The huge marble mansion gleamed in the late afternoon sun, its polished walls reflecting the kind of wealth most people only dreamed of. Inside, Tae sprawled lazily across the satin sheets of her king-size bed, a bored pout on her pink pillowy lips.

Her husband, Jaemin, had left hours ago for some tech conference. He always left, chasing patents, lectures, and numbers that made his eyes light up more than she ever could. Tae married him for the mansion, the luxury cars, the endless money that filled her closet with designer heels and tiny dresses. But when it came to nights in bed… Jaemin was soft, gentle, and painfully boring.

Tae’s body, however, was anything but soft. Her white skin glowed like porcelain under the soft lights. Her boobs stretched the limits of her silky camisole, nipples already pressing against the fabric. The flimsy lace panties she wore barely clung to her round ass. She knew she looked like a slut—she wanted to. She loved catching the way the house staff’s eyes flicked toward her cleavage when she walked by, or the way the gardener stuttered every time she bent over in a sundress without panties.

But no one dared touch her. She was “Mrs. Jaemin,” the rich man’s beautiful young wife. Untouchable. Bored.

That night, Tae poured herself a glass of red wine and strutted through the halls barefoot, humming softly. Her nipples peeked through the thin silk of her nightgown as she leaned against the balcony rail, sipping slowly. Her mind wandered—as it always did—to the kind of man who could really take her. Not Jaemin. Someone harder, rougher, someone dangerous.

Far from the mansion, danger was already moving closer.

Jungkook had escaped. The prison gates were behind him now, the alarms screaming. His body was battered from the fight and the run, a shallow cut dragging across his ribs, his knuckles bruised. But his grin still played on his lips. Women had always been his weakness—and his weapon. They always came to him, drawn like moths to fire, and he devoured them without mercy.

Now he needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere rich, quiet, where no one would expect him.

By midnight, Tae’s mansion stood before him like a glittering palace. He climbed the garden wall, silent as a predator, slipping through the shadows. His boots left faint prints on the polished floors as he crept inside.

The house was too big. Too quiet. He smirked when he found a guest bedroom on the far side of the hall. He didn’t know whose house it was—he didn’t care. He needed rest. He needed a bed.

Upstairs, Tae poured her third glass of wine, humming as she looked at her reflection. Her lips were smeared in a glossy pink, nipples poking at the lace. She had no idea a stranger had slipped into her home.

Jungkook sank onto the guest bed, shirt sticking to his wounded ribs, muscles flexing as he winced. He leaned back against the headboard, exhaling. His eyes closed briefly, but his instincts stayed sharp. He could hear the faint echo of heels clicking against marble from somewhere in the house. A woman’s laugh, soft and rich, floated down the corridor.

He grinned, licking his lip where it had split. Whoever she was, she lived in luxury. He could smell perfume in the air already, expensive, sweet, slutty.

And Jungkook, the escaped bad boy with blood on his knuckles and lust in his veins, was hiding in her house.