Aira's heels clicked on the floor as she walked down the neon-lit hallway, her gaze down low like a guilty ghost, a bucket and a mop in hand. Lisa, a performer in the club, walked beside her, tense, sensing the suffocating silence weighing over them. The memory of the man's caress on her skin burned more brightly than the neon lights above. It wasn't pain—it was a memory drawn from the bottom of her past, a recollection of every time she had ever been small, powerless, and violated. The weight of revulsion squeezed her lungs with each step.
She clenched her fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms. She couldn't keep from shivering as the cold ran down her spine, but she persisted anyhow. Her heels carried her to the room she had run out of earlier, the room in which she had lost her dignity, the room whose scent was faintly that of cigar smoke and nasty silk sheets.
"You are finally back," a deep voice boomed, like distant thunder rolled up from the bed. She looked up, stomach knotting. He lay sprawled across the queen-sized bed, the silk robe half undone, a cigar dangling precariously from his mouth. His potbelly rose high under the dim lights, surrounded by scattered hundred-dollar bills that had long lost any semblance of value except as symbols of power. The stench of cigars mixed with sweat and arrogance hung in the air.
Aira swallowed, her gaze lowering involuntarily to the floor. Memories of his earlier advance to rape her gnawed at her belly. She did not wish to relive the experience, but Madam Wong's instruction to clean the room had left her no choice.
He rose from the bed, moving slowly and deliberately. "Don't be a bitch! Play with me, come on, and I'll pay you well to do it," he snarled, placing heavy hands on her back. The pressure sent her jumping, but she suppressed the reaction, refusing to allow him an inch of triumph. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she suppressed them. She would not, could not, be weak in his presence.
Sir, please let me be able to do my work," she said, her voice trembling a little, yet she struggled to make it firm. Slowly, step by step, she went deeper into the room, placing the bucket at her feet and taking up the mop. The pressure of his eyes seemed to be stripping her naked, and for an instant, she wished to evaporate, to dissolve into the floor and be gone from the space.
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Park Choon-hee removed her robe, letting it fall to the floor in a rustle of silk. Standing before him in black lace lingerie, curves accented, confidence radiating—but Ha-joon saw nothing to admire. Not lust. Only annoyance and disgust.
What on earth do you think you're doing, Choon-hee?" he asked, his voice cold but steady. He turned away from her, offering her an ounce of dignity she seemed to willingly throw out the window for his sake.
But her fingers found him, warm and sweetly insistent on his back. "Don't I look pretty for you?" she purred, the voice a lullaby meant to enthrall. "Just touch me, once.".
She danced around him, swirling in until she stood in front of him, up on her toes. She grabbed for his tuxedo and kissed him. Ha-joon's eyes widened for a moment. He did not want this, never wanted her, but situations required he go along with it. His mother's visions were an invisible whip.
Reluctantly, he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her in. He kissed her back, and in his mind he scowled. She is a bad kisser. What the hell. The stupid bitch can't even kiss right.
He pulled her waist tightly. He swept her up off the floor without thought, her legs wrapping around him of their own accord as he pushed her onto the bed, a mechanical ceremony of obligation and not of desire. He shoved her onto the bed, unbuttoning his shirt with one motion, leaving it on the floor. With a hasty movement, her bra was unclasped, her breasts exposed to him. He reached into her lace panties.
A whimper escaped her lips. It would have affected him, but a spasm of revulsion swept over him instead. Her moaning irritated him also; it grated on the hard points of his patience. His inward sigh was deep, though his countenance never faltered.
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Mrs. Kim rested her head on the doorframe, a look of satisfaction playing at her lips. The sounds from inside—the whimpers, the moans, the squeaking of bodies—exactly what she had wanted. Her son had finally been forced to face his fiancée. Satisfied, she softly unlocked the door, permitting them to remain uninterrupted, and silently slipped out. Even the maids were instructed not to disturb them; this was something between the two of them, something owed to her mind for a very long time.
Mr. Kim, who had stood in the balcony, inhaled smoke into the evening air, his eyes taking in the throngs of city below. "What you are doing is wrong. I hope you know that," he whispered as Mrs. Kim entered the room.
"They are to be married. There is nothing wrong in them fulfilling their promises to each other, so please," she replied, brusque but measured.
He puffed out slowly, the pull of his cigarette dispelling the silence. It took several moments before he spoke. "The police inquired about a 28-year-old man by the name Do Kyung. He's being questioned. He's an accountant at Hyundai Mobis. He's been absent for three days."
Mrs. Kim furrowed her brows. "What's this to do with us?"
"Last seen," Mr. Kim continued, "was Friday morning. He left his pregnant wife and children to go to work but never returned. The police questioned our workers. The case remains under investigation. I reviewed the CCTV cameras around knock-off time. He did not head home right away; he worked for another two hours. When he left, outside of the compound, men in black walked him to a car. He appeared to leave voluntarily under coercion."
Mrs. Kim's hands froze midway through the turn, her eyes open in terror. "Where are you going with this?"
"They looked like one of Ha-joon's men. I wiped the record off the CCTV cameras, but the police will certainly look for clues. Ha-joon has started up again."
The room was quiet. Mrs. Kim's breathing suspended. "It can't be," she breathed.
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Behind closed doors in the mansion, Ha-joon's patience was thinning. Choon-hee moaned loudly as he labored behind her, not noticing her pretense of passion. Thirty minutes have gone by, and he has not caught so much as the hint of a spark of desire that she seemed to have gone out of her way to produce. Her third orgasm was short-lived, and he grew increasingly discontented. With a gruff expulsion of breath, he pulled out, denying her a fourth, leaving her drained and unsatisfied.
He moved toward the shower, standing under the blistering stream for what felt like an eternity. The water poured down on him, stripping away only his skin, but not dissolving the stiffness in his chest. Getting out of the shower, Choon-hee lay stretched across the bed, chest rising and falling, slipping into an uneasy sleep.
His phone called. He picked it up, listening in as the other party recited that Do Kyung's wife had filed a missing persons report and the police were combing the city.
"I'll handle it," he said, a low, controlled growl as he ended the call. He lit a cigarette, drawing in a long, slow drag, letting the smoke curl into the air. He looked at Choon-hee, asleep and exhausted, grimacing. The weight of the night's events pressed on him. He had no intention of repeating the act, not with her. It was a bitter, disappointing waste of time and energy.
He gathered up his clothes, registering with a slight surprise that the door was not shut. Without a backward glance at Choon-hee, he dressed and left the room, venturing out into the night, driving off to the relative sanctuary of his penthouse.