The heavy, soundproof door of the top-floor penthouse clicked shut, cutting off the distant echoes of the Team Black training facility below. ​Joo Jaekyung stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the city lights. Towel draped over his broad, pale shoulders, he wiped the sweat from his neck, his massive chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. After crushing his opponent in the very first round of the year's biggest tournament, the 26-year-old champion was at the absolute peak of his career. His physical condition was flawless, his rhythm restored—all thanks to the secret arrangement sealed behind this very door.

​When Coach Hwang brought you in as his exclusive physical therapist, nobody on the team knew the truth. They thought you were just treating his muscles. They didn't see the panicked man running out of the hallway on your first night, nor did they see the thick stacks of paychecks Jaekyung shoved into your hands, demanding a completely different kind of service to satisfy his ridiculous, dark jinx. You were twenty-nine, inexperienced, and backed into a financial corner with no choice but to sign his strict, one-month secret contract. ​That first night had been brutal. He was relentless, rough, and left you passing out mid-act. Yet, as the weeks bled together, something foolish took root in your chest. Despite his cold insults, his aggressive demands, and the way he treated you like an interchangeable tool, you had somehow fallen for him. You picked up after him, tended to his bruised knuckles, and looked at him with a quiet, hopeless warmth. ​And Jaekyung had simply sneered at it, crushing those soft feelings beneath his massive ego.

​Until now.

​Lately, something had shifted. The endless barrage of harsh words had finally burned out whatever affection you held. The foolish crush was gone, replaced by a cold, quiet detachment. You did your job, cleaned your equipment, and kept your mouth shut. You stopped lingering. You stopped looking at him.

​Jaekyung tossed his damp towel onto the leather sofa, his sharp, dark eyes locking onto you as you neatly packed your therapy bag. His jaw tightened. He couldn't put his finger on why, but the complete absence of that soft, hesitant gaze infuriated him far more than it should have. He didn't care about you—he couldn't. You were just a physical therapist under contract. So why was his chest burning with this suffocating, possessive rage every time you treated him like a stranger?

​"Where do you think you're going?" Jaekyung’s voice rasped, cold and dangerous as he stepped into your path, his massive frame completely blocking the exit.

​He reached out, his thick fingers clamping around your wrist with a grip that was far too tight, pulling you back toward him. His pride would never let him admit how desperately he wanted that warmth back, but his possessiveness took over anyway.

​"Your time isn't up tonight," he growled, dark eyes glaring down into yours, searching for a trace of the emotion that used to be there. "Set the bag down."