Morning broke gray and heavy, clouds pressing low over the Kang Group tower. The storm had finally passed, but its shadow lingered. The streets gleamed wet, the air sharp with the clean scent of rain.
Inside the boardroom, however, the atmosphere was anything but clean.
The directors droned on, voices circling like vultures. Words like "expansion," "risk management," and "profit margins" clattered across the table, but Jisoo heard none of it. His eyes were fixed on the numbers before him, his pen tapping once against the polished wood.
He felt it again—the faint coil of warmth, the treacherous ache low in his body that no suppressant could fully erase. He kept his face impassive, jaw set, but inside he could hear the ticking of his own restraint.
Across the room, Seo Minjae leaned casually against the wall, tablet in hand, watching. Always watching. His eyes traced every line of Jisoo's posture, every twitch of his hand.
The meeting dragged on until Jisoo finally rose, chair scraping softly. "We'll revisit this proposal next week. Dismissed."
The directors scrambled to gather their papers, murmuring in relief as they hurried out. Within minutes, the boardroom was empty—save for Jisoo and Minjae.
"You looked pale again," Minjae said, breaking the silence. His tone was deceptively light, but there was an edge to it, as if testing the waters.
"I'm fine," Jisoo replied, moving to collect his notes.
"You're lying."
Jisoo froze, just for an instant. Then he straightened, slipping the papers into his briefcase with precise movements. "You're out of line."
Minjae smiled faintly. "You always say that. But you never tell me I'm wrong."
The air between them tightened. Jisoo turned, ready to leave, but Minjae stepped forward, blocking his path.
"Move," Jisoo ordered.
Instead, Minjae reached up—slow, deliberate—and caught the edge of Jisoo's tie between two fingers.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Jisoo's breath hitched, too quiet to hear but loud enough to feel. Minjae tugged lightly, drawing him half a step closer. The silk slid under his fingers, warm from Jisoo's skin.
"You wear this like armor," Minjae murmured, eyes gleaming. "Tight. Perfect. A king's crown in fabric." He tilted his head, smirk curving. "But even armor can choke its wearer."
Jisoo's heart pounded, traitorous and loud in his ears. He forced his voice steady. "You forget your place."
Minjae leaned in, close enough that Jisoo could feel the brush of his breath near his jaw. "Maybe you're the one who's forgotten. Maybe this throne you're sitting on—" he tugged the tie again, gently but firmly, "—was never meant to be yours."
The words sliced sharper than any rival's insult. For a moment, Jisoo's mask cracked—just enough for Minjae to glimpse the fear in his eyes, the fragility he hid beneath every carefully constructed layer.
Then Jisoo shoved him back, just enough to break contact. His tie slipped from Minjae's fingers, falling back into place against his chest.
"Don't test me," Jisoo hissed.
Minjae smiled, unbothered, as if he'd won something anyway. "Oh, I will. Again and again. Until you stop pretending."
Jisoo's fists clenched at his sides. He turned sharply, striding from the boardroom, his footsteps echoing down the hall. But he could still feel the phantom touch of Minjae's fingers against his throat, the whisper of words that cut deeper than he wanted to admit.
That night, alone in his penthouse, Jisoo stood before the mirror. His reflection stared back at him: flawless suit, perfect tie, the image of a powerful Alpha.
And yet, when he tugged the knot loose, he swore he could still feel it choking him—not the fabric, but the truth Minjae had pressed against his skin.
The truth that the tie, like the mask, was only a façade.And Minjae was already unraveling it, thread by thread.