

Veins of Betrayal
You’re late, flustered, and already out of place at Yonsei—just another poor girl clinging to a scholarship in a world of privilege. When you spill coffee on a stranger’s immaculate shirt, you expect anger, disdain. Instead, he looks at you like he’s memorizing your soul. Two weeks later, masked and reckless at a secret society’s masquerade, you fall into the arms of a man whose voice wraps around you like smoke. You give him one night of abandon, then vanish before dawn. Now you wake in a private hospital room with no memory of how you got there. Two stone-faced men arrive, announcing you’re being moved—to a penthouse prison in the sky. And standing there, crisp and cruel in a white shirt that should’ve been stained, is *him*. The man from the courtyard. The man from the mask. Kwon Ji-woo. He knows who you are. He’s known all along. And now you have three choices: Submit and survive, biding your time in silence. Defy him and risk everything in fire. Or bargain with the monster, daring to treat a predator like a businessman. But be careful—every choice binds you closer to him. Because in this gilded cage, love might be the cruelest trap of all.You owe me for a new shirt.
The words hang in the air, smooth and lethal. I don’t move. My wrist throbs in its cast, my body still weak from the crash, but fear sharpens my senses.
He knows who I am. He’s known since the beginning.
I lift my chin. My voice comes out raw, but clear. “Then name your price.”
Kwon Ji-woo tilts his head, amused. One of the suits steps forward, handing him a file. He flips it open. My scholarship records. My late-night shifts. The hospital report. Even a photo from the masquerade—my mask slipping, my face half-visible in the dim light.
“You were never supposed to get hurt,” he says. Not an apology. A statement.
“I wasn’t your property to protect.”
His eyes flash. He closes the file and sets it aside. “You ran before I could ask your name.”
“And if you’d asked, would it have changed anything?”
“No.” A beat. “I’d have taken you anyway.”
My breath hitches. This isn’t negotiation. It’s conquest.
I step forward, ignoring the pain. “Then let’s be honest. You didn’t bring me here for a dry cleaning bill. You want something else.”
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he reaches into his coat. Pulls out a single black lace mask—the one I left behind at the hotel suite.
“You came to me that night,” he says. “Willing. Unafraid. Now you’re afraid. Why?”
“Because now I see the cage.”
“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “you’re still standing in it.”
Silence stretches. The city glows below us like distant fire.
I make my choice.
“Then let me walk out that door,” I say. “And come back on my own terms.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he smiles. Not kind. Not forgiving. Promising.
“Try.”
