"You know," Sasha began, his tone light but carrying an edge, "I have to say… you've got a fascinating body." He leaned back against the arm of the couch, his smirk widening as Beom froze. "Beautiful, round nipples, and nice hips. Honestly, you look like you're both sexes—male and female. I mean, no offense, but I don't think most men are built like that."
Beom's breath hitched, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing into a glare. Heat crept up his neck and face, his skin burning with equal parts embarrassment and anger. What the hell is wrong with him? Beom thought, his hands instinctively balling into fists.
"Shut up, you pervert!" Beom snapped, his voice sharp and laced with venom. "It's disgusting. Stop sexualizing me!" His whole body tensed as he turned his gaze away, his jaw clenching tightly.
Sasha didn't seem fazed in the slightest. If anything, his smirk deepened, clearly relishing Beom's reaction. He took another drag from his cigarette, the glowing ember briefly illuminating his sharp features in the dim light. "Relax," Sasha drawled, exhaling smoke. "I'm just making an observation. You're… unique, that's all."
Beom's heart raced, his mind spinning as Sasha's words hit a nerve he'd worked so hard to bury. Unique. Yeah, right. Like I needed to hear that again. He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling. Sasha didn't know the truth—didn't know about his body—but his casual remark cut deep. Only Beom's mother and sister knew the truth. No one else. It was a secret he'd guarded fiercely, a part of himself he never wanted exposed.
Beom had been born intersex, something he'd struggled to come to terms with his entire life. While his outward appearance leaned masculine, his body carried a softness that hinted at his dual nature. His hips were naturally fuller, his waist slightly more defined, a feminine curve that contrasted with his otherwise muscular build. He hated how it made people look at him twice, how it made him feel out of place, even in his own skin. Years ago, he'd undergone a procedure to close off the non-functioning part of himself, trying to align with the identity he felt most comfortable in. But moments like this—Sasha's probing comments, that smirk on his face—it brought back every insecurity he thought he'd buried.
"Seriously, shut up," Beom muttered again, his voice quieter this time, tinged with a vulnerability he tried to mask. He refused to look at Sasha, focusing instead on the cigarette smoke curling in the air. Why does he always have to push my buttons? Can't he just leave me alone for once?
Sasha chuckled again, his tone softer but still teasing. "Alright, alright. No need to get so worked up, princess," he teased, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying, you're a lot more interesting than you let on."
Beom's glare sharpened, his teeth grinding together as his nails dug into his palms. God, I hate him. But beneath the anger was a sliver of fear—a fear that Sasha would keep digging, that he'd uncover the truth Beom had spent his whole life hiding.
The luxury car hummed softly as it rolled along the long, paved driveway leading to the Vyshnevsky mansion. Beom's hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles slightly white from the pressure. He kept his focus straight ahead, but his mind was anything but calm. This place is unreal, he thought, glancing briefly at the towering gates they'd just passed. The mansion loomed in the distance like something out of a gothic fairytale, its grandeur both awe-inspiring and unnerving.
In the backseat, Sasha lounged comfortably, draped in a heavy black fur coat over his sleek black attire. He looked entirely at ease, as if he belonged in such an extravagant setting. Beom, on the other hand, felt suffocated in his chauffeur uniform—a tailored black suit with white gloves and a crisp cap. The role felt degrading, though he knew it was necessary for their plan. I swear, if Sasha says one more thing to annoy me, I might just slam the brakes, he thought bitterly.
Knock, knock.
Beom's attention snapped back to reality as one of the mansion's guards tapped on the driver's window. With a controlled sigh, he rolled it down, handing over the invitation card Sasha had smugly presented earlier. The guard inspected it, his sharp eyes flickering over the details before glancing toward the backseat. His gaze lingered on Sasha, who met it with a confident, borderline arrogant smirk.
"You may enter," the guard said, returning the card and stepping back.
Beom rolled the window up and eased the car forward, his irritation bubbling just under the surface. The closer they got to the mansion, the more elaborate the scene became—valets bustling around, guests arriving in expensive cars, the soft glow of chandeliers spilling out onto the driveway. How do people even live like this? Beom wondered, scanning the pristine grounds and the intimidating facade of the mansion.
"I'm just wondering how I'll be able to go inside," Beom muttered, breaking the silence. He caught Sasha's gaze in the rearview mirror, the older man's amused smirk already forming.
"Well," Sasha began, his tone dripping with mock helpfulness, "there are two options to get into the party: either you go as a waiter or…" He paused, his smirk widening. "You go as someone's lover."
Beom's grip on the steering wheel tightened as his jaw clenched. "Ugh, ain't no fucking way I'm going as someone's lover," he snapped, shooting Sasha a glare through the mirror. The thought alone made his skin crawl.
Sasha chuckled, clearly enjoying Beom's discomfort. "Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. "Good thing I'm the one invited, so I don't have to worry about sneaking in."
Smug bastard, Beom thought, grinding his teeth as Sasha's nonchalant attitude grated on his nerves. "All I need is to just get in," he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.
Sasha leaned back, his gaze still fixed on Beom through the mirror. "Don't worry, darling. I'm sure you'll figure something out," he teased, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Beom's patience was wearing thin, but he bit his tongue. There was no point in arguing with Sasha when he was in one of his moods.
The car finally reached the designated parking area, and Beom maneuvered it smoothly into an empty space. As he shifted into park, he noticed the sudden quiet from the backseat. For the first time since they'd started the drive, Sasha wasn't talking.
Oh, thank God, Beom thought sarcastically, leaning back slightly. He's finally shut up.
But his moment of relief was short-lived.
"Are you forgetting something?" Sasha's voice came, sharp and pointed, cutting through the silence. Beom glanced back to see Sasha gesturing lazily toward the car door.
It took a second for the implication to sink in, and when it did, Beom's temper flared. "Fuck you," he muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the car. He stormed around to the back, his every step laced with irritation.
Sasha sat waiting, a smug expression plastered across his face as Beom opened the door for him. The fur coat only added to his air of superiority, making him look like a mob boss straight out of a movie.
"Thank you, chauffeur," Sasha said smoothly, stepping out with exaggerated grace.
Beom barely restrained himself from slamming the door shut the moment Sasha's feet hit the ground. Why do I have to put up with this? he fumed internally, watching as Sasha adjusted his coat, clearly enjoying the power dynamic.
"Let's get this over with," Beom grumbled, falling in line behind Sasha as they made their way toward the mansion's grand entrance. If he keeps this up, I might just lose it before we even make it inside.
Beom's eyes darted around, trying to take in everything at once. The Vyshnevsky mansion was overwhelming in its grandeur, every corner dripping with luxury. The ceiling soared above, painted with intricate frescoes that gave the impression of a night sky filled with stars. Crystal chandeliers hung like glistening waterfalls, casting a warm glow over the room and illuminating the finely dressed guests who moved about with an air of elegance and wealth that Beom couldn't quite comprehend. The smell of money was almost tangible, mingling with the scent of expensive perfume and polished wood, as though the place itself exuded wealth.
He caught sight of a group of musicians in the corner, their hands expertly coaxing out a soft, soothing melody that filled the massive hall. Each note added to the surreal, almost dreamlike atmosphere. So this is the Vyshnevsky mansion, he thought to himself, a hint of disbelief lingering in his mind. His gaze traveled up to the grand staircase, curving gracefully toward the upper floors, with guests gliding up and down as if it were a stage meant only for them. Beom felt out of place, a mere shadow in the backdrop of this opulent scene.
Sasha, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease, and that both puzzled and frustrated Beom. He watched as Sasha glanced over his shoulder, smirked, and then sauntered off toward two well-dressed Russian men engaged in quiet conversation. The confidence in Sasha's steps, the way he blended seamlessly into this world of elites, made Beom's stomach twist with irritation and a touch of envy. How is he able to just mingle like that? Beom thought. It's like he's been attending parties like this his whole life.
He moved to follow, his instinct to stay close to Sasha kicking in. But just as he took a step forward, a firm hand clamped down on his arm, stopping him in his tracks.
"The chauffeur's room is here. Let's go," a man said, his tone firm and brooking no argument.
"B-but—" Beom stammered, glancing quickly over his shoulder toward Sasha. But Sasha didn't even look back. He was too engrossed in conversation with the Russian men, leaving Beom behind without a second thought.
Beom's stomach dropped slightly, frustration and a touch of betrayal bubbling up inside him. Who the hell is this guy? he wondered, watching Sasha's confident posture, his easy laughter as he mingled with strangers like he belonged here. Doesn't he realize I need to stay close? Or does he just not care?