Love Doomed to Die –
Chapter-11
Let’s not go overboard.
A curse burst from his mouth.
What shocked him even more was the woman’s outfit.
Then it hit him—those missed calls on his phone that afternoon, and the odd messages. They were from Park Mi-jung.
Mr. Young-hoon, you’re not answering. I tried calling to discuss something. Could you give me a call when you have time?
And a few minutes later:
I was actually in the middle of picking out my second wedding dress. I want to wear the one you like best—will you help me choose? I’ll send someone with the pamphlet later.
Oh, and the one I like most, I’ll wear it myself and show you in person. It’s so pretty you might be shocked—don’t say I didn’t warn you. Okay? ^^^^
He ignored her useless chatter, of course.
Honestly, he didn’t care whether Park Mi-jung wore rags or nothing at all.
But that line—“I’ll wear it myself and show you”—that should’ve raised suspicion.
If only he’d known what she meant by that—if he’d known she’d have that woman wear it.
“Fuck. Fuck.”
He swore endlessly inside. He couldn’t even explain why such rage was boiling up.
That woman had gotten under his skin since the first meeting.
Her fake kindness had been quite the performance.
It made him wonder—what did the real face beneath it look like?
Whenever he happened to see her after that, her image would drift around in his head like meaningless air.
To be honest, he’d even imagined more.
Her pure face, smeared with dirty pleasure.
And strangely, in those fantasies, his attitude toward her was always twisted.
He destroyed her. Crushed her mercilessly.
Even when a hostess was writhing beneath him, he imagined that woman standing there with her good-girl face, watching blankly.
You’re not in front of me—you’re beside me.
So he’d slide his hand up the hostess’s slender back, yank her hair, and think—
When you’re the one under me, what kind of sound will you make?
He wanted to hear her voice—raw, unfiltered.
“The prosecutor will be pleased. I’m sure he’ll like it…”
He didn’t care what Park Mi-jung thought he’d like—but if she was referring to Sa Eun-hee, well, who knows.
She chose the wrong object for her sentence.
And words like that… she should’ve said them while lying beneath him.
If she had, he would’ve gone mad with delight.
Because then he could’ve stopped imagining.
He could’ve made that filthy fantasy real.
The check he threw her would’ve become her payment.
And a woman desperate for money could’ve earned herself a thicker bundle of bills.
“Then… would you take a closer look yourself, Prosecutor? You could judge for yourself how much I’m worth…”
Instead, he would’ve ordered her coldly to prove her worth.
And then—
Then…
“Phew.”
Young-hoon let out a heavy breath.
Tonight… it must’ve been a disgustingly filthy night.
A dry laugh slipped through his teeth.
But then again, who could say?
Maybe overnight he’d lost his mind—maybe that woman had said she’d pay off her father’s entire debt for him.
“Crazy bastard.”
Young-hoon wiped the grin off his face.
How ridiculous—to act as if he were disappointed in her, then turn around and brood over it.
Especially when he’d gotten pissed at Park Kang-in for treating Sa Eun-hee like a hostess.
He snapped a cigarette in half.
At the same time, he severed his thoughts of her.
He fixed his gaze through the hotel’s glass wall at a tall building outside.
At the end of his stare, sharp and hard, hung a logo shaped like the Chinese character for “mountain” (山).
He’d heard the story at dinner—how the founder started as a humble mountain keeper, and the logo honored that spirit.
Hosun Construction.
Park Mi-jung’s father’s company.
It had suddenly delisted itself last year, vanishing from the stock market.
It had made headlines for buying out its minority shareholders at an unusually generous price.
A financially sound mid-sized firm withdrawing from the capital market—rare enough to spark all kinds of rumors.
Young-hoon’s jaw twitched. His narrowed eyes gleamed.
So—Park Mi-jung of Hosun Construction.
Park Mi-jung, huh.
His cheek twisted into a vicious sneer.
That sense of being seen through—it wouldn’t shake off.
He felt like he’d been bitten by a mongrel.
By someone like her.
But his damned mind drifted again—to Sa Eun-hee.
He thought of her body stuffed into that tiny dress, as if she could barely breathe.
The outline beneath, astonishing enough to wonder how she’d ever hidden it.
Not that he hadn’t noticed before.
His mouth curled bitterly.
If he stripped her of those clothes under the pretext of freeing her, leaving not a thread on her body—
He pictured himself above her, clutching her breasts.
His eyebrow slowly arched.
A sharp line carved between his brows.
Thanks to Park Mi-jung’s reckless provocation, Sa Eun-hee was now doomed to exist only inside his imagination.
He’d never planned to touch her anyway.
Marriage, to him, was a contract—a business transaction.
And he would give his all to ensure its perfect success.
Though his grandfather’s definition of success differed from his, they shared that goal.
So he wouldn’t let anything jeopardize it.
Whenever her presence grew bothersome, he’d always had a trick—press the “filthy imagination” button, and that was that.
But choosing not to and being unable to—
weren’t they different?
Damn it, Park Mi-jung.
Young-hoon’s face contorted.
The blood pooling below was reaching its limit.
He turned, collapsed onto the sofa, and yanked at the belt of his robe.
He glanced toward the spot where Sa Eun-hee had stood last.
He remembered her trembling there, cornered like a small animal.
The memory only stoked the fire racing through his body.
Ha… He gritted his teeth, his hand moving faster, the veins in his neck bulging.
It was to forget her.
To erase the galling image of her.
He moved harder, faster—until his rough breath turned into a beastly growl.
* * *
In Seoul’s golden district, the skyscraper stretched endlessly upward.
In the elevator, Eun-hee pressed the button for the 32nd floor.
She checked the floor directory again.
The gold serif letters had an elegant air—standing out among the uniform office fonts.
Veritas Foundation for the Arts.
It was the name of the non-profit cultural foundation Mi-jung headed.
Eun-hee was familiar with the place—she’d occasionally collaborated on art projects with Mi-jung’s mother, Director Song Young-sook.
Mi-jung had summoned her here that morning.
She was clearly curious about what had happened the previous night.
Ding.
The doors opened.
Eun-hee stood before the CEO’s office. The secretary ushered her inside.
“What did he say?”
Mi-jung greeted her immediately, anticipation in her tone.
For a moment, Young-hoon’s words echoed in Eun-hee’s mind like tinnitus.
“If she’s not planning to strip completely, tell her to go for something modest. I’m not into half-baked stuff.”
She couldn’t understand why those cruel words still rang in her head.
Trying to clear her mind, Eun-hee gave a carefully edited reply.
“He said… something simple and neat might be best.”
“…Ah.”
Mi-jung’s expression suggested she’d expected more, but she didn’t press.
Eun-hee quietly exhaled in relief.
“But tell me, Sa Eun-hee—what did you think of Prosecutor Cha Young-hoon?”
Mi-jung’s eyes sparkled even brighter now, full of curiosity.
