The office looked the same as it always did—immaculate, silent, perfectly arranged. Yet to Jisoo, nothing felt the same anymore.
The echo of the last heat episode clung to him like a shadow. He still remembered the way his knees had given out, the humiliating collapse into Minjae's arms, the sound of that low, commanding whisper: "Let me carry you."
And worst of all, he remembered how he had obeyed.
Now, days later, he sat behind his desk, trying to summon the mask again—the flawless Alpha, the ruthless CEO, the untouchable king. His tie was pulled tight, his suit pristine, every detail sharpened into perfection.
But the moment Minjae entered, it all wavered.
"Good morning, Jisoo-ssi."
The way Minjae said it—smooth, smug, each syllable dripping with possession—made Jisoo's jaw tighten. He didn't respond, only signed the paper before him with a flourish that felt more like a weapon than an act of business.
Minjae walked closer, placing a cup of coffee on the desk. Not the bitter black Jisoo usually drank, but something lighter, sweeter, steam curling with a faint trace of vanilla.
Jisoo frowned. "This isn't what I asked for."
"I know," Minjae said simply, sliding the cup closer. "You've been skipping meals. This will sit better in your stomach."
"I don't need you monitoring what I eat."
Minjae leaned down, close enough that his scent—steady, grounding, dangerous—brushed against Jisoo's nose. "You don't need a crown that chokes you, either. But you keep wearing it."
Jisoo's grip on his pen faltered. For a second, the urge to argue sparked, but the warmth from the cup curled upward, soothing, disarming. Against his will, he lifted it. One sip, then another.
Minjae smiled faintly, victorious in silence.
It continued all day.
At lunch, Jisoo reached for his phone to call for his usual high-profile dining partner. Minjae intercepted with a raised brow. "The investors can wait. You're eating here."
Before Jisoo could protest, Minjae laid out a tray of food: rice, broth, banchan—simple, home-style dishes, steaming with warmth. Jisoo stared at it, struck by the strange intimacy. He hadn't eaten like this since before his parents died, before he built his empire on steel and glass.
"It's not your place—" he began.
"Eat," Minjae cut in, his tone brooking no argument.
And somehow, Jisoo did.
The chains tightened in small, unshakable ways.
Minjae adjusted the knot of Jisoo's tie before a meeting, fingers brushing deliberately against his throat, gaze locking onto his eyes. Jisoo stood frozen, caught in that simple act of control, the silk knot suddenly feeling more like a leash than an accessory.
When Jisoo stayed late, drowning in work, Minjae appeared silently at his side, switching off the desk lamp. "Go home," he said firmly. "Or do you want the entire company to see you collapse again?"
Jisoo burned with humiliation, but he left, because Minjae was right.
Each command was small. Each act simple. And yet, together, they wove an invisible web—chains of silk binding him tighter and tighter to the man who pulled the threads.
That night, in his penthouse, Jisoo stood before the mirror. His reflection stared back: flawless suit, perfect tie, every detail immaculate. But all he could see was the shadow of Minjae's hand fixing that knot, the weight of Minjae's voice commanding him to eat, to rest, to yield.
He slammed his fist against the counter, fury trembling in his chest.
And yet, when he loosened his tie, he could still feel it—Minjae's presence, invisible but inescapable, wrapping around him like silk.
Not chains of iron, not ropes of force.
Something far more dangerous.
Chains of silk.