POV: Yoon Sae-ri
The cameras loved them.
They always had.
Sae-ri stood beside Ji-won as flashes went off like firecrackers, the lenses capturing every inch of her silk dress, every movement of her manicured fingers as she adjusted the clutch in her hand. She wore white tonight—a floor-length gown with a slit high enough to hint at the thigh-high boots beneath it. Always boots. Always hiding.
Her hair was swept up in soft waves, a diamond ear cuff glinting on one ear. Her makeup flawless.
She smiled like a woman who had nothing to hide.
Ji-won was a storm in a black suit.
His arm curled lightly around her waist, fingertips brushing the cutout just above her hip. His other hand lifted briefly in a wave to the media. He gave them his softest smile—warm, elegant, sincere.
He looked like he was born for the camera.
But Sae-ri felt it—the pressure of his thumb, the exact rhythm of his breathing. Ji-won wasn't calm. He was coiled. His touch was a warning, his body language a fortress around her.
He'd seen the guest list.
So had she.
Cha Hye-rin was here.
The intern-turned-investment strategist who once smiled too long at Ji-won in a boardroom, then drunkenly posted a photo of him in a private lounge three days after the miscarriage. The caption had been short: Should've been me.
The photo didn't show them touching. But Sae-ri still remembered vomiting when she saw it. The thought of anyone else even near him in that time—when she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak—
Ji-won's grip on her waist tightened as if he felt the spike of emotion in her chest.
"You're doing well," he murmured, voice low and meant only for her.
"I'm pretending well," she whispered back.
He smiled for the cameras.
"I know," he said softly. "But they can't tell the difference."
---
Inside, the ballroom was crystal and gold. Chandeliers glittered like frozen stars, and the scent of roses hung heavy in the air.
Everyone wanted a piece of them.
Businessmen greeted Ji-won with half-bows and handshakes. Socialites fluttered around Sae-ri, complimenting her skin, her weight, her dress. One woman leaned in, lips painted deep plum.
"You're glowing lately," she said. "Trying again, maybe?"
Sae-ri smiled without showing her teeth.
"No," she said. "Just fucking regularly."
The woman laughed like it was a joke.
It wasn't.
---
Across the ballroom, Ji-won was speaking to the Minister of Finance when he glanced over and caught Sae-ri's eyes.
One second.
That was all it took.
Her shoulders were stiff. Her jaw set. Her fingers dug too tightly into her champagne flute.
He excused himself.
By the time he reached her, she was walking toward the corridor that led to the rooftop terrace. He followed without a word, ignoring the people who stared as the golden couple disappeared behind a set of double glass doors.
---
The night air hit her first—cool, clean, high above Seoul's glittering skyline. She braced herself against the railing, fingers white around the iron.
Ji-won closed the door behind them.
"I'm fine," she said before he could speak.
"No," he said, stepping behind her. "You're not."
"I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I smiled at the bitch who asked if I was pregnant again."
"Then why are you shaking?"
His hand came up to cup the side of her neck. His body pressed against her back. He was warm. Solid.
And dangerous.
"You want me to ruin it?" he whispered. "Make them see what you look like when you fall apart for me?"
"Don't tempt me."
"Oh, I'm not tempting," he said. "I'm warning."
She turned in his arms, grabbing his collar.
Her voice dropped, sharp and low. "I hate pretending."
"I know."
"I hate her."
"I'll make sure she never breathes in your direction again."
Sae-ri's lips curved.
"Good," she said, voice tight with something hot and poisonous. "Because I might lose it next time."
He looked at her like she was beautiful in her rage.
Then he kissed her.
Hard. Deep. On a rooftop where anyone could've seen. One hand on her jaw, the other on her waist, possessive and raw. Her champagne flute shattered on the tile.
"You're mine," he growled into her mouth.
"I never stopped being."
---
Inside – 10 minutes later
They walked back into the ballroom looking more perfect than ever.
Her lipstick was reapplied. His hair a little more tousled. Her smile lazy and satisfied.
He didn't let go of her waist once.
People whispered.
Let them.