Go Daesik’s voice trembled with forced theatrics, rough with feigned tears.
From that moment on, Go Igyeol could not bring himself to answer. He pressed his lips shut.
Whether or not he had ever been “loved,” it was undeniable that Daesik had spent the money Igyeol’s marriage had brought him. There was nothing Igyeol could say in his own defense.
“Put it on speaker.”
“…What?”
“I’ll speak to him.”
“I… I can handle this—”
The whisper, desperate to take responsibility somehow, dissolved helplessly.
Blinking fast, Igyeol lowered the phone and tapped the screen, switching it to speaker mode. Instantly, Daesik’s wailing voice rang loudly through the car.
“Father, this is Seo Dohyeon.”
— “I ought to just die… eh? Executive Director Seo?”
The voice that had been wrung into sobs shifted instantly into forced delight.
At the sudden change, chills crawled down Igyeol’s spine. And what outrageous demand would come this time? He knew without needing to hear it.
Shame flushed from his collarbone up his pale neck. Dohyeon glanced at him briefly, then spoke in a smooth voice, as if the answer had already been prepared.
“I’ll send someone to your house tomorrow. Go shopping. Don’t worry about the cost and choose whatever you like best, on Igyeol’s account.”
— “Eh? You’ll send someone? Oh, you shouldn’t go to such trouble. Goodness… my son-in-law! Our son-in-law! I knew I was blessed in this life. Executive Director Seo of SJ Group himself, my son-in-law through our Igyeol, telling me to get properly fitted. This is too much kindness. You don’t need to do this. Truly, truly amazing…”
All at once, the quiet surroundings filled with noise.
His swaggering, boastful voice carried with miserable clarity. He must have rushed somewhere crowded just to announce his connection to Dohyeon. Flaunting his greatest skill—exaggeration and empty boasting—Daesik practically shouted about his good fortune.
Igyeol squeezed his eyes shut, praying desperately that he would not cause trouble.
“If your friends have a practice range they go to, sign up there too. We’ll go out for a round together someday.”
— “Heh, how could a beginner like me compare to you, Executive Director Seo? Anyway, I only said a few things because I was frustrated with our Igyeol. Poor child. Maybe he’s delicate. I hope he wasn’t too hurt.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle him.”
— “Yes, yes. I’d be grateful.”
“Good night.”
Without waiting for Daesik to answer, Dohyeon ended the call.
“You could have just agreed. Why were you fumbling so badly?”
“……”
“Is it because it’s my money? Whatever you spend, it’s nothing to me. Pocket change.”
“…Thank you.”
At last, Igyeol managed a faint word of gratitude.
Dohyeon only nodded, still displeased. It was humiliating. Even now, buried in debt and shame, Igyeol was still the one who had to thank him.
With a tired sigh, Dohyeon unfastened another button of his shirt and turned the wheel.
They drove for a long time in silence.
The place they arrived at was one Igyeol remembered—one of the few restaurants where he had been able to finish almost everything served to him. A Korean fine dining restaurant with mild flavors and quiet private rooms.
“Get out.”
Igyeol unfastened his seat belt and glanced toward Dohyeon as he walked around to the passenger side. Before Dohyeon could reach the handle, Igyeol pushed the door open himself.
For a moment, Dohyeon looked faintly offended, but he said nothing.
“This coat…”
“Wear it. You dressed too lightly today.”
“But you should—”
When Igyeol folded the coat over his arm instead of wearing it, Dohyeon’s sharp gaze froze him in place. Hastily, Igyeol slipped back into the coat.
The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet as he followed behind.
Guided by the manager, they entered a private room set apart from the main hall. Beyond the polished glass, a small garden greeted them, early spring buds glowing pale green along the low branches.
Though they had not made a reservation, the table looked as if it had been waiting for them.
Dishes arrived one by one. Seasoned greens, braised short ribs, three kinds of kimchi, dried side dishes. Finally, a bubbling stew thick with perilla seed broth.
“Eat.”
“I’ll eat well. You should eat too.”
“Should I order more?”
“No… this is already plenty.”
Igyeol carefully chose the mild dishes first. But the moment he raised a spoonful of rice to his lips, nausea fluttered up, his body rebelling against him.
Before Dohyeon could notice, he forced it down with water without chewing. One dish after another remained almost untouched, in sharp contrast to the bowls steadily emptying across the table.
“I remember you eating well here before. Am I mistaken?”
“No. It’s delicious. I’m eating plenty.”
“Hm.”
Dohyeon’s long fingers pressed roughly against his own temple. When his cold eyes opened again, they cut across the table toward Igyeol.
“Don’t make this difficult.”
“……”
“Divorce happens only when I decide it does. Not before.”
He dropped his spoon, stood, and walked out.
Only then did Igyeol release the breath he had been holding. His unease was not because of Dohyeon’s temper. It was because the food kept threatening to drag bile up his throat right in front of him.
Hastily, he closed the lids, swallowed another gulp of water, and wiped his damp lips.
Gathering Dohyeon’s coat, he thought again that it had to be because the rut cycle was near.
His growing irritability. His insistence on keeping Igyeol constantly in sight.
Yes. That had to be it.
“…What am I going to do?”
Dohyeon’s ruts were long and unrelenting.
Was it like this for all dominant alphas, or only for him? Even with suppressant injections, his rut never eased quickly.
Worry tightening his face, Igyeol rose and followed him.
Through the familiar corridor and past the quiet entrance, he saw Dohyeon waiting outside, leaning against the car, eyes cold as blades.
“Get in.”
“I…”
“What.”
“…Is it… your rut—?”
The words tangled in his throat. Before he could form them properly, the corners of Dohyeon’s mouth lifted.
“They say even a dog learns to recite poetry after three years in a schoolhouse. I suppose after two years of marriage, you can tell by my rut cycle too. Yes. It was bad today. I took leave.”
“…How long… how many days?”
“Until it subsides, of course.”
The calm voice carried enough weight to suffocate him.
If it was only beginning, then for at least a week—maybe longer—he would be bound to Dohyeon.
Igyeol closed his mouth, not daring to ask whether they were going home.
As the scenery blurred past outside the window, a thought he had kept buried for a long time slipped out before he could stop it.
“…I’ve wondered. Why isn’t having a child part of the terms?”
“What?”
“Having a child might make succession easier. Your grandfather would hurry the preparations to hand over the company.”
“Oh, that.”
Leaning against the window, his brow faintly furrowed from a shallow headache, Dohyeon answered.
“I thought it would be too pitiful. Being born from nothing but desire and necessity. And if I wanted a child, it wouldn’t be with you. It would be with someone else. The more dominant the trait, the better.”
The blunt answer made Igyeol nod.
At last, it was clear.
Divorce would not happen until Dohyeon allowed it.
“Did that upset you?”
“No. It makes sense. If I were you, I’d want children with a dominant omega, not a recessive one like me.”
“You understand well. You will never be the one to bear my child.”
Yes.
If he stayed, Dohyeon would never let him have the baby.
A man who said only dominant traits mattered would never want the child of a recessive omega. Igyeol had to leave before it started to show. Somewhere Dohyeon could not reach.
The instant they stepped into the house, Dohyeon grabbed him.
Still wearing the coat, his shoes still on, Igyeol was dragged deeper inside. Dohyeon’s pheromones poured out beyond control—overwhelming, spilling, cascading, drowning the air.
“W-wait. At least let me wash—”
“I don’t have the patience tonight.”
“Ah—!”
Even that was cut off by the press of Dohyeon’s mouth.
Pheromones rained down over him, layer after layer, smeared over him until they were all he could taste and breathe. His small mouth was forced open, the rough edges of Dohyeon’s hunger invading him, every heated surface coated in his scent.
“Unh—hhk—haa.”
“Open wider. Tongue out.”
When Igyeol timidly extended it, Dohyeon caught it at once and dragged it inside. Sharp teeth nipped at it mercilessly.
Whimpers spilled like broken breaths against his lips.
By the time Dohyeon let him go, Igyeol’s tongue was cut, and the inside of his mouth was full of salt and iron.