Title: The Public Anchor
The day was a whirlwind of meetings and interviews, all orchestrated with Bok Soo's flawless, professional control. I was constantly running, managing logistics, and enduring Ms. Kim's sharp instructions. Every time I passed Bok Soo, he would find a way to exert his silent, possessive claim—a brush of the hand against my lower back, a lingering look that said I know what we did.
That evening was the biggest event of the New York trip: a massive, televised charity gala.
Bok Soo's team insisted I dress formally for the event. Back in my room, I found a large, flat box waiting for me. Inside was a gown—a sheer, midnight-blue silk dress that draped and clung in all the right places. It wasn't the kind of dress a modest assistant should wear. It was the kind of dress that screamed confidence and sex appeal. A note lay beneath it, signed with a sharp, possessive 'B':
Wear this. You need to look the part of my anchor.
I stared at my reflection, fully dressed. The dress exposed just enough—a deep slit up one leg, a curve-hugging bodice. I was undeniably sexy and beautiful in it, but the overwhelming lack of self-confidence made me feel exposed and terrified. I hated that he had chosen something so daring, but I knew I had no choice. This was his command.
When I stepped into Bok Soo's main suite, his entire team went silent. Ms. Kim's jaw dropped.
Bok Soo was standing by the window, already immaculate in his tuxedo. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto me. The professional mask cracked slightly; a raw, possessive heat flared in his dark gaze.
He didn't speak to me. He spoke to Ms. Kim. "Perfect. She'll do."
He treated me like an object of exquisite art, publicly validating my beauty in the cruelest, most effective way possible.
The GalaThe ballroom was an ocean of flashing lights and wealth. I tried to stick to the edges, clutching a small clutch bag, but the dress made me a magnet. I felt eyes on me everywhere, a terrifying contrast to my own insecurity.
Suddenly, I felt a change in the atmosphere near Bok Soo. He was surrounded by reporters, answering questions flawlessly, but I saw the subtle signs I now knew so well: his jaw was clenched, his fingers were twitching near his side, and his eyes were darting too quickly. The pressure of the huge crowd and the cameras was triggering an anxiety flare-up.
He needed his anchor.
Without a word, he broke away from the reporters and walked directly toward me, not stopping until he was so close I could feel the silk of his jacket brush against the bare skin of my shoulder.
He didn't grab my hand. He didn't speak a command. He pressed his back against the velvet curtain, pulling me tight into the small, secluded space, using his body to shield us from the cameras.
He reached down and grabbed my hand, not in a professional gesture, but with a desperate, crushing intensity. He pulled my hand up, placing it flat against the center of his chest, directly over his racing heart.
His heart was hammering wildly against my palm, a frantic, rapid beat that betrayed his smooth exterior.
"Anchor," he whispered, his voice ragged, his breathing shallow. "Just hold me."
The simple, direct command was terrifying. I looked up and saw pure fear in his eyes.
I immediately forgot the sexy dress, the public gaze, and my self-doubt. I focused only on his need. I pressed my hand harder against his chest, transferring the calm rhythm I had learned to use on myself.
"Breathe, Bok Soo," I coached, my voice a steady whisper. "In for four, out for eight. Focus on my hand. You are safe. You are here with me."
He closed his eyes, leaning his head down until his forehead rested against mine. This was the most vulnerable he had ever been in public—relying entirely on my physical stability to keep his sanity intact.
He didn't kiss me. He didn't flirt. But his possessive hands wrapped around mine, trapping it over his heart, accepting the physical and emotional intimacy I offered.
After a long minute, his breathing slowed. He inhaled deeply, the scent of my hair and the rich silk of my dress filling his lungs.
He pulled his head back, his eyes dark with relief and a profound, possessive gratitude. He released my hand, but his eyes dropped to the exposed curve of my waist, tracing the line of the sexy dress with a look that was pure, possessive desire.
He had exposed me, made me the most attractive woman in the room, then used my proximity to save himself.
"You look exactly like I envisioned, Peter Bella," he murmured, his voice husky. "Now, let's go. We have a show to run."
He stepped away, his facade rebuilt, leaving me shaky and reeling from the intense, silent exchange. He had used my beauty to command attention, and my heart to stabilize his own. The depth of our secret bond was terrifying.