The Color Of Secrets.

Chapter Four

In the Kim mansion’s kitchen, Zara moved quietly beside Ms. Lee, carefully arranging tea cups and a tray of snacks. The warm glow of under-cabinet lights reflected off the marble counters.

“Careful with the sugar bowls, Miss Park. The master prefers them lined perfectly,” Ms. Lee instructed, her gentle voice carrying a note of patience that put Zara at ease.

“Yes, Ms. Lee,” Zara replied, her hands steadying the delicate porcelain. Her brown eyes swept the kitchen and, through the half-open archway, she caught glimpses of the polished hallway beyond. The mansion still felt vast, even after just a few hours of moving in.

A low rumble echoed outside. Zara’s ears perked up. “That’s… a Lamborghini?”

“Indeed,” Ms. Lee said softly. “He’s arrived. Let’s proceed as i’ve thought you earlier.”

The door opened, and Minho entered, tall, cold, and unreadable. Behind him walked Selena Jung, radiant in a designer dress, her presence magnetic, confident, and just a little provocative.

“Good evening, Master,” Ms. Lee greeted warmly, stepping aside with a bow.

Zara stiffened, instinctively straightening, and offered a polite, “Good evening, Master,” her uniform neat, hair tied in a tidy bun. Minho’s black eyes scanned her briefly—no smile, no recognition, only that unreadable scrutiny that made her skin prickle.

“Room is ready,” Ms. Lee added quietly, leading them down the hallway. Minho merely nodded, silent, the corner of his jaw tight.

Zara followed at a careful distance, lingering near the kitchen archway. Her gaze couldn’t help wandering to Selena. There was something oddly familiar about her—she knew she had seen her somewhere before—but the memory refused to surface.

At the end of the hallway, the last door waited. The infamous red room. Ms. Lee paused and unlocked it, the crimson light spilling out, bathing the hallway in a faint, ominous glow. Zara peeked cautiously: sleek mirrored furniture, polished black floors reflecting the red wash, an austere elegance that made the room feel both luxurious and intimidating.

She stayed half-hidden at the kitchen archway, heart thudding, watching only until the door closed with a soft click, cutting her off from whatever lived in that glow.

—

Behind the door, the air changed.

The red room breathed in low light and leather. Satin-shadowed walls were broken by tall panels of smoked mirror; every angle folded back on itself, turning movement into silhouettes and whispers. A low, steel-framed bed anchored the far wall—matte black with discreet tie-points along the rails. To its left stood a punishment table—sleek as a sculpture—its leather top gleaming, straps laid out with quiet precision. A narrow cabinet held neatly arranged implements: cuffs, blindfolds, coils of dark rope, a short crop resting exactly parallel to the shelf’s edge. Music hummed like a pulse, something without lyrics, built of bass and breath.

Selena’s smile widened as she settled inside. “Back where I belong,” she murmured, glancing at their reflections. She sounded pleased—too pleased. “You’ve missed me too, right, Oppa?”

Minho didn’t answer the question. He crossed to a small bar cart, slid a crystal stopper free with a soft pop, and poured himself a finger of whiskey. Jacket off. Cufflinks out. Sleeves rolled with economical, symmetrical turns. He set his watch in the tray as if it had a designated compass point. When he finally spoke, his voice was even, unhurried.

“Strip.”

Selena obeyed—used to this rhythm—her heels clicking once against the black floor before she sank, head bowed. She turned her face up just enough to catch his gaze. “You look tired,” she said lightly. “All those meetings. Let me make you forget.”

“You’ll speak when I ask you to speak,” he replied, taking a slow sip. He set the glass down—centered on a leather coaster—then nodded toward the cabinet. “You know the routine.”

She rose in a smooth line, fingers already unhooking the back of her dress. It slid to the floor with a hush, a dark puddle against the mirror. She was unselfconscious, practiced; she reached for the cuffs herself, fastening them with the comfortable competence of someone who couldn’t wait. The buckles clicked in measured beats—left wrist, right wrist—then she moved to the punishment table and lay along the leather, cheek turned to the mirror, eyes flicking to his reflection as if to catch any softness he might drop.

There was none.

Minho approached, checking each buckle with cool fingers, tugging the straps until they lay flat. “Breathe in,” he said. She did. “Out.” He watched the rise and fall. “Good. Color?”

“Green,” she answered, trained and steady.

He nodded once. The red lights dimmed a fraction; the room settled deeper around them. His touch remained impersonal—precise adjustments, nothing lingering, nothing indulgent. This was a demonstration of structure, not intimacy; a line-drawn map where every instruction built the next.

“Count,” he said quietly.

She smiled into the leather. “Gladly.”

They moved the way a metronome moves—clean, controlled, every sound accounted for. Selena’s voice stayed measured at first, breath threading through numbers; the mirrors kept secrets in shards of light. Minho spoke little—“Hold.” “Lower.” “Still.”—and when he did, she listened, chasing approval like a prize she’d earned before.

But somewhere between five and six, she tried to turn the map into something else.

“Oppa,” she purred, lifting her chin, letting the word slide over the rules. She tested the slack in a strap, turned her mouth toward his hand, the flirt returning like perfume. “You’re too serious. Let me—”

He stilled. The room stilled with him.

“Eyes forward,” he said.

She held for a beat—and then, against instruction, reached for him. Fingers brushed his forearm, light, searching. She tipped up, trying to pull his focus down to her mouth. “Just a little,” she teased, “you know you—”

“Do not touch me.”

The sentence wasn’t loud, but it landed hard. The mirrors seemed to flinch.

Selena laughed, small and playful, as if to smooth it over. “Come on. One kiss. You always act like a machine, Minho—”

The words snapped the thread.

He stepped back, the space between them turning absolute. “Session ends,” he said, voice flat, final. His hands moved with the same impersonal efficiency as before, releasing buckles, straightening straps, restoring the table to order. “Get dressed.”

“Wait,” she blurted, surprise washing the color from her cheeks. “I—sorry, I crossed a line. I didn’t mean—Minho, please—”

He didn’t look at her. He returned the cuffs to the cabinet, the crop to its exact place. “Your contract is over,” he said, as if reading terms from paper. “Paperwork will be sent.”

“Oppa—” Her voice cracked. She gathered her dress with fumbling hands, angling toward him, reaching again without touching, eyes glass-bright. “Please. I can do it right. Just give me—”

He pressed a button near the door. The lock clicked. A light near the frame shifted from red to white.

“Ms. Lee,” he said when she answered, his tone returning to the steady. “Escort Ms. Jung out.”

A beat of silence. “Yes, sir,” came Ms. Lee’s calm reply through the small speaker.

Selena stood frozen for a breath longer, swallowing whatever pride hadn’t already scattered across the mirrors. “I’m… sorry,” she said to the floor. It went nowhere.

Minho picked up his watch, fastened it, rolled his sleeves back down and aligned each cuff. He took the last sip of whiskey and set the glass perfectly center again. When he opened the door, Ms. Lee was there, her expression composed, warm but immovable.

“This way, Miss Jung,” she said gently.

Selena’s heels were quieter now.

Minho didn’t glance back.

“Have the new coffee maker bring it up,” his deep voice rumbled as he headed for the grand staircase, unbuttoning his cuffs lazily. “Tell the driver to return Ms. Jung home.”

“Yes, sir,” Ms. Lee replied softly, bowing slightly.

The red door eased shut behind her, locking away the faint, sinful glow, and silence fell over the hallway again.

Elsewhere in the Mansion

Across the house, tucked away in the staff wing, Zara sat cross-legged on her tiny bed, her knees pulled to her chest, chatting with Hanna-the new friend she made earlier.

Hanna was curled up on her own bed, hair tied up messily, hugging a pillow like a gossiping teenager.

“You know,” Hanna whispered with a conspiratorial grin, “you might not last here longer than the last three.”

Zara frowned, tugging at the oversized hoodie Ji Yoon had given her. “What do you mean?”

Hanna leaned closer, lowering her voice dramatically. “The coffee makers. They all got fired. No one survives Master Kim’s coffee preference. It’s like he’s cursed or something.”

Zara blinked at her, wide-eyed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious!” Hanna chuckled softly, shaking her head. “One wrong sip and poof — gone. You better pray your first cup is good enough, babe.”

Before Zara could respond, a soft knock interrupted them. Ms. Lee stood in the doorway, her face calm as ever, but her tone left no room for argument.

“Zara,” she said firmly. “Master Kim wants coffee. Now. He specifically requested you bring it up.”

Zara blinked, confused. “It’s… past eleven,” she murmured. “Who drinks coffee this late at night?”

“You know where the kitchen is” Ms. Lee said, ignoring her hesitation. “Brew it exactly as I instructed you earlier.” Then she turned, walking away before Zara could protest.

Hanna raised her brows dramatically. “Good luck, newbie. Pray to every god you know.”

Zara sat for a moment, stunned, before dragging herself to the kitchen, her hoodie sliding past the top of her thighs. She had skipped wearing pajama pants, her legs bare, messy bun perched loosely atop her head.

The kitchen was silent except for the low hum of the built-in espresso machine. She moved slowly, careful, following Ms. Lee’s earlier instructions to the letter: perfectly measured beans, balanced water ratio, just enough heat to keep it rich but smooth.

When she was done, she hesitated, inhaling the aroma, biting her lip nervously.

“Not too black… not too sweet,” she whispered under her breath. “Please, God, don’t let me be fired tonight.”

———

The grand staircase felt endless, Zara’s bare feet silent against the polished marble steps. The upper floor was a different world entirely — sleek, shadowed, drenched in quiet opulence. Dark matte walls framed subtle lighting along the floor edges, casting soft golden trails down the long corridor.

She balanced the silver tray carefully, heart thudding as she followed the directions Ms. Lee had given her.

Minho’s door was at the very end.

Zara paused outside it, breath hitching. She raised her hand and knocked lightly.

Silence.

Another knock. Still nothing.

Her hand trembled slightly on the tray. Finally, she turned the handle. The door gave way easily — unlocked.

The moment she stepped in, Zara froze.

The air was cooler here, carrying a faint, crisp scent of cedarwood and something darker — masculine, intoxicating. The entire room was sleek and minimalist, a palette of deep black and storm-grey, accented by touches of chrome. Matte walls, clean sharp edges, glass panels catching soft light, and a massive floor-to-ceiling window veiled by dark silk drapes.

Her heartbeat quickened.

This wasn’t just a bedroom. It felt… dangerous.

She stepped further inside carefully, tray balanced in her hands, drawn unconsciously by the room’s silent gravity.

Then she heard it — the faint creak of a door.

The bathroom.

And then he emerged.

Minho stepped out, fresh from the shower, droplets of water still sliding down his collarbone, tracing the carved lines of his chest. A white towel hung dangerously low on his hips, exposing the sharp V-cut of his lower abdomen.

Zara’s breath caught, her grip faltering.

Zara’s eyes flicked downward first, unavoidably drawn to the sight before her.

Every line of his body was sculpted, each muscle defined, glistening with tiny droplets that caught the dim light. Her stomach tightened, a sudden warmth pooling low in her belly. Her breaths came faster, shallow, uneven, and she felt the soft heat creeping up her neck to her cheeks. The towel barely hung in place, teasing the imagination, and for a heartbeat, the room — the mansion — the world outside — all disappeared.

She blinked, torn between staring and looking away, heart hammering in her chest like a wild drum. Her hoodie felt impossibly thin, clinging to her skin as if it knew she shouldn’t be standing there like this.

Then, almost painfully, her gaze shifted upward.

Their eyes locked and she froze.