Wang's Pov.
It's been a month since Zhan and I first made love, and we haven't been able to stop since. Every day, we find our way back to each other, drawn by something deeper than desire, something undeniable, something consuming.
Today, I'm out buying flowers for him, carefully picking the freshest ones, the kind that will make him smile when he sees them. A bouquet of white lilies and soft pink roses, elegant yet gentle, just like him. I also search for the perfect gift, something thoughtful, something that will remind him how much he means to me.
He has the day off, and I want to make it special. Not for any reason other than love—because he makes me happy, and I want to return even a fraction of that joy to him.
I had texted Zhan earlier, telling him I wasn't feeling too well before I left the house. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. Now, as I pull into the driveway, I spot him stepping out of a cab, his expression tight with concern. Perfect timing.
By the time he walks through the door, I'm already in the kitchen, letting the warmth from the gas chase away the lingering chill.
"I'm here," I call out, turning just as he steps in, a small pharmacy bag clutched in his hand.
His eyes sweep over me, checking, assessing. "What are you doing in the kitchen?" he asks, his voice softer than his usual tone.
"The kitchen is warmer," I reply, rubbing my hands together. "It's freezing."
Without thinking, I close the space between us, wrapping my arms around him. His familiar scent, clean, and comforting, undeniably fills my senses as I press into him. "I need warmth," I murmur.
He exhales, his arms tightening around me, his lips brushing mine in a light but lingering kiss.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice lower now, laced with worry. "What happened? I just left you a few hours ago."
I smile, feeling the tension ease from my body just from being in his arms. "I'm okay, love," I say, my voice tinged with laughter. "I just wanted you here with me."
His breath hitches for a second, and then he chuckles, pressing another kiss to my forehead. "You're unbelievable," he mutters, but the warmth in his voice gives him away.
And just like that, I know he understands.
"I fall for this lie all the time," Zhan says, pulling away from our hug, though the warmth of his touch still lingers.
"It's not a lie," I counter, flashing him a small smile. "I do feel better when you're with me."
He shakes his head, amused, but I can see the way his lips twitch, fighting back a smile of his own.
"What are you making?" he asks.
"Rice and beef sauce," I reply, turning back to the stove.
"Let me finish the cooking," he offers, already reaching for the spoon.
I don't argue. Instead, I slip away to the living room, grabbing the flowers and the gift I had carefully picked out for him. Today is supposed to be special, and I can't wait to see the look on his face.
Just as I step back into the kitchen, I hear the front door swing open, followed by a deep, familiar voice.
"Who's home?"
I freeze. My dad.
"Dad?" I whisper, caught off guard by his unexpected arrival. He didn't mention visiting.
Then, louder, I call, "Dad!" just as he steps into the kitchen—my mom is right beside him. And right behind them... my fiancée.
My breath catches.
"Oh my God, are these for your fiancée?" my mom muses, eyeing the flowers in my hands.
She sighs dramatically, shaking her head. "Your brother told you we were coming, didn't he? That boy can't keep a secret to save his life."
I blink, my grip tightening around the bouquet. "No," I answer honestly, my voice steady. "I got these for Zhan. Not for anyone else." I thought to myself.
"Good evening, sir. Good evening, ma," Zhan greets my parents with a polite bow, his voice calm and respectful.
My dad studies him for a moment before nodding.
"And you are the fiancée?" Zhan asks with a small smile.
She doesn't respond immediately, but before she can, my dad turns to me. "Is he your new friend?"
I barely have time to react before my mom shoots him a pointed look, one that makes annoyance rise in my chest. Zhan catches it too, his expression shifting ever so slightly.
Then, to my complete shock, he smiles and says, "I'm the chef. My name is Zhan."
I blink, caught completely off guard. The chef?
My mom raises an eyebrow, looking between Zhan and me, clearly skeptical. My dad, on the other hand, seems amused.
"The chef?" he repeats, folding his arms. "Interesting."
Zhan nods, maintaining his composed expression. "Yes, sir. I was just finishing up dinner. Would you like to try some?"
I glance at him, but he doesn't look at me. He's playing along, and I don't know whether to be impressed or horrified.
My mother hums, clearly intrigued. "Well, if you're cooking, we'll eat," she says, setting her purse down. "We wouldn't want to miss out."
Zhan smiles. "Of course, ma'am. I'll make sure everything is perfect."
I can't believe this is happening. My fiancée is standing in my kitchen, my parents are here unannounced, and the man I love just introduced himself as the chef.
What now?
Zhan keeps his polite smile in place, but I can see the tightness in his jaw and the slight strain at the corners of his mouth. I know that pained smile all too well.
"If he's a chef," my fiancée suddenly says, turning to my mother with an almost too innocent expression, "why not have him make a local Korean dish for us?"
My mom's eyes light up. "That would be great!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. My dad nods in agreement, his interest piqued.
Zhan doesn't even hesitate. "Okay," he says, his smile still perfectly in place. "I'll get to it right away."
I feel a rush of irritation. This isn't right. He's not just some chef. He's my lover. He shouldn't have to do this. I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, he shoots me a warning look. Don't.
My mother catches the silent exchange, her eyes narrowing slightly, but she doesn't say anything.
Before I can react, my fiancée reaches out, taking the flowers from my hands. She presses a quick peck to my cheek. "Thank you so much," she says, smiling sweetly.
I feel Zhan go still beside me. I clench my fists.
"Why are you all here?" I ask, my patience wearing thin.
My mother glances at me as she picks up her purse. "We'll talk about it after we freshen up," she says lightly, already heading toward the rooms.
My dad lingers for a moment. "Where are your securities?" he asks, his tone firm.
I exhale, rubbing my temple. "I gave them the day off," I reply.
He studies me for a moment, then nods before following my mother and my fiancée out of the kitchen.
As soon as they're gone, I turn to Zhan. "Zhan, you don't have to—"
"It's fine," he interrupts, his voice calm but distant.
But it's not fine. And I know we're both feeling the same thing.
This night just took a turn I wasn't prepared for.
The dining table is set beautifully, with elegant plates, polished silverware, and steaming dishes placed carefully in the center. The aroma of Zhan's cooking fills the air—rich, savory, and comforting. Every dish is arranged perfectly, a testament to his skill and precision.
My parents take their seats immediately, my mother adjusting her napkin while my father studies the spread before him with interest. But my fiancée is nowhere to be seen.
The moment they're settled, my mother wastes no time.
"I'm going to go straight to the point," she says, her gaze locking onto mine.
Something in her tone makes my stomach tighten.
"Whatever is happening between you two," she continues her voice firm, "it better be nothing more than a fling. When you leave Jeju, leave whatever you have here."
The words land like a slap. The room feels suddenly smaller, the warmth from the food doing nothing to ease the coldness settling in my chest.
I open my mouth to speak, to argue, but before I can, the sound of heels clicking against the floor interrupts.
Zhao Lusi walks in, sliding into a seat as if she owns the place. Her dress is indecent—too short, too tight, and completely inappropriate for dinner with my parents.
"This looks good," she comments, completely oblivious to the tension in the air.
No one says anything else. Instead, the clinking of utensils fills the silence as everyone starts eating.
Zhan stands quietly by the table, watching, waiting.
"Is it good?" he finally asks, his voice controlled.
"Yes, very good actually," my father replies, nodding approvingly.
Zhan offers a small smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes—before turning and walking back to the kitchen.
I don't know what to make of any of this. The anger simmering in my chest is unbearable, but I shove it down. Instead, I stand abruptly and follow Zhan.
When I step into the kitchen, I find him already cleaning, his movements methodical, almost mechanical.
"Zhan," I say softly, guilt heavy in my voice. "I'm sorry about my mom."
He doesn't stop. Doesn't even look at me. "It's okay, Wang," he replies, his tone distant.
But it's not okay.
I hate this feeling. I hate everything that's happened tonight. And I don't know how to fix it.
Zhan moves around the dining area with quiet efficiency, clearing the table as soon as everyone finishes eating. He wipes down the surfaces, collects the empty plates, and methodically cleans every corner of the kitchen. He doesn't rush, but there's something distant about the way he moves—like he's just going through the motions.
When everything is spotless, he straightens up and turns to face us.
"I'm going home now," he says, bowing politely.
"Thank you," my dad replies, still oblivious to the cold words my mom had thrown at him earlier.
Zhan offers a small, polite smile before turning to leave.
"Wait," I say, moving quickly. "Let me drop you at home. It's cold outside."
He shakes his head, already reaching for his coat. "I'm okay. You should stay with your family," he says, his voice light but distant. Then, after a beat, he adds, "And probably bring your fiancée to the club later."
I freeze.
My dad furrows his brows. "You work in a club?"
"As a waiter," Zhan replies smoothly, with no hesitation.
Silence settles over the room.
My mom doesn't say a word. She only shoots me that look—the same look she's given me before. The one dripping with quiet disappointment.
Zhan doesn't wait for a response. He simply turns and walks away, his back straight, his steps measured.
And my heart aches watching him go.
As soon as Zhan is gone, the air in the room feels heavier. I let out a slow breath, trying to push down the ache in my chest, but it lingers.
My mother takes a sip of her tea before setting the cup down delicately. "We should talk about the wedding," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I glance at her, already feeling the tension creep back into my body. "What about it?"
She leans forward slightly. "We came because it's time for you and Lusi to get familiar with each other. The wedding isn't far off, and you two must start spending more time together."
I say nothing, clenching my jaw.
"We'll be staying for a week," she continues, watching me closely. "But Lusi will remain here until you're ready to leave Jeju."
My head snaps up. "What?"
"It's exactly six weeks," she says, tilting her head. "That should be enough time for you both to strengthen your bond."
I let out a humorless laugh, leaning back in my chair. "And what if I don't want that?"
My mother exhales, her gaze sharp. "Wang, this is not up for discussion. You're engaged. You have responsibilities. The sooner you accept that the easier this will be for everyone."
My fingers tighten around my palm. I don't miss the way my father stays quiet as if letting my mother take control of the conversation.
"And what about what I want?" I ask, my voice quieter now, but firm.
She holds my gaze, her expression unreadable. "What you want doesn't change what's already been decided."
The words cut deep, but they don't surprise me. This is how it's always been. Decisions made for me, expectations set, and my feelings shoved aside like an afterthought.
And now, Lusi will be here—for six weeks. Six weeks of pretending, six weeks of suffocation.
And worst of all, six weeks where Zhan will watch from the outside, knowing exactly where I'm supposed to belong.
"This isn't our agreement," I say, my voice edged with frustration.
My mother exhales sharply, her patience thinning. "That does not hold anymore," she hisses, her tone final.
I clench my jaw, my fists tightening at my sides. There's no point in arguing—not now, not with her. I know how this goes.
"I'm off to bed," I mutter, pushing back my chair. Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk away, heading straight for my room.
The moment I shut the door behind me, I lean against it, exhaling deeply. The weight of everything crashes down on me. Six weeks. Six weeks of this lie, of pretending, of having Lusi in my space while the one person I truly want keeps slipping further away.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration clawing at my chest.
I need to see Zhan. But I don't even know if he'll want to see me.