Chapter Text
Kim Seokjin knows what people say about him.
He’s heard it all.
Pretty.
Useless.
A decorative omega with a black card and no shame.
A walking scandal in pastels and silk, skipping boardroom meetings in favor of rooftop parties and soft-launch flings with foreign diplomats.
The youngest son of the Kim empire, born into money so old it no longer makes noise—only power.
No arranged marriage. No duties. No leash.
They call him Chaebol Barbie .
And Jin?
He made sure they did.
He leans into it.
His body is a weapon. His smile, a threat.
He walks into rooms and makes politicians sweat. He posts thirst traps timed to derail stock announcements.
He flirts with power, not to have it, but to unnerve it.
He is what alphas fear: An omega who doesn’t need to be claimed.
This morning, he’s lying on a lounge chair at the Four Seasons rooftop pool, sipping melon soju and scrolling Instagram, wearing nothing but Dior swimsuit and disdain.
That's when he sees the post.
@mayor.jeon
"State visit prep — honored to host the delegation in Busan."
[1/4]: Press conference.
[2/4]: Shaking hands.
[3/4]: Ribbon-cutting.
[4/4]: Sunglasses, black suit, jaw so sharp it could gut an oil tycoon.
Seokjin stares.
Jeon Jungkook.
The cleanest political climber in years. Mayor of Busan. Bastard son of the late Chairman Jeon and a mistress no one in high society dares name
No scandals. No visible weakness. Just respect, results, and a reputation made of iron.
Jimin gasps so loudly you’d think someone proposed to him.
“Did you just—?!”
Hoseok leans over the lounge chair like a vulture smelling drama.
“Wait. Wait. Did you just follow the mayor of Busan? ”
Seokjin doesn’t look up. Just sips his soju and zooms in on the last photo—the one where Jungkook’s jawline looks carved by divine punishment.
“I did.”
Jimin shrieks, nearly dropping his phone. “ You followed Jeon Jungkook? The golden boy? Mr. Scandal-Free? The ‘If-you-kiss-him-Korea-will-explode’ mayor?!”
“Mayor Tight-Ass,” Hoseok mutters darkly.
Jin blinks. “What?”
Hoseok is already digging into the archives of elite gossip memory. “He rejected the chairman’s niece at last year’s winter summit. Like, rejected her . She tried to corner him at the ski lodge, and he just said— ‘I don’t mix business with boredom.’ Can you imagine?!”
“Shut. Up,” Jimin hisses, fully invested. “He said that?”
“And! One of the senators tried to set him up with their son,” Hoseok adds, eyes wide. “Apparently, the guy sent over his scent card. Jungkook returned it. With notes. ”
Jin raises a brow. “Notes?”
“Like critique . Of the scent profile. Who does that?! ”
“An alpha with no sex life,” Jin replies. “A tragic, abstinent, power-hungry brick wall.”
“Which is exactly why you should stay away,” Jimin says, waving frantically. “He’s not like the usual ones you break. If he snaps, you’re going to end up pregnant and married and suddenly the First Omega of Busan.”
“Didn’t you just hear me?” Hoseok deadpans. “He rejects the rich omegas.”
Jimin gasps, scandalized. “ Why? ”
Hoseok sits back dramatically, like he’s been waiting to drop this intel for months.
“No one knows. But he’s never touched a single chaebol-born. Ever. It’s like… a moral code or something.”
“A kink,” Jin mutters. “A kink against money. He’s so weird.”
“Or it’s strategy,” Hoseok shrugs. “He’s building a clean image. No links to power families, no alliances, no messy engagements. Even his rumored flings were all commoners—a preschool teacher, a city planner, some obscure violinist from Daegu. Jungkook dates like he’s running for office.”
“He is running for office,” Jimin says. “Everyone says he’s aiming for President by 45.”
“Exactly,” Hoseok grins. “So he avoids risk. And Seokjin Kim? Is risk with legs.”
Jin hums, tapping on his phone. “Funny.”
“What’s funny?” Jimin asks warily.
Jin glances up, smile too sweet. “That you think I’m going to let that stop me.”
Jimin lunges for his phone. “ No! Delete the follow! UNFOLLOW! Right now!”
Seokjin swats his hand away like a fly. “Stop it, you’re smudging my screen.”
“Look,” he continues, showing them the post again, Jungkook’s jawline on full display. “Don’t you think he’s perfect?”
Jimin blinks. “Perfect for what ?”
“To be my baby daddy.”
“ Kim Seokjin!! ”
Jin tosses his head back. “Please. I’m thirty-two. My biological clock is basically playing dubstep at this point. I’ve always wanted to become a parent.”
“Okay, yes, fine,” Hoseok says, trying not to laugh. “But what about the alpha part of that equation? ”
“Not included in the picture,” Jin says, waving dismissively. “Just me. And my baby. A chic, single-mother aesthetic. Genderless stroller. All neutrals. Custom silk bibs.”
Hoseok howls . “Holy fuck.”
Jimin covers his face. “Oh dear god. So liberated. South Korea is not ready for you.”
“I’m not doing it for South Korea,” Jin says, standing up dramatically. “I’m doing it for the heirloom photo wall in my future penthouse nursery.”
“Seokjin—”
“Imagine it. Me, glowing and barefoot in a garden. The wind blowing. Holding my baby in one arm and a flute of non-alcoholic champagne in the other. Maybe a flower crown. No alpha in sight. Just me . Matriarch. Monarch. Icon.”
“I think you’re having a heatstroke,” Jimin whispers.
“I think I’m ovulating,” Jin says, pressing his phone to his chest. “And I think Jungkook Jeon is about to meet his destiny.”
Hoseok looks at Jimin. “Do we let him go through with this?”
Jimin sighs. “We’ve never been able to stop him before.”
“Exactly.” Jin adjusts his sunglasses. “So book me a car to the airport. I’m ovulating, I’m motivated, and I’m about to ruin a man with a five-year political plan.”
“He’d be such a good father though,” Jimin whined, curling up on the lounger like the idea physically hurt him. “Like… the type who installs a car seat himself and doesn’t let the nanny buckle it in wrong. The type who reads bedtime stories with voices .”
Hoseok cackled. “He’s the type that if Jin cheated during the marriage and they divorced, he’d still pay alimony. Out of guilt. ”
“He’d still come by every weekend with fresh fruit and ask if the plumbing’s okay,” Jimin added.
“He’d bank transfer for prenatal vitamins before the test is positive,” Hoseok nodded solemnly.
Jin blinked at both of them. “…You two are dangerously obsessed with this man for someone I just decided to seduce twenty minutes ago.”
“ You said you want to have his baby,” Jimin snapped.
“Exactly,” Jin replied, all sugar and silk. “That doesn’t mean I want to marry him.”
“Liar,” Hoseok sings. “You love a repressed alpha with a tragic jawline and emotional constipation.”
“I can’t tell if he’d be good in bed though,” Jimin said thoughtfully, squinting at Jungkook’s latest photo. “Like… do you think he’s secretly nasty?”
Hoseok snorted. “No. I think he’s boring. ”
Jimin gasped like he’d been slapped. “You take that back.”
“Nope.” Hoseok pointed at the screen. “Look at that suit. That posture. That Korean-educated sense of restraint. That man has never moaned in his life.”
“He could be repressed,” Jimin argued. “Which means it could go either way. He’s either terrible in bed or absolutely feral behind closed doors.”
“Please,” Hoseok scoffed. “He probably apologizes before he unzips. ‘Sorry if this is inappropriate, would you like a glass of water first?’”
Jimin scoffed. “Or worse—lights off, just missionary. The type who kisses you on the forehead, does two polite pumps, and says ‘you’re beautiful’ like that’s supposed to make you come.”
“ No! ” Hoseok groaned. “The ‘aftercare-through-conversation’ type! Like, he finishes and immediately asks how your day was. ‘Did you eat lunch? Was traffic bad?’ Bro, I just got edged by civic duty!”
“I bet he calls it ‘intimacy,’” Jimin whispered. “Not sex. Intimacy. ”
“Or ‘conjugal bonding,’ ” Hoseok gagged.
“‘Let’s schedule a conjugal bonding session for Thursday night, shall we?’” Jimin mimicked, voice low and proper.
“You’re so screwed,” Hoseok declared, flopping back against the lounger like this was too tragic to watch unfold. “You keep complaining how no alpha’s never made you cum, and now you’re trying to breed with one who probably doesn’t even know what to do with the Chaebol Barbie.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jin groaned, rolling his eyes. “All I need is his knot and his cum. You don’t need an orgasm to get pregnant.”
“And yet,” Jimin chimed in sweetly, “ you cried about it when you turned thirty. ”
Jin whipped his head around. “ How dare you bring that up. ”
“You were drunk off rosé and sobbing into a Hermes pillow,” Jimin said. “You said, and I quote: ‘What’s the point of being hot if no one makes me finish?’”
“It was a vulnerable moment.”
“It was broadcasted on your Instagram story. ”
“I took it down!”
“After three thousand people viewed it!” Jimin shrieked.
“I got five marriage proposals and a paid lube sponsorship from that post,” Jin muttered, sipping his drink. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m just saying,” Hoseok added, holding up his hands in surrender, “you keep choosing power-hungry, emotionally repressed alphas like it’s a hobby. And now you’re aiming for the final boss of sexual repression.”
“I’m aiming for national security-level sperm,” Jin corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re insane,” Jimin whispered, awestruck. “Like, medically.”
“Probably,” Jin said with a wink, standing and adjusting his sunglasses. “But when my baby comes out with a beautiful eyes enough to claim land rights and a jawline made for press photos, you’ll both thank me.”
Hoseok stared. “You need Jesus.”
“I need a baby,” Jin grinned. “And Jeon Jungkook’s gonna give it to me.”
“Okay, okay, let’s just—recap,” Hoseok said, waving his drink like he was trying to physically swat the delusion out of the air. “You want a baby. But no strings attached. You don’t want Jeon Jungkook involved. You want to raise the kid solo. Correct?”
Jin nodded, perfectly calm. “Correct.”
“And,” Hoseok continued, voice rising, “ he doesn’t like the likes of you.”
“He doesn’t need to.”
Hoseok snapped. “You’re everything he avoids, Jin. You’re—expensive. Loud. Photographed. You’re chaos in designer heels. You’re his red flag wrapped in a Gucci belt. ”
“And yet,” Jin said sweetly, “I think he’ll fold.”
“You think he’s going to fold,” Hoseok echoed, staring at him like he was watching a man drown while painting his nails. “And fuck you.”
Jin just sipped his soju. “Yes.”
“ Why? ” Jimin asked from the side, genuinely curious. “What makes you think you’re the one exception?”
“Because,” Jin said, setting his drink down and standing like he was about to walk onto a debate stage, “I am what he needs.”
Hoseok blinked. “For what, exactly?”
Okay,” Jin said, voice calmer now, tapping his manicured nail against the edge of his glass. “Mayor was cute. But Senate?”
He looked between Jimin and Hoseok, tone shifting from flirtation to calculation.
“That’s a different league.”
Jimin frowned. “You think he’s running for a senate position next election?.”
“Oh, he’s running,” Jin replied. “You don’t clean your image for almost a decade, build bipartisan respect, and sit on a twenty-point approval gap just to retire at thirty-five. He’s positioning himself.”
Hoseok leaned back. “Senate’s federal.”
“Exactly,” Jin said. “And federal means funding. Connections. PR warfare. Committee battles. Lobby dogs. And guess who runs all of that?”
“Us,” Jimin muttered.
“The chaebol,” Jin confirmed. “We are the economy. He can hate us all he wants. Quote all the moral high-ground speeches. But the moment he steps into that arena, he’ll need leverage.”
“Still doesn’t mean he’ll come to you,” Hoseok said carefully. “He’s got pride.”
“And I have pussy,” Jin replied, deadpan.
Jimin choked. “Seokjin!”
Jin shrugged. “I’m serious. He doesn’t want to beg for our money? Fine. I won’t make him beg.”
Hoseok narrowed his eyes. “Then what? You think you can seduce him into compliance?”
“No,” Jin said, smiling. “I think I can seduce him into wanting to need me.”
He paused. Tilted his head. Let the silence stretch—like a blade being drawn.
“Senator Jeon is going to learn very quickly that the most dangerous thing about the elite isn’t the money.”
“It’s me. ”
Hoseok stared at him for a long beat.
“You want to trap a man into breeding you,” he said slowly, “to leverage your womb as a political endorsement?”
Jin shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone used a baby for power. I’m just honest about it.”
Jimin clapped once. “You’re a menace.
”I’m a visionary.”
Hoseok groaned. “You’re about to become the scandal that ends his clean record.”
“Or the power play,” Jin said, slipping his sunglasses back on, “that gets him elected.”
Few days later, Jin sat by the window of his penthouse, robe draped loose over silk pajamas, a thick envelope on his lap.
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR REPORT: JEON JUNGKOOK
He flipped through the pages, eyes scanning sharp lines of text.
- Born out of wedlock. Son of Chairman Jeon’s longtime mistress.
- Officially acknowledged, unofficially disregarded.
- Attended Yonsei University, Political Science major.
- Law school graduate.
- Passed the bar. Top 3 in the country
- Worked as a public defender for two years before shifting to public office.
“Hot,” Jin muttered, sipping his wine. “But not chaebol hot. Actual effort hot.”
No scandals. No trust fund tantrums.
Every move, earned.
He kept reading.
Community projects. Busan cleanup initiatives.
Low-key lifestyle. No luxury cars. No dating rumors since the preschool teacher.
Apparently cooks his own meals.
Boring. Noble.
Then, Jin paused.
A photo clipped to the next page. Jeon Jungkook in joggers, sleeves up, tattoos peeking just under his shirt. A piercing glinting faintly in one ear.
“Well, well,” Jin hummed. “A little rebellion.”
Notes listed under miscellaneous
- Plays sports. A lot of them.
- Speaks four languages fluently.
- Known to frequent independent bookstores.
- Refuses chaebol sponsorships.
- Allegedly hates nepotism.
Jin leaned back, amused.
Boring. Noble. Disciplined.
Hot. Tattooed. Fluent. Dangerous.
“This’ll be fun,” he whispered, smiling against his wine glass.
The next few days, Jin became mildly—no, obsessively—preoccupied with the Mayor of Busan.
He claimed he was just researching a political investment, but both Hoseok and Jimin knew better.
Every morning, Jin sipped his tea with the day’s news open in four tabs. Every night, he read up on voter data, community initiatives, and policy rollouts like they were bedtime stories.
And what started as curiosity had begun to twist into something… else.
Because the man had a reputation. A real one. A clean one.
Jungkook’s rise to mayor hadn’t come from backdoor deals or family connections. In fact, his win had singlehandedly ended the Song family’s political dynasty —a name that had controlled Busan for nearly two decades.
Jungkook had been young. Unpolished. The underdog.
He didn’t throw lavish fundraisers or host banquets with chaebol money.
He didn’t wine and dine the elite.
He walked streets.
He shook hands.
He asked questions.
His campaign hadn’t been “Vote for me.”
It had been:
He listened. And people— real people—had listened back.
Jin closed another browser tab that afternoon, then looked at Hoseok and Jimin who were now reading over his shoulder.
Jimin muttered, “You know what’s crazy? I think I’m starting to like him.”
Jin didn’t reply.
He was still staring at a photo from the campaign trail.
Jungkook, sleeves rolled up, hair damp from the rain. Holding a hand-painted sign from a local kid that read:
“Mayor JK, Thank You For Listening.”
Jin exhaled slowly.
This wasn’t going to be as simple as he thought.
Hoseok leaned over Jin’s shoulder, watching a clip of Jungkook wiping mud off a kid’s shoes. “I still think he’s probably boring—but like, the good kind of boring.”
He sat back with a laugh. “God. I’m not sure if he’s the best or the worst of the Jeon brothers.”
There was a beat of silence.
“You’re really doing this,” Hoseok said.
“I’m really doing this,” Jin confirmed.
Jin knew exactly what type of man Jeon Jungkook is
Which, in his opinion, made him perfect for this.
Responsible. Disciplined. The kind of man who probably had a five-year life plan saved in three different formats. Someone who ironed his socks, color-coded his calendar, and probably considered chamomile tea an indulgence.
Even with Jeon blood in his veins , he carried himself like an outsider.
Because he was one.
The son of a mistress. The half-chaebol.
Officially acknowledged. Quietly sidelined.
Born of power but never allowed to own it.
Jin knew that kind of distance. The kind of hunger that didn’t look greedy—just silent, sharpened, and watching.
People like Jungkook never tried to fit in with chaebols like Jin.
They judged them.
And Jin could feel it—could already see it: the soft, disapproving look. The mental checklist ticking off everything wrong with him.
Well— fuck that.
Jin liked his life.
Being an omega, and a spare, was a blessing in disguise. He wasn’t the heir. He wasn’t the pride of the family. He was the well-dressed, well-funded shadow who could go anywhere and do anything, as long as he smiled for the family Christmas photo.
He organized charity events for tax write-offs.
He bought art for the same reason.
He liked wine , the occasional cigarette , and was halfway to platinum status on five different airlines.
He didn’t pretend to be more virtuous than he was.
He didn’t pretend to be less, either.
And he was absolutely sure the Mayor of Busan would frown at every inch of him.
Good.
There were three things Jeon Jungkook had focused on in his term as Mayor of Busan:
Education. Health. And anti-corruption—whatever the hell that means.
Jin had read it in every policy brief, every interview, every painfully sincere press release.
“Restoring trust.”
“Rebuilding systems.”
“Protecting the next generation.”
It was all so… noble. So clean.
If Jungkook were any more righteous, Jin would need sunglasses just to read about him.
Still, Jin had to admit, he wasn’t all talk. The reforms were real. Teacher pay had gone up in Busan. Local clinics were being funded. And half the Song family’s political allies were now either unemployed or under investigation.
He was doing it.
Actually doing it.
Which was both impressive… and mildly irritating.
Because men like Jeon Jungkook weren’t supposed to work. They were supposed to perform. Make speeches. Smile for cameras and bow politely in designer suits.
But this one? This one actually meant it.
And that made him dangerous.
But Jin was smart.
Smart enough to know that Jeon Jungkook wouldn’t just jump at his offer.
Wouldn’t smirk and shake his hand like a grateful donor.
No—he’d probably take it as an insult.
Get that tight-lipped look righteous men always did.
Maybe even curse Jin’s family bloodline, toss around words like “decency” and “dignity.”
And if he was really offended?
Jin could already see it—
A podium.
A national campaign rally.
And a shining, perfect moment where Jeon Jungkook tells a story to the press:
“There was once a chaebol omega who thought his money could buy anything—even a child.”
Absolutely not.
So Jin had to be careful. Tactical.
This wasn’t just about seduction—it was positioning .
If he couldn’t make Jungkook fold through influence, he’d make him want to.
He’d be the Delilah to his Samson.
The heel to his Achilles.
The Helen of Troy to his empire of restraint.
Not bought. Not begged.
Irresistible.
Because Jin had a reputation too.
Maybe not as noble.
But just as well-known.
He didn’t do relationships. At least, not the kind that lasted past appetizers.
And it didn’t matter if he was the one who initiated, he didn’t get rejected.
Not by heirs.
Not by diplomats.
And certainly not by some clean-cut, mayor-shaped fairytale who probably folded his socks and considered a dry rub scandalous.
If Jeon Jungkook was going to say no, he’d do it after losing sleep, focus, and the ability to get hard without thinking of Jin first.
There was the infamous story—whispered through gallery halls and brunch tables—about how Jin once went on a date with a chaebol heir, smiled sweetly through the wine course, then stood up just before dessert, said “I think I’m bored,” and left.
An hour later, he posted a thirst trap in vintage lingerie.
His brother, Namjoon, had nearly combusted.
He’d stormed into Jin’s apartment the next morning—still in his work suit, tie loosened just enough to signal rage. He didn’t even sit down.
“You left the son of the Hwang Group at a five-star restaurant,” Namjoon said, voice sharp and tight. “During dessert.”
Jin, lounging on the couch in silk shorts and a sheet mask, barely looked up from his phone. “I told him he was boring. He agreed.”
Namjoon stared. “And the lingerie photo?”
Jin peeled off the mask with a sigh. “Unrelated. I just looked good.”
Namjoon ran a hand down his face. “You’re going to start a war.”
“I’m starting a trend, ” Jin said, standing to pour himself tea. “Besides, if a photo of my thighs causes a corporate merger to fall apart, maybe that’s a him problem.”
Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose like he was calculating the exact interest rate of disappointment.
“Seokjin.”
“What?” Jin blinked. “At least I didn’t post the video.”
Namjoon sat down very slowly.
And Jin, unfazed, added a lemon slice to his tea with the poise of someone who’d never known shame in his life.
Mostly, Jin lived how he wanted.
Unattached. Undeniably beautiful.
Just out of reach.
And the press loved him for it.
Or hated him. Or both.
But they always looked.
Jin knew what he looked like.
And he used it—always. Without apology.
He could throw a tantrum in Dior, roll his eyes during a board meeting, disappear mid-charity dinner—and no one would call it unprofessional.
They’d call it charming.
Because he was pretty.
Anyone who said pretty privilege wasn’t real was lying to themselves.
Jin had built a life on it. He had receipts, designer bags, and four apology bouquets from ministers to prove it.
And the alphas? They didn’t stand a chance.
They chased the performance, the thigh-high drama, the sly smile, the careful curve of his neck when he knew someone was watching.
They fell in love with the myth.
Not the man.
Which was fine.
Jin preferred it that way.
But the worst ones?
Politicians.
Politicians who tried to flirt with him were always the worst.
The worst, Jin thought.
They’d sidle up with fake humility and overpriced cologne, thinking a pretty omega with a chaebol name would be flattered—easily charmed, easily bought.
Like they were doing him a favor.
Jin knew the type.
The ones who kissed babies for the cameras but pocketed the clinic funds.
Who spoke of rebuilding systems while eating steak bought with disaster relief budgets.
He’d smile. Tilt his head. Pretend to blush.
And play along, just long enough to let them hang themselves.
Ask about the education budget mid-flirt.
Slide voter turnout stats between compliments.
Quote their own campaign scandals back to them, slow and soft like foreplay, then sip his wine like he wasn’t already bored.
It was easy, really.
Because they always saw the lipstick. Never the knife behind it.
Being a chaebol was one thing—he could live with the hypocrisy.
Sure—eat-the-rich bullshit, call it what you want.
But tacky corruption? Unsubtle embezzlement? Public theft without taste?
That was just embarrassing.
Fuck that.
Jin could handle being underestimated. He could handle being called bratty, indulgent, even reckless.
But he had no patience for men who smiled with stolen tax money on their teeth.
And if Jeon Jungkook was as righteous as everyone said he was, if he really cared about education, healthcare, reform—then at least Jin’s baby wouldn’t be born of greedy blood.
That mattered more than he liked to admit.
Even if Jungkook was still a Jeon.
Even if he came from a legacy of control, quiet violence, and generational power hoarding.
Jin didn’t like him. But he respected the record. That was enough, for now.
And surely, Jungkook would never like someone like Jin.
Not really.
Too loud. Too pretty. Too much.
Everything Jungkook probably resented about the world he’d tried to separate himself from.
And that was perfect.
Perfect for this arrangement.
No mess. No risk. No chance of entanglement. Just a transaction.
That’s all it ever was. That’s all it had to be.