THE VENUE WAS LOUDER THAN THE LAST ONE~
Not louder in sound—but in presence.
A private charity gala held inside a restored opera hall, where old money and new power shook hands politely. Cameras flashed constantly. Conversations overlapped in polished tones. Everything smelled like expensive perfume and unspoken hierarchies.
Smyle adjusted his cuff nervously.
"This place hates people like me," he muttered.
Rayden, standing beside him in a tailored black suit, didn't even glance down.
"It doesn't hate you," he said calmly.
"It notices you."
Smyle frowned. "That's worse."
Rayden's hand settled lightly at Smyle's lower back—not possessive, not tight. Just enough to guide him forward. To remind everyone watching.
Married. Taken. Untouchable.
Smyle exhaled slowly.
Play along, he reminded himself.
That's the deal.
They entered together.
And immediately, heads turned.
Whispers followed.
Not about Rayden—everyone already knew him.
They were about Smyle.
Who he was.
Why he was there.
Why someone like Rayden Black chose him.
Smyle felt it—eyes sliding over him, assessing, curious, speculative.
He lifted his chin.
If he was going to be here, he wouldn't shrink.
A woman in an emerald dress approached first, smiling warmly.
"Mr. Black," she greeted. Then her gaze softened toward Smyle.
"And you must be Smyle. I've heard so much."
Smyle blinked. "Good things, I hope?"
She laughed. "Interesting things."
Rayden answered smoothly, "Only the important ones."
The woman excused herself, but not before giving Smyle a knowing look.
Smyle leaned closer to Rayden and whispered, "You didn't tell me I'd be a conversation topic."
Rayden replied without hesitation, "You always were."
That should've unsettled him.
Instead, Smyle felt something spark—sharp, alert.
As the night went on, the attention didn't fade.
A gallery curator praised Smyle's sketches after hearing he studied arts.
A pianist invited him to visit a private studio sometime.
Someone from a design firm asked for his contact—professional, clearly.
Rayden watched it all.
Silently.
Too silently.
Smyle noticed when Rayden's jaw tightened.
When conversations ended quicker than necessary.
When people suddenly remembered appointments elsewhere.
At one point, Smyle deliberately leaned into it.
He smiled more.
Spoke animatedly about music.
Let himself shine.
Because this was part of the deal.
And because—
He wanted to see how far Rayden's control really went.
It didn't take long.
A man—older, confident, clearly influential—rested his elbow on the bar beside Smyle.
"You don't look like you belong to this world," he said lightly.
"That's a compliment."
Smyle smiled politely. "I don't think anyone belongs to just one world."
Before the man could respond—
Rayden appeared.
Seamless. Silent.
His presence alone shifted the air.
"Enjoying the evening?" Rayden asked the man.
The tone was neutral.
The meaning wasn't.
The man straightened. "Of course. I was just—"
Rayden nodded once. "Good."
That was all.
The man excused himself within seconds.
Smyle turned sharply. "You're doing that on purpose."
Rayden met his gaze. "So are you."
Their eyes locked.
A quiet standoff, hidden behind perfect smiles and soft lighting.
Then Rayden leaned in—not to threaten.
To whisper.
"Careful," he murmured.
"You're using the deal well."
Smyle's lips curved slightly. "Learning from the best."
For a moment—just a moment—Rayden looked… impressed.
Then his phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Rayden glanced at the screen, and something changed.
The calm drained.
The warmth disappeared.
Business replaced everything.
"I have to step out," Rayden said quietly.
Smyle frowned. "Now?"
"Yes."
He turned to the driver nearby. "Take him home."
Smyle caught his sleeve. "What happened?"
Rayden paused.
Not long enough to explain.
Just long enough to say, "Stay inside tonight."
"You'll go home," Rayden said. "With the driver."
"I didn't agree to—"
"This isn't part of the deal," Rayden interrupted quietly.
"This is my world."
And then he was gone.
Smyle stood there, the noise of the event rushing back in around him.
Music.
Voices.
Laughter.
His chest felt tight.
THE RIDE HOME
The driver didn't speak.
Smyle sat in the back seat, hands folded in his lap, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past.
Something was wrong.
Not dramatic wrong.
Not obvious wrong.
But the kind of wrong that settles in your stomach before your mind catches up.
Rayden had looked… dangerous.
Not jealous.
Not cold.
Focused.
Smyle swallowed.
This wasn't supposed to touch me, he thought.
This was his life. Not mine.
The villa gates opened.
Closed behind him.
Too quiet.
Smyle changed into comfortable clothes but didn't sleep.
He sat on the couch.
Then the bed.
Then the couch again.
He checked his phone.
No messages.
1:17 a.m.
2:03 a.m.
2:41 a.m.
At 3:12 a.m.—
The front door opened.
Smyle stood instantly.
Rayden stepped inside.
And staggered.
Just slightly.
But enough.
"Rayden—"
"I'm fine," Rayden said automatically.
Then Smyle saw it.
Blood.
Dark against the white of his shirt, seeping near his side.
Smyle's breath caught.
"You're not."
Rayden looked down, annoyed more than alarmed.
"It's handled."
Smyle crossed the room without thinking.
"Sit," he said.
Rayden blinked.
No one told him what to do.
Ever.
But Smyle was already pulling him toward the couch.
"Sit," Smyle repeated, voice shaking now. "Before you fall."
Rayden let him.
That scared Smyle more than the blood.
The Wound
Smyle returned with a first-aid kit, hands trembling.
He knelt in front of Rayden.
"Take off your jacket."
Rayden hesitated.
Smyle looked up at him.
"…Please."
That did it.
Rayden removed it slowly.
The wound wasn't life-threatening—but it was deep enough to hurt.
Smyle pressed gauze gently.
Rayden hissed.
"Sorry—sorry," Smyle said quickly.
Rayden watched him.
Not the obedient husband.
Not the smiling accessory.
Just Smyle.
Real.
Worried.
Too kind for this.
"You shouldn't do this," Rayden said quietly.
Smyle didn't look up.
"You shouldn't bleed in my living room."
Rayden exhaled a short, humorless breath.
As Smyle cleaned the wound, his hands steadied.
Anger faded into focus.
"You disappeared," Smyle said finally. "I didn't know where you went."
Rayden's voice was low. "I sent you home so you wouldn't see."
"You think I'm fragile?"
Rayden looked away.
"I think I don't want you involved."
Smyle tied the bandage carefully.
Then he stood.
"You already involved me," he said softly.
"The moment you put a ring on my finger."
Silence stretched between them.
Rayden finally looked at him.
Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
"…You didn't have to wait up."
Smyle shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."
A beat.
"Did you win?" Smyle asked.
Rayden's mouth curved—not a smile.
"Yes."
Smyle nodded.
Then, very quietly:
"Next time you disappear like that—tell me you're alive."
Rayden froze.
No one had ever asked him that.
"I don't need details," Smyle added. "Just… that."
Rayden held his gaze.
"…Okay."
LATER
Smyle turned off the lights.
As he walked toward his room, Rayden spoke again.
"You weren't scared tonight."
Smyle paused.
"I was," he said honestly.
"But I didn't run."
Rayden watched him disappear down the hall.
And for the first time since the contract began—
He wondered if the danger wasn't Smyle being in his world.
But his world touching Smyle at all.