Chapter 0: One Trashy Scoundrel
Two months since possessing the body of a trashy chaebol. Life's a total blast~ Better than hitting the lottery~ I dove headfirst into every debauched pleasure imaginable, but today—more precisely, last night—I finally woke up to it. The most precious thing in my life.
I'd thought the chaebol world floating high in the clouds was everything, but turns out it's just another lump of flesh and blood. Like how a boys' night out that stretches past the first round loses its spark, or how the second and third rounds after the initial buzz just end in puking and heartburn—a life of excess has its limits too.
Bluntly put, now I get why the rich do drugs. Hooked on this level of pleasure, they chase something bigger, more direct. That's why those hotshot artists and chaebol heirs with bright futures throw it all away for a few grams of white powder. I see it now, indirectly.
Of course, I'm not touching that shit. Everyone knows one hit wrecks your life. One pinch of that flour blows away a fortune worth a thousand lotteries in a row. Even as a former shut-in loser, I'm not that stupid.
Truth is, my gaze shifted elsewhere too. I discovered something way more precious than drugs, pulling me from that raw pleasure abyss. Something incomparable. Having raced pleasure to its end once, like a salmon's instinct to spawn, I had no choice but to turn here.
Family. The one thing no one can replace. Just those two syllables warm a corner of the heart. Sure, it's a possessed body, technically someone else's kin, but hey, I've got a new family now.
One mom above me, three sisters at my side. Toss in the aunt, that's four more. Half-siblings included? Six. Six family members more precious than anything.
Real mom, big sisters, aunt—fuck, I wanna rail them all so bad...
Of course, precious in that sense too. Every family gathering, I struggle to suppress this forbidden urge.
Those genes are just insane...
Look around anywhere—no women like these. Genetic perfection? Top to bottom, flawless as standard. Too prime to share, a waste to leave untouched. That's all that crowds my head.
"Yo, turn around."
"Again...?"
On the massive bed. She plays coy but flips quick—the slut I dragged home. Precisely, an idol trainee from the planning agency I'm bankrolling through a subsidiary, but close enough. The type who spreads wide for a name-drop and title! Juicy AF!
"Ungh♥"
She offers up her dripping pussy on command, and I ram my cock straight in. Grab those fat hips like ripe fruit, shake and pound like mad. Her cunt gushes like a faucet; I stuff it deep while calmly sorting my thoughts.
"Unng, aaaahhh...♥"
Strictly speaking, all matrilineal blessing?
Maybe this whole windfall stems from a superior womb. Proof's right here in this body—now mine.
Original owner, Cha Do-yeon: Hwaryeong Group's top chaebol grandson and third kid. Set aside the brutal "trashy scoundrel" rep for a sec—hardware's prime woman-melter. Internet cafes even photoshop me into bad-boy fantasies. Real life's too wrecked for real fans, though.
Bottom line: classic pretty-boy chaebol third-gen, stirring shit with his looks everywhere.
"Hoo... Getting stale. Time to switch it up a bit."
"Ung? What, oppa?"
"Shut it and just bounce that ass."
Slap!
"Aaang♥"
I'd exploited that rep to whore around freely, but now it's time to ease off this hedonist grind. Drag it out too long, and no turning back.
"Haa, haa, haaa...♥"
Post-fuck cooldown after one more round for kicks. I fondle her jiggly ass while piecing together the rest. Blood's flowing right, resolve locked in.
And right as I figure the dedicatee of this resolve is due any second—thud!
Bingo.
Front door slams from afar. Angry footsteps thunder closer at top speed, shaking the floor.
My side snack startles jumpy, but I stay chill, just staring at the door. Keep groping ass to signal no need to rise.
"Cha Do-yeon!"
A voice that could command heaven and earth.
The woman barges in fierce, lips clamped, then spies the bed scene and squeezes her eyes shut tight. Points dead at the front door like she can't stomach it, barking orders on the spot.
"You—out! Do-yeon, pants on now!"
Only then does today's fucktoy snatch her scattered clothes and bolt. Cowed by the intruder's aura but greedy, she glances back whispering,
"Oppa, keep that push promise, okay♡"
I wave her gone; she scrams fast.
Meantime, the refined beauty who called my name amid this mess boils over, eyes sealed shut waiting. Poke more and she'll blow—I slide off the bed bare-assed, dawdle into clothes, stand before her in a simple shirt and jeans.
"...Dressed?"
"Yup. Eyes safe now."
She checks before peeking. Like my naked bod's the last sight before dirt in her eyes—iron will.
Makes sense. She's the one who birthed this body, after all.
Widow of late Hwaryeong Group chairman Cha Seong-taek, my mom—Jeong Su-ran.
No 20s claims here. But her beauty's ripened to perfection, preserved eternally like it's infused with elixir.
Heavy, chunky pure-gold accessories worthy of Korea's top conglomerate wife. Never anything but gala gowns otherwise. Always primped to rep the group's luxury brand.
Soft perm waves brush her shoulders. She embodies elite elegance.
She's a fucking killer...
Who'd peg her mid-40s, past the halfway mark? The chairman's eternal lady. Hubby went first, but she and the group stand firm.
"You...!"
Such a mom—Jeong Su-ran grits her teeth, then,
"Didn't I say absolutely no missing today's shareholders meeting?"
Shoulders heave. Not stern CEO tone—casual mom reply.
"What's the point?"
"What?! Can't you see the stock tanking on its own?"
"Show up and it's just showbiz. Stutter no real fixes for the crash, end up mumbling. Leak a video? Tanks harder."
"Then learn to run the company properly! What the hell do you even add to the group?!"
"Eh... glorified payroll patsy for hotshot execs?"
"Cha Do-yeon!"
She snaps; I drop the sass, play penitent to cool her off.
"It's fine."
"......"
"Market's just buck wild right now. Chill and it'll rebound. Worst case, we've got capital to pump—no sweat."
Soothe mode. Flash bits of change to sway her. Usually wraps here: prodigal hints reform, bonds mend slow.
Slap!
Huh?
But Mom swats my hand— not just shakes it off, shoves it disgusted.
Clenched red lips, raging like an American buffalo about to gore.
"Reassured?! Since popping you out, I've never had peace!"
"Uh......"
"How are you still this unchanged?! No shame before your father?"
...Yeah, point. Note: first time I play this card. But this punk's slacked so long—or burned the rep so bad—even Mom ain't buying. Those blazing eyes scream disownment.
Missing the meeting? My bad. Whoring? Guilty. But matching that utterly sick-of-it glare costs too much.
Jeong Su-ran... Mom dabs budding tears, reins in reason, lids droop hopeless.
"Fine. Thank god your dad was wise—prepped a will, split the inheritance quick. Spared me watching you tank the whole company."
"......"
"Got sins? No gripes on the call. Don't beg special kid treatment now."
Mom's the type to rally grown kids for family councils—family unity queen. From her, arctic chill hits.
Hoped for WWE prodigal feel-good; got UFC haymaker.
Here to deliver the verdict, she wheels away done.
"Enough. I'll kill my hopes too—live wild."
"Mom...."
"Then."
"Mom!"
Fear we'll never cross paths again; I snag her wrist. Low bar or not, motherhood lingers—she doesn't shake free.
Mull words. Flip this hell-rep, zero-faith board? Only nukes work.
"So, snap to now and snatch back top chaebol throne—you'll acknowledge me?"
Dead serious. Voiced my long-fantasized goal first time.
Hwaryeong Group: immovable top dog. Till Dad—group helm and this body's sire—Cha Seong-taek drops sudden from health crash. Inheritance snarl, control fights—group wobbles.
...Often said, but not the crux. No successor post-death; Do-yeon's infamy tanks stock day one. No sib squabbles, but natural slide to backbench geezer tier.
World's verdict: no kid fills that charisma. Deflating balloon—bail while upright, expect collapse. Still corp elite, but family black eye.
Especially for Mom: hubby lost, group rep trashed—nightmare fuel.
Ha. So she scoffs. My "steal first place" vow? Back with baffled ridicule.
"You, soaked in booze, smokes, sluts—miracle if you last five sober years."
...Fair assessment.
"Quit smokes, though."
"When?"
"Last night."
Siiiiigh... Voice chars to ash. Own fury embarrasses now; she pats my cheek, drops final wisdom.
"Cut the crap. Fix your wife mess."
"Ah...."
"Divorce ink dry? Months ghosting your wife, still stubborn?"
"...I'll handle."
"Please do."
Begs it, then dips. Offer escort? Hard pass.
"Rest up. Shower sometimes too...."
Son's trash arc now mortifies her.
Slam!
Resigned face, Mom bounces.
Waited to flip with growth-drama flex; ate mockery instead.
Scale back the play, grind diligent...
Resolve: fuck Mom. But now? No status, no meets. Gotta reclaim ground first. Nah, divorce leads?