The days after Minjae discovered the nest passed with a strange, unbearable tension.
Jisoo buried himself in work, dragging his shattered pride into every meeting, every contract, every cold glance that reminded the world he was still Kang Jisoo, still their Alpha Chairman. But beneath the surface, cracks widened. His scent betrayed him at the smallest slip. His body leaned unconsciously into comfort, into safety, into warmth.
And Minjae noticed everything.
It began small, as always.
The morning briefing. Jisoo sat at the head of the table, voice crisp, dictating orders. When he paused to take a sip of water, Minjae leaned forward smoothly, adjusting the pen in Jisoo's hand.
"Your grip is too tight," he murmured, low enough that only Jisoo heard. "Relax, or your hand will cramp."
Jisoo froze, the intimate correction shocking him. But the pen shifted easily, his hand suddenly steadier. He hated the flush of relief that followed.
Worse still was the glance from a junior executive, who had clearly noticed the gesture. Minjae's eyes flicked to the man, sharp and dangerous, until the poor employee quickly looked away.
Claiming. In front of others.
The pattern repeated.
At lunch, Minjae placed food on Jisoo's plate before serving himself, a casual gesture that left the room murmuring in confusion. No one dared comment, but the message was clear: Kang Jisoo was being cared for.
During a conference call, when Jisoo's voice faltered, Minjae's hand slid over his shoulder, grounding him with quiet force. "You're fine," he whispered, the touch both steadying and possessive.
At the end of the day, as they left the office, Minjae adjusted the fall of Jisoo's coat, smoothing it with deliberate slowness. "You can't appear disheveled," he said, though his smirk betrayed the deeper meaning.
Each act was small enough to excuse. But together, they formed a pattern Jisoo couldn't deny.
The breaking point came at a dinner with investors.
The restaurant was luxurious, private, the kind of place where every word was measured and every gesture scrutinized. Jisoo arrived in flawless control—mask secured, tie straight, voice sharp. He intended to erase the memory of the gala, to remind the world of his authority.
But Minjae was there, seated at his right hand.
The dinner unfolded smoothly at first—wine poured, deals discussed, laughter carefully measured. Then one of the investors, emboldened by drink, leaned forward with a careless grin.
"Chairman Kang," he said loudly. "I heard rumors after your gala. About your… condition. Surely they're baseless?"
The table fell silent. All eyes turned to Jisoo.
His hand tightened around his glass. His pride screamed to answer, to crush the man with a cold smile and a cutting remark. But before he could speak, Minjae's hand slid over his wrist, steadying the tremor he hadn't realized was there.
"Rumors," Minjae said smoothly, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Are the currency of the weak. Chairman Kang stands where none of you can reach. Do you doubt it?"
The investor paled, stammering, "N-no, of course not—"
"Good." Minjae's smirk was sharp as a blade. "Then let's not waste his time with gossip."
The tension broke. Conversation resumed awkwardly, but the air shifted—deference tilting not just to Jisoo, but to the man beside him.
Claiming. Open. Unapologetic.
Later, in the car, Jisoo sat in furious silence. His chest ached with humiliation—humiliation not from the investor's words, but from Minjae's intervention.
Finally, he turned sharply. "How dare you speak for me."
Minjae, lounging easily in the seat beside him, met his glare with calm amusement. "You were trembling. I spoke because you couldn't."
"I could have," Jisoo snapped, though his voice cracked.
"No," Minjae said softly, leaning closer. "You couldn't. And that's not weakness, Jisoo-ssi. That's the truth you keep denying."
Jisoo's fists clenched. "You're making a game of this. Treating me like I'm—"
"Mine?" Minjae interrupted, his smirk curving.
The word struck like fire. Jisoo's breath caught, shame and heat crashing together in his chest.
Minjae leaned even closer, his voice low and possessive. "Every time I touch you, every time I speak for you, every time I silence someone who doubts you—it binds you tighter to me. That's not a game. That's a claim."
Jisoo turned away, trembling. "I'll never belong to you."
Minjae's laugh was soft, dangerous. "You already do."
That night, Jisoo stood in his penthouse, staring at his reflection. His tie, his suit, his mask—all still intact. Yet he could still feel Minjae's hand on his wrist, his voice silencing the room, his presence wrapping around him like chains of silk.
He pressed a hand to his chest, his heart pounding.
Was he still the king? Or had he already been conquered?