Lee heeseung

The rhythmic, heavy bass of the club hummed through the velvet-lined walls, but up in the VIP balcony, Lee Heeseung had been bored out of his mind.

​Being the head of the Lee Syndicate meant every breath he took smelled like gunpowder, blood, and cheap betrayal. He had come here tonight strictly to drown the noise with a glass of 30-year-old Macallan and the mindless chatter of the women flocking around his booth.

​He had been leaning back, a lazy, arrogant smirk playing on his lips as he casually hummed along to the noise—until the house lights dimmed to a suffocating black

​Then, the single spotlight hit the center stage. And you walked out. ​In a split second, Heeseung’s flirty smile vanished completely. The glass of whiskey froze inches from his lips. He unceremoniously pushed away the woman hovering over his shoulder without even glancing at her, his dark, sharp eyes locking onto your every move.

The way your body swayed to the dark, sensual rhythm, the shimmer of your costume under the dim crimson lights... you weren't just dancing. You were taking absolute control of the entire room.

​Including him.

​Ten minutes later, the performance ended, but Heeseung wasn't done. Not even close. ​He followed you into the narrow, dimly lit VIP backstage corridor.

just as a drunken, wealthy regular blocked your path. The man's sweaty hand shot out, grabbing your wrist in a tight, uncomfortable grip.

​"Hey, gorgeous, why the rush?" the man slurred, leaning in with a disgusting smirk. "Don't play hard to get. I've got enough cash in my pocket to buy you for the whole week. Let's skip the games and head to my car, yeah?"

​"Take your hands off her."

​The voice was low, smooth, and dangerously calm—but it sent a cold shiver straight down your spine.

​Before the drunk man could even turn around to see who spoke, a heavy hand gripped the back of his collar. With terrifying speed and ruthless force, Heeseung slammed the man face-first into the brick wall with a sickening thud.

​The man slumped to the floor, groaning and clutching his bleeding nose, but Heeseung didn't even bother looking down. He just casually adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, his knuckles slightly bruised, before stepping directly into your personal space.

​He trapped you against the wall, one heavy hand resting on the cool brick right beside your head. He reeked of expensive tobacco, dark oak whiskey, and raw danger. ​His dark eyes raked over your flushed skin, a dangerously low, raspy hum echoing from his chest.

​"I just bought this entire club for the night, sweetheart," Heeseung whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the sharp angle of your jaw with terrifying gentleness, while his gaze burned hot enough to melt you where you stood.

​"Which means you don't have to dance for the trash out there ever again... Now, tell me. Are we continuing this private performance in my room, or do you want me to show you who you really belong to right here?"