TCBW C42

Chapter 42

“Not because you’re feeling insecure, then?”

At that single question, a crack ran through Sara’s composed expression. She let out an exaggerated laugh in denial.

“Pfft… ha. Who, me? I’d feel insecure because of that omega? And why would that be?”

“Who knows. Why would it be?”

At his voice, suddenly cold again, her laughter cut off.

It lasted only a moment before she, as if nothing had happened, curved her lips into a smile and purred toward him.

“Dowoon‑ssi… I was only teasing. I’m not allowed even that?”

But her painted allure produced no reaction. Without a word, Dowoon rose, walking to the farthest point of the room — his desk — far from even the faint warmth of her presence.

The scrape of his chair as he sat was the sound of his complete dismissal.

Sara’s last restraint snapped. She strode toward him, her heels hammering the floor, and perched lightly atop his desk.

When he still didn’t look at her, eyes fixed on the documents, she gripped his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“…You know, when you act like I’m not even here, do you know what goes through my mind? Like I’m the fool in the room. But I’m not the type to slink off, and if I try to talk you’ll just ignore me again. So what? I’m supposed to take it out somewhere else instead, right?”

Even at the half‑threat in her little speech, his gaze didn’t flicker.

“Ah, seriously. Dowoon‑ssi. This is my last warning — if you ignore me again, I’m done holding back.”

“…If I have a warning for you, it’s to keep your mouth shut. You’re too loud, and I won’t stand it any longer.”

“And what happens after the second warning?”

When she asked with a mocking lilt, his reply was to press the intercom on the desk. His emotionless voice rang through the speaker:

“Escort Director Han out.”

A beat of silence. Then he added, in a calm murmur to her frozen face:

“Like this.”

Sara said nothing, even when staff came up to her.

“Director, this way.”

“Let go! I can walk out myself. …Dowoon, why are you coming down so hard today?”

No answer.

She bit her lip, turned away, and stalked to the door — only to halt at the threshold, then turn back like someone who’d forgotten something.

Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were icy.

“Dowoon‑ssi… you’re interesting today. Made me feel like not holding back anymore either. Let’s call today’s little episode… a debt.”

Leaving the warning hanging, she was gone, the door closing with an unusually loud bang.

A pause, and then a knock — Hae‑eon.

Not lifting his eyes from the chaos of papers, Dowoon asked:

“Where is he?”

Hae‑eon knew exactly who “he” meant, and answered with formal respect:

“Madam went downstairs just now.”

It was only a factual report, but Dowoon’s brow knotted darkly and his tongue clicked with irritation.

The drone of a vacuum cleaner faded out of reality. The noise was still there, but Suhoe’s mind was silent, like a glass room with nothing inside.

“…Something happen to you?”

Seo‑jun’s voice cut in sharp.

“Ah… what?”

“What are you doing? You said you’d help, and you can’t even hold the vacuum properly.”

When Suhoe lifted his head, trying to answer, his throat tightened.

“…Nothing happ—”

The words stuck; his voice, his will, all gone to the bottom.

“You’re completely out of it. You still have a fever? Or… did something happen in the president’s office? Did that guy pull something again?”

Shaking his head quickly, Suhoe met Seo‑jun’s eyes — eyes ready to storm upstairs — and denied it.

“No, nothing like that.”

He tried to go back to cleaning.

Then, cutting through even the nearby hum of the vacuum, a snatch of voices from the lobby staff farther off reached him.

“What? Again? Director Han from Saeman?”

“Shhh! Yeah, while you were on break, she went upstairs.”

Like a man possessed, Suhoe turned.

Normally he’d have avoided even meeting their eyes, but now he walked straight over to the women he’d never spoken to before, and asked:

“That person… what’s her relationship with our president?”

They froze. A male janitor from the cleaning team, usually silent, suddenly questioning them.

Their eyes darted, suspicion and puzzlement mingling.

“Uh… I don’t know what you mean.”

“Ha ha, how would we know?”

But he didn’t back off.

No urgency, no anger — only a small, quiet, desperate:

“…Please tell me.”

Their gazes wavered toward each other.

“You… really don’t know?”

“Hey, should we just say it?”

“What’s the harm? Everyone knows. They’ve gone to every industry event together. The press has tons of photos.”

“Yeah. Basically… they’re dating.”

The words marking their relationship dropped into his mind like lead. His eyes went dark, depthless as a pit.

Without a word, he turned and began to walk — unsteady, as if he could topple any moment.

“You okay?”

“S‑sorry, I… I just want to go back.”

Seo‑jun caught up, grabbing his arm, but Suhoe shook him off and headed for the emergency stairwell.

“What—?”

“I’m… I’m going to head home.”

Opening the door, he sank down immediately. Just crossing that single door left him gasping, heart pounding.

“You sick or what?”

Seo‑jun’s question got no answer; Suhoe only panted, as if something strange had risen to choke him.

He remembered nothing of getting home — only that when he came to, he was lying on the bed in the Balhwa‑dong house.

Outside the window was already bright. His mind was blank, eyes unfocused on the view beyond the glass.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that before, as if under a spell, he began searching for the belongings he’d brought from Unbang Mountain — the grey duffel bag he’d never once opened since arriving here.

Inside were the few things he’d packed when he left: a faded candlestick, a pure white hanbok and socks, and a water bowl.

To anyone else, they were just implements for a ritual — but to him, they were everything. More precisely, they were his reason for existing.

He took them out carefully, found a dry cloth, and wiped away the dust.

Then he moved the living‑room TV table against the wall and set the items in order atop it.

Once the humble ritual table was arranged, he changed into the crisp hanbok he had brought for performing rites. The supple fabric, more familiar to him than any other clothes, was a small comfort.

In white socks now, he poured clean, clear rice wine into the bowl, wrote out and read the invocation, and lit the candle.

He knew the dragon‑in‑heaven he served would not answer. He was neither like Gye‑geum nor Unhyo, able to summon spirits, and Balhwa‑dong was no place a god would descend.

And yet, he went through the motions — in a moment when nothing else came to mind, he clung to the act most ingrained in his body as a way to confirm himself.

Yes. Do what had become second nature.

It drew him back to his younger days.

From a certain age, he’d had to perform the rites regularly. It wasn’t a choice.

The reason he kept setting the table, even without ever seeing a god descend, was simply because he was the aegbaji. That was his role. His fate.

The dragon‑in‑heaven — the god who had cursed Dowoon’s family — had never once looked upon his offerings.

So not this time either, huh.

No answer again.

Still, keep making the offering — maybe someday the sound will reach his ears.

It was that promise from Gye‑geum he had held to: even without an answer, he continued to prepare the rites faithfully, until now it was simply habit.