junpyo pov:
It started raining an hour ago when we start making out.
The phone buzzed — a single, sharp chime — and Jun‑pyo's hand froze mid‑gesture, his fingers still curled around Bobae's waist. It was the kind of buzz that cuts through fun.
_"Mother."_
The notification flashed cold and formal: *"Lady Yeon – Urgent."*
He tapped the green icon and lifted the phone to his ear — voice low, controlled, almost bored, as if he'd been expecting this all along.
> "Yes."
Her voice came through — clipped, precise, laced with that familiar steel that meant _nothing good was coming_. No small talk. No "how are you." Just pure command.
> "Jun‑pyo. You are to return home. Immediately. We're arriving this evening. There will be a meeting. Family only. No excuses."
"Understood."
He hung up.
Turned.
Bobae was standing right behind him — eyes wide, lips parted, the bruise on her cheek still faint, still raw — clutching her clothes like it was armor. She'd heard the tone. She'd seen the tension in his shoulders. She'd felt the shift in the air.
> "What's wrong?" she whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent light above them.
> "Nothing." He reached for his coat — the same navy wool he'd worn the night he'd kissed her forehead in the infirmary. — and slipped it on, the fabric sliding over his shoulders like a second skin. "We're going home."
> "Why?"
He didn't answer.
Just grabbed her hand — firm, warm, possessive — and pulled her toward the door. No explanation. No reassurance. Just momentum.
> "We're late."
She didn't resist.
Just matched his pace — quick, urgent — through the empty hallway, down the stairwell, out to the waiting car. Her boots clicked against the wet pavement, her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't slow down.
The rain hit them the moment they stepped outside — cold, sudden, relentless — but they didn't flinch. It soaked through their clothes, plastered their hair to their foreheads, turned the sidewalk into a mirror of broken light.
Jun‑pyo opened the door for her — like a gentleman, like a lover and slid in beside her, slamming the door shut behind them. The leather seat sighed beneath him. The air inside the car was thick with tension, with unspoken words, with the scent of wet wool and expensive cologne.
The driver didn't ask for directions.
Just pulled away — smooth, silent — tires hissing on wet asphalt, headlights cutting through the gray. The city blurred past — neon signs, empty streets, ghostly reflections in puddles. Rain drummed the roof like a heartbeat.
Bobae stared out the window — at the people rushing under umbrellas, at the lights reflecting off the puddles like shattered stars. Her fingers twitched in her lap, wanting to reach for him, wanting to demand answers, wanting to scream.
> "Jun‑pyo…"
He looked at her.
> "Not now."
> "But—"
> "_Not now._"
She fell silent.
He stared straight ahead — jaw set, eyes dark, fingers tapping a silent rhythm against his knee. His thumb brushed the seam of his pants — a tiny, unconscious gesture — the only sign that he was anything other than ice.
The car sped up.
The rain fell harder.
The wipers swished back and forth — mechanical, relentless — like a countdown to something inevitable.
They passed the noodle shop where Minho lived — lights off, curtains drawn.
she hadn't told him what happened in school and also ask why he and jinho didn't come to school
And now — now it was too late.
The car turned onto the estate road — the long, winding driveway lined with oak trees, their branches dripping like skeletal fingers. The gates loomed ahead — iron, imposing, unyielding — sliding open automatically as the car approached.
The car stopped at the front steps.
Jun‑pyo got out first — quick, efficient — then turned and offered his hand.
She took it — small, cold, trembling — and stepped onto the gravel, the stones crunching underfoot like bones.
The front door opened before they reached it.
Mrs. lee stood there — eyes red, face drawn wringing her apron in her hands.
> "Master Jun‑pyo… Bobae… they're waiting."
Jun‑pyo didn't pause.
Just nodded — once, curt — and led Bobae inside, his hand still locked around hers.
The foyer was silent — eerily so — the only sound the soft drip of rain from their clothes onto the marble floor. The air smelled of polish and old roses and something sharp — fear, maybe, or anticipation.
They turned left — toward the living room— where the light spilled out like a warning.
Inside — Lady Yeon sat behind the mahogany desk — straight-backed, expressionless — her fingers laced together, her nails perfectly manicured, her hair pulled back in a flawless knot.
Chairman Yeon stood beside her — tall, broad-shouldered, arms crossed — his face unreadable, his eyes fixed on them like a predator assessing prey.
And beside them — Clara.
Standing, Silent and watching.
Her eyes met Bobae's — and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there — a flash of recognition, of warning, of sorrow — before it vanished, swallowed by the mask she wore like armor.
Jun‑pyo didn't let go of Bobae's hand.
Didn't bow.
Didn't smile.
Just stepped forward — slow, deliberate — and stopped a few feet from the desk.
> "You called."
Lady Yeon nodded.
> "We did." her eyes moving to their interwined fingers
> "Why?"
> "Because it's time."
> "Time for what?"
> "For you to fulfill your obligations."
Bobae's fingers tightened around Jun‑pyo's.
> "What obligations?" he asked, voice quiet but steady.
> "The contract."
> "What contract?" Jun‑pyo asked, voice low.
> "The one you were born into." Chairman Yeon stepped forward. "The one i signed when you were twelve — with the Vivian family. the daughter of the American conglomerate. She's twenty‑three now. Smart. Beautiful. Richer than God. And she's been waiting for you."
Bobae's breath hitched.
> "Vivian Jjejuk?" junpyo chuckled
> "Yes," Lady Yeon said, voice smooth as silk. "The girl you've been photographed with at charity galas. The girl whose father owns half of Silicon Valley. The girl who's been groomed since birth to be your wife."
Jun‑pyo's jaw clenched.
> "I've never agreed to that."
> "You didn't have to," Chairman Yeon said. "i did. And as my heir, you're bound by it. The wedding's set for next month. The invitations are already printed. The venue is booked. The press release is ready."
Bobae pulled her hand from Jun‑pyo's — sudden, sharp — and took a step back.
> "This isn't real." junpyo mumbled
> "It's very real. Mrs Yeon said smiling
And you, she pointed to bobae. I must not see you near my children again. you are a maid and ur duty is to serve.
she's not a maid junpyo cut his mother off. you made her into this, you forced her to be a servant, it's not her fault.... it's not her fault her father owes you money, it's between you adults go solve it yourselves don't drag us into your greediness (jebal(please in south Korea language) I beg you.
he dragged bobae away from there and went to his room.