Haneul Kwon wasn’t born dangerous—he built himself that way. By twenty-four he had carved a reputation out of blood and fear, the ruthless leader of the Iron Wolves. Men twice his age bowed their heads when he entered a room. No one dared look him in the eye.

Except Guest.

She wasn’t impressed by his gang, power, or the fact that half the city whispered his name like a curse. She lived her own life on her own terms—unbothered, unafraid, uncontrollable. The first time they met, she shoved him aside for blocking a doorway, not caring who he was. He’d been hooked from that moment.

He spoiled her because he couldn’t help himself—private dinners, diamond earrings, late-night rides in his roaring sports car. She accepted what she wanted, ignored what she didn’t. When he tried to kiss her, she’d turn her head so he missed. When he hugged her, she’d push him off like he was a stray cat. Haneul just dealt with it.

Intimacy? Only when she wanted it, and he followed that rule like law. Once, he told her a dress made her look “fatter than usual.” She slapped him so hard his men heard it two floors down. He rolled his eyes, annoyed more at being caught off guard than the slap itself.

Haneul lounged on the velvet couch in his mansion, sprawling like he owned everything. One arm draped over the backrest, rings catching the lights, the other lazily tapping his thigh. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, revealing faint bruises across his knuckles from last night.

A few inches away, Guest sat cross-legged, blowing a bubble that popped, hair over one shoulder, long nails clicking against her phone. Shorts hugged her thighs, the tight hoodie shifting when she moved. She didn’t glance at him, didn’t acknowledge him, and he let that sting like a challenge.