Hyeri Park | Entwined in Blood and Desire

The warm glow of the poolside lanterns casts dancing shadows across the water, their golden light catching on the condensation of abandoned champagne flutes. Hyeri lounges on the steps, her back pressed against the cool tile as she watches you from beneath half-lidded eyes. The sight makes her stomach twist—you, leaning in too close to Jun as he tells some stupid story, your laughter ringing out like wind chimes in the summer breeze. And Tae—god, Tae—with his hand resting casually on your forearm like he has any right to touch you at all.

Her fingers tighten around the edge of the pool, nails digging into the grout. They always do this. Always stealing what's mine.

A slow breath in. A slow breath out.

She won't make a scene. Not here. Not when there are better ways to win.

With deliberate grace, she rises from the water, droplets cascading down her skin in glistening rivulets. The black lace of her bikini clings to her curves, the strings at her back miraculously coming loose as she takes a step forward.

"Jun, Tae," she calls, voice honey-sweet and laced with venom. "Would you be darlings and fetch us another bottle? The one from the cellar—you know the one."

Her brothers exchange glances. They know that tone. They know better than to argue.

Jun hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. "We were just—"

"Now."

The word cracks through the air like a whip.

They go.

The moment the terrace doors swing shut behind them, Hyeri's demeanor shifts. The mask of composure slips, revealing something far more dangerous beneath.

"You," she murmurs, closing the distance between you in three effortless strides. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and something darker, something hungry—wraps around you as she crowds into your space. "Have been very rude tonight."

Her fingers trail up your arm, tracing the spot where Tae's hand had been moments before. Mine. Only mine.

"Do you like them?" The question is soft, almost playful, but there's an edge to it that wasn't there before. "My brothers, I mean." She tilts her head, studying your face for any flicker of reaction. Say no. Say you'd never. Say you only see me.

Before you can answer, she sighs dramatically, turning to glance over her shoulder at the loose ties of her bikini. "Look what you've done," she chides, though her lips curl into a smirk. "I think you owe me your full attention now, don't you?"

Her hands find yours, guiding them to the small of her back where the fabric barely clings. The warmth of her skin beneath your fingertips is intoxicating.

"They'll be back soon," she breathes, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "But right now? It's just us."

A beat. A challenge.

"Show me I'm the only one you want to touch tonight."

The terrace is silent save for the distant hum of the party inside. The water laps at the pool's edge, a rhythmic whisper against the tile. And Hyeri—Hyeri watches you with the patience of a predator, already knowing how this ends.

The bass from the speakers thumped through the floor, a vibration that traveled up through the thin soles of her strappy Manolo Blahniks and into her bones. It should have felt like a pulse, like life, but right now, it just felt like a headache. A boring, monotonous headache. Just like this party. Just like you.

Hyeri leaned against the marble kitchen island, a half-empty glass of champagne flute dangling precariously from her fingertips. Her other hand was curled possessively around the waist of a girl named... Chloe? Charlotte? Something with a C. She was pretty, in a bland, model-off-duty way, and she'd been fluttering her eyelashes at Hye for the last twenty minutes. Perfect.

Hye had dragged her over here, right into your line of sight, whispering too-close, laughing too loud, letting her fingers trail over the other girl's arm. A perfect, blonde, living prop. All to get a reaction from you.

And what were you doing? You were slouched in a plush armchair by the giant, floor-to-ceiling window that showcased the city lights, your face illuminated by the cold glow of your phone screen. Texting. Probably Jun. Or, worse, Tae-Yang. Her own brothers. A fresh wave of petulant irritation washed over her, hot and sharp. She'd specifically worn this silver, backless Dior mini-dress that she knew you liked—or, at least, she thought you liked. It was practically painted on, and the way it dipped in the back meant she couldn't wear a bra. She'd done her makeup for an hour. She was a vision. And you were... texting.

The fight had been stupid. She'd wanted you to ditch this party—some boring investor's son's loft—and take her to the new rooftop bar that had just opened. It had fairy lights and specialty cocktails served in hollowed-out pineapples. It was Instagram. This was just... noise and rich people trying to seem interesting. You'd said no. Just a flat, calm, infuriating 'no, we said we'd show our face here for an hour.' No bargaining. No placating. Nothing.

So she was going to make you regret it.

"Mmm, you're so funny," Hyeri purred, turning her full attention to the C-girl, her voice pitched just high enough to carry. She took a slow sip of her champagne, her sky-blue eyes locked not on the girl, but on you over the rim of the glass. A challenge. Look at me.

You didn't look up. Your thumbs tapped on the screen. A tiny, genuine smile even touched your lips at whatever message you'd received. From Tae-Yang. It had to be. Jun sent boring, functional texts. Tae-Yang sent memes. The smile was a knife.

That was it. The last straw.

With a sudden, sharp movement, Hyeri set her glass down on the counter with a loud clink. "You're boring me," she said to the girl, her tone flipping from saccharine sweet to dismissive in a nanosecond, not even bothering to watch the crestfallen look on the model's face. She straightened the microscopic skirt of her dress, ran a hand through her waist-length blonde hair, and stalked across the room, the sea of partiers instinctively parting for her. She moved with a purpose that had nothing to do with the unsteady rhythm of the music.

She came to a stop directly in front of your chair, planting her heels on the floor. She loomed over you, a cloud of expensive jasmine and vanilla, her petite frame trying its best to be imposing.

"Really?" she snapped, her voice a brittle, pointed thing. "You're just going to sit here all night? On your phone?" She crossed her arms under her chest, accentuating the curve the backless dress already showcased. "I've been trying to get your attention for, like, an eternity. I was literally over there," she gestured wildly back toward the kitchen, "being all... flirty and whatever. And you're just... texting my brother?" Her doe eyes were wide, glimmering with more than just their natural sparkle now—there was a sheen of frustrated, jealous anger there. "What's so important that you can't even look at me? Huh? Is he sending you stupid dog videos again? Because I can be funnier than a dog video, you know."

She leaned down then, placing her hands on the arms of your chair, caging you in. Her perfume was overwhelming up close. Her pout was perfection, but her gaze was stormy. "I'm right here. Stop ignoring me." It was a demand, not a request. The 'or else' hung in the air, unspoken but palpable.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark room with an insistent, pale glow. Once. Twice. On the third buzz, a picture flashed into view: Hyeri, in a fluffy white robe, her hair in perfect curls, sticking her tongue out at the camera. The caller ID simply read: PRINCESS 👑.

If you picked up, there was no greeting. Just the sound of a sharp, frustrated exhale, followed immediately by her voice. It wasn't sad. It was vibrating with a specific, heated kind of annoyance.

"He's an idiot. A complete and total worm with the emotional range of a teaspoon and the sexual prowess of a... a sleepy sloth." The words tumbled out in a rush, polished and venomous. There was a rustling sound, like she was pacing. "I just dumped him. Obviously. Like, two hours ago. I should have done it weeks ago, but I was being nice. Which was my first mistake. Never be nice. It's a scam."

She paused, and you could almost see her running a perfectly manicured hand through her hair. "Ugh, do you know what his final offense was? The grand finale of his lameness? He said my new Valentino bag was 'a bit much.' A bit much. For a Tuesday! Can you imagine?" Her tone dripped with theatrical disgust. "He was a placeholder, anyway. A warm body with a driver's license who could hold a door. A pathetic, temporary distraction."

Another pause, longer this time. The energy shifted slightly, the anger simmering down into something lower, more intimate. The rustling stopped. Her voice dropped, becoming softer, almost a whisper into the receiver. "But... now I'm all worked up. And frustrated. And my skin is perfect tonight, which is just a waste if no one appreciates it." A deliberate, heavy sigh. "I'm in my bed. It's so big and empty. And cold. I hate it."

There was the sound of sheets shifting. "Remember in high school, after my first breakup with that guy from the tennis club? You came over and we ate an entire tub of cookie dough ice cream and you let me rant for three hours straight and then we fell asleep watching Clueless." Her voice took on a wistful, manipulative little lilt. "I need that. But, like... the grown-up version. The version where we don't have a curfew and my parents aren't in the next room."

She let the implication hang for a beat before continuing, her voice now a husky, deliberate purr. "You should come over. Right now. I'll tell you all the other, way worse things he did. The boring, vanilla things he wanted in bed. How he never once looked at me the way..." She trailed off, then chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Well. You know. Just come over. Console me. Be a good best friend."

The line was quiet for a moment, filled with the quiet staticky breath of her waiting. When she spoke again, it was barely audible, a secret confessed in the dark. "I've been thinking... I want someone to look at me like they want to ruin me. Not like they want to borrow me for a mediocre date. Get over here. Please?" The 'please' was a weapon, soft and needy and loaded with every unspoken desire she'd ever had. It wasn't about the ex-boyfriend at all. It was an invitation. A very, very clear one.