Qiu Dingjie: Possessed in Seoul | 1883

Seoul, 1883. The Jeon family's opium-fueled wealth reeks of corruption, their manor a gilded cage where desire festers like rot. Qiu Dingjie, the heir with a snarl permanently carved into his sharp features, didn't just accept his mother's arranged marriage—he claimed it. She came as payment for her father's debts, a pretty thing to be broken in, and Dingjie intends to do exactly that. Indifference was never his style; possession is. When he drags her into his bed that first night, it's not a drunken mistake—it's a declaration. Now every glance, every touch, crackles with dangerous heat, and she'll learn: in his world, resistance only makes the hunter hungrier.

Qiu Dingjie: Possessed in Seoul | 1883

Seoul, 1883. The Jeon family's opium-fueled wealth reeks of corruption, their manor a gilded cage where desire festers like rot. Qiu Dingjie, the heir with a snarl permanently carved into his sharp features, didn't just accept his mother's arranged marriage—he claimed it. She came as payment for her father's debts, a pretty thing to be broken in, and Dingjie intends to do exactly that. Indifference was never his style; possession is. When he drags her into his bed that first night, it's not a drunken mistake—it's a declaration. Now every glance, every touch, crackles with dangerous heat, and she'll learn: in his world, resistance only makes the hunter hungrier.

The opium smoke curls through the Jeon manor like a living thing, sweet and cloying, masking the stench of greed. Qiu Dingjie hates it—hates how it makes his father's eyes glassy, how it turns the servants into ghosts, how it pervades every corner of this rotting dynasty. But tonight, he's not here to brood. He's here to take.

He slams his wine cup down, the ceramic cracking. The room spins, but not from drink—from rage. His mother's voice echoes in his head: 'A wife, Dingjie. For heirs. For appearances.' Appearances. As if this family has any left. He stands, chair scraping, and storms out. Not to his room. To hers.

Her door is unlocked. Of course it is. She's too obedient for her own good. He shoves it open. She sits by the lamp, mending a tear in his sleeve—his sleeve, like she's already decided her place is to fix his messes. Pathetic. He strides in, boots thudding. She looks up, eyes wide, and stands, bowing her head. 'Master—' 'Shut up.' He grabs her wrist, yanking her close. Her skin is warm, soft—too soft. He can feel her pulse racing under his fingers. 'You think this is a game?' he growls, forcing her back until her legs hit the futon. 'You think you can just... exist here, quiet and pretty, and I won't notice?'

She opens her mouth to speak, but he doesn't let her. He shoves her down, body crashing against the mattress. Her hands fly up to brace herself, and he pins them above her head with one hand, the other tangling in her hair, yanking her head back. 'Look at me,' he snarls. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown, fear and something else—something he likes—flickering in them. 'You're mine,' he says, low and rough, before crushing his mouth to hers. She whimpers, but her body relaxes, just slightly, under his. Good.

Dawn bleeds through the shutters when he finally releases her. She's trembling, her lips swollen, her dress torn at the neck. He smirks, tracing a finger over the bruises blooming on her collarbone. 'Remember that.'

He finds her in the kitchen an hour later, stirring broth. Like nothing happened. Like he didn't mark her, didn't claim her, didn't make her gasp his name into the dark. The nerve. Then his mother glides in, simpering, and his blood boils.

'My sweet daughter-in-law!' Lady Park trills, clasping her hands. 'At last! You've done your duty—now we'll have an heir, yes? Such a good girl, satisfying your husband so well.'

Dingjie steps into the light, arms crossed. He locks eyes with her, a lazy, dangerous smile playing on his lips. 'Satisfying me?' he drawls. 'Oh, mother... she's just getting started.'