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It all began in the immaculate silence of Park Mansion. To the outside world, it was an architectural marvel, the ancestral home of one of the most powerful families in the country. To Park Jimin, however, it was a living mausoleum.
The air there is not filtered for fear of radiation but purified to maintain the perfection of the environment; it always smells of old wood wax, flowers cut that very morning, and expensive loneliness. Jimin was not an experiment, but sometimes he felt like one. As a dominant omega, he used to feel like a jewel within the social hierarchy, educated from birth not to rule, but to be the ultimate trophy. His life had been spent among private tutors, etiquette lessons, and meticulously designed gardens where nature was not allowed to be wild.
His fate had been sealed a decade ago in a boardroom: an arranged marriage to Choi Jongho. Many knew the CEO of the rival empire, a pure Alpha known for his brutality in business and his absolute coldness in his personal life. For both families, it was the “merger of the century.”
For Jimin, it was a sentence to a life without love, relegated to being a perfect ornament on the arm of a man who only saw him as a means to an end and a status symbol. It was degrading, but it wasn't as if his opinion mattered.
⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹
Min Yoongi is the shadow in the corner of the room. A former special forces soldier and Jimin's current head of personal security, Yoongi had been a wall of protection for two years.
His job was to be invisible, a flesh-and-blood statue armored in an impeccable black suit. Like all high-level bodyguards, Yoongi had to take medical-grade pheromone inhibitors. It was standard industry protocol: bodyguards were not to be distracted, nor were they to distract their charges.
To Yoongi, Jimin was simply “the VIP,” a package to be protected.
But biology is capricious, and over time, Yoongi's inhibitors had gradually lost their effectiveness, not because of a failure of the medication, but because his inner wolf had begun to reject the idea of ignoring the omega he swore to protect.
The thread that seems to have been in a tug-of-war of attraction between the omega and the alpha breaks. It happens on a rainy afternoon, one day before the big wedding.
Jimin plays the piano in the music room, a Debussy melody that sounds more like a farewell than a rehearsal. The gray light of the storm enters through the security windows, bathing the omega's figure in a melancholic tone.
Yoongi, standing by the door, feels a dry burning sensation in his throat. He tries to swallow, ignoring the sensation as he had done for the past few weeks, but then the scent breaks through his barrier of indifference: sweet, warm vanilla mixed with the pungent smell of fresh lilies. It's not just a pleasant smell; it's a cry for help. Jimin's scent is tinged with such deep, pure sadness that Yoongi's jaw tightens until the pain rises to his temples.
Jimin stops playing abruptly. The final chord hangs in the heavy air. He slowly turns on the velvet stool and looks directly at Yoongi. He doesn't look at his security badge or the earpiece in his ear.
He looks directly at the man.
“My scent bothers you,” Jimin says. His voice is soft, but it has the edge of someone who is used to observing more than he speaks.
Yoongi blinks. His training screams at him to hold his position, but his instinct screams at him to move closer. To break the distance they have tried to maintain for the last few months.
“It's nothing, young master.”
“You're lying, and I've told you to call me Jimin when we're alone,” Jimin stands up. He's wearing a white silk suit, the clothes they wear for costume fittings, which makes him look even more fragile and ethereal. "I can smell you, Yoongi. Your inhibitors have been failing. Before, you smelled like nothing, like cold metal and rain. Now…” Jimin subtly sniffs the air, his eyes shining with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “Now you smell like a burnt forest, like wood and hot ash. And you act as if my presence disgusts you.”
Jimin walks toward him. His footsteps are silent on the Persian rug; he stops a step away, invading the personal space that protocol forbids violating. The proximity is intoxicating. Yoongi's wolf scratches at his insides, demanding to claim, protect, and get that omega out of the ivory tower before the vultures take him.
“Tomorrow is the ceremony,” Jimin whispers. The mask of aristocratic perfection cracks, revealing the terrified young man underneath. Jongho will sign the papers, and I will officially be his property. He will take me to his penthouse in the city, and... I don't think I'll ever see the sun again, Yoongi. They say he's possessive; they say he doesn't like things that talk too much.
Yoongi clenches his hands into fists behind his back, his knuckles turning white under his leather gloves.
“It's a deal your father has been looking forward to, sir. It will secure the family legacy.”
“To hell with the legacy!” Jimin's voice breaks with a sob, and that small show of defiance is what finally breaks Yoongi's restraint. “I'm scared. I don't want to be an asset on his balance sheet. I don't want that man to touch me.”
The confession hits like a sledgehammer. Contractual duty, exorbitant salary, professional reputation—everything crumbles in the face of the real panic in Jimin's eyes.
“I won't let him touch you, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi growls. His voice comes out hoarse and vibrating with an authority that belongs not to an employee, but to an alpha.
Jimin looks up, eyes wide, shining with hope and unshed tears. He reaches out a trembling hand, hesitating for a second before placing it on the guard's cheek. Yoongi's skin burns under the touch, an electric current that validates months of silent tension.
“If you do this...” Jimin warns softly, “My father will come after you. Jongho will blacklist you. You'll have nowhere to work, nowhere to hide. You'll lose everything.”
“That's fine with me,” Yoongi replies, instinctively tilting his head toward Jimin's palm, surrendering to the gravity of the situation. "I have nothing to lose outside this room if I leave you here. I'd rather die running away with you in a cheap car than see you wither away in this golden cage another day.
Jimin takes the final step, closing the distance between them. Yoongi lowers his mental barriers, like an invisible shield, and lets his powerful, protective scent envelop the omega. Jimin lets out a trembling sigh, a sound of deep relief, as if he had been holding his breath his entire adult life.
“Get me out of here, Yoongi. Take me where the air is real.”
“Tonight,” promises the alpha, his tactical mind already mapping out escape routes, camera deactivation, and vehicle changes. “During the three o'clock shift change. The security system has a blind spot in the west garden that only I know about. You won't be able to take anything with you; no jewelry, no credit cards, no phones.”
“I'll carry you,” Jimin assures him, resting his forehead against Yoongi's firm chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat. “That's all I need.”
At that moment, without marks on the neck or pompous ceremonies before an altar, the true bond is formed. It is not an act of primitive possession but a conscious choice. An invisible connection is woven between them, stronger than any marriage contract or corporate merger.
Yoongi reluctantly pulls away to watch the hallway, but his dark eyes no longer stare into the void with professional indifference. They look at Jimin with fierce devotion.
Escape would be complicated. They would be pursued by the best private investigators in the country. Their faces would likely be in the news, but as Jimin returned to the piano to keep up appearances for a few more hours, they both knew that true freedom had already begun. It had started in that room, at the exact moment when the guard ceased to be a soldier and the heir ceased to be an object, to become simply Yoongi and Jimin.