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mysafehaneul · 2 days ago

Text

-Severalty-

Chapter 8 Choi Seungcheol X Reader

MafiaXdoctor AU!

Chapter 1 --- Previously

AN: Sorry for the delay. I went to the beach and almost forgot that I had to upload because I started bingeing The Bear. I am OBSESSED! Thank you so so so much for the responses you all are giving to the story. I read every comment at least thrice a day. Looking forward to more!! ENJOY!!

CHAPTER 8

This would have been the 6th night in a row where you didn’t go home in the last two weeks, although the world around you remained unchanged. Rocky was going to his daycare, taken care of by his dog walker. Alberta was coming in and going to your apartment every other day, mumbling and grumbling about the contents of the fridge going to waste, the one she puts so much of her hard work and care into, when you barely eat. Promising herself that she won't bother from now on, then showing up with a big bag again on Sunday.

But here you are burying yourself in work, not allowing a moment to think, although the world is still spinning on its axis, while yours seems to have shifted. Long shifts, early mornings, late nights—you kept moving, kept thinking, kept talking, just to avoid the silence that waited back at home like an uninvited guest. You hardly spoke to anyone outside the hospital, barely acknowledged messages from friends, and actively avoided anything remotely social. The thought of entertaining anyone’s curiosity about your “So what’s new with you, Y/N?" made your skin itch.

Today was no exception. You were on your third round of the morning, clipboard in hand, eyes heavy with sleep you hadn't gotten, and patience worn thin like old thread.

You stepped into Room 302, where Mrs. Carsen, one of your trial patients, sat propped up in bed, her eyes tired but curious. She’d been responding to the new regimen slowly, and every small shift in her bloodwork was being closely monitored. There were four interns trailing behind you, all fresh-faced and eager to impress, but more green than useful.

You softened your tone as you glanced at the patient and gave her a small smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Carsen. How are you feeling today?"

“A little better than yesterday; I could barely keep my eyes open. it's been a while since I last slept like that.”

“That's good. Anything else, like are you feeling the same aversion towards food or nausea?”

Before the elderly woman could respond, one of the interns—Erica, if you recalled correctly—spoke over her.

"Trial Case Number 23’s vitals have stabilised overnight. Pulse rate holding, no further febrile spikes."

The words were cold and clinical. Erica didn’t even glance at the patient as she read them out.

Mrs. Carsen frowned. “Case number twenty-three?” she asked gently, her voice frail. "Is that me?"

Erica didn’t look up from her chart. “Yes, ma’am. That’s your ID within the study protocol. You’re being administered the third-tier chemo compound, variant A,” she said in a robotic tone, as if reciting from memory.

You had been flipping through Mrs. Carsen’s file—but that tone made you pause. Your fingers stilled.

You closed the file with a quiet but definitive snap.

Then you turned fully toward the woman in the bed, stepping closer. You crouched slightly to be eye-level with her, your voice warm and deliberate as you explained—clearly, humanly—what her numbers meant, what the next few weeks might look like, and what symptoms she should keep an eye on. You placed your hand gently over hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze, the way you would your own grandmother.

"We’re right here with you, every step of the way," you said quietly, just to her.

Mrs. Carsen’s eyes brimmed slightly with tears, and her lips trembled into a soft smile.

“Thanks, love. i would just truly appreciate if you’d talk to me not just about me.” You gave her a small nod. “That will be taken care of, Mrs. Carsen; let me know if you have any difficulties.” Standing and walking out, the four interns scramble to keep up behind you.

You stopped in front of the staff elevator, and before pressing the button, turned to face them.

"The person in that room is more than just a case number or a study sample."

Your voice was calm but sharp. Stern, yet level. Although you didn't take names, your eyes were very level at the intern.

"When interacting with a patient, don't ever talk over them. You’re not doing her a favour by treating her. You’re doing your job. That woman—any patient—entrusts you with their life. Do you understand the weight of that?"

A pause. You looked directly at Erica.

"Your duty is not just to medicate, but to communicate. To help them understand. To be present in a way textbooks never will be. They are not your test subjects; they are your patients. Talk to them, reassure them, and explain things in a way that they understand. They came to us. Learn about your patients beyond their lab results and bed numbers."

They all nodded, slightly stunned.

"Yes, Doctor Y/N," they echoed, almost in unison.

You turned and stepped into the elevator. Just before the doors closed, you added,

"Brian—bring me the full file for Mr. Dominic to my office. Now."

“YES, DOCTOR!”

The doors slid shut.

Outside, Erica stood frozen for a beat, cheeks pink and jaw tight. She looked ready to cry or snap—maybe both.

Her boyfriend, another intern trailing behind, leaned over and whispered just loud enough:

"She’s been so prickly the last couple of weeks. What’s gotten into her?"

Erica shot him a sideways glance, her voice dry and cool.

"Nothing. Maybe that’s exactly the problem."

On cue, the two shared a low chuckle and walked off, as Erica’s boyfriend tried to lighten the mood.

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Something was wrong with you; maybe something was bothering you. Therefore, you were in such a sour mood. Jeonghan couldn't exactly diagnose what it was—but one of the signs was visible: you were trying to suppress it, and what's a better way to distract yourself than overworking? But Jeonghan had been watching you closely for days now—closely enough to know something had shifted. It wasn’t just the way you skipped out on drinks two weeks ago. You’d vanished that night with a mumbled excuse, one even your closest friends hadn’t bought, and since then, you hadn’t quite returned.

There was a tension to you now, not loud but present—like a thread pulled taut beneath your skin. You moved with more purpose, spoke less, and your kindness—once as gentle as gauze—had taken on a clipped edge, especially with the interns. Everyone chalked it up to burnout, maybe too many shifts back-to-back. But Jeonghan knew you. Knew the rhythm of your moods, the silences between your sentences, and the way your smile used to reach your eyes.

And it hadn't, not for a while now.

So today, with something like determination humming under his skin, he found you alone in the break room, poking at your food more than eating it. You looked tired—tired in that deep, unspeakable way that sleep couldn’t fix.

He cleared his throat with a hopeful grin. “Guess what?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking up.

“I got us tickets to the match. You know—the one you’ve been talking about for months?”

A soft, amused scoff escaped you. “You mean the one you were talking about while I pretended to listen?”

“Don’t be like that,” he huffed dramatically. “You love the Eagles.”

“Right. Which ones are they again?” you deadpanned, barely hiding a smirk.

He narrowed his eyes, feigning offence. “Funny. Real funny.”

But something in him lightened at the hint of your old self peeking through.

“On Saturday, Be ready by 3. I’m picking you up.”

“Nooooo,” you whined into your salad. “It’s my first off-day in two weeks!”

“Oh come on… You have Sunday too. Let’s not pretend you were going to rest. You’ll end up answering emails or reorganising the medicine cabinet alphabetically.”

He leaned down a little, voice softening.

“Come on, honey girl. You can give one day to this very patient, very charming best friend of yours.”

You looked up slowly, catching those stupidly hopeful eyes twinkling at you like a guilty golden retriever. You sighed, heavy and dramatic.

“Huuu… fine. But don’t call me that.”

His grin stretched wide. “Perfect. It’s a date then, honey girl.”

And before you could throw a spoon at him, he was gone—slipping out of the room with a bounce in his step, walking so fast he didn’t have to show you how red his ears were or how loud his heart was thudding in his chest.

He was still smiling when the elevator dinged open and he stepped inside, only to jump at the quiet voice behind him.

“You alright there, Dr. Yoon?”

He turned to find Nurse Martha standing beside him, arms folded, brows raised.

“Oh! Nurse Martha. Didn’t see you there.”

She gave him a knowing once-over. “You look a little flushed.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting. “Ah… just the heat, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The elevator dinged again, and as he stepped out onto his floor, he called back, “See you around, Nurse Martha.”

The doors slid shut behind him.

She chuckled to herself.

“It’s October.”

A sigh escaped you—long, tired, and a little hollow.

The hunger you'd felt just minutes ago had vanished after barely two bites. The food sat heavy in your hands, untouched and somehow offensive in its presence. You stood there for a beat, unsure what to do next, before placing the container back in the staff fridge. You grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled on a sticky note:

“Eat me.”

You stuck it on the lid with more force than necessary and turned, walking out into the dim hallway.

The hospital's fluorescent lights hummed softly above you, cold and pale like always. But your eyes had already drifted further down the corridor—to the heavy double doors of the mortuary, sitting like a mouth waiting to swallow.

It had been a while since you last saw Isayah. Days? Weeks? Everything felt blurred now, folded in on itself from the moment your life was signed over to a name you didn’t want to say aloud. You tried to remember what he'd been trying to tell you—something about missing bodies. You hadn’t followed up. You hadn’t had the time. Or maybe you just hadn’t had the energy.

Still, your feet had started carrying you toward that door, the quiet dread curling beneath your ribs… when a familiar voice pulled you back.

“Y/N.”

You turned, blinking out of your thoughts.

Dr. Cordon approached with his usual composed gait, his silver hair combed neatly back and his sharp features slightly softened by age. He wore a navy waistcoat beneath his lab coat, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a Rolex that had probably seen more emergency surgeries than most residents. His accent was clipped, clean. British

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said, glancing between you and the direction you were headed. “Are you busy?”

You shook your head faintly. “Not really. I was just… Do you know an Isayah Noyago?”

His brows furrowed. “Isayah…?” he repeated, like testing the name on his tongue. “Doesn’t ring a bell…”

“He worked in the morgue,” you added quietly, almost regretting it.

“Oh!” His eyes lit slightly in recognition. “Yes, yes. Noyago. Young fellow. Odd hours. Haven’t seen him in some time, now that you mention it.”

You nodded, eyes flicking back toward the morgue. Something tugged at your gut.

“Well, you can always ask the floor manager. They’ll know better who’s on shift down there,” he suggested.

He paused, studying you. “But why are you looking for him?”

You opened your mouth, then hesitated.

“He told me—” You stopped. The words faltered before they could land. What exactly had he told you? Did it even matter now?

“…You know what, never mind,” you said, brushing it off. “You said you wanted to talk?”

As if suddenly remembering, he snapped his fingers lightly. “Ah yes. Alberta mentioned something to me this morning. Said you haven’t been going home. And, more worryingly, that you’ve barely touched your meals.”

Your mouth opened in instinctive protest, but he raised a gentle hand to quiet it—fatherly, not commanding.

“Y/N, I’ve known you long enough to see when you’re treading water. And right now, you look like you’re about to go under.”

“I was going through the case,” Dr. Cordon continued, adjusting the file under his arm, his tone shifting into something more clinical—comfortably familiar. “It seems like the trial is moving in a rather positive direction.”

That caught your attention, even if only slightly.

“If you have the time,” he offered, “perhaps we could go over the updated charts together. I’d like us to present it at the Stanley Organisation Conference next month.”

Your eyes lifted to his, a faint crease forming on your brow. “You’re going with that?”

He smiled, small but assured. “Of course. It’s your work as much as it is mine, and frankly, you’ve been the heart of it.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t care—but because caring right now felt like dragging a half-broken limb across a finish line.

Still, a quiet part of you appreciated the recognition.

“…Yeah,” you finally murmured. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“Good,” he said, with a slight nod. “I have a sandwich with your name written on it, your favourite.”

“Cordon—”

“Ah-ah,” he held his hand up. “Come on, or else I will call Alberta here,” and started pushing you towards the direction of his office.

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You’d been standing outside your apartment building for five minutes now, arms crossed, leather jacket slung over one hand. The night air was cooler than expected, but not enough to make you reach for it yet. Your black tube top clung neatly to your skin, wide-legged pants swaying every time the breeze shifted, and your hair—slicked back into a tight bun—was already starting to feel a headache coming up. You hated waiting.

Your thumb hovered over Jeonghan’s name on your phone, ready to call and ask if he’d forgotten—

And then you heard it.

The low, unmistakable roar of an engine.

You turned toward the sound, squinting just in time to catch the flash of headlights and a sleek red Porsche rolling up like it belonged in a commercial. The passenger window slid down, revealing that smile the one that always landed somewhere between smug and stupidly charming.

“What took you so long?” You called out as you approached.

Jeonghan leaned an arm casually against the wheel. “It’s been a while since I took my baby out for a spin. We were bonding.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small twitch of a smile as you slid into the passenger seat. The interior still smelt like polish and some kind of citrus cologne he definitely overused.

“Tell me again,” you said, buckling in. “How the hell can you afford this car?”

He shifted the gear and shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My mother had a rich father and a shitty taste in men. When my grandfather died, he left her a little something. That’s all.”

And with that, he pressed the gas, and the engine growled like it had something to prove. The streetlights blurred into lines as the Porsche peeled away from the curb.

The arena was alive.

Floodlights cast a clinical sheen over the glossy hardwood court, where tension danced with every bounce of the ball. The air crackled with anticipation and the roar of a full house—popcorn salt, stadium grease, and sweat clinging to every breath. This wasn’t just a game. This was ritual. Noise. Escape.

You and Jeonghan were seated just three rows behind courtside, close enough to hear the players’ shouts and the slap of the ball against the hardwood. The chairs were cushioned but firm. From here, you could feel the tremor in the floor every time a player’s sneakers hit the ground. And Jeonghan? He was buzzing. Practically vibrating in his seat like a kid on sugar.

“Let’s go, Eagles!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

You smirked, leaning back slightly, letting him have his moment. The Eagles were his team—he’d been talking about this match against the Tigers for weeks now, like it was the event of the year.

On the court, the Tigers’ defence tightened up. Number 14 from the Eagles—a tall, lean forward with arms like steel cables—dodged a block, dribbled once, twice, then launched into the air with startling grace.

Slam. A perfect two-handed dunk.

The crowd exploded, and Jeonghan jumped up like he’d been launched from a cannon, both fists in the air. “Did you see that?! That’s what I’m talking about!”

You glanced at him, laughing under your breath as you stayed seated, sipping from your bottle of water. “You act like you trained him yourself.”

He beamed, flushed with joy, the lights of the arena dancing in his eyes. “I could’ve, in another life.”

You watched the players high-five, the scoreboard flash, and the cameras swing toward the bench. The cheers were loud and overpowering, but your mind had begun to drift—just slightly.

Jeonghan didn’t notice. He was clapping, yelling something about a missed call, completely in his element.

And honestly, you were glad. For a moment, his joy made the world feel normal. Like the last two weeks hadn't happened. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you could just be... here.

And even if your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, it was real enough to hold onto—for now.

By the time halftime rolled around, the roar of the arena had faded into white noise. You sat back in your seat, phone in hand, replying to an email from hospital administration about pending supplies for your department’s research wing. The blue light of the screen cast a faint glow on your face as your fingers danced across the glass.

You barely noticed Jeonghan sipping his soda beside you, his legs bouncing from leftover adrenaline.

What you did notice was the shift in energy.

A ripple through the crowd.

Eyes—not one or two, but many—fixing in your direction.

You frowned slightly, lifting your eyes from the screen… and that’s when you saw it.

The Kiss Cam.

Your face filled the massive stadium screen, outlined with floating cartoon hearts, the bright text underneath flashing:

“Kiss Cam” Row 3 – Seats 12 & 13

Your head snapped toward Jeonghan, who blinked in delayed realisation as the camera panned wide enough to catch him too—mid-sip.

“No,” you mouthed quickly, subtly shaking your head. A small wave of laughter rippled through your section.

Thankfully, the camera seemed to get the hint. It panned away.

You let out a sigh, returning your gaze to your phone, only for Jeonghan to nudge you lightly. “You want something to eat?” he asked, ever casual.

You barely had time to answer when the crowd cheered again.

You looked up.

The Kiss Cam was back.

Zoomed in. Closer. Persistent.

“Are you serious right now?” you muttered under your breath, more to the universe than anyone else.

Jeonghan turned to look at you then, eyebrows raised, lips parted—like he was trying to gauge something in your expression he couldn’t quite name. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Or hesitation.

The crowd started chanting. Lightly at first. Then louder.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You felt your cheeks burn—not from embarrassment, but from the absurdity of it all. Of being seen. Pinned under the gaze of strangers. Like you were in a spotlight you hadn’t asked for.

Jeonghan leaned slightly closer, his voice low, barely audible beneath the noise

“Let it be,” Jeonghan said softly, barely glancing at the screen. “They’ll just move away on their—”

Before he could finish, you turned to him.

Your hand came up suddenly, cradling his jaw with a quiet urgency that startled him. The heat of the crowd pressed in, a thousand eyes watching, but your movements were precise—controlled. You angled your face just enough to block your profile from the camera, your body shielding the truth from the lens.

The crowd erupted in cheers behind you.

To anyone watching, it looked like a kiss.

But it wasn’t.

Your thumb hovered over his lips. Then, gently—without trembling—you pressed your lips to it. A soft, deliberate touch.

For a moment, Jeonghan didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, and for the briefest flicker of a second, a shadow passed through them—quiet and aching.

Disappointment.

It came uninvited, sharp in his chest, curling under his ribs.

You turned your attention back to the court as the game resumed, face calm, focus sharp. You didn’t see the way Jeonghan kept looking at you. Not with frustration or offence—but with something deeper.

A knowing.

A silent wonder, repressing it to focus on the game. At least he tried to.

The cool night breeze trailed behind you as you both stepped out of the stadium, the city alive with horns, headlights, and the hum of late-night traffic. Jeonghan walked a step ahead and opened the car door for you, the gesture casual—automatic—but his silence lingered heavier than usual.

You slid in without a word. The ride started the same way.

Quiet.

A little too quiet.

You shifted in your seat, glancing out the window at the blur of taillights and neon signs. “I don’t know why they put people on the spot like that,” you said with a small, awkward chuckle. “The Kiss Cam. It’s... unnecessary.”

“Right,” Jeonghan murmured, his eyes never leaving the road. The tone in his voice didn’t match yours. It sat somewhere between a shrug and something unsaid.

Silence again.

You could feel him trying to push past it when he asked, “What do you want for dinner?”

You didn’t answer.

The city rolled past you in soft streaks of light.

“Y/N,” he said, voice sharper this time.

You blinked out of your thoughts and turned to him. “Sorry. You were saying something?”

“I asked what you’d like for dinner,” he repeated, more carefully this time. “It’s like you’re always… gone. Either buried in work or stuck in your own head. Is something wrong?”

You hesitated, then gave a quick shake of your head. “No. It’s nothing.”

He glanced at you briefly, frowning. “It can’t be nothing if it has you making that face.”

You looked over, eyebrows raised. “What face?”

“The face kids make when they’re about to pass a tight stool,” he said, completely deadpan.

“Jesus Christ—” you smacked his arm, laughing despite yourself.

He grinned, pleased with himself. “No, seriously. Are you constipated? Blink twice if you need laxatives.”

“Jeonghan, I swear,” you said, unable to hide your smile, your voice lighter now.

“Smack me again and I’ll crash into the median.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Let’s go to Chow’s Palace?”

“Chow’s it is,” he said, his hands smooth on the wheel as he took the left at the roundabout. “Been a while since I had proper Chinese.”

As the street lights flickered over your faces, the tension from earlier melted slightly—slightly. And though neither of you said it, you both felt the shift. That familiar safety. That ache of almost.

But neither of you reached for it.

As the car slipped into a quieter lane, the rush of the night muted behind the closed windows, you leaned your forehead gently against the glass. Outside, life went on—people crossing streets with grocery bags, neon signs flickering over late-night diners, and a couple laughing at a bus stop, their world untouched by yours.

For a moment, you let your eyes fall shut.

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BANG! BANG! BANG!

The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting pale strips of light across the room. A dull, relentless headache throbbed at your temples—probably a souvenir from last night’s beer at Chow’s. You blinked against the sting, willing yourself back into the comfort of sleep.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Persistent. Unrelenting.

Groaning, you kicked the quilt aside with more irritation than grace. You really needed to give the milkman a sterner warning.

Rolling out of bed, you shuffled toward the door, extending your hand for the milk carton, expecting the usual morning ritual.

But no carton was pressed into your palm.

Instead, when you opened the door wider, there he was.

The face you wanted to see least of all: your husband.

His dark eyes lifted with a crooked brow, calm and almost amused.

Behind him, two towering figures stood silently—his bodyguards, unwavering shadows.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice sharp, breath uneven.

He smirked, stepping forward. “Aren’t you going to let me in, wife?”

The word hit you like ice.

You shuddered, a cringe crawling along your spine.

“No.” You tried to close the door swiftly—but he was faster.

His foot slid against the wood, halting it mid-swing.

“Why have someone inside?” he muttered, nodding toward the door as he motioned his men to stay outside.

Before you could protest, he pushed past you, stepping into the apartment. His gaze swept the room with cold precision, moving toward the veranda as if expecting someone to leap out at him.

After a moment, he turned, striding to the bathroom, eyes scanning every corner, measuring your space.

You cleared your throat, voice firm despite the knot tightening in your chest. “Please don’t call me that.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure.”

Turning back, he folded his arms, studying you. “So, tell me, wife—what have you been up to?”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, making the loose shirt ride up slightly. You caught the flicker in his eyes as they traced you up and down—the oversized men’s T-shirt, the tired slump in your shoulders.

“The usual,” you said evenly. “Saving lives and studying.”

He nodded slowly, as if weighing your words. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s about it,” you replied coolly. “Why do you ask?”

His lips curled in a ghost of a smile. “I see. The Eagles play well, don’t they? That last touchdown—the Balkan’s throw—I must admit, it was impressive.”

You pursed your lips into a thin line, irritation bubbling beneath your calm exterior.

He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Most interesting of them all—the halftime shows they pull off.”

You met his gaze evenly, feeling the weight of unspoken words swirling between you.

“What are you trying to do?” you asked, voice steady but edged with frustration.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous. “Just here to remind you things have changed. It’s time you change your ways. And your clothes. And pack your bags. I gave you a week—two weeks have passed. Father’s asking about you.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Does your father always take this much initiative?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Only when it involves his eldest son’s killer’s daughter.”

Your pulse quickened at the words. “Why do I have to go to your house?”

“Not this dance again,” he groaned, rubbing his temple like it was a bother.

You crossed your arms, stepping closer, voice sharp. “Why don’t you expect me to commute to work every day? It’s like a forty-five-minute drive from your place to Liberty. From here, it’s just two blocks.”

His eyes glinted with a cold amusement. “You sure talk a lot for a collateral.”

“Bastard,” you spat, stomping toward your room, fury blazing. Way to ruin a day off.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzed just as he saw you disappear into the bedroom, the door shutting hard behind you with a sharp slam.

Fifteen minutes slipped by. He ended his call, still hearing no sound from your side of the apartment.

Did she slip in the bathroom or something? He wondered, tension creeping into his chest.

He made his way down the hallway and spotted a door left slightly ajar. Assuming it was your bedroom, he paused—Not going to peek. Maybe she’s just changing.

He knocked softly, voice tight. “Y/N, are you done? We need to leave. I don’t have all day—”

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

A sudden, wild thought flared: What if she jumped out the window? Ran off through the fire escape?

Without hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

There you were—laying on your stomach, fast asleep, a soft snore escaping your parted lips, buried beneath the quilt.

His gaze flicked over the room and cringed a little at the mess—dog toys scattered haphazardly, clothes strewn across the floor.

“Hey, get up.” His voice was low at first, but then he shut his eyes and shouted, “Y/N!!”

You jolted awake, heart hammering. Your hand flew to your temple, clutching at the relentless pounding inside your skull.

“What the fuck?” You groaned, disoriented and irritated, the harshness of waking crashing over you like a wave.

“Pack your things,” he said briskly, voice sharp but controlled. “Just the essentials—you can come back for the rest later or whatever. I’m waiting downstairs. So, chop chop.”

He muttered under his breath, “What a fucking mess.”

You flung yourself back onto the pillow, crushing the breath out of your chest, the weight of him, your father, and everything else pressing down on you like a storm.

A long, ragged groan escaped your lips, a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and the raw ache of being caught in a life you never asked for.

You came down the stairs slowly, dragging a small suitcase behind you—just the essentials, like he said. The building’s quiet was broken only by the scuff of your shoes on the steps and the low hum of the idling car outside.

One of his guards was already waiting at the bottom. At Seungcheol’s simple gesture, the man stepped forward, took your suitcase without a word, and moved to open the car door.

“Get in,” Seungcheol said, his voice as casual as if he were sending off dry cleaning. “They’ll take you to the mansion.”

You paused, hand on the car door, your fingers curling tightly around the handle. Your mouth opened—maybe to ask, to argue, to demand—but nothing came out.

“And what about you?” you finally managed, the words stiff with suspicion.

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Aww… you’re leaning into the title’s responsibilities, wife?”

The word landed like ash on your tongue. Your expression soured immediately.

“I have a meeting,” he continued with a shrug, already glancing at his phone. “Don’t worry. I lead a very busy life. We won’t cross paths much.”

“I hope not,” you muttered, climbing into the car.

And before he could respond, you slammed the door shut behind you. The sound echoed down the street, final and sharp, like a line drawn in sand as the car's engine roared to life and drove off.

Seungcheol watched silently as the car carrying you turned the corner and disappeared from view. His jaw tightened. He didn’t say a word.

Just then, another car rolled up in front of him—sleek, identical in build to the one you'd just left in. A black Mercedes S-Class. Tinted windows. Armored. Quiet like a predator in a suit.

He slipped into the backseat, nodding once at the driver without bothering to speak. The door shut with a heavy click, sealing him off from everything.

He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, eyes falling shut for a moment.

But peace didn’t come.

Instead, the silence was pierced by a memory—two weeks ago. Blunt. Loud. Unshakeable.

“Who said you’re in a position to negotiate?” he pressed, voice low, sharp enough to cut.

You drew in a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as you gathered what was left of your composure. “If I’m to accept this barbaric barter,” you said, voice taut, “I have my terms.”

His silence was invitation enough.

“You will not interfere with my work,” you said, opening your eyes to meet his. “And no one—absolutely no one—will know that you are my husband.”

He cocked a brow. “What? Is someone secretly holding out for that title?”

Your jaw clenched, nose flaring. “You will not touch me.”

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “Well, do you expect me to air-drop my sperm, Doctor?”

You didn’t blink. “Given your limited understanding of medical advancement, I don’t expect much. But I’ll figure that part out. What I need is your cooperation. Even during the pregnancy, you will not control what I do. My work, my decisions—none of it concerns you.”

“No can do,” he replied smoothly. “It’s my heir you’ll be carrying.”

“And it’s my body that will carry it.”

A pause.

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, noncommittal. “Go on.”

You pushed forward. “When this whole… child thing is fulfilled—”

“A son,” he corrected.

You ignored the interruption. “—you will grant me a divorce.”

“Gladly,” he replied without hesitation.

“One last thing.”

He rolled his eyes. “You sure don’t run out of demands.”

But you pressed on. “You will not touch a single soul at Liberty Hospital. You will leave everyone out of whatever mess you and Han Jaein have dragged each other into.”

A pause. His expression shifted, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

“Min,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s Min Jaein. Your father took your new mother’s surname. Thought you’d know.”

You hesitated, your gaze slipping past him toward the door, somewhere far beyond this room. Why should I mourn someone who didn’t even share a name with me anymore? You had changed your name too—when Dr. Cordon took you in.

“Right. Whatever,” you said quietly, brushing the thought off.

“So,” you met his eyes again, “do you accept?”

He stepped back, letting go of you entirely, his expression unreadable. “I’ll think about it,” he said, mocking you with a smile as sharp as the steel behind his tone.

That was it. The flicker of restraint inside you snapped. You surged forward and grabbed the lapel of his coat, yanking him back before he could walk away.

“Listen here, Daddy’s puppet,” you hissed. “I don’t care what you or your father do to me. But if you don’t accept my terms, I would rather die than follow through with anything that man wants. Do you understand me?”

His grin returned, this time with amusement dancing behind it. “Easy there, tigress,” he said, pulling his coat free from your grip.

“When I said I’d think about it,” he added as he stepped toward the door, “then I’ll think about it.”

And then he was gone. Leaving behind the bitter taste of powerlessness and the weight of your own defiance clinging to the air like smoke.And yet, moments later, with hands that barely stopped trembling, you signed your name beside his—Choi Seungcheol—the man Dr. Cordon once warned you about with a heaviness in his eyes that only hindsight could explain. In that quiet, irreversible gesture, you bound yourself to him, not in love but in necessity. Two names inked together, sealing a future neither of you could truly predict—unfolding not in vows, but in the quiet dread of what comes next. A bond rising on legacy, betrayal, and revenge.

END OF CHAPTER 8

AN: Poor Jeonghan UwU!

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