"Mhm…" Arin groaned, her voice thick and dry.
Her body ached, her limbs heavy like they'd been filled with cement. A sharp throb pulsed behind her eyes—relentless, punishing. Her mouth tasted like regret and stale liquor.
She stirred beneath warm sheets, only to freeze when something heavy shifted against her.
A weight. A body.
Still foggy from sleep, her eyes fluttered open—and confusion hit her first.
This wasn't her room.
Soft morning light spilled in through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden hue over crisp white bedding and sleek, modern furniture. Everything looked expensive. Too expensive. Her pulse ticked faster as she turned her head—
And then she saw him.
Zane Kim.
Lying half on top of her, shirtless, his head nestled in the crook of her neck like it belonged there.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her heart launched into her ribs, thudding wildly. Her fingers twitched against the sheets.
What the hell?
She shoved him off, hard.
He groaned but didn't wake—just rolled onto his back, an arm flopping across the mattress as he sank deeper into sleep. Completely unaware of the sheer panic crashing through her.
Arin sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest.
No.
No, no, no.
She slowly looked down—and her heart dropped to her stomach.
Her clothes were gone. Scattered across the floor in messy, damning clumps. Her bra. Her jeans. Her blouse. All tangled in careless heaps as if ripped off in a hurry.
She didn't need to remember everything to understand the implication.
Her skin went cold.
"What… happened?" she whispered to herself, a tremble in her voice.
Memories from the night before flickered—his lips, his breathless voice, that desperate kiss in the hallway. The way his hands trembled when he said he'd been drugged. The way she hadn't stopped him.
She bolted upright, heart pounding in her chest like a drum. The sheet tangled around her legs, and in the dim morning light, she realized—she wasn't wearing her clothes.
Panic seized her throat.
Arin scrambled off the bed, grabbing the nearest article she could find—Zane's shirt, wrinkled and slung over a nearby chair. She threw it on over her bare body, fumbling with the buttons with trembling fingers. It was oversized, swallowing her frame, but it covered enough.
Her underwear lay half-crumpled near the foot of the bed. She snatched it up with shaking hands and pulled it on hastily, eyes darting around the room like a hunted animal.
Her jeans? Gone. Her top? She spotted it near the corner, but it was soaked in something—probably spilled liquor—and completely unwearable. She didn't have time to think about it.
She just needed to get out. Now.
Clutching the hem of Zane's oversized shirt, her breath hitched—where was her phone?
Dropping to her knees, she crawled around the bed, eyes scanning the cluttered floor. Her bag lay overturned, makeup scattered like broken glass. Then, faint and shining under the bedframe, she spotted it.
Her fingers brushed the phone just as she heard a soft creak from the door.
Her heart froze.
The door eased open slowly, barely making a sound.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Without thinking, she scrambled under the bed, curling into herself, phone clutched tightly.
The first thing she noticed was a pair of polished black dress shoes stepping into the room.
Then a calm, urgent voice broke the silence.
"Mr. Kim, wake up."
Zane said nothing.
The man called out again, this time louder and more urgent.
"Sir!"
Zane groaned from the bed, his voice rough and sleepy. "Just ten more minutes…"
Arin held her breath under the bed, heart hammering in her chest like a war drum.
Dust tickled her nose. Her fingers clenched her phone tighter, every muscle tense as the sound of movement continued above her.
If they found her here…
If they saw her like this…
She shut her eyes, praying silently, every breath a quiet plea to be invisible.
Above her, footsteps creaked closer to the bed.
"It's urgent, sir," the man repeated, a thread of pressure in his voice now.
Zane groaned again, low and irritable, before sitting up slowly. The mattress shifted above her, and Arin instinctively held her breath.
Even half-asleep and hungover, Zane's presence was magnetic and sharp. She could feel it in the air—the shift from laziness to alertness, the quiet authority that always followed him like a second skin.
He raked a hand through his tousled hair and narrowed his eyes at the man standing near the foot of the bed.
Zane sat up with a groggy scowl, the sheets falling to his waist—boxers already on. His hair was tousled, his eyes heavy with sleep and irritation.
"What is it?" he growled, rubbing a hand over his face.
His assistant stepped closer, holding out a tablet with both hands like it might explode. "You… need to see this."
Zane snatched the device, clearly ready to bite off someone's head—until his gaze locked on the screen. His expression froze. Then shifted to Confusion, Realization and Fury.
His eyes snapped up. "Where's that girl?"
His voice was low, dangerous. Laced with a fury Arin had only seen when he was on camera or behind a boardroom table—but never this raw.
The assistant blinked. "Girl…?"
Zane's eyes darkened. "The one from last night. The one I came here with."
A silence stretched.
"She wasn't on the list. No one saw her leave, sir. The cameras—"
"I don't care about the list." He threw the covers off and stood abruptly, still shirtless, his muscles tense. "She's not in this room, is she?"
The assistant hesitated. "I—I didn't see anyone else enter or leave this morning."
Zane growled under his breath and scanned the room. His eyes swept past the bathroom, the sitting area, and the balcony door—calculating, hunting. And then they flicked down… to the floor.
To the edge of the bed.
His voice dropped, sharp and commanding.
"Arin," he said, stepping around the bed, "if you're under there, come out. Now."
Arin's breath hitched.
She stared at his bare feet inches from her face, her entire body stiff with shame and dread. Her phone buzzed softly in her hand—a notification lighting up the screen, maybe more fuel to the fire she hadn't seen yet.
The article.
The photos.
The reason he looked like he wanted to burn the world down.
"Arin."
His voice was calmer this time—but colder. Icy, measured. The kind of calm that came before a storm.
Arin didn't move. She lay frozen, her cheek pressed against the cold floor, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out. Every breath she took was shaky, shallow, like her lungs had forgotten how to function properly.
The assistant shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting from the tablet to the floor, then back to Zane. He cleared his throat, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
Zane stood in silence for a second, jaw ticking, tension rolling off him like a gathering storm. Then, without breaking eye contact with the empty space beneath the bed, he spoke again—this time slower, each word dipped in acid.
"If you don't come out of there right now," he said, "I will fucking drag you out."
The words snapped like a whip, slicing through the room's heavy silence.
Arin flinched—and in the process, hit her head on the underside of the bed frame with a dull thud.
"Shit…" she whispered, wincing as pain bloomed across her scalp.
Still, the humiliation was far worse.
Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she began crawling out slowly, her fingers trembling as she emerged from the shadows like a child caught stealing.
Her hair was a mess, sticking to her cheeks, and her borrowed shirt—Zane's shirt—hung loosely on her shoulders, wrinkled and half-buttoned. Her legs trembled beneath her, barely able to hold her up.
When she stood, she kept her eyes trained firmly on the floor.
Zane didn't say a word.
But the heat of his gaze seared into her like a spotlight—sharp, unrelenting.
Arin swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at her to run. Her fingers clutched the hem of the oversized shirt as if it could shield her from what was coming next.
The assistant quickly averted his gaze, cheeks burning with embarrassment as the tension thickened between them. He shifted awkwardly, clearly wishing he could disappear.
Zane's voice finally broke the suffocating silence—low, dark, and edged with something unreadable. It sliced through the room like a blade.
"What were you doing under there?" His words hung heavy in the air, demanding, cold.
Arin stayed silent, her throat tight, her eyes refusing to meet his.
"Why don't you fucking speak?" Zane's voice sharpened, the impatience and anger flaring.
But before Arin could respond, Zane's phone buzzed sharply against the quiet. The assistant held up the device, his expression apologetic but urgent.
"Sir, it's your grandma," he said softly, holding the screen out to Zane.
Zane's brows furrowed as he snatched the phone. His tough exterior melted in an instant—his voice shifted from harsh to tender, warm.
"Fuck. Give me," he muttered before answering with gentle reverence, "Hello, Grandma... How are you?"
She looked toward the assistant with disbelief, silently mouthing, Seriously? The assistant just nodded slightly, like, Yeah, you're not the first to be surprised.
There was a pause as Zane listened. Then his posture stiffened. His brows furrowed.
A moment later, he spoke again—his voice still soft but with a thread of panic.
"What? Now?"
Another pause.
And then, still holding the phone, he looked over his shoulder at Arin.
"She said…" he muttered, almost to himself. "Come home. With you."
His eyes met hers, unreadable.
"She saw the photos."