TCBW C23

Chapter 23

* * *

Early morning.

With the top button of his shirt fastened neatly, Dowoon’s practiced hands knotted his tie.

Opening the display case lined with watches, he chose one without hesitation and fastened it to his left wrist — a silver timepiece whose price made it the perfect final touch to the dark suit he was wearing.

He then left the dressing room and stepped into the bedroom, still heavy with the lingering heat of the previous night’s violence, the air steeped with the scattered traces of their coupling.

The scent in the air was still thick with the mingled pheromones of the two of them, and on the crumpled sheets lay his wife, fast asleep in a dead faint.

Passing him by, Dowoon was just about to leave the room when he stopped, suddenly turning back on his heel.

His steps halted again — this time right beside the bed.

Not as if approaching to do anything in particular; he merely stood there, expressionless, gazing down at the slender, pale body marked all over with his traces.

That was all — as though only checking how well the vivid marks he’d left had taken to skin so pale and almost translucently white that it was near pathological.

From the jut of his spine and the graceful line of his thin neck, all the way to each joint of his body flushed a peach‑blossom red, Dowoon’s eyes swept over everything without missing a single spot.

Of course, he could only do this because Suhoe was lying there entirely exposed, still deep asleep — unmoving, almost as if dead.

Only the faint rise and fall of his narrow shoulders proved he was still breathing.

After letting his gaze drift over Suhoe’s body for a while, Dowoon’s eyes shifted to his face.

Through slightly parted lips came slow, even breaths; yet the small brow creased faintly now and then. Clearly his sleep was not entirely peaceful.

A nightmare?

Even after that thought, Dowoon’s gaze wandered idly, aimlessly over the boy’s body.

Then, suddenly, his eyes stopped at a certain place —

At the most intimate part of Suhoe, the place that had known no cooling through the night, where he himself had come and gone over and over.

Or more precisely — at the sight of his own seed, still thick inside, welling up with each faint breath Suhoe took and seeping onto the sheet, staining it dark.

He watched for a while, then without the slightest flicker in his expression, brought his thick thumb to the damp opening between Suhoe’s legs.

Then, without hesitation, he pushed his finger into that tender place, to press his own seed back inside.

The minimum act necessary to ensure conception.

To him, the whole process was simply a required procedure — and so he performed it without feeling.

With the slick sensation came the heat from deep inside, traveling up into his fingertips; the soft flesh twitched on its own, without Suhoe’s will.

A small tremor, and that living heat.

The moment his fingertip felt it, the sleeping Suhoe jerked faintly with an unconscious moan at the unexpected stimulus.

“Mmm… hm…”

At the sound, Dowoon slowly withdrew his hand.

He then left the bedroom, his still‑sleeping wife behind.

In front of the upscale apartment building in Balhwa‑dong.

Hae-eon had spent the night sleepless, worried some misfortune might befall the new bride — worried, in particular, that he might be spurned on the wedding night.

Thankfully, nothing of the worst sort seemed to have happened — but trouble had arisen from a completely unforeseen direction.

In all the years since he’d started this post, handling things for his boss like a programmed machine, his employer had never once failed to be exactly, perfectly on time.

Now, for the first time in his life, that man had missed the time they’d agreed on.

Already five minutes late.

Some might think fussing over five minutes excessive — but his boss was a man who ran his life divided into minutes.

And as the secretary who had long stood like a shadow at the side of such a machine‑like perfectionist, recognized for his skill above all others, Hae-eon prided himself on knowing the man better than anyone.

Lee Dowoon was a man who would never, under any circumstances, tolerate a crack in routine — not even the smallest margin of error.

So of course this abnormality made Hae-eon feel not only a prickle of unease, but also sharp curiosity.

Has something happened? Should I go in and fetch him?

No — act too hastily and he’d only earn a black mark. Hae-eon decided to wait silently for his boss to emerge.

Another ten minutes passed before Dowoon appeared at the apartment entrance — perfectly immaculate, as always.

Masking the conflicted tangle of his thoughts, Hae-eon put on a quick, smooth smile and bowed his head.

“You’re here, sir.”

Dowoon gave no verbal reply, only issued an instruction:

“Call Doctor Eun.”

“Yes, understood.”

Nodding again, as though used to this, Hae-eon noted silently to himself: Of all people — Doctor Eun?

Of course, as always, he asked no further questions.

Still — for the alpha to summon an obstetrician‑gynecologist the morning after bringing home the aegbaji and spending the night — it was hard to form any “positive” conclusion.

Suppressing the thought, he took Dowoon’s briefcase — but his eyes paused at the man’s fingertips.

Like a streak of black ink had bled there — or as if it had seeped into the skin — an oddly distinct mark marred a small patch at the tip.

“Sir, there’s something on your finger.”

“…”

Automatically reaching for his own handkerchief, Hae-eon froze when Dowoon ignored the remark and stepped into the car.

Awkwardly lowering his hand, he closed the door, and Dowoon looked down at his own fingertips.

Just as Hae-eon had said — a faint black stain had spread there, with no telling when it had appeared.

Taking a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, Dowoon rewound the morning’s events in his mind, looking for the moment the mark could’ve been made.

But no memory stood out — nothing rough, nothing dirty touched. Everything had been as usual.

…No. There was something different from usual. Something he’d done that he typically did not.

And suddenly, the thought of Suhoe’s almost transparent, deathly white skin came to mind.

“Sir.”

The voice from the driver’s seat pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Yes?”

His brow furrowed faintly, as if annoyed by the interruption.

Sensing the shift, Hae-eon lowered his own voice.

“Director Han of Saeman left a message. The secretary’s office told her your schedule this month wouldn’t allow it, as politely as possible — but she said she’ll wait to hear from you personally.”

Dowoon, realizing he had been absentminded, caught on one name in the report.

Han Sara, Director of Saeman.

A name he’d completely forgotten these past days, with so much else occupying his mind.

When had he last seen her? A month ago, perhaps.

Yes… he remembered now, he had considered her part of his overall calculations before sealing the deal with Chairman Lee.

Han Sara — youngest daughter, cherished like gold and jade, of the chairman of Saeman, the largest distribution conglomerate in Korea.

With her elder brothers all forced from the succession line due to involvement in a criminal case over unlawful genetic‑trait drugs, strictly banned under domestic law, Han Sara had become the de facto sole heir — a beta female.

Not only that, but for reasons of her own she had managed to secure a major shareholder’s stake in Yongseong Electronics — making her, until the deal with Chairman Lee, a potentially valuable card for his purposes.

To put it bluntly, he had weighed her as a possible marriage candidate.

Hae-eon, for his part, was not unaware of this — but now that the arrangement with Chairman Lee was concluded, he expected, and even hoped, Dowoon would cut her loose.

Dowoon himself either didn’t know, or knew and didn’t care, that Han Sara was poison wrapped in fine packaging.

For all her impeccable background and conditions, she had one problem: her obsession with him regularly crossed the line.

From childish harassment to overtly violent incidencts, her targets were always, without fail, any woman who showed interest in Dowoon or came too close to him.

The complaints from victims had never led to legal punishment.

Her name never appeared even once in the gossip‑hungry entertainment press.

Against the might of Saeman — the number‑one name in Korean distribution, said to be able to “bring down even a flying bird” — everyone kept silent.