Then he looks back down at me and his eyes are still burning, still furious, but underneath the anger there’s a flash that looks a lot like hurt, and when he speaks again his voice is quiet and deadly serious.
“You’d better hope I never find out who your son’s father is,” he says. “Because if I ever get my hands on that alpha, the man is dead.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing I can say.
We settle into the sheets in silence, Hongjoong reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp before his arm comes around me, pulling me against his chest with a possessiveness that feels different from the sexual kind. This is protective, territorial, his body curling around mine like he’s shielding me from something, his face pressing into the back of my hair and his arm locked tight across my waist. I can feel the tension still humming through him, the anger that hasn’t fully dissipated, his heartbeat a hard steady thump against my spine.
I lie there in the dark, staring at the wall of windows across the bedroom where the city lights blur into soft smears through the glass, and I think about how impossible this is.
If I told him the truth right now it would destroy everything. He’d look at me differently. He’d look at Sungyoon and see his own features staring back and he’d know I kept his son from him for fifteen years, and no amount of explaining the circumstances would make that forgivable. Or maybe he wouldn’t even be angry. Maybe he’d just be hurt, which would be worse.
The guilt is suffocating, pressing down on my chest with a weight that makes it hard to breathe, and I lie awake long after Hongjoong’s breathing evens out behind me, his arm still locked around my waist, his nose still tucked against the nape of my neck where my scent is strongest. I stare at nothing and I don’t sleep for a long time.
Chapter Seven
I’m pouring coffee into a travel mug and scrolling through my phone with my other hand when I hear the telltale crash of Sungyoon’s bedroom door hitting the wall, followed by the heavy thud of feet moving way too fast for this hour of the morning. I look up just as he rounds the corner into the kitchen looking like he lost a fight with his pillow, his hair sticking up in about six different directions, his uniform shirt untucked on one side and his tie hanging loose and unknotted around his neck. There’s a crease from his pillowcase stamped across his left cheek.
“I didn’t know you were still home,” I say, frowning as I cap the travel mug. “I assumed you’d already left for school.”
Sungyoon makes a sound that’s closer to a growl than actual words, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a carton of banana milk. “I slept through my alarm,” he says, his voice thick with frustration as he stabs the straw through the top. “I’m going to be so late. Mr. Park is going to make me run laps again.” Hetakes a long pull of the milk and then mutters under his breath, “Old bastard lives for making us suffer.”
I smirk into my coffee. “Come on, I was just heading out to meet my client anyway. I can drop you off on the way.”
The relief that crosses his face is instant, his shoulders dropping as he grabs his school bag off the counter where he must have dumped it last night and shoves his feet into his sneakers by the front door without untying them, crushing the backs down under his heels. I open my mouth to tell him to put them on properly but he’s already launching into a rundown of the interschool soccer tournament as we head into the hallway, his earlier irritation evaporating completely now that he’s on his favorite subject.
“So we made it to the semis,” he says, slinging his bag over one shoulder as we step into the elevator. “If we win today we advance to the final round next week. Their center midfielder is the one we have to worry about, he’s this tall kid from Hanyang Prep who plays dirty, like he’ll slide tackle you from behind when the ref isn’t looking.” He takes another sip of banana milk and continues without pausing for breath. “But Woonil figured out that if we press high on their left side we can force them to play through the middle where our defense is strongest, and then I can cut in from the wing when they overcommit.”
I nod along, genuinely enjoying the way his face lights up when he talks about this, the animated hand gestures and the small detail that tells me he actually thinks about the game seriously and doesn’t just run around kicking the ball like I did at his age. We reach the parking garage level and the elevator doors slide open, and I pull my key fob out of my jacket pocket as we step onto the concrete, heading across the garage toward a different spot than where I usually park.
Sungyoon is still talking about the opposing team’s goalkeeper when he trails off mid-sentence, his steps slowing. He looksaround the row of parked cars, then back at me, then around again.
“Where’s your car?”
“There,” I say, and click the fob.
Two rows ahead, a brand new foreign model sedan flashes its headlights and chirps, sleek and dark and gleaming under the fluorescent garage lights. It’s still wearing temporary plates. The paint is so glossy it reflects the overhead lights in clean white streaks across the hood, and the interior, visible through the tinted windows, is cream leather and brushed metal trim.
Sungyoon stops dead. His jaw drops, the banana milk carton frozen halfway to his mouth.
I walk past him, pop the trunk, and toss my bag inside. The trunk closes with a soft expensive click that sounds nothing like the rusty slam of my old sedan.
“What is that,” Sungyoon says. It’s not really a question.
I clear my throat. “My car.”
Sungyoon stares at me. “Dad. That is not your car.”
“It is now,” I say, pulling open the driver’s side door.
Sungyoon shakes his head slowly, his eyes still fixed on the car like he’s waiting for it to dissolve into a hallucination. “How? Where did it come from?”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the heat creep up toward my ears despite my best efforts to stay casual. “My new client bought it for me,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can manage, which isn’t very even at all.
Sungyoon’s eyes narrow. A sharp look that’s entirely too perceptive for a fifteen-year-old that he gets sometimes, the one that makes me feel like I’m the child being interrogated. “Your new client?” he repeats, his tone flat with suspicion. “What kind of client gives a car as a gift?”
“Well,” I say, opening the passenger door and gesturing for him to get in, “he’s kind of the heir to the car brand, so it’s not that big of a deal.”
Sungyoon gapes at me. He repeats it back slowly. “He what?”
