Holy fucking shit. My cousin is literally trying to steal my sub. And he knows this is all being recorded. The fucking audacity.
He's talking again. Admitting his treason outright when Emmaleen asks why the towel is so small. "So that I'm forced to touch every inch of your body. So that my touch will be the only thing you dream about tonight."
Then, he combs her hair.
My hair. That'smyhair to comb not his.
He puts my sub to bed. Dropping the tiny cotton nightgown over her head and arranging it like she's a doll. Her hard nipples press against the translucent fabric as Jino leads her over to the bed and carefully helps her lie down.
My rage is racing down an endless highway on full throttle when Jino kisses her on the lips.
Kisses her.
Emmaleen then has the nerve to smile at him.
She fuckingsmilesat him.
I replay the footage. Freeze on her face. The soft curve of her lips. The relaxation in her features. The trust.
I replay it again. And again. And again. Each viewing carving the betrayal deeper.
Every touch was a theft. Every word an undermining of my authority. Every moment a reminder that Jino sees himself not as my instrument, but as a replacement.
The earlier calm evaporates, replaced by a rage so cold it burns.
The rules are simple: what's mine is mine. Jino serves at my pleasure. Emmaleen belongs to me.
These boundaries aren't suggestions—they're law.
Laws that have been broken.
In my house.
Under my roof.
On my fucking cameras.
I sit perfectly still, my breathing measured.
The smile lingers on her lips as the screen flickers.
It’s the last smile she’ll ever give another man under my roof.
Jino has crossed the line into treason.
And treason has only one sentence.
I stand in the corner of the control room wearing nothing but black boxer briefs. The cool air prickles my skin, but I barely register it. My body is a live wire—every muscle coiled, ready to discharge. This isn't about releasing anger. This is surgery. Precise. Calculated. A cancer needs to be cut out.
The betrayal loops on endless repeat in my mind. Jino's hands on Emmaleen's body. His fingers between her legs. Her smile. The fuckingsmile.
The slam of a car door outside. Boots on gravel. The front door opens, closes. He travels the hallway and all the anger inside me bubbles up. His footsteps are unhurried. Casual. The sound of a man who believes his day will unfold according to plan.
I flex my fingers. He opens the door, carrying a bag over his shoulder. Same all-black outfit. Same fucking arrogance.
He doesn't see me until I'm already moving.
I explode from the shadows, driving my shoulder into his ribs with every ounce of my weight behind it. The impact slams him against the wall with a satisfying crack. His breath rushes out in a sharp gasp. His bag hits the floor.