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kathaelipwse · 15 days ago

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DRAPED IN ARROGANCE | J.Yunho

“You weren’t just wearing my designs, you were wearing me.”

Pairing: Designer!Jeong Yunho x Model!Fem.Reader

Word Count: 14,473 words Reading Time: 52-ish mins

Trope: Enemies to Lovers kind of- | Workplace Tension | Designer x Muse | He Falls First And Hard

Genre: Angst | Romance | Fashion Industry AU | Slow Burn

Warnings: Gossip, bullying, class divide, touch-starved tension, emotional trauma, mild alcohol use, mentions of attempted murder (non-graphic), NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: You crash an invite-only fashion casting. He stops the show. Picks you. The industry whispers that you’re his obsession. He says it’s just business. But when touch turns to tension, and jealousy turns to war— You’ll either become his greatest masterpiece… or the muse that ruins him.

Note: For the girls who’ve ever been told they don’t belong—this one if for you. For the ones who walk like a storm, speak like they mean it, and still get called “too much”—this one is stitched for you.

1.2k followers special <3

The air in the cavernous studio was a thick, palpable hum of ambition and barely contained nerves. It wasn't just the scent of new fabric and expensive perfumes; it was the unspoken desperation of a hundred dreams crammed into one room. An elite, invite-only casting, the kind that legends were made from, or careers were quietly extinguished. And you? You were an anomaly, a rogue element in this carefully curated ecosystem, a rookie with no real business being there, yet somehow, you were.

You strode in, not with the demure, practiced grace of the models who had been groomed for this moment since childhood, but with a raw, almost feral energy. Each step was a statement, a ripple of defiance in a perfectly still, perfectly polished pond. Your head wasn’t tilted in an apology or a plea for acceptance; it was held high, a banner of your untamed spirit. You knew you stuck out, felt the sidelong glances and the faint whispers that followed your unauthorized passage. They were sizing you up, dissecting your every move, but you met their stares with a cool indifference that bordered on disdain. You weren't here to make friends. You were here to walk.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. A palpable wave of anticipation, a sudden hush that swallowed the nervous chatter. He entered the space. Yunho. The name itself was a whisper of power, a reverberation of success and unyielding control. He was everything the industry deemed perfect: sharp angles, an intimidating presence, and eyes that missed nothing. They weren't just observing; they were dissecting, analyzing, calculating. And then, those eyes landed on you.

The world seemed to narrow, the periphery fading into a blur. His gaze, cold and assessing, fixed solely on you, a stark spotlight in a room full of flickering possibilities. He didn't just look; he consumed, absorbing every nuance of your posture, the subtle curve of your lips, the defiant set of your jaw. And then, he did the unthinkable. He brought the entire audition to a standstill. The music faded, the murmur of voices died, leaving only the deafening silence punctuated by the soft click of cameras.

Confusion, thick and immediate, rippled through the room like a tangible force. Heads swiveled, whispers like silk ribbons unfurled, imbued with a mixture of bewilderment and barely concealed resentment: Who is she? Why her? What just happened? You could feel their frustration, their carefully constructed poise cracking under the unexpected halt. But you didn't flinch. You just met his gaze, an unyielding challenge in your own eyes.

Yunho’s voice cut through the murmurs, perfectly polite yet infused with a chilling cruelty that made the air itself seem to thin. "The rest of you," his words resonated through the vast space, each one a precise, devastating incision, "are mannequins. She walks like war."

A collective gasp, stifled quickly by the sheer force of his presence. The words hung in the air, a declaration that simultaneously elevated you and annihilated everyone else. Mannequins. Lifeless. Impersonal. Disposable. And then, you, walking like war. It was a compliment, undeniably, but delivered with the detached precision of a surgeon.

You couldn't help it. A subtle, almost imperceptible roll of your eyes was your immediate, involuntary response. A direct, unvarnished challenge to his pronouncement, to his power, to his very perception of you. The clash was instant, undeniable. It was as if two opposing forces had collided, sparks flying in the silent room.

He saw it, of course. That flicker of defiance in your gaze, the slight twitch at the corner of your lips. He was annoyed by your attitude, you could sense it radiating off him, a tightly coiled tension beneath his composed exterior. But it was precisely that unbridled spirit, that audacity, that shaped your walk, the way you carried yourself. It wasn't about perfection; it was about presence. It was about impact. You weren't just moving across a floor; you were claiming the space, demanding attention, igniting a reaction.

You were the one who could command a runway, leave jaws on the floor, render an audience breathless. You were the one the industry would kill to have as their model, the elusive quality that every designer chased. And there was no way in hell he was letting you walk out of this room without being his. He saw the fire in your eyes, the unwavering confidence that bordered on arrogance. He saw the potential for greatness, not just in your movements, but in the sheer force of your personality.

That raw, untamed essence was the very reason he would even bother handling you. You were a project, a challenge, a potential goldmine. It was business, after all. A highly calculated, exceptionally profitable business venture. Or was it something else? A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, a momentary crack in the polished facade. A recognition, perhaps, of a kindred spirit, a mirror of his own relentless drive. But it was quickly masked, relegated to the realm of the unspoken. For now, it was strictly business. And as you held his gaze, a quiet battle raging between you, you knew this was just the beginning.

The vast studio, a crucible of ambition and cutthroat competition, now felt like a gilded cage. The initial shock of Yunho’s chilling pronouncement—that you “walked like war” while others were mere mannequins—had solidified into the stark, unyielding reality of training. It was brutal, an endless cycle of grueling rehearsals and meticulous fittings where fabric was stretched and pinned with surgical precision. Other models, once poised and seemingly unbreakable, often ended their days in quiet despair, their confidence chipped away by Yunho’s relentless pursuit of perfection.

Yet, with you, it was glaringly different. He was weirdly calm, a stark contrast to the storm he unleashed on everyone else. His instructions to you were delivered with a quiet intensity, his gaze steady, almost expectant, as if he saw something unique within you that others lacked. You found yourself arguing back, a natural reflex to his calculated demands, challenging his directives, questioning his methods. And to your surprise, he listened, sometimes even engaging in a quiet, intellectual sparring match that left other models baffled and envious.

This unusual dynamic, however, did not go unnoticed. The other models, a tightly wound coil of simmering insecurities and cutthroat ambition, observed your every interaction. At first, it was barely audible murmurs, like the rustle of expensive fabrics. Then, it escalated to outright backbiting like crazy, their voices dripping with a saccharine sweetness that masked potent venom. They spun elaborate rumors, painting you as a calculating opportunist, a schemer who had somehow, inexplicably, earned Yunho’s favor through illicit means. The most persistent, and perhaps the most infuriating, was the insinuation that you were “sleeping with the head himself.” They’d goad you, making snide comments just loud enough for you to overhear—remarks about “shortcuts to the top” or “special treatment.” They’d try to bully you when Yunho wasn't around, their tactics ranging from “accidentally” bumping into you in the halls to subtly sabotaging your props during rehearsals.

But did you let it affect you? No. A cold, quiet rage often settled in your gut. You knew these whispers, these petty acts, meant nothing to your ultimate goal. They were the desperate thrashings of those who couldn't comprehend or replicate the raw spark that had caught Yunho’s eye. You were here for business, a singular, unwavering focus that acted as your shield. And you believed Yunho meant the same. He was a visionary, a perfectionist, driven by an ambition as ruthless as your own. You were his tool, his muse, his latest project. Nothing more.

Seven months in, the relentless grind, coupled with the incessant, festering rumors, began to take its toll. The whispers had become a constant hum in your ears, a background noise that never truly faded. The isolation, enforced by the other models’ disdain, became a heavy cloak you wore daily. You were excelling, pushing the boundaries of what a model could do, mastering every walk, every expression. But every success, every hard-won compliment, felt tainted by the unspoken accusations, by the knowledge of the poisoned atmosphere that surrounded you. It was a suffocating weight, an invisible barrier between you and the world, and it was getting worse and WORSE day by day. You felt your resolve fraying, the steel in your spine beginning to bend. You were on the brink, ready to throw in the towel, to walk away from the very thing you had fought so hard to be a part of. The frustration was compounded by the fact that Yunho had no concrete proof of the bullying, and neither did you. It was a shadowy war of whispers, glances, and calculated omissions, impossible to pin down, impossible to confront directly.

One evening, after a particularly grueling rehearsal that had stretched late into the night, the vast studio finally began to empty. You lingered, gathering your belongings slowly, the desire to escape the building warring with the profound exhaustion that had settled deep in your bones. The last few models hurried out, their footsteps echoing before fading into silence. You were alone, or so you thought. Suddenly, Yunho was there, his presence filling the vast, quiet space, his back to the door, effectively blocking your exit. He hadn't made a sound.

You had requested for wanting to quit, knowing yunho wouldn't take it well. Especially since it was cause of the other people.

He cornered you, not physically, but with the sheer intensity of his gaze, an almost magnetic pull that held you in place. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was low, stripped of its usual polite cruelty, replaced by a raw, almost impatient edge.

“You think I chose you for your politeness?” His words were not a question, but a challenge, an accusation that cut through your exhaustion. He was testing you, pushing, as he always did.

Your frustration, seven months of bottled-up anger and hurt, of relentless striving under a cloud of suspicion, finally erupted. The words tumbled out, sharp and uncontrolled, laced with the bitterness that had been simmering beneath the surface. “No,” you hissed, the word cutting through the quiet like a whip. “You chose me because I make your ego hard.” The audacity of the statement, the brutal honesty, hung in the air, a volatile charge.

The first tension crackled between you, an almost audible sizzle in the charged atmosphere. His eyes, usually so guarded, widened imperceptibly, a flash of surprise, perhaps even a flicker of grudging admiration, crossing their depths. He stiffened, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly, as if your words had struck a nerve he didn't realize was exposed. Yours, blazing with defiance, met his without a single flinch, refusing to back down from the raw truth you had just laid bare. The eye contact lingered, stretching for what felt like an eternity, far too long for a boss and his employee, too long for mere colleagues. In that prolonged, silent stare, something fundamental shifted. It was a silent acknowledgment of a connection that transcended the professional, a dangerous, undeniable current that had been building beneath the surface for months. It was the first undeniable tremor, a significant crack in the carefully constructed façade of business, revealing a glimpse of something far more complex, far more personal, and potentially far more dangerous than either of you had anticipated.

He broke the gaze first, though his eyes still tracked you, a subtle shift in his posture suggesting a battle within. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his chest rising and falling. “And what does that imply, exactly?” he finally asked, his voice now dangerously low, each word weighted with an unspoken challenge. “That my choices are driven by something so… base? So easily satisfied?”

You scoffed, a short, sharp sound that conveyed all your contempt for his carefully maintained illusion. “It implies you chose me because I give you a thrill, a challenge. Because I’m not a mannequin, as you so eloquently put it. I’m a war you can’t quite win, and that excites you.” Your voice had dropped too, matching his intensity, a quiet ferocity that belied your exhaustion. “It implies I’m a disruption you’re obsessed with controlling, because you can’t stand not being in absolute command.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something almost akin to amusement in their depths, quickly extinguished. “Control is essential in this industry. Chaos leads to ruin.”

“And I’m chaos, aren’t I?” you retorted, stepping closer, your own anger finally giving way to a weary clarity. “I’m the rumor mill, the one they hate because you show me an ounce of respect. The one they say is ‘sleeping her way to the top’ because you don’t scream at me like you do everyone else.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last words, the weight of the past months momentarily crushing your defiance. You hated showing weakness, especially to him.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He studied you, his gaze sweeping over your face as if searching for something, some hidden vulnerability. “Are these accusations bothering you?” His tone was almost gentle, a softness that was more unsettling than his usual harshness. “Is that why you’re ready to break?”

The question hung in the air, a direct hit to your most vulnerable point. You wanted to deny it, to put on a brave face, but the exhaustion was too profound, the emotional toll too heavy. You just stared at him, your eyes welling slightly, not with tears of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated frustration. “What proof do you have?” you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. “What proof do I have? They don’t leave notes, Yunho. They leave glances, whispers, ‘accidents.’ It’s a poison that you can’t see, but it’s suffocating.”

He took a step closer, his shadow falling over you, momentarily enveloping you. The air between you was thick with unspoken truths. “And you think quitting solves anything?” he challenged, his voice regaining its sharp edge. “That you can outrun their pathetic jealousy? You think this industry will suddenly become kind just because you step out of my orbit?”

“No,” you hissed, the fight returning, your voice regaining its steel. “But maybe I can breathe. Maybe I can find a place where I’m not a trophy, not a project, not a symbol of your ego.”

His eyes locked onto yours again, the raw intensity back in full force. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second, then he clenched it into a fist, dropping it back to his side. It was a micro-expression, a momentary lapse in his control, but you saw it. He wanted to touch you, to offer comfort, or perhaps to exert control.

“You think I don’t see it?” His voice was barely a whisper now, resonant with a surprising depth of emotion. “The way they look at you, the things they say. I see it all. Do you think I’m blind to how you’re treated? You think I tolerate it?” His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. “I protect what’s mine. Even if what’s mine is stupid enough to think it isn’t.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. “Protect what’s yours?” You laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that conveyed all your contempt. “I am not yours, Yunho. I am not an object, a fucking marketing piece for your collection. I am an employee, and this is business.” The defiance was back, stronger than ever. “And as your employee, I’m done.”

You turned, the exhaustion and the anger finally propelling you towards the door he had once blocked. You would walk out, you decided, and you wouldn't look back. You would reclaim your breath, your sanity, even if it meant sacrificing the dream you had fought so hard to achieve.

He let you go. The silence behind you was deafening. But as you reached the door, you heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible sound of his jaw clenching, hard enough to bruise. You couldn't see him, but you knew. He was standing there, rigid, his composure fracturing in the quiet aftermath of your fight. He knew you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a ‘war’ he wanted to control. He kept telling himself you were nothing to him, just a business decision. But the tightness in his chest, the unexpected fury that flared when you spoke of leaving, told a different story.

You walked out into the cool night air, the city lights a blur. That night, the two of you didn't meet, though y'll had come face to face you chose to walk past him.

---

The fitting room was a sanctuary of soft light and hushed fabrics, a stark contrast to the usual controlled chaos of the studio. Yet, even here, the air was thick with an unspoken charge. You stood on the platform, clad in a design that was both breathtaking and unnervingly revealing. It was a gown of rich, dark silk, molded to your form, but its most striking feature was the entirely backless piece, a plunging cut that exposed every curve of your spine, ending just at the rise of your hips. The dress clung to you like a second skin, intimate in its design, demanding absolute stillness and confidence.

A junior assistant had initially been fussing with the hem, but then Yunho appeared, a silent, commanding presence at the edge of your vision. He dismissed the assistant with a curt gesture, his gaze already locked onto the shimmering fabric. He held a handful of pins, their metallic gleam reflecting the soft light.

There was no one else in the room now, just the two of you. The quiet of the fitting room amplified every subtle sound—the whisper of silk as he moved, the soft click of a pin being placed. He knelt slowly, his proximity immediate and intense. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of his cologne, sharp and clean, invading your space.

He began to adjust the hem himself, his fingers deft, precise, tracing the line of the fabric against your skin. His concentration was absolute, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested the dress was the only thing that mattered in the universe. But for you, the intimacy was overwhelming. Each small adjustment brought his hand closer, his breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of your lower back. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by your own shallow breath and the soft, almost imperceptible touch of his fingers against the silk.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You could feel your body tensing, a nervous energy building beneath your skin. It wasn't just the cool air; it was a flash of heat, a sudden, unexpected jolt that shot through you as his hand brushed against your bare skin, a fleeting contact as he smoothed the fabric.

You caught his eye in the vast, antique mirror positioned directly in front of you. His gaze was already there, reflected back, dark and intense. It was a locked stare, a silent acknowledgment of the charged current between you. There was no pretense, no business façade in his eyes now; only a raw, almost predatory focus that mirrored the turmoil in your own chest.

His voice, when it came, was a low whisper, almost a murmur against your bare back, sending shivers down your spine. “Stop shaking,” he commanded, his tone sharp, but laced with an undeniable intimacy. “It ruins the structure.”

Your breath hitched. Stop shaking? The audacity. You weren’t shaking because of the dress, but because of him, because of this unnerving proximity, this unwanted awareness that sparked between you. Anger, hot and sudden, flared through the nervous energy. You bit back, your voice a low, furious whisper that barely left your lips. “Then stop touching me like that.”

The words hung in the air, a direct challenge, an accusation. The tension in the room coiled tighter, reaching an almost unbearable pitch. He straightened slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes still locked with yours in the mirror. For a moment, you thought he might say something, might retort, might even physically step back. But he said nothing. He simply held your gaze for another beat, then turned, a swift, almost violent movement.

The door slammed shut behind him, the sharp crack echoing in the suddenly empty space. You were left alone on the platform, still and rigid, the silk of the dress now feeling like a suffocating vice. You pressed a hand to your chest, your heart still racing, your breath caught in your throat. He had left you breathless, not just from the unexpected intimacy, but from the sheer force of his presence, the unnerving power he held over you.

The runway lights were blinding, a blazing tunnel of white that swallowed the buzzing anticipation of the crowd. You could feel the tremor of the bass from the music, a low thrumming that resonated through the floor. This time, you weren't the show opener, the coveted first spot. That had gone to one of the models who had been whispering behind your back. You were the 2nd one to walk, a significant position nonetheless, carrying the weight of the opening collection’s first impressions.

As you stepped onto the runway, you carried yourself with an almost exaggerated care, each movement precise, measured. The memory of the fitting, of his proximity, of your desperate whisper, still haunted you, a lingering heat on your skin. You were acutely aware of the backless gown, its daring cut, its vulnerable expanse. You felt his eyes on you, somewhere in the dark, watching, always watching. You tried to channel the anger, the frustration, the sheer defiance you felt towards him, towards the industry, into your walk, turning potential weakness into fierce strength.

The crowd was a blur of faces, a sea of cameras flashing. You moved through the kaleidoscope of light, your expression carefully neutral, focused on the end of the runway, on the turn, on making every pose count. And then, it happened. A sudden, terrifying tug. A rip.

A gasp went through the front row. Your mind registered it instantly: a wardrobe malfunction. A seam had given way, or a delicate thread had snapped, and the backless gown, already clinging precariously, shifted, threatening to expose you to the hundreds of eyes fixed upon you. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to surge. This was it. The moment they had all been waiting for. The rookie’s spectacular downfall.

But in that split second, something clicked. The anger, the defiance, the very “war” Yunho had seen in you, took over. You didn't falter. You didn't stop. With a grace that belied the internal storm, you subtly, almost imperceptibly, shifted your weight, angling your body just so, twisting your pose into something new, something unplanned. Your arm, which was meant to be elegantly extended, came up to cover the revealing gap, turning what would have been a disaster into an intentional, powerful gesture. Your head tilted, a silent dare in your eyes. It looked like part of the choreography, a sudden, bold innovation in the walk.

A ripple went through the crowd, not of horror, but of fascination. Murmurs turned into appreciative gasps. The flashes intensified. You hadn't just recovered; you had transformed the mistake into a moment of pure, unadulterated artistry. You handled it with grace, with a raw, improvisational brilliance that defied expectation.

As you completed your walk, the applause was thunderous, louder, more enthusiastic than for any model before you. You hadn't just recovered from a wardrobe malfunction; you had stolen the show. The audience, the critics, the industry, they had witnessed something unexpected, something truly captivating. You had turned a moment of potential humiliation into your triumph, etching your presence into the collective memory of Fashion Week. And somewhere in the dark, you knew, Yunho would have seen it all.

The tension from your last confrontation with Yunho, the sting of words exchanged and the unresolved emotions, still clung to you, a silent hum beneath your skin. You had left his text on ‘seen,’ a small, defiant act, but it hadn’t quelled the turmoil churning within. Three weeks of quiet had passed since that charged exchange, yet the sharp bite of his words and the unsettling intimacy of that final argument lingered like a phantom touch. Now, the preparations for Milan Fashion Week were in full swing, demanding your presence back in his orbit, forcing a proximity you weren't sure you were ready for.

The air backstage for the Seoul collection launch was a chaotic symphony of nervous energy, hairspray fumes, and the rustle of expensive fabrics. Assistants scurried, designers barked last-minute adjustments, and the rhythmic beat of the runway music vibrated through the floorboards. But beneath it all, a more insidious sound permeated the atmosphere: gossip. It slithered through the dressing rooms, echoed in the cramped corridors, and clung to the air like a noxious perfume. Your unexpected triumph at the previous show, your sheer defiance in the face of a wardrobe malfunction, far from silencing your detractors, had only fueled their venom.

“She’s sleeping with the head himself, why would he be calm with only her otherwise?” The question, posed in hushed tones, was a constant refrain, a toxic mantra that followed you like a shadow. You felt their eyes on you, sharp and appraising, whenever you moved. A few models, eyes narrowed with disdain, openly spoke about how you “belonged to a middle-class family,” a thinly veiled insult meant to highlight your perceived lack of pedigree, to mark you as an outsider in their opulent world. Others huddled close, their voices dropping just enough for you to overhear their pointed remarks about how you “weren’t fit enough to be here,” how you were a “fluke,” a “nobody” who had gotten lucky, or worse, used underhanded tactics. Each word was a tiny pinprick, designed to undermine, to chip away at your carefully constructed composure. You ignored them, focusing on the meticulous routine of pre-show prep, but the constant barrage was a silent assault on your sanity, leaving you feeling drained and perpetually on edge.

This show was crucial. Yunho’s rival, his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae, was also releasing a collection today, a direct head-to-head competition for industry dominance that had been simmering for years. Yunho had always loathed Yongjae, a mutual hatred that festered like an open wound between them. Yongjae was known to be a snake, cunning and utterly ruthless, willing to go to any extent for Yunho’s downfall. The stakes were higher than ever, and Yunho, ever the meticulous strategist, had made a rare deviation from his usual aloofness, coming backstage to check on all the models, ensuring every element was flawless. His presence cast a long, imposing shadow, his eyes scanning for the slightest imperfection.

As he moved through the buzzing area, his sharp ears, accustomed to picking up every nuanced sound, caught a snippet of conversation. A voice, dripping with saccharine condescension, pierced through the din. “Honestly, I don’t know what Yunho sees in her. She’s so… provincial. Doesn’t even know how to properly hold her hand on the runway. Probably just good at other things to get his attention.” The words, clearly directed at you, hung in the air like a putrid stench. Yunho froze, his already cold demeanor dropping several degrees. He recognized the voice as belonging to one of his top models, a woman known for her icy perfection and sharp tongue. His eyes, now glinting with a dangerous light, swept over the model, taking in her meticulously styled hair and flawless makeup.

He approached her, his steps silent, his presence a sudden, chilling void in the surrounding chaos. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he brushed against her elaborate hair, then, with a swift, decisive motion, he pulled a handful of pins, causing a cascade of perfectly coiffed waves to collapse around her face. He then swept his hand across her face, his thumb smearing her dramatic winged eyeliner into a black, messy smudge, ruining the pristine artistry. “Your look,” he stated, his voice calm, terrifyingly so, devoid of any anger, yet radiating absolute power, “is destroyed.” He turned to a bewildered assistant. “Get her off the show. Now. She’s a distraction. Unprofessional.” The model gasped, her face crumbling in horror as tears welled in her eyes. She tried to protest, to stammer out an apology, but Yunho was already turning away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake, a clear message delivered without a single raised voice.

You heard about it minutes later, a breathless assistant recounting the scene, eyes wide with shock and fear. A cold fury, mixed with a strange, unsettling flutter in your chest, surged through you. He had defended you. But how? And why? You didn't want to be defended this way, didn't want to be the cause of someone else's public humiliation. You found him near the stage entrance, his back to you, watching the technicians, an inscrutable monument of composure amidst the frantic energy.

You confronted him, your voice sharp, laced with indignation. “What was that? What did you do to her?”

He turned, his expression unreadable, his gaze unwavering. “I took care of a problem.”

“A problem?” you scoffed, stepping closer, your hands clenched at your sides. “You humiliated her. Because of me. Because of some stupid gossip.” You didn’t want to be the reason for such a public spectacle, especially not by his hand. You felt exposed, vulnerable, despite his supposed ‘protection.’

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something possessive in their depths that sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I protect what’s mine—even if it’s stupid enough to think it isn’t.” His voice was low, a dangerous rumble that bypassed your ears and went straight to your gut, demanding compliance. Those damn words again. He was like a robot constantly repeating the same shit over and over again. And you wanted to keep reminding him that you are a human not an object.

The words struck you like a physical blow. What’s mine? It instantly overshadowed any fleeting warmth you might have felt at his intervention. It annoyed her how he treated her as an object, a fucking marketing piece, a prize to be defended, stripped of her agency. You weren’t his. You were your own. “I am not yours!” you practically spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and a sudden, aching hurt. “I am not some possession to be ‘protected.’ I am an employee, Yunho. A person! How many times do I need to remind you!”

This was your second fight , real and raw, stripping away the thin veneer of professionalism you both clung to. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and desires. He took a step towards you, his jaw clenching, but you stood your ground, refusing to be intimidated. "This was just business," he stated, his voice regaining its icy, controlled edge, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as you. "You are MY employee. Nothing more. You have a contract. Don't forget that."

His words, meant to reinforce boundaries, felt like a deliberate slap, designed to cut you down to size. Just business. He let you go, but you saw it, the flicker of something raw in his eyes—a mixture of frustration, confusion, and a hint of a pain he quickly suppressed. You heard the almost imperceptible strain in his jaw as he clenched it hard enough to bruise. He knew, in that gut-wrenching moment, that you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a ‘war’ he wanted to control. You were becoming something unsettlingly vital. But he kept telling himself you weren't anything to him, clinging to the cold logic of business as a lifeline against emotions he wasn’t ready to face.

You turned, your body rigid with suppressed fury, and stormed out, leaving him standing there in the midst of the backstage chaos. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. You wouldn't let his casual dismissal reduce you to nothing. You would show him, and everyone else, that you were more than "his."

When it was your turn to walk the runway, you were a force of nature unleashed. The backless gown, once a source of vulnerability, now felt like a defiant armor..... A new backless dress of the collection. You moved with more sass than ever, your hips swaying with a confident swagger, your head held high. Your eyes were sharp, cutting through the blinding lights, meeting the gaze of the audience with an almost feral intensity that dared anyone to look away. You threw in new poses, which wasn't scripted and Yunho wasn't aware—a sudden, unexpected twist of your torso, a dramatic pause, a powerful pivot that demanded attention, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. It was a walk born of pure defiance, a silent scream against his attempts to categorize and control you. The audience roared, their cheers and applause erupting into a frenzy. It just made fans more happy, their delighted gasps and eager camera flashes confirming your impact. You turned heads, for sure this time. You were not just a model; you were a statement, a revolution in motion.

That night, for the first time since you started working together, the two of you didn't meet.... well..didn't even look at each other. The studio remained silent, empty of your usual late-night conversations. It hit Yunho the most. He was alone in his office, the adrenaline from the show fading, replaced by a hollow ache that gnawed at him. He knew he should be celebrating his success, but all he could taste was the bitterness of your parting words. It was your birthday. He remembered now, with a gut-wrenching pang of guilt. You had never announced your birthday, hating all the unnecessary attention, but you had told him, in some random, unguarded conversation months ago. He had even planned to do a little something, a small, private “sleepover” celebration, a casual night with movies and takeout, because you had grown closer, real good friends, in those odd, intense hours. But in the madness of preparing for the show, for his rivalry with Yongjae, he had forgotten. And then, he had dismissed you, dismissed everything between you, as “stupid business.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth now, a lie he desperately wanted to believe but couldn't.

Three weeks off. Milan was next. Later that night, his phone buzzed with a message. He stared at it for a long moment, then typed, a desperate attempt at re-establishing the brittle professional facade: "Don't be late, Y/N."

Your phone buzzed beside your bed. You picked it up, staring at the screen, the words stark against the dark display. You felt a wave of cold resolve wash over you, solidifying the anger, the hurt, the feeling of being reduced to a mere asset. You didn't type a reply. You simply left him on seen. Let him wonder. Let him feel the silence. Let him drown in the business he so fiercely clung to.

The three weeks off were a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunho’s orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. But the silence didn't quite erase the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition.

The air at Seoul’s Incheon International Airport was thick with the scent of coffee and hurried goodbyes, a stark contrast to the sterile, quiet fury that settled between you and Yunho. You spotted him across the bustling terminal, a magnetic, imposing figure even in civilian clothes. He saw you too, his eyes, usually so unreadable, flickering with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher before hardening into their familiar, cold mask. The boarding process was a blur, a series of efficient movements. You walked ahead, then behind, always maintaining a careful distance. The flight to Milan was silent. Utterly, painstakingly silent. The tension? Immaculate. It was a palpable force, thick and suffocating, filling the space between your seats, a silent scream of unresolved conflict. Neither of you spoke, neither of you dared to break the fragile truce, each lost in your own thoughts, the ghost of sharp words and unspoken desires hanging heavy in the pressurized cabin.

Upon arrival in Milan, the energy was frantic, a whirl of photographers and designers. The silence between you persisted, a stubborn barrier. Rehearsals began almost immediately, a blur of motion and pressure. On the final day of preparations, just hours before the show, Yunho approached you in a private fitting room. His expression was grave, his voice devoid of its usual detached calm, edged with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You will wear the final gown," he stated, not a request, but a command.

You looked at the dress, hanging like a shimmering apparition on a mannequin. It was a masterpiece, breathtaking in its audacity, but also terrifying. The piece was scandalous—a delicate latticework of lace, revealing open sides that curved dramatically from your ribcage to your hips, leaving little to the imagination. The molded bodice was an architectural marvel, designed to cup and lift, accentuating every curve, leaving your figure almost entirely exposed yet meticulously sculpted. It was a gown that didn't just walk the line of decency; it obliterated it. It was daring, provocative, a statement of undeniable power.

You felt a surge of cold dread, a wave of panic. This wasn’t just a dress; it was a challenge, a vulnerability. You had handled a malfunction with grace, but this was intentional, designed to expose. "Yunho," you started, your voice a shaky whisper, "I can't. It's too—"

He cut you off, his voice calm, but with an unwavering certainty that brooked no argument. "You can. And you will." He stepped closer, his gaze intense, piercing through your fear. "You don't wear this for the crowd. You wear it for me."

The words hung in the air, a raw, undeniable intimacy in their declaration. You looked at him, searching his eyes for explanation, for motive, but found only a resolute determination.

The dressing room moment was charged with an almost unbearable intimacy. You stood, rigid with apprehension, as he approached you with the gown. His hands, usually so precise with fabric, moved with an unexpected tenderness as he carefully positioned the delicate lace and the molded bodice against your body. You felt the brush of his fingers on your skin, a faint spark igniting where he touched. He reached behind you, his breath warm against your bare back, as he began to zip her in. The zipper slid slowly, meticulously, the sound amplified in the quiet room. Each inch it climbed, it encased you further in the daring garment, but also, paradoxically, in his presence.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet precision of his movements. He finished, his hands lingering for a fraction of a second at your waist. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met yours in the mirror. “You don’t wear this for the crowd,” he repeated, his voice a low, resonant murmur, almost a private vow. “You wear it for me.” It was a statement of ownership, of trust, of a shared secret.

The words ignited something deep within you. A fire, born of defiance and a strange, exhilarating sense of belonging. The fear melted away, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated power. You didn't just walk out onto that runway; you moved with the confidence of a queen, the grace of a predator. The scandalous gown, which minutes ago had felt like a cage, now felt like an extension of your own skin, a second, defiant armor.

You walked like a goddess. Each step was deliberate, commanding, your body a living sculpture in lace and silk. The open sides revealed glimpses of skin, the molded bodice accentuated your form, but it wasn't vulgar. It was artistry. You owned the scandalous nature of the dress, transforming it from provocation into profound beauty. The crowd gasped, then roared, their flashes a blinding supernova. You didn't just dominate the runway; you transcended it.

From the dark, shadowed recesses of the backstage area, he watched. Yunho. His eyes, usually sharp and critical, were now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He watched you move, a silent intensity consuming him, a silent acknowledgment of the masterpiece you had become under his gaze, for his vision. He watched you, and for the first time, the lines between business and something else blurred beyond recognition.

-----

The roar of the Milan Fashion Week crowd still echoed in your ears, a triumphant symphony that had crowned your performance. The scandalous gown, which had felt like a second skin on the runway, was now carefully packed away, but the electric current of adrenaline still thrummed through your veins, buzzing with an almost manic energy. The afterparty was an explosion of flashing lights, thumping music that vibrated through your bones, and champagne flutes clinking like a thousand tiny bells. You dove into it, a release valve after months of relentless pressure and a suffocating emotional turmoil with Yunho. You drank, freely and without thought, the bubbly liquid a sweet, effervescent escape that quickly began to loosen your inhibitions, blurring the sharp edges of your carefully maintained composure. You weren't a heavy drinker, and tonight, with the accumulated stress of the show and Yunho's unnerving intensity, your tolerance was even lower than usual. Soon, the room began to spin in a dizzying, pleasurable haze, the faces around you merging into a kaleidoscope of indistinct joy and blurred laughter. A reckless abandon, foreign yet exhilarating, took hold.

Across the crowded room, Yunho, a magnetic focal point even in the throng, moved with his usual quiet grace, a solitary king observing his court. He wasn't drinking, or at least, not indulging beyond a single, untouched glass of champagne. He was never one to lose control, his mind always sharp, always calculating, even amidst revelry. But his eyes, perpetually watchful, sought you out in the swirling mass of bodies. He saw the way your laughter grew louder, the way your head tilted back, the way your movements became just a little too fluid, a little too uninhibited. He knew you had a low tolerance for alcohol, a small, intimate detail he’d likely filed away with every other observation about you, a fact that now caused a subtle furrow in his brow. A flicker of something, perhaps concern, perhaps a more complex emotion, passed through his otherwise impassive gaze whenever you threw your head back in laughter or swayed a little too much to the music.

As the night wore on, the joyous buzz began to morph into something heavier. Your head grew warm and hazy, your movements less coordinated, your thoughts drifting in and out of focus. You were adrift in a sea of revelry, but a quiet, almost desperate need for something solid, something real amidst the glittering illusion, began to surface. Suddenly, Yunho was there, materializing beside you like a silent shadow in the pulsating light. His presence, even in your muddled state, was a strange, immediate grounding force, cutting through the alcohol-induced fog.

"You've had enough," he stated, his voice low, a command rather than a suggestion, his gaze steady and unwavering. "I'm leaving. I'll give you a ride."

Too drunk to argue, too tired to resist, and too emotionally spent to care about propriety, you nodded, swaying slightly. The thought of a quiet exit, away from the pounding music and flashing lights, was surprisingly appealing, a siren song promising stillness. He led you out of the thrumming party, his hand resting lightly, almost possessively, on the small of your back, guiding you through the thinning crowds, his touch a silent, electric current you were too numb to fully process.

The Milan night air was cool and crisp, a welcome shock to your system that momentarily cleared your head before the warmth of the alcohol rushed back. The ride in his sleek, silent car was a blur of city lights and the soft, almost hypnotic hum of the engine. You were too far gone to direct him, and honestly, you didn't much care where you were going. You just wanted stillness, a place to land, a moment of reprieve from the constant emotional warfare. So it was no surprise when the car pulled up to a grand, anonymous building—his Milan apartment, an extension of his own austere, perfect aesthetic.

He helped you out, his arm supporting you as you stumbled slightly on the curb. The elevator ride up was silent, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife, even through your alcohol-induced haze. Once inside his spacious, minimalist apartment, the silence amplified, wrapping around you both. The sprawling living space, with its clean lines and expensive, understated furnishings, felt vast and strangely intimate. You stood awkwardly in the center of the room, feeling the dizzying effects of the alcohol finally begin to recede, replaced by a raw, unvarnished clarity that only truly drunk people ever experience, a stark mirror to your deepest, most suppressed feelings.

You turned to him, your gaze unwavering, even if your balance was still precarious. The soft glow of the city lights filtering through the tall windows cast long shadows around him, making him seem even more imposing, more unattainable. You had so many questions, so much unspoken anger and hurt, fueled by the champagne that had stripped away your usual filters, leaving you exposed and unafraid.

“Still think I don’t belong in your world,” you slurred, your voice thick but firm, each word a desperate challenge, “or is this still business, Jeong fucking Yunho?” With that, a dizzy spell hit, your foot catching on nothing, and he, with a flash of quick reflexes born of instinct, catches you.

His hands shot out, grabbing your waist carefully, steadying you. Your body pressed against his, the unexpected contact sending a jolt through you, igniting a dangerous spark that even your drunken state couldn’t entirely dampen. The heat of his body radiated against yours, a shocking warmth that bypassed your skin and went straight to your core. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but daring, seeing the sudden flicker of raw desire in his, a brief, unguarded moment where his control slipped. You were too drunk for your own good. Too drunk. Too bold. Too daring. Every fiber of your being screamed for release, for answers, for connection.

The moment stretched, electric and fraught. You could feel his grip tighten slightly on your waist, your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Your drunken mind, liberated from inhibition, saw only the opportunity, the raw, undeniable attraction that had simmered between you for months, now blazing to the surface. You leaned in, eyes fixed on his lips, desperate to close the distance, to finally bridge the chasm of their professional facade. You tried to kiss him, your lips already parting, seeking his, but his quick reflexes were even faster, a wall of desperate restraint. His hand, lightning fast, came up, covering your mouth, his palm pressing firmly against your lips, a soft but unyielding barrier. Instead of kissing him, you ended up kissing his own hand, the soft skin of his palm a surprising, frustrating shield against your desperate advance.

His breath hitched, a harsh, ragged sound in the quiet room. His eyes were wide, suddenly laced with a mixture of shock and desperate, agonizing restraint. He didn't move his hand, but his body language screamed caution, screamed of an internal battle of immense proportions. He was a man holding onto the last threads of his self-control. He needed to stay away from you, hell away, a silent mantra screaming in his mind. He needed to stay away from you before he does something she will hate him more for. Or worse, he won't forgive himself for. You, with your fiery spirit and unyielding defiance, were too pure, too bright, too good for his complicated, often dark world. He knew he didn't deserve you, not after all the darkness he carried. You might have an attitude, might be sharp-tongued, might be a 'war,' but beneath it all, you were too kind, too kind for his world… too kind for her own good. His grip on your waist loosened, his hand still covering your mouth, his gaze distant, tormented.

He released your waist, though his hand still covered your mouth for a moment longer, a lingering ghost of his control. Then, with a practiced strength that belied his inner turmoil, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly. You felt yourself being lifted, a strange mix of disappointment and reluctant surrender washing over you. The world swayed gently as he moved through the silent apartment, past the gleaming kitchen and expansive living area, until he reached a bedroom. He gently laid you in his bed, the soft mattress cradling your exhausted body, the cool sheets a welcome embrace.

He stood over you for a moment, his gaze intense, a battle raging in his eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily. You watched him through heavy eyelids, the alcohol still fogging your senses, but your awareness of him, of his presence, was painfully clear. He reached out, his hand hovering over your forehead, a silent deliberation. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, he leaned down. He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he had to let you go, to make you quit. It was the only way to protect you from the ugliness he knew was coming, from the fragmented, brutal world he inhabited, a world that would inevitably scar you. He kissed your head with overwhelming affection, a soft, almost lingering touch that felt like probably his last time, a silent, desperate goodbye. He had to let her go, make her quit. For her sake.

He pulled back, his face a mask of determined resignation, a profound sadness etched around his eyes. He turned away from the bed, moving towards the couch in the same room. He knew your habit of nightmares, a vulnerable detail you had shared in some random, late-night conversation back in Seoul, a moment of unguarded intimacy that he had pretended to ignore but had, of course, absorbed fully, filing it away. He slept on the room couch that night, his form rigid, his mind churning, just in case you needed something in your sleep—a silent vigil, a final act of quiet, desperate protection before he pushed you away for good, before he severed the connection he was terrified of acknowledging. The soft glow of the city outside painted the room in muted silver, a quiet witness to his silent, lonely torment.

The first rays of Milan’s morning sun, thin and pale, filtered through the apartment windows, painting the luxurious room in hues of soft grey and cool gold. You stirred, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes, the remnants of champagne still fuzzing your senses. Disorientation gave way to a slow, creeping awareness: you were in Yunho’s bed, in Yunho’s apartment. A flush of heat, of shame and a strange, unwelcome longing, spread through you as last night’s hazy memories clicked into place—the daring challenge, the drunken stumble, his quick hands on your waist, the brush of his palm against your lips, the gentle act of him carrying you. And then, the distant, aching memory of his lips on your forehead, a kiss that felt like a goodbye.

You pushed yourself up, heart thudding, and scanned the room. Your eyes landed on the couch, where Yunho lay, rigid and unmoving. He looked like a sculpture carved from ice, his face devoid of emotion, his body held with an almost military precision even in sleep. A pang of hurt, sharp and unexpected, pierced through you. You had seen a vulnerable side of him last night, a raw desperation in his eyes, a flicker of something almost tender. You had felt a fleeting connection, a shared understanding in the suffocating silence of his apartment. Now, in the stark light of day, he was a stranger again.

He woke with the suddenness of a predator, his eyes snapping open. He didn’t stir, didn’t acknowledge your presence with a glance or a word. He merely stared at the ceiling for a moment, then rose from the couch with a fluid, almost dismissive movement. He was distant. Sharp. Silent. He moved with a chilling efficiency, heading straight for the bathroom, not once looking your way. The silence he projected was a wall, thick and impenetrable.

It hurt her, a deep, agonizing ache in your chest. It wasn't just disappointment; it was a profound sense of abandonment. He was acting as if nothing had happened, as if the intimate moments of the night, the unspoken words, the desperate grab for connection, had simply vanished with the dawn. No soft talks, no subtle glances, no gentle reassurances. He was a colder man than you had ever seen him, more frigid than his usual professional demeanor. This deliberate erasure of intimacy, this calculated distance, caused pain for him too, like daggers being twisted in him. He could feel the ache in his own chest, the profound sense of loss even as he enforced it. He knew he was breaking something precious, but he truly believed it was for your own good.

You rose from the bed, feeling exposed and raw. The silk sheets, which had felt so soft last night, now felt cold, like a judgment. You quickly found your clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of his silence. He emerged from the bathroom, dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, his hair impeccably styled, looking every inch the formidable mogul. He glanced at you, a fleeting, dismissive sweep of his eyes that offered no warmth, no recognition of the woman he had held just hours before. He then moved directly to the small kitchen, preparing his coffee, his back to you.

You stood there, a knot forming in your stomach, a bitter taste in your mouth. You had realized that you loved him, a truth that had solidified in the haze of champagne and the alarming intimacy of last night. You loved his sharp mind, his ruthless ambition, the surprising moments of vulnerability, the way he saw something in you that others couldn't. But he didn’t want to even try. Maybe he was right, you thought, the cruel logic of his actions echoing in your mind. Maybe you weren't meant for his world, a world where warmth could be discarded with the rising sun, where emotions were dangerous liabilities.

The flight back to Seoul was a torment. He ignored you completely. Not with overt disdain, but with a chilling, absolute absence of acknowledgement. He buried himself in work, reviewing documents, making calls, his focus absolute. You, sitting just a few seats away, felt like a ghost, invisible, irrelevant. Each passing minute solidified your resolve. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t exist in a space where you were alternately seen as a prize, then discarded as inconsequential.

Back in Seoul, the studio, usually a place of exhilarating energy, now felt stifling. He said nothing to you, offered no explanation, no apology. He simply plunged back into fittings, into meetings, into the relentless grind of getting back to work. You spiraled. The emotional whiplash was too much. The constant barrage of rumors, the emotional distance, the shattering realization that your feelings for him were unreciprocated or, worse, deliberately ignored—it all culminated in one decisive thought: you were done.

You approached his assistant, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I quit,” you stated, the words feeling both terrifying and liberating. You packed your few personal belongings, leaving the studio that had been your battlefield, your sanctuary, and ultimately, your heartbreak. You walked out into the busy city streets, the setting sun casting long shadows, your heart heavy but your decision firm.

He watched you walk away—from the window of his office, from a fitting room, you weren't sure. But you knew he saw you. And he didn’t stop you. A part of him screamed to run after you, to pull you back, to explain the tangled mess of his fear and love and responsibility. But another part, the cold, calculating part, the part that truly believed it was protecting you, held him rooted to the spot. It was better, he told himself, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. Many other brands wanted you; you would do just fine, perhaps even better, freed from his complicated world. Though his empire would have to deal with a huge blow, losing his muse, his 'war,' would cripple the very essence of his next collection.

He wanted to protect you. He wanted to protect you from how his world truly operated, from the hidden cruelties no one knew of, the brutal, unacknowledged war between him and his stepbrother that could scar you forever. His family, though wealthy, was a desolate landscape, stranded with fragments of dead threads, riddled with betrayals and unspoken resentments. Whereas yours, though a simple middle-class family, was always happy, always whole. They were together in the ups and downs, finding joy in simple moments, connected by genuine warmth. That was the profound difference. Some people amassed immense wealth, only to find themselves suffocated by a joyless existence. Others, though middle class, lived at their fullest, truly experiencing life. And he, Yunho, was too deeply entrenched in the suffocating emptiness of his own world to ever truly offer you the vibrant life you deserved. Let her go, his inner voice screamed. Let her breathe.

The days following your departure from Yunho's studio blurred into a monochrome existence. You had quit, left everything behind, and yet, the ghost of Yunho, of his sharp words and colder silences, remained. You tried to fill the void, taking walks through quiet parks, rediscovering the simple joys of your middle-class life that felt a world away from the gleaming, cutthroat halls of high fashion. The industry, however, wasn't done with Yunho, or with you.

Just as you began to find a semblance of peace, the headlines exploded. "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The news reports were grim, detailing a severe accident, a truck that had veered into his luxury car. The shock was immediate and visceral, a cold dread seizing your stomach. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite everything, the thought was unbearable.

The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The truck driver, the reports stated, had killed himself after the crash. More likely, you knew, murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly game. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded.

In the wake of the accident, Yunho can’t design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Paris, was unfinished. It hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He threw away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable.

As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs.

Headlines screamed Yunho’s demise: “Fashion Empire in Peril: Yunho’s Paris Show Canceled!” The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum.

And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunho’s cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunho’s stepbrother approaching y/n with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.

NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.

Y/N’s POV:

You were taking a walk, enjoying the mundane comfort of grocery runs, deliberately immersing yourself in the normalcy you had missed. The sun was warm on your face, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. Your phone was tucked away, your mind blessedly free of deadlines and runway music. As you exited the mart, bags in hand, a sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. Your breath hitched. Out stepped Jeong Yongjae, Yunho’s stepbrother, radiating an oily charm that instantly set your teeth on edge. He was handsome, in a way that felt manipulative, his smile too wide, his eyes too calculating.

“Well, well, well,” he purred, his voice like velvet over gravel. “The runaway star. A bird without a cage.” He approached you, hands casually in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving proprietary air. “Heard Yunho’s lost his touch. And his muse, apparently.”

You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jeong.”

He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “Oh, you know. He’s in a bit of a bind. And frankly, Y/N, you’re too good to be tied to a sinking ship. Or a man who can’t even hold onto his vision without you.” He took another step closer, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice. “My new collection. It’s bigger, bolder, far more avant-garde than anything my dear stepbrother could ever dream of. And I want you to be the face of it. Think of the exposure. Think of the freedom. Think of the pay, Y/N. I’m prepared to offer you double the pay, more profit, a partnership Yunho could never conceive of.” He painted a picture of endless opportunity, of a world where you were truly celebrated, truly free.

You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunho’s quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Jeong,” you said, your voice calm, steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. “But I’m not interested.” You began to walk away, your grocery bags swinging slightly.

He scoffed, momentarily taken aback by your refusal. “Don’t be foolish, girl. This is your chance to truly rise. He let you go, didn’t he? Let you walk away when he needed you most. He called you ‘just business’.”

That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth. But it also solidified your resolve. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “I already have a contract,” you stated, your voice clear and firm. “And my loyalty isn’t for sale.”

You kept walking, faster now, leaving him standing there, his predatory smile replaced by a scowl of frustrated surprise. You pulled out your phone, your fingers flying across the screen. You knew this was risky. You knew it would invite more drama, more scrutiny. But you also knew it had to be done. You opened the social media app, ‘X’.

Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.

Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion

You hit post.

It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadn’t truly walked away.

-----

The three weeks off had been a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunho’s orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. Yet, the silence hadn't quite erased the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition. The flight had been a silent torment, the tension between you a palpable, suffocating force.

The headlines screamed of disaster: "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The words blared from every screen, every newsstand, shattering the fragile peace you had found. A cold dread seized your stomach, twisting into a painful knot. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite every sharp word, every frustrating encounter, the thought of him, broken and vulnerable, was unbearable. The world spun in a sickening lurch, and all you could think was, no, not like this.

The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The official reports claimed the truck driver had committed suicide after the crash, a narrative so thin it barely held together. You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that he had been murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly, terrifying game, played with lives. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded in convenient ambiguities.

In the wake of the accident, Yunho can’t design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Milan, hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured, though his arm was in a sling, his movements stiff; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He lashed out, not with his usual calculated precision, but with raw frustration, throwing away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable, consumed by a darkness that even his closest confidantes couldn't penetrate.

As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift, spiraling into a void. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs, a king dethroned by his own despair.

Later, in a moment of raw, desperate honesty that would have shocked anyone who knew him, Yunho whispered while burning the drafts of his new collection, "She was the collection." His words were a guttural confession of loss, of an irreplaceable muse. He was burning more than paper; he was burning the last vestiges of his self-delusion, the bitter truth that his art, his vision, had become irrevocably intertwined with you.

Headlines screamed Yunho’s demise: “Fashion Empire in Peril: Yunho’s Milan Show Canceled!” The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum, a new king to claim his throne.

And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunho’s cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunho’s stepbrother approaching the Reader with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.

Y/N’s POV: (NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.)

You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jeong.”

You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunho’s quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit, the raw hurt that flashed in them during your last fight. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent, his promises laced with poison.

That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth, igniting the old wounds. But it also solidified your resolve. It reminded you of Yunho’s cowardice, yes, but also of the sheer audacity you had found in yourself to walk away. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “I already have a contract,” you stated, your voice clear and firm, imbued with a conviction that surprised even yourself. “And my loyalty isn’t for sale.”

Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.

Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion

You hit post, a small, trembling tremor running through your hand, but your heart swelling with a strange, fierce pride.

It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again, his fingers tracing the glowing text. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the gnawing pain of his injuries. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to desperate hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadn’t truly walked away. The thought was a lifeline in the darkness that had threatened to consume him.

Yunho called you, his voice low and hesitant, raspy from disuse and the lingering effects of his injuries—a stark contrast to his usual commanding tone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the phone line humming with the weight of unspoken apologies and festering wounds.

“Y/N,” he began, the name a raw plea, stripped bare of all pretense. “I… I need you.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, an admission of vulnerability so profound it made your breath catch.

You listened, the anger and hurt still simmering, but a flicker of something else, a strange, undeniable pull, tugging at your resolve. You pictured him, confined and broken, stripped of the power that usually defined him. He spoke of his new vision, his voice gaining a shaky passion as he described a collection born from the ashes of his accident and your departure. He spoke of rebirth, of defiance, of a phoenix rising from the flames, not just for his brand, but for himself. And then, he said the words that finally broke through your carefully constructed walls, the words that finally acknowledged the truth you both had denied for so long.

“This collection is you, Y/N. It’s your fire, your strength, your refusal to be broken. Your loyalty, even when I deserved none. I… I can’t do it without you. I realize that now.” His voice was raw, etched with a desperate honesty that shattered your defenses. It wasn't just about business anymore; it was about his soul.

You returned to the studio, not as a submissive employee, but as a collaborator, a muse, an equal. The atmosphere had shifted. The whispers had died down, replaced by a hushed respect, almost reverence. The models, once your rivals, now looked at you with a newfound admiration, a silent acknowledgment of your unyielding spirit. Yunho, too, was profoundly different. The cold, calculating facade had not just cracked; it had splintered, revealing a vulnerability, a raw intensity that was both unnerving and undeniably compelling. He moved slower, spoke softer, his eyes holding a depth of unspoken regret and gratitude whenever they met yours.

The new collection was a revelation. It was bold, daring, an explosion of color and texture that defied the industry's usual expectations. It was a story told in fabric and light, a testament to resilience, to the power of rebirth, to the fire that burned in you. And at the heart of it all was you. Every stitch, every drape, every line seemed to resonate with your essence.

The Paris show was a triumph, a phoenix rising from the ashes of tragedy. You walked the runway with a fire in your eyes, a fierce confidence that bordered on defiance. The clothes moved with you, echoing your strength, your vulnerability, your refusal to be defined. The crowd roared, their applause a thunderous ovation, a collective release of awe and emotion.

As you took your final bow, the blinding lights momentarily obscuring the audience, Yunho stepped onto the runway. He was still pale, his arm still subtly favoring his injury, but his posture was upright, resolute. His gaze, usually sharp and critical, was now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He didn't speak, didn't offer a gesture of triumph. He simply stood there, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that words could never capture: gratitude, regret, admiration, and a profound, aching love. He saw you, truly saw you, for the first time, not as a means to an end, but as the very essence of his redemption.

That night, in the quiet aftermath of the show, the adrenaline slowly fading, he found you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and celebration, but between you, the silence hummed with anticipation. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, hovering for a moment before gently cupping your cheek. His touch was a revelation—warm, hesitant, profoundly tender.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, barely audible above the distant sounds of the party. "You saved me. From myself. From everything."

You looked at him, your heart aching with a mixture of love and a lingering, fragile fear. Your own hand reached up, covering his on your cheek. "I didn't save you, Yunho," you said softly, your voice thick with unshed tears. "We saved each other."

And then, finally, he kissed you. It wasn't a kiss of possession or control, but of surrender, of a shared vulnerability, of a desperate, long-denied love finally breaking free. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. It was a beginning, not an end. The final chapter in a storm, but the breathless, uncertain, terrifying start of a story that was still being written, stitch by painful stitch, between two souls who had found light in each other's darkness.

The kiss, a desperate confession under the lingering stage lights of Paris, was the fragile bridge between the past and a terrifyingly uncertain future. It was a silent agreement, a profound acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you, a silent vow to explore the uncharted territory of what you now felt for each other. The afterparty became a distant hum as you and Yunho, hand in hand, slipped away from the triumphant chaos, seeking the quiet sanctuary of his Paris penthouse.

That night, you drove him, the sleek car a silent cocoon cutting through the city. He was leaning heavily on you, his injured arm a constant reminder of the fragility of his world, and the brutal reality of his family's war. Once at his penthouse, you guided him, gently but firmly. His usual sharp edges were softened by pain and exhaustion, his imperious demands replaced by a quiet vulnerability that both startled and compelled you. You helped him shed his tailored jacket, careful of his arm, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his back. You brewed him a soothing tea, the fragrant steam rising between you, a small act of domesticity that felt profound in its intimacy.

He fell onto the vast, minimalist sofa, pulling you down with him, his body a heavy, comforting weight against yours. He settled, his head finding rest on your stomach, his good arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You felt his breath ghost against your shirt, a silent rhythm that filled the quiet room. Instinctively, your hands reached for his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, a tender embrace.

As he drifted into sleep, his grip on you firm, you stared at the ceiling, a silent fury simmering beneath your calm exterior. You hated the people who had twisted him, hardened him, leaving him with such deep, mental scars of insecurity and isolation. And the bitter truth was, the primary architect of his pain, the cause of the crash that could have killed him, was his own stepbrother, Yongjae. A fierce, protective resolve settled deep in your bones. Karma, you knew, would take too long. You had decided to be Karma herself. You would, and you will, gather proof. You would make Yongjae pay. Many called you a bitch for your sharp tongue and unyielding stance. And indeed, karma is a bitch.

The return to Seoul was not a retreat, but a strategic regrouping. The world was still buzzing with Yunho's accident and your defiant loyalty. News outlets churned out stories, photos of you together, fueling speculation about the "power couple" of fashion. Yunho, however, was deaf to the external noise. He was consumed by a singular, obsessive drive: to design a new collection, unlike anything he had ever created.

He threw himself into the work, ignoring his lingering pain, pushing himself to the brink. You were there, a constant presence. You saw the shadows under his eyes, the clenching of his jaw as he fought through the creative block. You were his anchor, his fire, his relentless support. Your scoldings—gentle but firm reminders to rest, to eat, to not push himself too hard—were met with grumbles, but he always listened. Your cooking, simple but nourishing, became his sustenance, a small act of care that grounded him in the chaos.

In an unprecedented feat of sheer will and shared vision, Yunho redesigned the entire show in one week. It was a collection born of anguish and defiance, sculpted by pain, tempered by your unwavering presence. This show would be a declaration, a statement of rebirth, a testament to the muse who had pulled him back from the brink.

The final runway was set. There would be one model. One collection. One muse. You.

You walked every look. Each garment was a testament to the raw, visceral journey you both had endured. You owned the runway, transforming from fierce warrior to ethereal goddess, from understated elegance to provocative art. Every step was deliberate, every turn a statement. Your body, the canvas, narrated Yunho's agonizing rebirth, his defiance, his devotion. The audience watched, spellbound, as you moved through the meticulously crafted narrative of fabric and light.

They had created history. Yunho had not just designed a collection; he had engraved you in the history of fashion. It was the first show which was carried out by only one model, a singular vision brought to life by your undeniable power.

The final piece was breathtaking, a masterpiece of exquisite design and profound meaning. It was a second skin, molded to your form, stitched into her skin-tight, a garment so daring, so intimate, it felt like an extension of your very being. As you turned, bathed in the blinding lights, the back of the gown, meticulously crafted, revealed a silent message. In bold, crimson thread, stark against the fabric, were two simple, powerful letters: “YH // For Her”. It was a public declaration, a permanent etching of his gratitude, his devotion, his ownership—not of a muse, but of the woman who was his universe.

After the lights faded, after the thunderous applause finally began to die down, he met you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and triumph, but all that mattered was the space between you. There were no words needed, no grand pronouncements. Just a shared gaze, fraught with the weight of everything you had overcome. He reached for you, his hands shaking as they cradled your face, pulling you in. Your hearts, ruined by the past, now beat in a synchronized rhythm, a desperate symphony of two souls finally finding their anchor.

He kissed you. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. When he finally pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was a ragged whisper, raw with emotion.

“You were never just wearing my work,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You were wearing me... you were carrying my empire, Y/N.”

And in that moment, you knew. The battle with Yongjae was far from over. The world would continue to challenge you. But you would face it together, two souls irrevocably bound, ready to fight, and to build, an empire stitched not just from fabric, but from devotion.

....The end? Uh......no.

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A/n: Hie, my lovies! That's a happy ending for sure. But I do plan on posting a extra chapter in addition to this fanfic. In a few days probably, extra chapter will be smaller compared to this. Just a bit of vengeance against people who hurt yunho. And a bolder and cruel side of the reader itself. Love y'll! - Katha

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