Trapped in Doyoon's studio, Taewoo sat rigidly on a stool, his face a perfect mask of exhausted, long-suffering patience.
"Perfect! That 'my soul is slowly dying' expression is exactly what I need for chapter seventy-three!" Doyoon muttered, his pencil a frantic blur. "Now, tilt your head down slightly. Look haunted by a past you can't escape."
"I am haunted by the past," Taewoo deadpanned. "Specifically, the last forty minutes of my life I'm never getting back. I'm done."
He stood up abruptly, the stool scraping loudly against the floor. "I'm tired. And I'm leaving."
"Wait! I just need one more pose! The 'tragic confrontation in the rain' scene!"
But Taewoo was already out the door, his brother's pleading cries fading behind him. He stormed into the hallway, only to collide with a wall of expensive perfume and silent disapproval.
His mother, Kang Yoonhee, stood with her arms crossed, a living statue of elegant expectation. She had been waiting for him.
"Ah, there you are," she said, her voice cool. Before he could utter a word, her hand shot out, fingers expertly grabbing the fabric of his shirt at the nape of his neck. It was a move that spoke of a childhood filled with similar maternal intercepts.
"There is a business dinner tonight with Chairman Kim of Mirae Group. You are coming."
Taewoo's face crumpled into a look of pure, unadulterated despair. "Eomma, no. Please. I don't want to go to another one of those stuffy, fake-smile gatherings."
"He is bringing his son," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken, steering him down the hall with an iron grip disguised as a gentle touch. "That is why I am bringing you. It's networking. It's polite. Now, go change into the navy suit. The one that makes you look less like you just survived a zombie apocalypse."
An hour later, scrubbed and forcibly groomed, Taewoo stood in the foyer. The suit did, as promised, transform him. It accentuated the broad line of his shoulders, the narrow cut of his waist, turning his usual disheveled handsomeness into something sharp and formidable.
His mother's critical gaze softened into approval. "There's my boy."
In the back of the sleek sedan, Taewoo slumped against the window, a prince in a gilded cage. "How long will this take?" he grumbled.
"As long as it needs to," Yoonhee said, checking her reflection in a compact. "Be polite. Make conversation. It's just dinner, Taewoo, not an execution."
"Debatable," he sighed, watching the city lights blur past.
The restaurant was the epitome of exclusive opulence—all muted gold, dark wood, and hushed voices. Guards in black suits opened doors with silent efficiency. They were led to a private dining hall where a large, round table was already surrounded by power.
Taewoo recognized the faces from financial news segments and society pages: chairmen, chairwomen, and their impeccably dressed heirs, a sea of calculated smiles and assessing glances.
"Oh, Mrs. Kang! Over here, please!" a woman in a silk hanbok called out.
Yoonhee glided over, her own smile switching on like a spotlight. "Chairwoman Park, so lovely to see you." She subtly gestured for Taewoo to sit in the empty seat beside her.
He moved to obey, but a large, warm hand was suddenly on the back of the designated chair, pulling it out for him. Taewoo looked up, startled.
The man holding the chair was not Chairman Kim's son. He was a stranger—tall, with an imposing frame that his own exquisite suit couldn't soften. His features were sharp, almost severe, and his eyes were the color of a winter sea: a clear, chilling grey. They held no warmth, only a cold, detached curiosity as they swept over Taewoo.
"Is this your eldest?" the man asked Yoonhee, his voice a low baritone that seemed to vibrate in the quiet space between them.
"No, this is my youngest, Taewoo. A doctor," she replied sweetly, though her eyes flickered with a hint of uncertainty.
"A doctor," the man repeated, the word sounding like a foreign concept on his tongue. He finally released the chair and took his own seat directly opposite Taewoo.
The dinner was a torturous parade of courses and hollow chatter about market trends and overseas investments. Taewoo kept his head down, focusing on his food, building a mental countdown until he could escape. Just eat. Be invisible. Leave.
A crystal glass of deep red wine was placed beside his water goblet. He hadn't ordered it. Taewoo looked up and found the grey-eyed man watching him. Not smiling. Just… watching. A strange, heavy silence seemed to wrap around their two seats, muting the rest of the table's noise.
Who is this guy?
The man stood suddenly, placing a simple black business card on the tablecloth next to Taewoo's plate. "Excuse me," he said to the table at large, and left without another word.
Heart thumping oddly, Taewoo glanced down. The card was embossed with a stark, elegant font: Dante Moretti. No title. No company. Just a name.
He flipped it over. On the back, in the same sharp script, was a handwritten command:
Come to the hallway. Now.
A jolt of alarm, mixed with indignation, shot through him. The audacity. He ignored it, slipping the card into his pocket and returning to his lamb cutlet as if nothing had happened.
Two minutes later, a waiter serving petit fours discreetly slid another identical card onto his saucer.
Taewoo's blood ran cold. This wasn't a request; it was a summons delivered with terrifying precision. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stood. "Please excuse me for a moment."
The hallway was empty and quiet, lined with abstract art. What the hell does this Dante Moretti want from me?
He turned a corner and collided hard with another waiter carrying a tray of empty wine glasses. The crash was spectacular. Icy red liquid soaked instantly through his white shirt and the front of his suit jacket.
"S-Sir! I am so, so sorry!" the waiter stammered, horrified.
Rage, hot and bright, flared inside Taewoo. This suit! This godforsaken night! But years of bedside manner clamped down on the emotion. He forced his lips into a gentle curve, his voice into a soft, reassuring murmur. "It's quite alright. Accidents happen. Please, don't trouble yourself."
The waiter bowed profusely before scurrying away. Taewoo looked down at the ruin of his clothes, the sticky wine already chilling against his skin. He needed to get to a restroom. As he shrugged out of the ruined jacket, his fingers caught on a massive, jagged pull in the silk lining of the right sleeve, running from the elbow down.
No. No, no, no. His brother's cat. He'd forgotten. The little menace must have done this days ago. A growl of pure frustration escaped him. Perfect. Just perfect.
He pushed into the luxurious, single-occupancy restroom and froze.
Dante Moretti was already there, leaning against the marble vanity as if he owned it. In his hand was a garment bag from a legendary Savile Row tailor.
"You want this, I assume," Dante said, his voice flat. He held out the bag.
Taewoo's shock curdled into suspicion. "How did you know my jacket was ruined?"
A flicker of something—amusement?—passed through those cold grey eyes. "I have a good eye for detail." He took a step closer. The air in the room grew thinner. "The wine was an unfortunate coincidence. The damaged lining was not."
This man was dangerous. The instinct screamed in Taewoo's head, louder than any Alpha command he'd ever sensed. He said nothing, moving to the sink to rinse the worst of the wine from his hands and chest. Behind him, he heard the soft click of the main door locking.
His head snapped around. "What are you doing?"
Dante didn't answer, just gestured again to the garment bag. "Change."
Feeling trapped and off-balance, Taewoo snatched the bag. He turned his back, pulling off his stained shirt. The cool air of the room hit his skin. He felt, rather than saw, Dante's gaze sweep over him—clinical, appraising. Then it stopped, zeroing in on a point just above his hip.
Taewoo froze, his blood turning to ice. The tattoo.
He heard a soft, almost inaudible sound—a faint intake of breath that wasn't quite surprise. It was recognition.
He yanked the fresh, crisp shirt from the bag and pulled it on with hurried, clumsy motions. He could feel Dante's eyes burning into his back even through the fabric. He didn't dare turn around until he was fully dressed in the new suit—a flawless, charcoal grey masterpiece that fit him better than his own.
"Thank you," Taewoo forced out, his voice tight. He finally met Dante's gaze. The man's expression was still an unreadable, cold mask, but now there was a new intensity in it, a dark, knowing glint that made Taewoo's skin crawl.
Dante simply nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. Oho, his eyes seemed to say. So it's you.
Taewoo fled.
He was almost back to the dining hall, his mind reeling, when a small, delicate figure stepped into his path.
"T-Taewoo-ssi?"
It was Chairman Kim's son, Minjun. A gentle-faced Omega Taewoo vaguely remembered from a charity event years ago. He looked pale and anxious.
"Oh, Minjun-ssi. Good to see you."
"C-Can you help me?" Minjun whispered, his eyes darting nervously.
"Help? With what?"
Minjun's gaze shifted over Taewoo's shoulder and his face drained of all remaining color. He took a frantic step back. "N-Never mind! It's nothing! Enjoy your evening!"
He scurried away like a startled rabbit. Puzzled, Taewoo turned.
Dante Moretti stood a few paces behind him, having followed him out. He wasn't looking at Taewoo. He was watching Minjun disappear, his expression that of a predator who had just seen a particularly timid rabbit flee. Then his grey eyes slid back to Taewoo, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips—a smile that held no warmth, only a silent, possessive threat.
They returned to the table together. Taewoo took his seat, hyper-aware of the new suit, of the card burning in his pocket, of the man opposite him who knew a secret he shouldn't.
From the head of the table, Chairman Kim, a friend of Taewoo's father, noticed the change. His eyes flicked from Taewoo's original, wine-stained jacket now absent, to the impeccable new suit, then to the imposing figure of Dante Moretti. A deep, thoughtful frown settled on his face, but he said nothing.
The silence from that end of the table was louder than any business deal being brokered.