CHAPTER 6

VELVET CHAINS 

The private elevator moaned to a halt on the top floor of the Seoul head office for the Song Corporations, and the air was thin—rarefied—so breathing was expensive. Chaewon was beside Jian, his silence since being ambushed in the boardroom deafening. He hadn't even looked at her when they stepped out onto the floor. And yet his presence weighed on her like gravity—unspoken but unrelenting.

She was not certain what to expect.

He marched on, opening the penthouse suite's door—his kingdom above the rest. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed golden light from the afternoon to flood through onto marble floors and intricately selected fashions. It was cold. It was inhospitable. A prison clad in refinement.

"You'll be staying here now," he declared, his voice suave but laced with overtones of something dangerous. "As my wife, your place is beside me, In public."

Chaewon turned to him, clenching her teeth. "And in private? Does that also come under the agreement?"

He stood firm. "Privately, you stay out of my way."

She attempted to laugh, but laughter was trapped within her, like a thorn. "Seriously, you think you can be a puppet master for eternity? That I'll just follow suit because the ring is on my hand?"

Her glance flicked to her hand, and on it, the diamond glittered as a trophy, a token more for triumph than for devotion.

"I don't ask you to follow, Chaewon. I ask you to survive."

It was not what she had expected.

But before she could demand an explanation, Jian's telephone rang. He moved aside and spoke sharply and hurriedly, rapid Chinese phrases slicing through the air. She was only catching snippets—"shipment," "intercepted," "who gave permission?" His voice slid into a deadly quiet, and her skin crawled.

His expression became depressed as he hung up.

"Change of plans," he declared. "We're going out tonight." Said Jian.

“Where to?” Chaewon asked.

He looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "To meet the people who want to kill us both." Chaewon had been attired by one of the staff members—a breathtaking off-shoulder black dress that clung to her body like temptation, matched by diamond earrings and a velvet choker. Her reflection in the mirror took her remarks. This was a different woman. Was this what Jian was looking to parade?

The luxury car came to a halt at an underground bar in Cheongdam-dong. Plain and unadorned on the exterior, but Chaewon knew the moment she laid eyes on it—it was a den for players and poisoners. Jian's hand settled at the small of her back as they entered, pressing against it gently, as if an exhibit on display to be admired. His touch scorched against her, but it was one of indignity, and not passion.

Inside, the air smelled of wealth and blood.

They were led to a private lounge where a man in a crimson suit awaited them—Yoon Jaesuk. CEO of a rival conglomerate, known for smiling with knives behind his teeth.

“Well, isn’t this the Song heir and his… bride.” Jaesuk’s gaze slid over her, too slow, too appraising. “She’s quite the beauty, Jian. Dangerous, too, if the rumors are true.”

Jian didn’t smile. “Careful, Jaesuk. Rumors have a way of becoming obituaries.”

Jaesuk laughed as if amused, but the glint in his eyes said he’d remember the threat.

They spoke in veiled threats and economic double-speak, but Chaewon listened, piecing together fragments. Someone within Song Corp had leaked confidential shipping schedules. The kind that could only come from upper management. A traitor in the house.

She glanced at Jian and realized—he’d brought her here to test her. To see how she handled the sharks.

So she bared her own teeth.

When Jaesuk made another thinly-veiled jab, she leaned forward, voice like silk laced with steel. “It’s cute, the way you try to provoke Jian. But you should know something about me—I don’t bluff. And I don’t forget faces.” Chaewon said.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut glass. Jaesuk’s smirk faltered. Jian’s eyes flicked to her, surprised.

“Well then,” Jaesuk said finally, lifting his glass. “To the new Mrs. Song. May she survive longer than the last one.”

A chill swept through her veins.

“What did you say?”

“Oh,” Jaesuk said with mock innocence. “Didn’t he tell you? His last engagement ended... badly.”

Jian rose in one fluid motion, grabbing Chaewon’s hand. “We’re done here.”

They exited without another word.

Back in the car, silence reigned until Chaewon finally snapped. “You were engaged before?”

Jian didn’t respond. His jaw was set, eyes fixed ahead.

She pressed harder. “Did she die? Or did she run?”

Something flashed in his expression—pain, regret and rage.

“She was murdered.” Jian replied.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the penthouse. Jian stepped out without another word, leaving her shaken in the backseat.

Murdered.

Was that what Jaesuk had meant when he said "survive"? That this world wasn’t just cutthroat—but lethal? Chaewon thought to herself.

And why hadn’t Jian told her?

The penthouse was dim when she entered, the city lights casting shadows across the floor. Jian stood by the window, drink in hand.

“You don’t trust me,” Chaewon said, voice low.

“No,” he said simply. “And you shouldn’t trust me either.”

She stepped closer. “But we’re married. Tied together now. What happens to one of us, happens to both.”

Jian turned, his eyes meeting hers for the first time that night. “That’s exactly the problem.”

A moment passed. Then another. Something charged stretched between them, sharp with things unsaid.

Finally, she asked, “Who killed her?”

He didn’t blink. “I don’t know. But I will find out. And when I do, I’ll burn their empire to the ground.”

His tone left no room for doubt.

But Chaewon’s stomach twisted. Because in that moment, she saw it—beneath his cold mask, Jian was a man bleeding in silence. Alone. Obsessed.

And she was part of his war now, whether she wanted to be or not.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts churned. Too many secrets clawed at the edges to the little peace she had. So she moved around the penthouse, drawn by a door she hadn’t yet opened.

It was locked.

But a loose hinge in the frame let her slip something thin—a bobby pin—into the crack. It clicked.

The room was dark. Dust motes floated in the air that smelled faintly of old perfume.

Photos lined the wall. A woman. Smiling. Dead.

It was Jian’s ex-fiancée.

There were news clippings. Crime scene photos. Maps. Red string connecting names she didn’t recognize. It was a war board—one only Jian had seen. A portrait of obsession.

Her fingers brushed over a photograph… and stopped.

Her blood turned to ice.

Because there, half-hidden behind another image, was a blurry photo of her.

Taken months ago.

Before the engagement.

Before they ever met.

Chaewon staggered back, heart pounding.

Why did Jian have a photo of her… before he ever approached her?

And what if marrying her wasn’t part of his plan to protect the company… but something far more dangerous?