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Chapter 49 - Blind date

(Few days later)

I hated mornings when my mother had a plan.

This wasn't just any morning. This was the morning she decided that my social life—or whatever semblance of it existed—was lacking. She had taken it upon herself to "arrange" a blind date for me.

To be honest, she wants someone to take care of me. I did agree though.

I sat at the breakfast table, arms crossed, staring at the silver tea set like it held the answers to the universe. My mother hovered, perfectly coiffed and smiling like she was presenting the crown jewels.

"Dae-hyun, you'll meet someone very special tonight," she chirped, pouring green tea with her usual elegance. "She's a powerful alpha, well-connected, and…" Her smile widened. "…very ambitious. She'll drag you out of the hellhole."

I let out a long, controlled sigh. "Mother, I run a company now. I have a full schedule. I don't have time for… whatever this is."

She didn't flinch. That was the worst part. Nothing I said ever fazed her. "Nonsense. You have plenty of time. A man in your position must always be thinking ahead. This meeting isn't optional."

Optional. Of course it wasn't. Nothing in my life ever was.

The thought of meeting some alpha female, someone polished and flawless, filled me with a cold kind of dread. I could already imagine the conversation: networks, business deals, her assessing me like a chessboard. And all the while, that hollow pit in my chest whispered that none of this mattered. That I wasn't even really present in my own life.

But it wasn't a bad idea. Maybe I'll find someone to fill the emptiness in me. "Sure.I'll try."

"Purrfect.!"

By evening, I found myself standing in front of the restaurant, perfectly tailored suit, mask firmly in place. My mother's words echoed in my head: "Remember, first impressions matter. Be charming, be confident."

The doors opened, and there she was. Alpha presence radiating in a sleek, tailored dress. Eyes sharp, voice smooth, smile sharp enough to cut glass. She extended her hand.

"Jung Dae-hyun, I presume?"

I shook her hand, voice neutral. "Yes."

She gave me a calculating look, taking in every detail. "I've heard a lot about you. Running your own company at your age is… impressive."

I nodded politely, but inside, I felt nothing. Impressive? Maybe. But meaningless.

"Thanks."

"What motivated you to start your own company?"

"Well…"

.

The meal began with polite conversation. She spoke about business strategies, mergers, acquisitions — all very structured, very precise. I replied appropriately, throwing in agreements and polite questions, but my mind wandered.

Somewhere in the back of my thoughts, I heard a whisper I hadn't heard in years: "Dae-hyun… don't go…"

I swallowed hard. No. Not now. Focus. She's not important. This is irrelevant.

And yet, I couldn't shake it. My heart tightened without reason. That faint, impossible sense of familiarity, the hollow ache, kept pressing against me. I smiled at her questions, nodded at her suggestions, but it was all automatic. I was physically present, but mentally… I was elsewhere.

By the end of the evening, she leaned in slightly, her smile practiced. "I think we'd make a great match, Dae-hyun. You're… very disciplined, very precise. I like that."

I nodded again, voice quiet. "Thank you."

But inside, a storm raged. The emptiness that had grown over the last two years churned violently. She could never know, never touch the part of me that was aching, the part that remembered—or rather, the part that wished it could remember—someone who once mattered.

The drive home was silent. My mother chattered beside me, but I only stared out the window. Neon lights blurred past, each one a reminder that time moved on. That I had moved on. That I should feel satisfied.

But I didn't.

I pressed my temple against the cold glass, letting the city lights reflect in my eyes. The hollow pit in my chest reminded me that something was missing. Something—or someone—I couldn't forget.

And as much as I hated to admit it, no alpha, no dinner, no carefully arranged meeting could ever fill that void.

I got home late, feeling empty. I tossed my coat on the chair, kicked off my shoes, and let my body slump onto the edge of the bed.

Dinner. The conversation. The polite smiles. The calculating words. Every phrase felt like another weight pressing against my chest. My mother's intentions had been clear: pair me with someone "suitable," someone who fit the mold. But all I felt was exhaustion. Not just the physical kind, but a deep, gnawing emptiness.

I ran a hand through my hair, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city below. My mind replayed the evening, sentence by sentence. Every compliment, every laugh, every polite nod. It was all surface. Hollow. Superficial.

Sleep was supposed to come easily. I had mastered it over the years — late nights working, early mornings, adrenaline keeping me moving. But tonight, sleep refused me. Every time my eyelids drifted, thoughts dragged me back, tugging at corners of unease I hadn't faced in years.

I rolled onto my side, staring at the darkened room. The silence was suffocating. Even my own breathing sounded foreign. I tried to rationalize it. I had everything a man could want — influence, money, control over my company, admiration from colleagues. And yet, a shadow lingered inside me.

It wasn't loneliness. Not exactly. I had grown used to solitude; it was comfortable armor. But this… this was something different. A quiet, insistent ache. A gnawing awareness that no amount of work or success could fill a particular emptiness I hadn't even fully named yet.

I stood abruptly and walked to the window. The city stretched below me in a web of lights, oblivious to the silent battles within me. I leaned against the glass, the cool surface grounding me. My thoughts wandered to my early mornings, the 5 a.m alarms, the relentless drive to keep building, keep climbing. Everything had a purpose. Everything except this hollow weight.

I sank to the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, letting my mind wander through the quiet. I could hear my mother's voice, still vibrant in memory: "You must think of your future, Dae-hyun." Future. The word felt hollow. Plans, arrangements, alliances — all of it mapped, calculated, executed. And yet, it never touched the place inside me that ached quietly, persistently.

I stayed like that for hours, the city slowly dimming as night deepened. The artificial glow of streetlights spilled into the room, reflecting on polished surfaces and casting faint shadows. My thoughts circled endlessly, like a predator hunting its prey.

By the time I finally slid under the sheets, exhaustion threatened to overtake me. But even as my body relaxed, the mind refused. My pulse remained stubbornly awake, racing with questions I couldn't answer. Who was I doing this for? Who was I trying to satisfy? Was it me, or was it everyone else who had shaped the cage around my life?

Sleep came in fragments, interrupted by dreams of running corridors, glass shattering, and quiet, unreachable echoes of responsibility. Each time I woke, my chest felt tighter, heavier, as if I had carried some invisible weight through the night.

And in those quiet moments, I realized something I hadn't admitted in years: my life, perfect as it looked on the outside, was hollow on the inside. All the work, all the plans, all the control… it didn't matter if the emptiness remained.

By 5 a.m., I was awake again. My body ached, my mind restless, yet I moved automatically. Shower, shave, coffee, review emails, check financial reports. The city slowly woke below me, oblivious to the storm within. My life moved forward, efficient, precise, controlled — but the emptiness followed me like a shadow.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, examining the sharp lines of my jaw, the controlled calm in my green eyes. Everything was in place. Everything was perfect. And yet… I felt far from whole.

I dressed, grabbed my briefcase, and left the apartment, the city greeting me with the same indifferent rhythm it had always carried. And as the elevator doors closed, the quiet ache inside me whispered: something, somewhere, was missing. Something no success could fill.

By the time the city stirred, I had already been at the office for nearly two hours. The skyline glinted in the early sunlight, glass towers reflecting ambition and success — a reflection, perhaps, of the life I had meticulously built. Everything ran like clockwork: my employees, my schedule, my meetings. Control was a language I had mastered. Efficiency, the only virtue that mattered.

Yet, despite the seamless rhythm of my life, a quiet hollowness trailed me. I watched colleagues discuss market projections, startup acquisitions, and overseas expansions, nodding and contributing with all the poise expected of a CEO. I smiled when appropriate, laughed when prompted, made notes, signed contracts. Everything was correct, everything precise. Yet none of it touched the nagging void inside.

One of my junior partners approached me with a report. "Dae-hyun, we've finalized the merger terms. Everything looks solid."

"Good," I murmured, scanning the pages. "Prepare the presentation for the board meeting."

He hesitated. "Is… everything alright? You've been… distant."

I stiffened, keeping my expression neutral. "Everything is fine. Just focused."

Focused. That was the word I used to disguise the restlessness, the gnawing ache that lingered under my skin. I excused myself after an hour, walking through the glass corridors alone. The hum of the air conditioning, the clatter of keyboards, the soft murmur of voices — it should have been comforting. Instead, it underscored the emptiness of routine.

Lunch passed in silence, a simple salad and a black coffee, consumed mechanically. My mind wandered to the quiet mornings, the solitary nights, the relentless cycle of work that left no room for anything else. Even the smallest indulgences — a warm meal, laughter, a conversation — had been scheduled and measured, leaving no space for spontaneity.

By evening, I was back home, yet the apartment felt colder than the world outside. The polished surfaces gleamed under soft lighting, the scent of vanilla and cedar filling the rooms — but there was no warmth, no pulse. I changed into loungewear and sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as the city lights flickered in the distance.

My phone buzzed with reminders: meetings, deadlines, calls. I ignored them. For once, I let the silence speak. The quiet allowed the truth to seep through: I had built walls of success around me, but they had also built a cage. A life perfect in appearance, hollow in substance.

By 4 a.m., sleep finally took me, but only briefly. At 5 a.m., I was awake again, staring at the dim light spilling through the blinds. My body ached, my mind restless. I dressed, showered, and poured a cup of black coffee, moving through the motions with robotic precision.

I looked at the skyline once more, the city slowly coming alive, the streets below filling with cars and early commuters. Life continued, indifferent to my inner storm. And yet, as I sipped my coffee, I realized that for all the control, all the achievements, all the accolades, something vital had slipped away.

Something I hadn't noticed until the quiet moments, when the city and my body were awake, but my heart felt suspended in emptiness.

I didn't know what it was yet. But I knew it was missing.

And I knew, somewhere deep beneath the polished surface of my life, I would have to face it eventually.

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