Chapter 201
Chapter 201
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 201
Chapter Title: A Flower Blooms on the Ashes
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Seoul's tangled urban sprawl vanished into the distance far behind them, and the car raced along the freeway beneath the cold sunlight pouring down from above.
For just over an hour, the only thing shattering the silence inside the car was the mechanical drone of the navigation system.
'This road feels familiar now...'
Cheon Heyeon stared numbly out the car window.
The first time she'd been dragged down this path, it had felt like the end of the world.
Now, she'd lost count of how many times she'd traveled it—counting had become pointless.
The car turned onto a remote, quiet road, and soon a familiar massive iron gate came into view.
The gate slid open silently, revealing a vast garden impeccably maintained.
Kim Cheolsu's residence.
His home was a classic mansion that flaunted a different breed of ostentation from her father Cheon Myeonghwan's.
A grand building where red brick harmonized with white window frames, evoking the sense of arriving at a European castle.
The garden, tended year-round by the finest landscapers, bloomed with unidentified flowers, and off in the distance on the lawn sat a small swing set and bicycles that must belong to children.
Who could ever call this place hell?
It was the very picture of a perfect, happy family photo belonging to a successful businessman with two kids.
And... for Cheon Heyeon herself, it was her most beautiful prison.
As the car pulled up to the entrance, the woman in the driver's seat got out first and opened Cheon Heyeon's door.
Stepping out, she unwittingly held her breath at the lilac scent wafting from the garden.
Memories were crueler than any fragrance.
The heavy oak front door swung open from within, and a familiar face appeared.
It was Secretary Choi Yang.
Standing there with an emotionless expression like the butler of this perfect 'family home,' she greeted Cheon Heyeon.
"You've arrived. The president is waiting."
Behind her, the home's interior gleamed with warm wood tones and marble.
Above the fireplace hung a family photo of Kim Cheolsu beaming with his wife and two children.
Cheon Heyeon forced her gaze away from the picture as she stepped inside.
"This way, please."
Secretary Choi led her to the study on the second floor.
All along the hallway, every space, every piece of furniture seemed to whisper to her.
That sofa was where she'd had to entwine her body with another woman before him.
That grand piano was where she'd had to dust it naked.
This house's every ounce of warmth deliberately excluded only her.
Finally, they stopped before the thick study door.
Choi gave a light knock, nodded curtly to Cheon Heyeon, and quietly vanished down the opposite hall.
A low voice came from inside.
"Come in."
Cheon Heyeon took a short breath, burying all her emotions beneath her mask.
Then she gripped the heavy study door handle and stepped inside.
The moment the door opened, a sweltering heat washed over her face.
There was no trace of the musty book scent or leather aroma that should fill a study like this.
Instead, along with suffocating heat came the raw stench proving a fierce tryst had just taken place here—fishy mingling of a woman's fluids and a man's semen, acrid cigarette smoke, and sweat.
Cheon Heyeon's eyes swept the room.
Beyond the massive wooden desk, he lounged deep in his chair, his upper body bare as if even a shirt was too bothersome.
Beast-like muscles sculpted like a well-trained statue.
Sweat glistened faintly on his tanned skin.
But in his hand was a cheap green bottle of soju, utterly out of place in this lavish space.
He didn't look at her.
He simply stared out the window, swigging straight from the bottle. A woman's silk robe discarded haphazardly on the floor. A single stocking crumpled atop the sofa. Traces of the woman who had been here moments ago littered the room blatantly. Cheon Heyeon's expression didn't change. She quietly closed the study door. 'Click.' The latch's sound sliced through the room's silence. She walked to his desk and stood ramrod straight, like a secretary reporting to her boss. Her unwavering gaze fixed on him as he drank. Like a perfectly tamed doll, waiting for him to speak first, for the next 'order.' A strange sound reached her ears. [Slurp... smack... lick... haa... sluuuurp... smooch...] As if mocking the study's grandeur, the blatant noise emanated from beneath the desk. Wet things colliding, greedily sucking something in—a sticky, vivid sound. For the first time, a faint crack appeared on Cheon Heyeon's perfect mask. 'Who's under the desk...?' His wife, the woman with twisted desires, Yoon Chaewon? Or his most capable dog, always wearing the mask of the perfect businesswoman, Han Yura? Or one of the countless women summoned to his parties—Ri Suhui? Oh Se-ah? Park Sojin? Park Seulgi? Or even the nameless female bodyguard who had driven her here today? Cheon Heyeon bit her lower lip as countless of his women flashed through her mind. Jealousy? Or humiliation? An emotion she couldn't name boiled beneath her cold mask. Right then, he finally spoke. Still gazing out the window, as if talking to empty air rather than her. "What are you waiting for? You're here, so get to work." A languid voice that seemed to pierce everything. She flinched... At his voice, Cheon Heyeon's shoulders trembled faintly, despite her perfect doll-like stance. She released her bitten lip and slowly raised her hand. First to go was the mask she wore for the world. Her fingers deftly undid her jacket buttons. One, two, three... The prim black jacket fell silently to the floor. Next came the cold armor that had made her the 'Goddess of Taesung Reform'—her ivory silk blouse. With each delicate button undone by her slender fingers, something inside her felt like it was crumbling away. The final button released, and the soft silk slid off her shoulders to pool on the floor. Now all that remained was the strawberry-patterned lingerie set he'd 'gifted' her—pure and innocently childish. Shame overshadowed any freedom on Cheon Heyeon's face. Her gaze fell to her discarded clothes on the floor. They had symbolized authority and power just moments ago, but now felt like mere shed husks. Finally, her hand went to her skirt zipper. The sleek black fabric slid down from her waist to puddle at her feet. Beneath it was revealed the white cotton strawberry-patterned bra and panties that clung mockingly tight to her body. As he'd intended, she'd stripped away her strongest weapons, standing before him in her most vulnerable, foolish form. The stark contrast burned her face hot. Shame. It wasn't a foreign sensation. Just another name for the humiliation she'd felt countless times before. But today, it stabbed her heart more vividly, more sharply. Now in just her underwear, she bowed her head, unable even to meet his gaze. Like a naked doll awaiting his next 'order.' The sticky sounds from under the desk continued unabated. Her trembling hand reached behind her back. Her slim white fingers fumbled for the tiny hook of the bra squeezing her body. Tension or sweat made the small metal clasp refuse to yield. After several futile tries, it finally gave with a soft 'pop.' That instant. The straps' pressure lifted from her shoulders, and the bra fell open limply from her forcibly confined chest. At the same time, her large, beautifully shaped breasts—repressed in the too-small cups—burst free, heavy and defying gravity no longer. The full, pale mounds jiggled elastically, settling erotically into place. Red marks from the cup edges and faint bite remnants from last night glowed starkly on her skin. Even as the childish strawberry bra slipped down her back to the floor, she didn't move. Simply exposing her upper body fully, awaiting the next humiliation. Her hands, flushed red with shame and moving awkwardly as if not her own, headed to her hips where the pattern dug into her flesh. The sensation of the taut band pressing her soft skin transmitted to her fingertips. She squeezed her eyes shut. And slowly, very slowly, began pulling the panty band downward. The white cotton slid over her full hips and thighs, crumbling her last defense. The small scrap dragged down to her ankles with her stockings. It was no longer underwear. Just a pathetic remnant left to mock her dignity. Now, not a thread clung to her body. The 'Goddess of Taesung Reform' who had captivated millions on broadcast was gone. Only one woman remained, standing fully exposed before him at the command of this room's master—her lord. The sticky noise under the desk droned on like background music mocking her shame. Her perfect body was no longer hers. It was merely a work of art, a plaything, for this room's owner. He set down his soju bottle and finally turned his head to look at her. From head to toe, like a livestock farmer inspecting his stock—emotionless, obsessive scrutiny. The noise under the desk paused briefly. Whatever woman crouched there held her breath, awaiting his words. What came from his mouth was neither praise nor rebuke. Just coldly factual observation. "Hmm, did I fuck you too hard last night? You look a bit swollen." He tilted his head, intrigued. Then issued the cruel command. "Spread it." With that single word, Cheon Heyeon's world collapsed. The light faded from her eyes. As if the very function of thought had shut down deep in her brain. Her body was no longer hers. Just a lump of flesh existing solely to execute orders imprinted by its master's voice. Like a marionette whose invisible strings snapped with a twang. Thud. Her ass hit the cold marble floor with a heavy echo. And she lay back, agonizingly slowly. The chill marble crept up her spine, vertebra by vertebra. She lay flat on the bare floor like a sacrificial offering, nothing beneath her. The ceiling's ornate lights poured indifferently over her naked form. She felt his gaze. The sticky sounds under the desk now seemed distant. Only his obsessive, emotionless stare dominated the space, looking down at her. She had to obey the command. Her legs parted slowly, like a rusty machine creaking open. But that wasn't enough. Trembling with shame, she raised her own hands to grip her inner thighs. And spread them wider, even wider. Now her lower body lay completely disarmed, no secrets hidden. Her outer labia, swollen red from last night's traces, glistened slickly under the light with his leftover semen and her own arousal. At the center, spread open like blooming petals, her drenched clit shimmered with pleasure's evidence, and the small hole at its tip stood fully exposed. She felt his gaze probing her deepest recesses with her entire body's senses. She didn't close her eyes. Just stared blankly at the ceiling. Against her will, a single hot tear traced from the corner of her eye, wetting her temple. Displaying everything, offering everything. From between her parted lips, she squeezed out a hollow voice, as if her soul had fled. "......Yes." It transcended mere surrender—an echo of despair announcing the total annihilation of her self as a human being.