black sedan pulled into a secluded spot in the VIP lot. The driver's door opened.
A man got out. He was tall, decently built, with a cocky swagger. He adjusted his jacket—a flashy, expensive brand—and ran a hand through his hair. This was Jake.
A moment later, the passenger door opened. Rinwoo emerged, hesitant, his body language screaming anxiety. He looked small and vulnerable next to Jake's confident posture. Jake said something, gesturing toward the restaurant's private entrance, and Rinwoo followed him inside.
"That's him," Taemin breathed, his blood running cold. He didn't recognize the guy at all. "Stop there. Zoom in. On his face."
The technician zoomed in, the image pixelating slightly but Jake's features were clear enough.
Taemin didn't wait another second. He pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the screen, and turned on his heel. "I've got it."
"Taemin-ah, wait!" Mingyu called, but Taemin was already shoving past the lovestruck manager and storming out of the room, his mind racing, the image of the smug stranger burned into his brain.
Mingyu sighed, then turned his megawatt smile back on the manager and the technician. "Thank you for your... invaluable assistance." He leaned down, and with a theatrical flourish, planted a quick, firm kiss on the manager's cheek.
She let out a small, startled squeak, her hand flying to her cheek as a deep flush spread from her face down her neck. She stood frozen, trembling slightly, as Mingyu gave her a final wink and strolled out of the room after his friend, leaving chaos and a very flustered manager in his wake. The security technician just stared, his mouth hanging open. It was the most exciting shift he'd ever had.
The photo of "Jake" was a digital wanted poster, blasted to every discreet contact Taemin and Mingyu had. The hunt was on, but it was a waiting game, and Taemin was terrible at waiting. He was pacing the sidewalk outside the restaurant, running on fumes and pure adrenaline, his empty stomach growling in protest.
Mingyu, leaning against his obscenely expensive car, watched him with a mix of amusement and concern. "Taemin-ah, you're going to wear a hole in the concrete. Either eat something or get in the car and I'll take you home to rest. You look like death warmed over."
Taemin barely heard him. His phone buzzed. He snatched it up. It wasn't news about Jake. It was Juwon.
Juwon: You have to visit me today. Or else. >:(
The simple, bratty text was an anchor in his chaotic storm. A demand for normalcy. For them. He stared at the screen, the image of the mysterious Jake warring with the image of Juwon's pout.
He made a decision. He looked up at Mingyu, his expression shifting from frantic to determined. "I have to make a stop first."
Mingyu raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Oh? More investigating?"
"No," Taemin said, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips for the first time all day. "I have to go see my 'or else'." He hopped on his motorcycle, revving the engine. "Let me know the second you hear anything!"
And with that, he peeled away, not toward another clue, but toward the one person who could calm the hurricane inside him.
---
Back at the Lee estate, the atmosphere in Rinwoo's room had shifted from worried stillness to acute concern. A fever had spiked, painting Rinwoo's pale skin with an unhealthy flush. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his breathing had become shallow and rapid.
Eunjae, who had refused to leave his side, was gently wiping Rinwoo's face and neck with a cool, damp cloth. His own exhaustion was forgotten, replaced by a nurse's focused intensity.
"Shhh, it's okay," he murmured, though Rinwoo couldn't hear him. "You're okay."
But Rinwoo wasn't okay. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes moved frantically. His brow was furrowed in deep distress, and soft, pained whimpers escaped his lips. He was trapped in the throes of a vicious nightmare, reliving the devastating meeting with Yuna, the cruel words, the damning photographs—his mind tormented by the betrayal his unconscious body was now burning up to fight off. Eunjae could only watch and try to soothe the surface of a deep, invisible wound.
Juwon's office, usually a space of sleek, modern efficiency, felt different with Taemin in it. Taemin was perched on the edge of Juwon's expensive desk, a takeout container of noodles in his trembling hands. He was shoveling food into his mouth like a man who hadn't eaten in days, which wasn't far from the truth, but his movements were jerky, fueled by residual adrenaline and stress.
Juwon hadn't said a word about the "or else." He just sat in his chair, rolled close to the desk, watching Taemin with a deep, worried frown. He could see the exhaustion etched into every line of Taemin's body, the way his hands wouldn't stay still.
"Hey," Juwon said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet only broken by Taemin's frantic eating. "Slow down. You're going to make yourself sick."
Taemi barely nodded, not stopping, his eyes distant, seeing something else—Rinwoo's pale face, the CCTV footage, the mysterious Jake.
Seeing the sweat beading on Taemin's temple, Juwon reached out. With a tenderness he reserved for no one else, he gently brushed the damp hair from Taemin's forehead, his thumb softly wiping away the perspiration there.
The simple, caring touch finally broke through Taemin's frantic haze. He stopped eating, his hands stilling around the container. He looked down at Juwon, really looked at him, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes, and the last of his tough facade crumbled.
He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. "It's just… a lot, Juwon-ah," he whispered, his voice raw.
Juwon didn't press for details. He just kept his hand on Taemin's forehead, a cool, steadying presence. "I know," he murmured. "Just breathe. Finish your food. I'm right here."
In the safety of Juwon's office, with his comforting touch grounding him, Taemin finally allowed himself a moment to stop, to just be, the storm inside him quieting to a manageable rumble.