MERRY 4

When she saw the car I picked, my mom said this:

“Why don’t you think this over? A year—no, even six months from now, you’re going to regret this choice.”

But it was only now, years later, that I finally felt that regret. And even then, it was quite shallow.

“W-what would change if I drove a different car?”

“Nothing in particular.”

Ethan gave a short reply and approached my car, shrugging his shoulders. He stood by the driver’s side and opened the door for me. I had the keys, and I hadn’t even unlocked it yet.

“You… just now, how did you…?”

“Ah, my mistake. I didn’t mean to show off.”

Just how far has stalker technology advanced? I don’t know what it is, but is the world really okay with high-end tech falling into the hands of a malicious stalker? Isn’t it time for some heavy government sanctions?

I stood there like an idiot, mouth agape, staring at Ethan.

“It really was a mistake,” he repeated with a calm face, gesturing toward the interior of the car with his chin.

“Whether it was a mistake or not isn’t the point! You unlocked my car. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Just pretend you didn’t see it.”

“You shameless…! This is something the government should restrict, huh? The government! There’s definitely potential for legal issues here. Some kind of measure, I mean, you should be right now, huh?”

“Sure, sure.”

Ethan replied dismissively and stepped toward me.

“Just because you say that doesn’t mean I’m letting it slide, huh? It’s not like that, this situation is, how should I put it, it’s, well…”

The closer he got, the more my mouth malfunctioned and stumbled over words, but that was a pure coincidence with no correlation whatsoever. Even if it felt like my body was broken, I, the owner of said body, felt perfectly fine.

The feeling that Ethan’s eyes held only me, and conversely, that my eyes held only Ethan Reed—the way a thrill was gradually surging up—was also just a coincidence. Swallowing hard was simply because my throat was dry, and wiggling my toes inside my loafers was just a habit. A habit I literally just developed.

I barked out in a temper, trying to control the physical reactions happening to my body.

“If you think I’m going to be charmed by your face, you’re wrong!”

“I never actually thought that…”

Ethan tilted his head and locked eyes with me. The emerald light behind his lenses felt like it would plunge me into a lake this very instant. One of those lakes so clear and clean that even if the water is incredibly deep, it looks shallow enough for your feet to touch the bottom.

“Looks like there’s hope, though.”

He muttered lowly, his lip twitching. That smile, like a beautiful masterpiece, set off alarm bells in my head.

If I keep dealing with this guy, I might actually drown.

∞ ∞ ∞

Somerset Quinn is a high-selling product. The rookie model who made a spectacular appearance on Designer Y’s autumn runway seemed to have anticipated that he would be the protagonist of that space. That same year, it was as natural as the laws of the universe that he became the agency’s flagship product.

A man like Somerset Quinn is not only faithful to his utility as a model but also possesses a special function: perfectly realizing someone’s fantasy through a sensual atmosphere.

Using such expressions might make one treat me like a conservative or sexist person, but the name “Somerset King” suits him better than his real name. On the runway, he reigns haughtily as if draped in a king’s mantle. Even the high-and-mighty celebrities visiting the show might find themselves pledging loyalty to Somerset Quinn (King) if they let their guard down for even a second.

He is a magnificent product. Bronzed skin, lustrous dark brown hair, and amber eyes that look as if the equatorial sun has been embedded in them—his value shines within a single spectrum. Features that look as if a Renaissance master carved them with all his heart, and a splendidly muscular body…

The columns written by journalists named John, Carl, or James were no different from the process of putting a hunk of meat or a fish on a cutting board and debating what to cook.

Sometimes they turned into a decent meal, but they usually resulted in something bizarre. Because what journalists are best at is taking a carefully prepared ingredient and hacking it to pieces until it tastes like a sewer.

Ruining Somerset Quinn, the premium cut of meat and fresh fish, was their primary talent. Fortunately, I don’t care about that kind of betrayal. I’ve already experienced the worst betrayal of my life, and I’ve been hardened by it.

Ethan Reed, the traitor. Tonight, you can have the punishment of waiting like an idiot for me while I’m inside another man’s house. Go ahead and stare through the car window and stomp your feet while imagining what I’m doing with this man once the lights go out.

I skimmed through the column my manager had messaged me and pressed the doorbell. I was visiting the condominium of my friend, Liam Dalton. It was close to the exhibition hall, so I used it like a lodging whenever my finish time coincided with the peak of rush hour traffic or when, like today, I just didn’t want to be alone.

When there was no response after ringing the bell repeatedly, I called him. As the long ringing tone cut off, the elevator doors opened and Liam stepped out. The sight of him cradling a stack of thick books was so incongruous I almost burst out laughing. I suppressed my twitching lips and hounded him.

“Why are you so late? I’ve been waiting.”

“This is my house, and I think you’ve forgotten the fact that you showed up without a word.”

Liam, pulling out his keys, frowned. Irritation settled into his handsome eyes, which were wrinkled like a scrap of paper.

He had a similarly distorted expression when I first ran into him at a party I’d been invited to by an acquaintance of a designer. But the moment he noticed my gaze, he looked surprised, as if he’d been caught without his makeup on. That’s because Liam was actually very skilled at erasing a bleak expression.

Having quickly looked away from me, he’d swapped masks and smiled as he blended back into the crowd. A man with the ambition to open the hottest club in New York, he felt more like a playboy enjoying the nightlife than a future businessman—and it seemed he intended to look that way.

Even though he’s actually dull. So bored he’s practically itching. When someone next to him would talk until the veins in their neck popped, he would respond well enough, but it was obvious he’d left his soul somewhere else.

‘Be honest. You didn’t hear a word he just said, did you? Or you thought it was something stupid.’

I’d slipped over and whispered in his ear when the seat next to him became vacant. It was because he—a handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes—met my aesthetic standards, and his somewhat crooked vibe felt like he’d built a wall.

He didn’t seem to want a serious relationship with anyone at the party, and my hunch hit the mark.

Leaving the club early that night, we moved together as if we’d been a pair from the start. Neither of us asked the other’s intention or voiced our desires, but the flow was natural. We shared a light kiss in front of a nearby hotel, got a room, and had sex.

It was a pretty satisfying night. Liam Dalton, who had a solid cock and decent skills, and I became friends just like that. We get sticky when we’re on the bed and occasionally share some R-rated jokes, but otherwise, we’re straightforward friends.

Since I got a stalker, the link of sex has dropped out of our relationship, but surprisingly, the bond hasn’t loosened.

“I naturally thought you were inside. I saw the lights on from outside.”

“Don’t act like a stalker. Why are you checking if the lights are on?”

“How am I a stalker? You really don’t know anything because you haven’t actually been stalked.”

“You talk as if you have been.”

Of course, because I am being stalked right this second. The black sedan is probably parked across from the condo. I shrugged and changed the subject.

“I’m hungry. Haven’t had dinner yet. You have food in the fridge, right?”

“Even if I do, I’m not giving any to you.”

“You don’t have to give it to me. I’ll just help myself.”

As soon as Liam pulled the key from the lock, I opened the door and walked in first. I threw myself onto the sofa while Liam shook his head.

The books he laid down on the table were classics everyone knows by title. I think I saw a statistic in a magazine once that while most people pretend to know them, saying, “Ah! That book, right, it was so educational,” very few have actually read them.