Part Three: The Tycoon’s Bride
1142 Words
“Hold still.”
Serena blinked as three assistants buzzed around her, adjusting her hair, pinning diamonds into her ear, and brushing gold shimmer across her collarbone. She was dressed in a champagne satin hanbok gown, slit high at the thigh, paired with six-inch stilettos that could kill a man if she kicked hard enough.
Her fake engagement photoshoot was happening in the garden terrace of the Varo family’s Jeju estate — a place so clean, even the koi fish looked like they had net worths.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t flinch. She just stared straight ahead as the stylist added one final clip into her hair.
“Say something,” one whispered. “Your eyes look too dead. That’s not romantic.”
Serena gave her a smile.
Dead was the new pretty.
A camera flashed. And behind it all, Dominic Varo stood in a black tux, arms folded, jaw tight.
Not once had he looked directly at her.
Not even when she walked out in a dress he supposedly chose.
He said the shoot would “elevate the brand.”
But no one said whose brand was being sold.
The first shot was traditional.
A soft, posed shot of Serena sitting beneath cherry blossoms while Dominic knelt beside her, one hand gently placed over hers. They were told to look not at each other, but into each other.
She looked up at him.
He didn’t blink.
“Closer,” the photographer barked.
Dominic shifted his hand to her waist.
The silk of her gown dipped where his fingers grazed her skin.
Serena didn’t move.
But her heart did.
Not because she wanted him.
Because she didn’t know if he wanted her.
And that was more dangerous.
Later, as they walked back toward the villa, silence stretched between them like tension on glass.
“You looked stiff,” he said coldly.
“You looked constipated,” she shot back.
A pause. Then a faint smirk ghosted his lips.
“You want this to work?” she asked, suddenly serious. “Then at least pretend you like me.”
He stopped walking. Turned to face her fully.
His eyes were steel. Cold. Calculating.
“I don’t like anyone, Serena. Liking is messy. And people are expendable.”
Her jaw tightened. “So why fake a wedding at all?”
“Because the world believes in stories. And this one’s profitable.”
“Even if it kills us both?”
Dominic’s gaze dropped to her lips.
Then slowly, deliberately… back to her eyes.
“Especially if it does.”
She turned away before he could see the flicker in her chest.
Not butterflies.
Warning bells.
The next day, the press tour began.
They were driven through Seoul in a black armored Rolls-Royce. Paparazzi swarmed the sidewalks. Flashbulbs burst like fireworks. Girls screamed Serena’s name, some in adoration, some in disbelief.
Inside the car, Dominic sat beside her like a statue.
Serena adjusted the mic pinned to her collar.
“Remember your lines,” his secretary whispered. “You met three years ago in Paris. You ran into each other at a gallery. He offered you a ride in the rain.”
Serena smirked. “Cute. He hates rain.”
Dominic said nothing.
They walked the red carpet hand in hand. She could feel the tension in his palm — how his fingers curled slightly around hers, not protectively, but possessively.
Every step was a lie.
Every smile a trap.
They waved. They posed. They acted.
And for a second, when Dominic whispered something in her ear for the cameras to capture, her heart fluttered.
Until she realized what he said was:
“Your lip gloss tastes like ambition.”
That night, Serena sat alone in the guest wing of the Varo penthouse.
She looked out the window. City lights sparkled like stars fallen to Earth.
She could hear music downstairs — some event, some gala. She wasn’t invited.
Her phone buzzed. A single message.
From: Unknown
“You don’t belong there.”
No name. No context.
Just a reminder.
She was still the scandalous Choi heiress.
She still didn’t belong.
She didn’t cry. She hadn’t in years.
But something tight twisted in her chest.
And she wondered if, maybe, she should’ve let the storm drown her instead.
A week later, Serena received her first warning in person.
She was walking through the Varo family’s art gallery wing — where old paintings hung like ghosts — when a voice called softly behind her.
“You really think marrying him makes you safe?”
She turned.
Yoon Hana stood there, flawless in a black velvet suit, her heels echoing softly on the polished floor.
Serena stayed silent.
Hana approached slowly. “Dominic ruins everything he touches,” she said, her voice low. “His last fiancée tried to drown herself. The one before that? Disappeared.”
Serena’s breath caught. “Those are rumors.”
“Maybe,” Hana said, tilting her head. “Or maybe they’re just warnings dressed in gossip.”
“Why warn me?”
“Because I don’t need to destroy you,” Hana said, leaning close. “He’ll do it for me.”
Then she turned and walked away, perfume trailing like poison.
Serena stood there for a long time.
Long enough for the lights to flicker.
Long enough for her hands to start shaking.
One month into the contract, Serena saw something that changed everything.
Dominic came home late.
His shirt was bloodied.
Not soaked. But enough.
She stood in the hallway as he peeled off his jacket and tossed it into a bag.
“You get into a fight?”
He didn’t look at her. “Business.”
“Does business usually bleed?”
Still nothing.
Serena stepped closer. “Who did you hurt?”
“I told you,” he said quietly, “this is a marriage. Not an investigation.”
“Is that what your father said before he died?”
He stopped.
The silence turned solid.
Then he turned.
His voice was razor-soft.
“My father fell off a yacht. A tragic accident.”
“Right.”
“He drowned. I didn’t touch him.”
Serena didn’t believe him.
And for the first time since this whole game began… she was afraid.
Not for herself.
For him.
The next morning, they had another photoshoot. This time, a garden brunch “date” in front of press.
She was in a silk lavender dress.
He wore ivory.
They fed each other macarons. Sipped fake champagne.
People cheered. Cameras flashed.
And then, with no warning, Dominic leaned over and kissed her cheek.
It was soft.
Barely a brush.
But Serena blinked.
And for a second too long…
She forgot it was pretend.
He didn’t smile.
But his eyes didn’t look cold anymore.
Just tired.
And maybe a little… lost.
- Writer
