"I didn't ask for your help."

Wonyoung stood perfectly still amidst the unraveling party — tall, composed, the picture of elegance, with that faint, satisfied curve to her lips. Like she’d done you a favor. Like tearing your night apart was some twisted version of love.

That was the final spark.

You closed the distance fast, fingers curling around her wrist — firm enough to warn, just shy of causing a scene.

“We’re leaving,” you hissed, dragging her through the thinning crowd before she could get a word in.

Her heels clicked sharply across the marble as you steered her down a side corridor, ignoring the lingering stares, the sting of whispers trailing behind you both. You didn’t stop until the heavy door of a private lounge slammed shut behind you, muting the noise of your crumbling night.

“How romantic,” Wonyoung mused, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Dragging a maiden from the middle of the party to your private quarters.”

Her wrist still in your grip, her eyes narrowed — but not with fear.

With quiet amusement.

With that maddening look that said she planned this from the start.

You locked the door behind you, the sound sharp, final. When you released her wrist, you did it with enough force that she stumbled back, heels scraping against the polished floor before she caught herself.

Her hand rubbed at the mark your grip left behind, but the smirk never left her face.

“Throwing me around now?” Wonyoung teased softly, her voice sweet poison. “Getting bold, aren’t we?”

“What the hell was that?” you snapped, the words cutting through the thick, charged air between you. You gestured toward the door, toward the disaster outside — the emptying room, the investors peeling away, the eyes that would follow you for weeks after this. “ You knew how important tonight was.”

She hummed, utterly unbothered, stepping closer — slow, predatory, the faint gleam in her eyes impossible to read. “It was important,” she agreed, smoothing a hand over her silk sleeve, her expression composed, lethal. “Important that you don’t chain yourself to weak men trying to ride your success.”

“They were investors, for fuck’s sake, Wonyoung,” you snapped, frustration crackling through your voice. “You don’t belittle them. You don’t stand there and yell out their dirty secrets like it’s some show.”

“They were corrupt,” she shot back, chin lifting. “Embezzling. Manipulating numbers. Acting proud of it. Am I wrong for stating facts? You should be thanking me for helping you. You don’t want those kinds of people tied to your name.”

"You think I didn’t know?” Your voice dipped low, sharp with exhaustion. “My name —that’s the whole reason I needed them. I don’t care about their money. I needed the recognition. The credibility. And you just—” You exhaled hard, dragging your hand through your hair, frustration boiling over. “You blew it all up.”

Her head tilted, the smirk curling again, dangerous. “They were a liability. I’m the only one who truly helps you.”

Your eyes darkened, jaw tight. “I didn’t ask for your ‘help.’ Everything you do — all your games — they’re for your convenience. You call it help, but you count them as favors. You keep score.”

Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed, the faintest crack of something sharp slicing beneath the calm.

“…What?”

Her voice dipped, soft as silk, but the venom coiled beneath every word. Her eyes darkened, the faint curve of her lips sharpening into something colder, crueler.

Then — crack.

Her palm collided with your cheek, the force snapping your head sideways, the sting blooming hot across your skin.

“You’re only standing here,” Wonyoung breathed, voice low, trembling with something bitter, “because I burned my family to the ground for you.”

She stepped closer, her heels whispering against the marble, her presence suffocating, heavy with history.

“I sold them out,” she went on, eyes never leaving yours, each word cutting deeper. “I buried my father’s empire. I dragged my mother’s name through the dirt. I inherited every twisted, bloodstained cent of it — so they couldn’t touch you. So you wouldn’t belong to them.”

Your throat tightened, heart twisting under the weight of it — the truth hanging between you like smoke, inescapable.

“I… I know,” you forced out, voice tight, stumbling over the words, “I know what you did — I never — I’m grateful, Wonyoung, I swear—”

Crack.

The second slap landed harder, your vision tilting, the ache flaring down your jaw.

“And when my mother looked at you like another toy to break,” Wonyoung hissed, voice trembling now with quiet fury, “when she wanted you — who kept you safe? Who pulled you out of that house, out of that life, out of her hands?”

You swallowed, lungs burning as frustration and shame tangled in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, the words spilling raw now, desperate, as if they could stitch this back together. “I — I’m sorry, I know everything you’ve done, I know what it cost you, I—”

Crack.

The third slap echoed, sharper, your skin burning, pulse pounding, but her voice only softened — more dangerous, more possessive.

“You hate the leash,” she whispered, stepping in, close enough that her breath ghosted across your cheek. “But you forget what happens without it.”

You exhaled hard, voice cracking as the words poured out fast, desperate, unraveling.

“I’m grateful, Wonyoung — you know I am — you saved me — you kept me alive — everything I have — it’s because of you, I never forgot that, I never—”

But she cut you off, voice low, slicing straight through the apology.

“You’re breathing,” Wonyoung interrupted, eyes dark and unflinching, “because when my father painted the walls with your family’s blood…”

Her voice softened, almost sweet. Almost fond.

“…I asked him to let me keep a friend. If I had known you would grow into this ungrateful mutt…”

The word curled between you like smoke; harmless on the surface, but sharp underneath. You knew exactly what she meant. What ‘friend’ had always meant in her world.

Your chest twisted, rage tightening like a vice, drowning out every rational thread of thought.

Friend?

Your jaw clenched, the old memory clawing its way back — the screams, the marble floors slick with blood, her father’s smile twisted with violence — and Wonyoung, ribbons in her hair, wide-eyed, tugging at his sleeve like she was picking out a pet at the market.

Your patience splintered.

Her hand lifted again —

But this time, you caught her wrist mid-air, iron-tight, halting her clean.