Chapter Text
The Business Standard
“Two Princes, One Crown.”
Byline: Mina Cho, Senior EditorWhen you think of South Korea’s next generation of power, two names stand alone: Jay Park, the urbane heir to Park Global, and Park Sunghoon, the silent prodigy steering Hoon Industries. One commands headlines with charm; the other, boardrooms with precision. Together, they’re shaping a corporate rivalry the markets call destiny and society calls entertainment.
Park Global represents luxury and leisure: hospitality chains, couture labels, music platforms. Jay, twenty-six, educated in the States, knows every camera angle and every politician’s favorite wine. His smile is a currency all its own.
Hoon Industries, in contrast, builds: steel, ships, and a reputation for discipline. Sunghoon Park, twenty-seven, is rarely photographed outside of conferences. Where Jay dazzles, Sunghoon delivers. Investors whisper they’re the same coin, opposite faces, waiting to collide.
And perhaps they already have.
Jay scrolled down, thumb dragging slow over the glass. The light from his tablet cut through the dim cabin of the jet, catching on the rim of his coffee cup and the brushed gold of his cufflinks. The world outside was a blur of night and cloud; the only sound was the low hum of engines and the occasional clink of silver against porcelain.
He’d read the article twice already. Maybe three times.
Not because he cared, he told himself, but because everyone else would. His father, the board, the vultures in PR. Every one of them watching to see whether he’d take the bait, whether he’d call the journalist, sue the paper, or post another glossy photo to prove he wasn’t bothered.
The photo at the top of the piece showed him at a gala: laughing, tux crisp, champagne flute half-raised like a scepter. He looked expensive, untouchable. Exactly as he was supposed to.
Next to him in the layout, smaller but sharper, was a shot of Park Sunghoon standing in a shipyard. Gray suit, wind-swept hair, steel towers behind him. The caption called him “a man born to lead.”
Jay huffed a quiet laugh. Born to lead. As if Sunghoon didn’t rehearse his frown for mirrors, too.
The headline gleamed at the top of the screen, smug as a crown: Two Princes, One Crown.
He leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out, the tablet balanced on his knee. “Cute,” he murmured under his breath, sipping his espresso.
Across the aisle, his assistant Jake glanced up from his laptop. “Sir?”
“Nothing.” Jay set the cup down with a soft click. “Just enjoying the morning propaganda.”
Jake smiled tightly. He was used to this. Jay’s blend of arrogance and fatigue, the performative carelessness that hid how closely he read every word written about him.
“It’s trending again, sir,” he said after a beat. “GoldenHeirs. Third time this month.”
Jay smirked. “Of course it is. People love to watch rich men pretend they matter.”
He flicked the screen off, but the words still hummed behind his eyes like neon afterimage. Opposite faces, waiting to collide.
He sank deeper into the leather seat, one arm draped over the armrest, gaze on the dark window. His reflection stared back. Perfect hair, perfect outfit, perfect life. Beneath it, a faint outline of clouds skimming by. He tapped his fingers against his knee, restless. He hated long flights. There was too much time to think.
When they landed in Busan, the tarmac glittered with heat. The cabin door opened and the noise rushed in, camera shutters, distant shouts, the faint tang of jet fuel mixing with salt air. Jay stepped out wearing sunglasses, navy suit, white shirt open at the collar. His watch caught the sunlight like a weapon.
He didn’t need to look to know they were there: the reporters, the fans, the random onlookers craning for a glimpse of a fortune they’d never touch. He could feel them; the way a shark feels current.
“Mr. Park! Over here! One photo!”
“Mr. Park, any comment on Hoon Industries’ expansion into real estate?”
“Do you see them as competition?”
Jay smiled slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that said I know exactly who I am.
He adjusted his cufflinks, pivoted toward the cameras, and let his voice carry. “I think imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, bright and shallow. Flashbulbs popped. A thousand digital hearts ignited. He was good at this. Too good. He kept walking, assistants flanking him, reporters calling his name like a hymn. Inside, he was already exhausted.
The SUV waiting on the runway was black and sleek, tinted windows polished to mirror-shine. When the door shut behind him, the noise cut off like a radio going dead.
“Schedule?” he asked, loosening his tie.
Jake scrolled on his tablet. “Board meeting at eleven, hotel inspection at two, interview at six. Dinner with the Busan Tourism Board at nine.”
Jay groaned, tipping his head back. “They do realize I’m human, right?”
Jake didn’t answer. He’d learned that “human” was more of a suggestion in this world.
As the car glided through the highway, Jay watched the coastline blur past: cranes, skyscrapers, white boats cutting through blue water. The world looked orderly from behind glass. Perfect lines, perfect timing. From this distance, you could almost believe it made sense.
His phone vibrated. A message from his father:
Good press this morning. Don’t comment on the article. Let the numbers speak.
Jay rolled his eyes, typed back a simple thumbs-up emoji, then tossed the phone onto the seat.
He knew his father didn’t care about the rivalry, not really. It was theater, and theater sold. Every time Jay’s name trended alongside Sunghoon’s, their company’s stock got a quiet, satisfying bump. The economy of ego.
At the hotel, staff lined up like soldiers as he walked in. All bowing, smiling, whispering his name. Jay moved through them with effortless grace, shaking hands, murmuring thanks, checking his reflection in the mirrored walls. His suite on the top floor overlooked the ocean. Floor-to-ceiling windows, champagne on ice, fresh flowers in the corner. A welcome note rested on the table, signed in looping gold ink.
He ignored it, slipped off his jacket, and collapsed onto the couch.
The silence felt heavy.
He scrolled through his phone again. News alerts, mentions, tagged photos, and the same article dissected across platforms.
Who would inherit Korea’s business throne? Jay Park vs. Park Sunghoon: the rivalry that could define a generation.
In one clip, a financial analyst said, “Jay’s the people’s prince, but Sunghoon’s the one building the castle.”
Jay laughed. “Poetic,” he muttered, tossing the phone aside.
Hours passed in meetings, rehearsed smiles, polite handshakes. By the time the interview rolled around, he was running on caffeine and charm.
The reporter, a young woman from a lifestyle magazine, leaned forward eagerly. “You and Park Sunghoon seem to represent two different philosophies. Competition or collaboration?”
Jay tilted his head, rehearsed ease sliding into place. “Depends who you ask. He thinks collaboration builds profit. I think competition builds character.”
“Would you collaborate with him?” she pressed.
He flashed a grin. “Only if he asked nicely.”
The studio laughed. The quote would headline by morning. He knew it.
When the lights dimmed and the cameras clicked off, Jay’s smile dropped. “Send them the final edit for approval,” he told Jake, already halfway out the door.
Jake nodded. “Of course, sir.”
The driver had offered to take him straight to the hotel, but Jay waved him off. “I’ll walk.” The door shut, and the limousine’s reflection slid down the wet street like ink.
He let the city swallow him whole. The air smelled of rain, cigarettes, and salt; the kind of scent that clung to expensive wool and cheap memories. His phone buzzed in his pocket, messages from assistants, headlines, noise. He didn’t look.
Neon signs pulsed across his skin in shifting colors: crimson, then blue, then violet. Each light reminded him of the flashes that haunted him all day, but these bulbs didn’t demand anything. They simply burned.
The bar he found was tucked into a narrow alley between two shuttered boutiques. The sign above the door flickered Blue Hour in cursive. Inside, the air was low and smoky, the kind of place where no one cared who you were as long as you tipped well.
He ordered whiskey with no ice. The bartender poured without comment, which Jay appreciated. For once, he wasn’t “Park Global’s heir”; he was just another man running from his own noise.
A song hummed through broken speakers. Someone laughed loud, drunk and unguarded. Jay’s eyes drifted toward the sound.
A man leaned against the wall, sleeves rolled up, hair too long for boardrooms. His laughter cut clean through the haze. He wasn’t beautiful in the polished way Jay was used to; he was beautiful in the kind of way that didn’t last.
Their eyes met once. Then again.
Jay lifted his glass slightly. The man nodded, like an unspoken dare.
They ended up at the bar together, side by side.
“First time here?” the man asked. His voice was rough, easy.
Jay swirled his drink. “Do I look that lost?”
“Not lost,” the man said. “Just... expensive.”
Jay smiled. “That’s a terrible line.”
“It worked, though.”
A pause. The song changed. Jay could feel the beat under his ribs. “Name?”
“Jay,” he said automatically, then regretted it. But the man only nodded, as if the name meant nothing, and that felt like mercy.
They talked about nothing: music, weather, the bad whiskey. It felt absurdly normal. Every time their shoulders brushed, something in Jay’s chest uncoiled.
After a while, Jay said quietly, “I should go.”
“Sure,” the man replied. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, the air had turned colder. Rain slicked the pavement until it shone like glass. Jay’s pulse was still humming from the bar noise, from the neon that refused to fade.
They walked without purpose until the street narrowed into an alley bathed in red light. The world around them blurred: rain, music, the electric throb of distance.
Jay stopped. The man did too. For a long second, they just looked at each other. Jay didn’t think. He just stepped closer. Their shadows tangled first. The man smelled like rain and whiskey.
And then, silence. The kind that holds everything unspoken.
Jay drew back a moment later, breath uneven. “We shouldn’t—”
“Then don’t,” the man said, voice low, and the words hit like a challenge.
The next moments weren’t about decision. They were about gravity, about wanting to feel something. Jay remembered flashes: the touch of a hand at his neck, the sound of rain on corrugated metal, the brief flare of warmth when two strangers pretend the world has stopped watching.
He didn’t remember how they got to the motel. Just the hum of the vending machine outside, the flicker of the sign that said vacancy in half-dead bulbs. The room was small, clean enough to be forgettable. The window rattled each time a car passed.
And Jay let himself get lost in the moment. Be a random boy hooking up with a random stranger like an adolescence trying to figure things out. He didn’t look at the man above him, just took in the pleasure of pretense.
Later, he sat on the edge of the bed. The room smelled of detergent and rain, and somewhere under it all, guilt. The man was already asleep. Jay watched the ceiling crack lines into patterns, like constellations only he could see.
He felt… human. Disgustingly so.
The world he had, the designer suits, orchestrated charm and precision felt paper-thin here. This, the damp sheets, the quiet breathing beside him, was real in a way that terrified him. He got up quietly, dressed, left cash on the nightstand. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like someone he didn’t recognize: hair mussed, eyes too raw.
On the walk back, the city felt different. Still neon, still loud, but less like a cage. The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick and new.
Jay bought coffee from a convenience store and stood on the curb, sipping while the horizon bruised with morning light. Somewhere, reporters were waking up to chase his name again, but here, for now, he was no one.
He felt empty. He felt free.
He hated both.
***
Busan never did subtle. The city unfurled in gold and glass, its skyline glittering like a showpiece. Tonight the waterfront glowed brighter than usual, spotlights sweeping across the Grand Azure Hotel, the venue for the season’s most self-congratulatory event: The Future Foundation Gala.
Jay arrived late, naturally. He’d made an art form of it. Cameras swarmed the moment his car door opened, a small storm of shouts and flashbulbs. He flashed the practiced grin: one part apology, two parts seduction. His cream suit shimmered under the lights, his cufflinks catching tiny stars.
Perfect. Controlled. Exactly what everyone expected.
Inside, champagne dripped from laughter. The ballroom gleamed like wealth bottled and served. Jay’s assistant whispered the names of everyone he was supposed to charm. He tuned him out halfway through, scanning the crowd.
His father stood near the dais, all smiles and shareholders. Jay sighed. “Remind me why we do this every year?”
“Visibility,” Jake murmured.
“Right. Because my life isn’t visible enough.”
He reached for a glass of champagne, swirling it lazily as he turned toward the auction display. He hadn’t planned to think about Sunghoon tonight, but the air was thick with expectation like the city itself was waiting for their next skirmish.
And then, like clockwork, it happened.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee’s voice rang out, “we’re honored to welcome Mr. Park Sunghoon of Hoon Industries!”
Jay nearly rolled his eyes.
Sunghoon entered like he’d been carved from the dark. Black suit, no tie, an expression so precisely neutral it bordered on disdain. If Jay glittered, Sunghoon absorbed light. People parted for him instinctively, the way water bends around a blade.
The photographers clicked like insects. Someone murmured, “The heirs in one room again, imagine the market tomorrow.”
Jay turned back to his drink, muttering, “Imagine the headlines.”
He didn’t have to imagine long.
“Jay Park!” the host cried delightedly. “You and Mr. Sunghoon, two legends in the making! Let’s have a photo together!”
Jay plastered on a grin. Sunghoon was already there, hand extended, polite to the point of insult.
“Jay,” Sunghoon said smoothly. “How unexpected to see you at an event that requires more than smiling.”
Jay’s eyebrows lifted. “And here I was thinking you’d stay in Seoul because you don’t know how to have fun.”
“Fun,” Sunghoon repeated, as if testing a foreign word. “Is that what you call throwing money at photographers?”
Laughter bubbled nearby, half-nervous, half-gleeful. The crowd loved this, two golden heirs sparring over champagne.
Jay’s smile tightened. “I’d call it charity, but I suppose that concept’s new to you.”
“Charity’s just PR with better lighting.” Sunghoon’s tone was soft, but the words hit cleanly. “You’d know.”
Click. Another photo. The cameras caught the moment perfectly: Jay’s laugh, Sunghoon’s smirk, a war disguised as civility.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Jay said through his teeth.
“Only because you are.”
They stood side by side for the next twenty minutes, trading remarks sharp enough to draw blood beneath the surface. When the auction began, Jay thought he was free until Sunghoon lifted a paddle.
The item: a black-and-white photo of Busan Harbor, circa 1964.
Sunghoon wanted it purely out of his typical urge to flaunt how far his wealth can go. Jay wanted it because Sunghoon did.
“Ten million,” Jay said, just to be seen.
“Twelve,” Sunghoon murmured, not looking his way.
Jay smirked. “Fourteen.”
“Eighteen.”
The room hummed. People turned, delighted by the tension.
“Careful,” Jay whispered, leaning closer. “You’ll drive up prices your company can’t justify.”
Sunghoon turned his head slightly, eyes cutting toward him. “We can afford the occasional mistake.” A beat. “Can you?”
Jay bit back a retort. “Twenty million!” he said brightly.
Applause erupted. Sunghoon’s mouth twitched with half amusement, half surrender. “It’s yours,” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t want to deprive you of the only thing you’ve ever earned honestly.”
Jay blinked. It took him a full second to process the sting. “You really have a gift for ruining moods.”
“It’s called honesty. You should try it.”
After the auction, Jay slipped outside. The balcony overlooked the harbor, where lights danced on the water like broken stars. He took a long drink, trying to burn the taste of Sunghoon’s words from his tongue.
The door slid open behind him.
“Running away already?” Sunghoon asked. His voice was calm, but the words landed like a slap.
Jay didn’t turn. “I could say the same. Don’t you have investors to impress?”
“They’re inside.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“I was curious.”
Jay finally looked over his shoulder. “About what?”
“How you always manage to look so smug after losing.”
Jay laughed under his breath. “That’s because I don’t lose.”
Sunghoon stepped closer, his shoes silent on the marble. “You think purchasing that piece made you the winner tonight? That was pity, Jay.”
Jay’s jaw tensed. “Oh, please—”
Sunghoon cut him off. “You spend so much time trying to be adored. Doesn’t it ever get boring?”
“Doesn’t being hated get lonely?” Jay shot back before he could stop himself.
That made Sunghoon pause. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes brief and unguarded. Then the smirk returned, cleaner, meaner. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”
Jay turned fully now, face inches from his. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Act like you don’t care.”
“Because I don’t.”
It was a lie so neat it almost passed.
They stood there, the sea muttering below them, the city pressing close. For a strange, suspended second, the air between them changed heavy and electric.
Jay looked away first, swallowing hard. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
A camera flash sliced through the darkness, one of the reporters had followed them onto the terrace. “Gentlemen! A quick photo?”
Sunghoon’s expression reset instantly. “Of course,” he said, voice perfectly smooth.
He extended his arm. Jay hesitated, then took it. The cameras clicked. Two immaculate heirs, smiles like daggers.
When the photographer finally retreated, Sunghoon didn’t let go immediately. His hand stayed on Jay’s arm a fraction too long, enough to register, not enough to explain.
“Careful,” Jay said softly. “People might think you actually like me.”
Sunghoon’s smile was all teeth. “I don’t like you. I just hate wasting potential.”
And then he was gone, leaving the faint scent of his cologne and the echo of something that felt dangerously close to affection. Jay stayed where he was, the city reflected in his glass, his chest oddly tight. The world saw rivalry; he felt something sharper; an irritation he couldn’t name.
Tomorrow’s headlines would say icy civility between Park heirs at Busan gala, but Jay knew better. Nothing about it had been civil. And nothing about Sunghoon was as cold as he wanted the world to believe.
Jay woke to the sound of his phone dying. Not the polite chime of a low battery—no, this was the violent kind of death that came from too many notifications at once, a digital heart attack.
He blinked against the morning light slicing through his blinds, the silk sheets tangled at his waist. His mouth tasted like last night’s champagne and bad decisions. There was a headache pressing behind his eyes, but the real pain hadn’t started yet.
He reached for the phone, plugging it in. The screen came alive and froze.
532 missed calls. 218 messages.
For a moment, Jay thought something had happened to the company. Or worse, his father.
Then the first preview loaded.
[Dispatch Exclusive] PARK GLOBAL HEIR JAY PARK CAUGHT IN HOTEL SCANDAL
#ParkAffair #GoldenHeirExposed #MidnightMotel
His thumb hovered. He tapped the link. The world cracked open.
A photo.
Grainy, but unmistakable. Him, pressed against the alley wall. Another man’s hand in his hair. Jay’s mouth open in a kiss that was all hunger and relief.
Scroll.
Another photo, entering the motel. His jacket slipping off one shoulder. The man’s face blurred, Jay’s not.
Scroll.
The final blow: Jay leaving hours later, shirt unbuttoned, the kind of look tabloids didn’t need to explain.
The article was merciless: “Sources close to the Park family confirm tensions between father and son. Jay Park, known for his nightlife and charm, was seen entering a low-cost motel with an unidentified male companion the night before the gala. Speculations rise about substance use and potential blackmail.”
Jay’s hands trembled. For a second, his mind refused to connect the dots. The noise was too loud. His phone, his pulse, the city outside roaring with judgment.
He tossed the device aside and stumbled to the mirror. His reflection stared back, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, lips still faintly bruised from biting too hard after banters with Sunghoon. A god toppled from his pedestal, and the fall was ugly.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking.
The door burst open. Jake, pale and panicked, held up a tablet like a shield. “Jay, your father’s office has been calling nonstop—”
“I know.”
“They’re saying you need to issue a statement immediately. The stock’s already dropped four points.”
Jay sank onto the edge of the bed, the world tilting. “How fast?”
“An hour, maybe less. #GoldenHeirExposed is trending number one. Internationally.”
He laughed once, sharp and joyless. “Congratulations to me, I finally went global.”
Jake didn’t laugh. “Jay…”
He looked up. There was pity in his eyes. That was somehow worse than anger.
“Get me a coffee,” he said quietly. “And delete every single app from my phone. I don’t want to see any of it.”
The news cycle devoured him by noon.
His face was everywhere—screens, phones, billboards. Each outlet ran a variation of the same story: Park Global heir caught in scandalous affair; family reputation at stake.
Morning shows dissected it. Financial analysts debated whether it would tank shareholder confidence. Gossip accounts posted slow-motion replays of him walking out of the motel, every frame a sin.
By afternoon, Jay was home and had decided to stop watching. The silence in his penthouse felt heavier than any noise.
He sat by the window, staring at the skyline. His phone lay face-down on the table beside him. Every vibration felt like a bullet.
The TV murmured behind him. It was another panel, another analysis.
“…what shocks many is the apparent disregard for discretion. The Park name has always been synonymous with grace, but this… this is unprecedented.”
“Do we know who the companion was?”
“No identity confirmed. Some speculate he may have been—”
Jay turned the TV off.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. For years, he’d been trained to play a part: flawless heir, media darling, polished to perfection. But this, the exposure, the shame, stripped that away. He felt raw and naked.
His phone buzzed again. This time, he answered.
“Jay.” His father’s voice was ice.
“Dad, I—”
“Don’t speak.”
Silence stretched. Jay could almost hear the tension in his father’s breath, the restraint cracking at the edges.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I didn’t—”
“You were photographed being nasty in an alley!”
“I know.”
“You’ve humiliated the family, the company—”
“I know,” Jay repeated, quieter.
There was a thud on the other end. Maybe a hand slamming a desk. “We’re hemorrhaging investors. Our partners are pulling out of three projects. Do you understand the gravity of that?”
Jay swallowed. His throat burned. “It was a mistake.”
His father laughed coldly. “A mistake doesn’t trend in the global media. A mistake doesn’t cost billions.”
Jay wanted to disappear. Crawl out of his own skin. But the anger in his father’s voice wasn’t new; it was just louder this time.
“We’re going to fix this,” his father said, voice clipped, executive. “You’ll issue a statement by tonight, deny everything, blame the media, whatever our PR team decides. And tomorrow morning, you’re coming to the main office.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve already arranged a meeting.”
Jay’s pulse skipped. “With who?”
A pause and then the bomb dropped. “Hoon Industries.”
Jay’s stomach dropped. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding? We’re in crisis, Jay. They’re our only viable partner left. You will attend that meeting. You will sit across from Park Sunghoon and you will act like a man worthy of your name.”
The line went dead.
Jay sat frozen, staring at the skyline. Somewhere out there, the tabloids were refreshing with new angles of his disgrace.
He laughed once, hollow. “Of course. Sunghoon.”
The irony was sharp enough to taste. The man who’d mocked him for being all surface now had front-row seats to his collapse.
Jay rose slowly, pacing the length of his living room. Every step echoed. His reflection followed him in the glass—same face, different man.
He poured himself a drink even though it was barely evening. The whiskey burned. He welcomed it.
The city below was still moving with cars, people, headlines. The world hadn’t stopped just because his had. He thought of the man from the bar. His face blurred by the tabloids, preserved in Jay’s memory like a bad dream. The warmth of his hands, the way Jay had felt.
For one night, he’d let himself feel like a person instead of a brand. And this was the price.
Jake reappeared quietly. “Your father’s car will pick you up at six,” she said. “The meeting’s at seven sharp.”
Jay nodded. “Hoon Industries.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hesitated. “Jay… are you okay?”
He looked at him, really looked. He was young, scared, still believed reputations could be salvaged with the right apology. He almost envied Jake.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
When he left, he stood at the window again, watching the city’s pulse flicker. He thought of Sunghoon, of their cold smiles and sharp words. Somewhere, the strategist was probably already sharpening his knives.
Jay smirked faintly, a reflex of habit. “Two princes, one crown,” he muttered.
But tonight, only one of them still had his.
By the time Jay arrived, the air outside the tower smelled of rain and exhaust like the city itself was judging him.
Park Global Headquarters rose above the skyline in clean glass lines and cold confidence. Cameras still lingered at the gates, flashes echoing his name even through tinted windows. The driver opened the door, and Jay stepped out into a storm of light.
No one spoke. They didn’t have to. He could feel it in the way the building seemed to pulse, every elevator light, every murmured phone call: He’s here. The scandal. The heir.
He took the executive lift alone. The mirrored walls didn’t help. His reflection looked too perfect, too groomed for ruin. The tailored suit fit like armor, but the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him.
When the doors opened to the 34th floor, the noise hit. Phones ringing, heels clicking, whispers rising like static. The PR team clustered in corners, screens glowing with headlines that refused to die.
Jay caught one glimpse before someone minimized the tab:
PARK GLOBAL STOCK PLUMMETS AFTER HEIR’S NIGHT OUT
He forced a smile. “Good morning.”
Nobody laughed.
The boardroom doors were already open. Inside: two empires waiting for him to fall into line.
His father sat at the head of the table, face carved from stone. To his left, the company’s legal counsel, two PR heads, the Hoon empire’s owner and on the far side, another familiar figure.
Sunghoon.
He looked annoyingly composed. Dark suit, white shirt, posture straight and sharp. His expression was unreadable, except for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, the kind that said, I’m entertained, but I’ll never admit it.
Jay hesitated at the door. His father didn’t look up. “Sit.”
He did.
The silence had weight. Every shuffle of paper felt amplified.
Finally, his father spoke, voice cold and clear. “We’re in crisis mode. The scandal’s out of control. Investors are calling. Our reputation’s depleting. And you,” His gaze sliced to Jay. “You’ve made yourself the headline.”
Jay’s throat tightened. “It was a private matter. Someone—”
“There are no private matters when you’re the heir to a dynasty.”
Across the table, Sunghoon leaned back slightly, arms crossed. His father, Mr. Park Joon, the head of Hoon Industries, was speaking quietly with his own PR advisor. Jay couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was calm. Too calm.
His father continued, “We’ve considered all options. Apology statements, denial, settlement threats but the internet doesn’t forget. This isn’t going away.”
Jay swallowed. “So what happens now?”
The question earned him a look with half pity, half fury.
Then Sunghoon’s father cleared his throat. “May I?”
Every head turned toward him.
Mr. Park Senior nodded stiffly. “Please.”
Mr. Park Joon smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The public doesn’t forget, true. But they’re very good at rewriting stories if you give them a better one.”
Jay frowned. “A better one?”
“Yes.” His tone was smooth, unhurried, as if he were explaining a simple equation. “Right now, the narrative is scandalous. But scandal can be reframed into something… palatable. Romantic, even.”
Jay felt a chill crawl down his spine. “Romantic?”
Sunghoon’s father nodded. “People are already fascinated by the rivalry between our families. What if—” he paused, savoring the moment, “this wasn’t a scandal, but a misunderstanding tied to something far more human?”
Jay’s father’s brow furrowed. “Go on.”
“We spin it,” Mr. Park Joon said. “We announce an alliance. A relationship. The public already loves a fairytale. Two powerful heirs, long-time rivals, falling in love in secret? The press will eat it alive.”
Jay blinked. “You’re joking.”
Across the table, Sunghoon tilted his head, watching him like a cat watching a trapped bird.
His father didn’t flinch. “Explain.”
Mr. Park Joon clasped his hands. “It’s simple. The leak becomes an unfortunate side effect of a private romance that was never meant to be exposed. Both companies stand by their sons. The message? Love, not scandal. Unity, not disgrace.”
Jay stared. “You want me to pretend I’m in love with—”
He stopped himself, but the room didn’t need him to finish. Every eye turned toward Sunghoon.
The other man smiled faintly, slow and deliberate. “Careful, Jay. You’ll make it sound like a punishment.”
Jay’s pulse spiked. “You think this is funny?”
“Not funny,” Sunghoon said, voice smooth, the edge beneath it unmistakable. “Just… inevitable. You wanted headlines, didn’t you?”
The words stung more than they should have.
Jay leaned forward. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you love attention,” Sunghoon replied. “You just hate when it’s not flattering.”
His father snapped before Jay could open his mouth, “Enough.”
Silence.
Jay sat back, throat tight, fury and humiliation coiling together. The room felt too small, the air too thick.
Mr. Park Senior spoke again, voice controlled. “As absurd as it sounds, he’s right about one thing, the public eats love stories alive. Especially forbidden ones.”
Jay turned to him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m entirely serious.” His father’s tone carried no warmth. “You’ve disgraced this family. This is the only narrative that could neutralize the damage.”
“So your plan,” Jay said slowly, “is to fake a relationship with the one person the media already compares me to, and expect it to save us?”
“Not fake,” Mr. Park Joon said. “We’ll make it official. Engagement. Temporary, of course, but it must look real.”
Jay’s mind went white. “Engagement?”
“Controlled PR rollout,” one of the advisors chimed in. “Photos, appearances, a joint statement. We spin the scandal into something aspirational.”
Jay stared at the table. His pulse was a roar in his ears. He could feel Sunghoon’s gaze on him steady, assessing, and awfully almost amused.
“This is insane,” Jay murmured.
Sunghoon finally spoke again, voice deceptively mild. “It’s business. You understand business, don’t you?”
Jay shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You must be enjoying this.”
Sunghoon’s smile was thin. “Immensely.”
The sound of pen clicking broke the silence. Jay’s father signed a paper with brutal precision. “It’s decided.”
Jay turned to him, stunned. “You’re agreeing to this?”
“We don’t have a choice,” his father said. “You lost us control of the narrative. Now you’re going to fix it.”
“By lying?”
“By surviving and if lying is helping that, then yes.”
Jay’s breath hitched. His chest felt tight, his voice smaller than he wanted. “You’re selling my life as PR.”
His father didn’t blink. “Your life has always been PR.”
The sentence landed like a slap.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the projector, the city’s noise leaking faintly through the glass.
Finally, Sunghoon pushed his chair back, standing. “Well,” he said lightly, “at least we’ll give the tabloids something pretty to look at.”
Jay looked up at him, heart hammering. “You think this will be pretty?”
Sunghoon’s eyes softened, just for a second, something unreadable flickering there before he looked away. “No,” he said quietly. “But it’ll be convincing.”
Then he turned, hands in his pockets, heading for the door. His father followed, leaving Park Global’s side of the table in stunned silence.
Jay stayed where he was, staring at the papers strewn across the table, at his name, his face, his ruin neatly packaged into a marketing plan.
His father’s voice broke through the haze. “Get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow’s press conference.”
Jay didn’t answer.
He just sat there, listening to the rain starting again outside, the world still spinning, his reflection ghosted against the window beside the headline glowing on the abandoned screen: “Two Princes, One Crown.”
This time, it didn’t feel like a prophecy. It was a punishment.
The hallway outside the press conference room smelled faintly of disinfectant and fear. The kind of fear that didn’t scream. It hummed, like electricity behind walls.
Jay stood in front of the glass panels, watching the blur of reporters setting up inside. Flashes strobed behind the partition, every bulb a reminder of how fast his life had been repackaged into spectacle. The backdrop at the far end of the room bore the logos of Park Global and Hoon Industries side by side. Clean. Polished. Corporate unity. He wanted to laugh.
Footsteps echoed behind him. His father’s reflection appeared in the glass before the man himself stepped into the light. Same immaculate suit. Same expressionless calm.
Jay didn’t turn. “You could’ve warned me.”
His father’s tone was level. “You were in no state to be warned.”
Jay turned then, slow and deliberate. “You called them.”
“I called the only people who could contain this.”
“You mean exploit it,” Jay shot back. “You could’ve reached out to anyone. It could be our PR firms, our partners in Tokyo, even our investors in Dubai. But no, you went straight to our biggest rival. To him.”
His father met his gaze. “Because he was the only one who would understand the scale of what we needed.”
“The scale of what you needed,” Jay corrected, voice low. “Not what I needed. You don’t care that the whole world thinks I—”
He stopped himself. The words hung unsaid between them, sour and heavy.
His father sighed, tired but sharp. “You think this is about you, Jay. It isn’t. It never was. It’s about survival.”
Jay’s laugh was soft and bitter. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” his father said, stepping closer. “I’m realistic. You lit the match, I’m just trying to make sure we don’t burn with you.”
The words stung. Jay turned away, hands shoved into his pockets. The glass threw their reflections back at him— father and son, same sharp bones, same posture, generations of pride stretched thin.
“Sunghoon,” Jay said after a long silence. “Why him for God’s sake?”
His father tilted his head, studying him like a misbehaving intern. “Because he’s useful.”
“Useful,” Jay repeated. The word tasted metallic. “That’s all people are to you, isn’t it?”
“Useful or not useful,” his father said simply. “It’s the only distinction that matters.”
Jay shook his head. “You don’t get it. You’ve spent your whole life turning people into assets. But Sunghoon, he’s not just another face in a press release. He hates me.”
“Good,” his father said. “Then he’ll be careful.”
Jay blinked. “You actually think that’s a good thing?”
“Rivalry keeps people disciplined,” his father said. “And discipline is what you lack.”
Jay let out a sound that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “So your solution to my scandal is to chain me to someone who’d rather watch me drown?”
“If he helps you stay afloat, I don’t care how he feels about it.”
The silence between them stretched, taut as wire.
Through the glass, someone adjusted the microphone at the podium. The sound bled faintly into the hall, muffled but constantو the mechanical heartbeat of the press waiting.
Jay ran a hand through his hair. “You really think people will buy this? That the world will look at two men from rival dynasties, conveniently in love right after a scandal, and think, ‘Ah yes, true romance’?”
His father’s lips thinned. “They won’t need to believe it. They just need to stop asking questions.”
Jay stared at him. “You’ve already decided everything.”
“I had to,” his father said. “You were too busy spiraling.”
Jay’s jaw clenched. “I made one mistake.”
“No, Jay,” his father said softly. “You got caught. That’s different.”
That quiet voice was calm, almost kind that infuriated him more than shouting ever could.
Jay took a step forward. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re selling me off like I’m a stock in decline. Like I’m just another liability to absorb.”
“You are a liability,” his father said without hesitation. “But you’re also my son. Which means you’re my responsibility to fix.”
The hallway fell still again. Somewhere beyond the glass, the crowd murmured. Cameras adjusted focus. The sound was faint but relentless, like waves against stone.
Jay’s anger flickered, then sank into something heavier. “You always said we weren’t like them,” he murmured. “That our family had integrity.”
His father’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “Integrity doesn’t keep companies alive, Jay. Control does.”
Jay’s throat tightened. “And what about me?”
“What about you?”
“When this is over. When the photos stop trending. When the market forgets.” He swallowed. “What happens to me then?”
His father hesitated just for a moment before answering. “Then you’ll thank me.”
Jay stared at him, searching for a crack in that armor, a hint of remorse, anything. But his father’s face was unreadable.
Inside the conference room, someone tested the microphone again. “Check, check. Two minutes.”
Jay turned back to the glass. The reflection caught them both in the same frame, the perfect picture of legacy and succession.
“Two minutes,” his father repeated quietly. “You can still walk out there and make this work. Or you can make it worse.”
Jay exhaled slowly. The anger didn’t vanish, but it thinned into resignation.A sharp, metallic acceptance.
“How did you make them accept this?”
His father’s tone was clinical again. “Their company needs goodwill after that failed merger last quarter. His father wants the PR boost as much as we do. Everyone gets something.”
“Except me,” Jay said.
His father didn’t argue.
Jay rubbed the bridge of his nose, laughing under his breath. “You always did say business is about compromise. Guess this is mine.”
He straightened his tie, though his hands trembled slightly.
“Jay,” his father said quietly. He looked up. His father’s eyes softened, just barely. “You wanted to be treated like an adult. This is what that feels like.”
Jay held his gaze for a long time. Then, finally, he nodded.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s play the part.”
He turned toward the glass doors, shoulders squaring. Beyond them, flashes already waited, hungry and merciless.
As he reached for the handle, his father added, “Smile when you walk out there.”
The press room looked like someone had drained all the color out of it. White backdrop. White lights. Glass and marble everywhere. Even the journalists seemed washed-out under the fluorescents, blinking like lab mice in a too-bright maze.
Jay stood behind the sliding glass doors, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His reflection ghosted across the panes. His crisp suit, perfect hair, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He looked like someone dressed for his own execution.
He knew the plan, or thought he did.
Phase One PR Strategy:
Spin the scandal as a private, legitimate relationship between him and Sunghoon as a rivalry hiding romance.
Gross. Humiliating. But survivable.
He’d agreed because he had no choice.
But something felt… off.
Too many cameras. Too many executives. Too much tension threading the room like piano wire.
He glanced toward the stage where Sunghoon already stood. Sunghoon looked less like a person and more like a masterpiece displayed behind glass. It felt impossible to reach without leaving fingerprints on the dream. There was something unnervingly flawless about him, as if the universe had spent extra time refining every edge; cold perfection wrapped in immaculate elegance. Hands clasped behind him, posture regal and intimidating, gaze sweeping the room with the calm of a man conducting an orchestra. Every flash that hit him seemed to sharpen him.
Jay hated that he noticed.
Their eyes met. Sunghoon lifted one eyebrow like he already knew Jay was about to walk into something he wasn’t prepared for.
Before Jay could interpret that, his father’s hand touched his shoulder.
“Remember,” the man murmured, “we are presenting unity. Strength. Clarity.”
Jay let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Right. Lies wrapped in corporate packaging.”
His father didn’t respond. He just pushed the glass doors open.
The noise hit them in a blast. Cameras clicking, reporters shouting, a storm of sound that made Jay’s ribs tighten. The lights turned everything flat and glossy.
He walked onto the stage, next to Sunghoon, next to the podium where microphones aimed at him like a line of rifles.
His father stepped forward first, activating his honeyed, grave, charismatic CEO-voice .
“Thank you all for coming.”
Jay stared straight ahead, scanning the room’s edges, looking for exits even though he knew there were none.
“As you know,” his father continued, “recent days have brought unexpected challenges to our family and our company. Rumors, speculation, and unfortunately… a breach of my son’s privacy.”
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
Sunghoon’s father stepped in seamlessly, his smile courteous and sharp as a scalpel.
“Hoon Industries stands with Park Global during this time. We have always respected their family… and their son.”
Jay stiffened.
Their son. Their son and ours. Together.
It was starting.
His father spoke again. “There has been misinformation surrounding my son’s private life. Today, we want to share the truth.”
Jay inhaled slowly. Okay. This was what he’d been briefed on. The lie they’d chosen. The fake dating story.
“We want to clarify,” his father continued, “that Jay has not been engaging in reckless behavior or inappropriate relationships.”
Jay almost snorted. His father always made sin sound like a scheduling conflict.
“The truth,” said Sunghoon’s father, “is that he has been involved in a private, committed relationship with my son, Sunghoon Park, for some time.”
The room erupted with gasps, camera flashes, the scrape of chairs as reporters leaned forward.
Jay forced himself to stand still. This was the part he knew. The script he had endured hours of arguing over. Sunghoon stood solid beside him, perfect posture, perfect neutral expression except for one corner of his mouth that twitched like he was enjoying the chaos.
Jay elbowed him lightly. “What,” he hissed under his breath, “are you smiling at?”
Sunghoon didn’t look at him. “You’re shaking.”
Jay stiffened.
“I’m not—”
“Smile,” Sunghoon murmured, “or they’ll think we broke up on the way here.”
Jay swallowed a curse and lifted the edge of his mouth as a hollow, camera-friendly curve.
Then his father continued.
“And because of the relentless media attention and the strain of the recent scandal…”
Jay’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t in the script.
“…both our families have agreed that it’s time to share another truth, one that the boys had hoped to keep private a bit longer.”
Jay’s head snapped toward him. Another truth? Sunghoon’s expression didn’t flicker. Which scared Jay more than anything.
His father smiled warmly into the cameras. “Jay and Sunghoon have recently taken the next step in their relationship.”
Jay felt heat flood his chest.
Wait.
No.
NO.
“We are pleased to announce—” Sunghoon’s father stepped forward, finishing the sentence like a finishing blow. “—their engagement.”
The world detonated.
The room exploded into noise so loud it became silent. Jay felt the blood drain from his face. His vision tunneled.
Engagement?
He whipped his head toward his father. “You didn’t—” His voice cracked. “You didn’t… this wasn’t…”
But his father was already shaking hands with Sunghoon’s father, smiling, nodding at the cameras like this had all been agreed on.
“Mr. Park!” a reporter screamed. “How long have you been engaged?”
“Why keep it secret?”
“Sunghoon, do you plan to move in together?”
“Jay!”
“Jay!”
He felt Sunghoon step closer. Felt his body heat. Felt fingers brush his back as a signal to keep the façade alive.
“Breathe,” Sunghoon said quietly. Almost gently.
Jay jerked away from him but carefully, carefully, because the cameras were rabid.
“You knew,” Jay said through a clenched jaw, his lips barely moving. “You knew they planned this.”
Sunghoon finally turned to him, eyes cool and unreadable. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
Sunghoon’s expression softened with something dangerously close to apology blended into amusement.
“You would’ve bolted,” he murmured. “And they were… very clear they needed you here.”
Jay wanted to punch him. Or maybe collapse into him. He couldn't tell anymore. The sight of Sunghoon standing there, calm and untouchable beneath the lights, made something twist painfully in his chest. Anger was easier to understand. It was safer. It didn't force him to think about the strange relief that came whenever Sunghoon was near. But the longer he looked at him, the harder it became to separate frustration from something far more dangerous.
The press demanded more. Questions came from every direction before the last one had even finished. Hands shot into the air. Camera flashes exploded across the room, turning faces into blurs of light and shadow. Everyone wanted answers. Answers Jay didn't have. His thoughts tangled together, refusing to form anything coherent. The noise pressed in from all sides until it felt impossible to breathe. Every second of silence stretched longer than the last. He could feel the room waiting. Watching. Judging.
Then Sunghoon stepped up to the microphone. The room quieted almost immediately. It wasn't anything dramatic. Somehow, people simply listened when he spoke. His voice carried through the crowd, calm and warm, steady enough to settle the chaos around them. Every answer sounded effortless. Every word landed exactly where it needed to. Reporters stopped interrupting. The tension eased. Jay hated how impressive it was. Hated how easily Sunghoon seemed to take control of situations that left everyone else scrambling. Most of all, he hated how relieved he felt the moment Sunghoon started talking.
“We love each other,” he said, lying like he was born for it. “This has been the hardest week of our relationship… but also the one that made everything clear.”
Everyone applaused. Jay felt dizzy. Sunghoon’s hand slid to the small of his back again.
A photographer shouted, “Can we get a picture? The happy couple together, please!”
Before Jay protested, Sunghoon tugged him closer with their shoulders brushing, bodies aligned, the picture of corporate romance.
“You’re enjoying this.” Jay’s voice was barely a whisper.
Sunghoon didn’t deny it. He just angled his face toward Jay and said, “Smile. You look like you’re at a funeral.”
Jay forced something that resembled happiness. The cameras devoured it.
The fathers wrapped the conference with formal statements, thanking the media for their “support and discretion.” Then, like a curtain falling, the event ended.
The second they stepped into the quiet hallway behind the stage, Jay ripped off his coat.
He turned to his father, voice razor-sharp. “You lied to me.”
“You agreed to the relationship narrative,” his father replied calmly, already walking. “This was the natural extension.”
“Engagement? That’s a natural extension to you?”
His father didn’t slow. Didn’t look back. “Stability was required. Permanence. A dating rumor doesn’t fix a scandal. A marriage does.”
Jay stared at him, chest tight, vision blurring at the edges.
“You sold me,” he whispered.
His father didn’t respond.
Then Jay felt someone behind him.
Sunghoon, with palms tucked within the folds of his pockets, bore a countenance that was faintly smug and faintly sympathetic, a vexing blend of pride and pity.
“Congratulations,” Sunghoon said softly. “Fiancé.”
Jay glared at him, voice cracking.
“You could’ve warned me.”
Sunghoon tilted his head. “I could’ve,” he agreed. “But you still would’ve ended up here.”
Jay opened his mouth to shout, to break, but Sunghoon stepped closer, dropping his voice to a low murmur.
“And for what it’s worth… you handled it better than I expected.”
Jay didn’t know why that hit harder than anything else. The world believed they were in love. The world believed they were engaged.
And Jay?
Jay felt like someone had replaced his heartbeat with static.
***
The white backdrop had been swapped for a softer beige, but it didn’t help; the room still felt like a coffin disguised as a conference suite. Studio lights burned overhead, turning the air into something hot and unreal. The air hummed with electricity, and Jay felt it crawling across his skin, itching under his collar.
He didn’t want to sit. He didn’t want to smile. He didn’t want to stand next to Sunghoon, breathe the same air as him, perform romance because two fathers decided it was convenient.
But the PR team was circling, adjusting lights, checking angles, touching up powder on his cheekbones. He stood stiffly while someone dabbed shine off his forehead, another arranged the fall of his blazer. Every touch felt like a shove.
Sunghoon, of course, was already camera-ready. That infuriating calm. That infuriating posture with hands in his pockets, chin lowered just enough to seem soft, gaze steady enough to seem trustworthy. He looked like an heir on the cover of a luxury magazine. He always did.
“Let’s start simple,” the head photographer said, cheerful in the way only someone oblivious could be. “Side by side, shoulders aligned. Think… comfortable. Familiar.”
Jay did not move.
Sunghoon stepped into position first, a slow and deliberate turn that placed him exactly where Jay needed to be. Then he looked over, raising a brow.
“You’re supposed to stand here,” he murmured, voice low enough that only Jay caught it.
“I know.”
“So stand.”
Jay inhaled sharply, stepped into the designated place, and immediately felt Sunghoon’s shoulder brush his. Electricity. Or maybe anger. Hard to tell.
“Great!” the photographer chirped. “Now, a soft smile, something natural—”
Jay stared dead into the camera, jaw locked. “This is natural.”
“No it isn’t,” Sunghoon murmured without looking at him.
Jay snapped his head toward him. “I didn’t ask for commentary.”
Sunghoon didn’t reply, he just let the ghost of a smile play at his lips. A mocking one. The kind that whispered you’re so easy to read.
“Okay,” the photographer said, oblivious or ignoring it, “now try turning toward each other just a little… yes, like that.”
Sunghoon turned first. Jay followed too slowly and the closeness shocked him. Sunghoon’s face was only inches from his. The soft light carved shadows along his cheekbones. His eyes flicked downward, then up again, and Jay felt something raw and stupid spark under his ribs.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “A little smaller smile, Jay.”
“This is small,” Jay said tightly.
But Sunghoon leaned in just slightly not touching, but so close Jay felt the warmth of his breath against his cheek. The photographer squealed softly. Cameras clicked.
Jay didn’t move away. He couldn’t. Whether it was sheer stubbornness or a sudden paralysis, he stayed rooted, as if the ground held him in place. His breath caught unsure and suspended.
They cycled through poses.
Sunghoon’s arm around his waist. Jay’s hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. Their foreheads nearly touching. Sunghoon whispering something that made Jay’s jaw clench. Jay whispering something that made Sunghoon laugh, low and sharp.
Every click of the camera shutter tightened something inside Jay until it felt like a rope pulled taut at the base of his spine.
The final shot was a close-up. Sunghoon’s hand cupping Jay’s jaw lightly, thumb brushing, almost tender. Jay stared at him, fury and adrenaline and something nameless mixing until he felt dizzy.
The camera flashed.
The photographer sighed, satisfied. “Beautiful. Really beautiful.”
Jay stepped back the second they were dismissed. He yanked his tie loose, tossed it onto a chair, wiped his mouth as if Sunghoon’s proximity had left something on it.
Then the PR woman waved them over. “To the next room. Interview time.”
Jay almost groaned. “Seriously?”
Sunghoon touched his lower back. It was a light, guiding pressure that made Jay’s skin crawl.
“Let’s get it over with,” Sunghoon said.
Jay slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
Sunghoon only smirked. “Save it for the cameras.”
The interview room was smaller, but somehow colder. A round table. Two microphones. Two cups of untouched tea. A camera set up on a tripod, red light blinking. The air felt like glass.
They sat.
Jay at the far left. Sunghoon angled toward him like they were lovers in a commercial.
The interviewer, a woman with too-bright eyes, clicked her recorder on.
“First of all,” she began warmly, “congratulations on your engagement.”
Jay nearly choked on air.
Sunghoon stepped in smoothly. “Thank you.”
The woman smiled at Jay expectantly.
He forced something that was mathematically, clinically a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”
She clasped her hands together. “Our viewers are so eager to know how did you two fall in love?”
Jay opened his mouth, pure panic and rage rising, but Sunghoon beat him to it.
“We didn’t,” he said calmly.
The woman froze.
Jay did too.
Then Sunghoon smiled slow, deliberate, and charismatic. “We didn’t fall. It wasn’t sudden. It… grew.”
Jay’s throat tightened.
Sunghoon continued, smooth as silk. “We’ve known each other for years. We’ve been compared since college. People thought it was rivalry.” He glanced sideways, eyes glinting. “But it was tension. Connection. Understanding.”
Jay stared at him, stunned. He delivered the lie like it was gospel.
“And when did you make it official?” the interviewer asked.
“Recently,” Sunghoon said. “Very recently.”
Jay finally found his voice. “Yes,” he added with forced coolness. “Very recently.”
The interviewer leaned back. “And how did you propose?”
Jay opened his mouth to say we don’t need to invent that much, but Sunghoon’s hand suddenly grazed his knee under the table too light to be inappropriate, too intentional to be innocent.
Jay froze.
Sunghoon’s voice dropped. “I asked him to trust me.”
The interviewer melted. “That’s beautiful.”
Jay nearly laughed. Nearly snarled.
Questions continued. What do you love most about each other? How have you handled the stress? What are your future plans?
Jay and Sunghoon crafted lies like origami sharp, delicate, and dangerous.
Sunghoon praised Jay’s fire. Jay complimented Sunghoon’s discipline. Sunghoon said he felt safe with Jay. Jay said Sunghoon was steady.
Every word was a knife wrapped in silk. When it finally ended, the interviewer thanked them and left the room.
The door clicked shut.
Jay sat rigidly, pulse hammering. His hands were shaking. He didn’t know if it was fury or embarrassment or the white-hot humiliation of being used like a prop.
Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, finally letting the perfect posture melt into something more casual. He loosened his tie.
“Well,” Sunghoon said lightly, “you didn’t embarrass yourself too badly.”
Jay didn’t speak.
“You almost did,” Sunghoon went on, “but you held it together. I’m impressed.”
Jay’s jaw flexed.
Sunghoon tilted his head, studying him with something almost curious. “Although you should really work on your microexpressions. When people mention love, you look like someone’s holding a gun to your head.”
Still, Jay said nothing.
Sunghoon’s brows lifted. “Are you sulking? Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
Jay stood.
Sunghoon watched him rise, amused. “Where are you going? We’re not done—”
Jay struck him.
Not a punch or a violent outburst, nor a loss of control. Something far worse. Something deliberate. Just one sharp, deliberate movement. A single, clean, vicious slap that cracked through the room like breaking ice. Sunghoon’s head snapped to the side, dark hair falling across his face. For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath. Even then, he stood impossibly still as the red imprint of Jay’s hand slowly bloomed across his cheek.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
Jay's hand met Sunghoon's face with enough force to turn his head, but neither of them moved afterward. The air between them stretched painfully thin, taut as a wire ready to snap.
Sunghoon remained motionless. One hand clenched at his side. His jaw tightened. A faint flush spread across skin that had always seemed too flawless, too untouchable to bruise. Yet he didn't retaliate. Didn't speak. He simply stared ahead, silent and rigid, while Jay stood there breathing hard, suddenly forced to confront the fact that some wounds landed far deeper than a fist ever could.
“You hit me,” Sunghoon said softly.
“You deserved it,” Jay rasped.
Silence pulsed between them. Sunghoon stood slowly, smoothing his suit jacket as if to collect his composure, but his gaze never left Jay’s.
He stepped closer, and closer. And closer. Until they were nearly touching again, the same nearness as the photoshoot, but without the cameras forcing it. This time it was all heat. All instinct. All something raw trying to claw its way out of both their ribcages.
“You want to do it again?” Sunghoon murmured.
Jay’s breath caught. “Don’t push me.”
Sunghoon’s voice dropped lower. “Why? You only slap people you feel something about?”
Jay’s pulse spiked. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Sunghoon leaned in, lips brushing the air near Jay’s cheek, “you can’t stop reacting.”
Jay shoved him back. Sunghoon stumbled a step then laughed under his breath, low and exhilarated.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sunghoon said.
Jay’s breath trembled.
The room felt too hot. Too close.
Sunghoon stepped toward him again, but Jay turned sharply, yanked open the door, and walked out before his legs betrayed him, before the adrenaline curdled into something he didn’t want to name.
Behind him, Sunghoon chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound.
“Run if you want, Jay,” he called softly. “I’ll catch up.”
Jay didn’t look back.
He was afraid he’d stop running if he did.