The Devil In Chanel

The Penthouse: 7:00 AM

The morning sun over Seoul did not dare to be too bright; it filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cheongdam-dong penthouse, illuminating a world curated entirely in rose gold and clinical, terrifying perfection.

Park Chaeyoung sat at a vanity carved from a single block of flawless Italian Calacatta marble. She was wrapped in a heavy silk robe the exact shade of a bruised cherry, staring intently at her reflection.

She wasn’t looking at her doll-like features or her legendary porcelain skin. She was looking for an anomaly. A pore. A microscopic hint of human vulnerability.

Behind her, Mina, her head stylist, was breathing in shallow, terrified rhythms, her hands trembling as she parted Chaeyoung’s hair. Further back stood Mr. Choi, the lead PR director, sweating profusely through a tailored Tom Ford suit while clutching an iPad like a shield.

“The Dior campaign is trending at number one globally, Miss Chaeyoung,” Mr. Choi stammered, his voice tracking an octave higher than usual. “But... the domestic forums are acting up. Netizens are saying you looked ‘unapproachable’ and ‘too cold’ in the Paris fashion week vlog. They’re calling you ‘The Ice Princess’ again, and the anti-fans are trying to spin it as a bad attitude.”

Chaeyoung didn’t turn around. She slowly tilted her head, watching Mr. Choi’s panicked reflection. When she spoke, her voice slid out like thick, dark honey, melodic, velvet, and laced with absolute poison.

“Tell them I was mourning my pet goldfish.”

Mr. Choi blinked, exchanging a frantic glance with Mina. “But... you don’t own a goldfish, Miss Chaeyoung.”

“I do now,” she replied smoothly, her dark eyes locking onto his in the mirror. “Go buy a horribly expensive one, put it in a crystal bowl, and kill it. Or just find a dead one on Pinterest. Draft a statement.‘Chaeyoung’s heart is heavy following the sudden passing of her beloved companion, Bubbles. She asks for privacy during this fragile time.’People love a grieving girl, Mr. Choi. It makes the miserable little goldfish out there feel superior to me for a fleeting second.”

“Right away. Brilliant, Miss Chaeyoung,” Mr. Choi murmured, frantically typing.

Mina placed a diamond-encrusted hair clip a millimeter too close to Chaeyoung’s scalp. There was a tiny, sharp tug.

The entire room went dead silent. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Chaeyoung slowly closed her eyes, a serene, chilling smile spreading across her lips. “Mina.”

“Y-yes, Miss Chaeyoung?”

“If you pull my hair like that again, I will have my legal team draft a press release stating that you were fired due to a severe, contagious lice infestation. I will personally ensure that your name is blacklisted from every salon, runway, and broadcasting station from Seoul to Milan. You will be reduced to cutting hair in a subway station basement. Do we understand each other, darling?”

Mina’s face drained of all color. She bowed so low her forehead clicked against the marble vanity. “I am so sorry! It won’t happen again, I swear it!”

Chaeyoung opened her eyes, her gaze instantly returning to her reflection, entirely bored with the terror she had just induced. “Good. Now make me look like an angel. The public has an appetite for sanctity today.”

The Warehouse: 10:00 PM

On the industrial fringes of the city, the atmosphere was thick with the heavy, metallic scent of iron and cold concrete.

Kim Taehyung sat on a splintered wooden crate, his posture perfectly straight despite the blood soaking through his black dress shirt. He didn’t look like a man who had just survived a brutal ambush; he looked like a dark god waiting for an apology from the universe.

His right-hand man, Joon-gi, a towering wall of muscle with a jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow, was cleaning a suppressed firearm with rhythmic, unsettling precision. Two guards stood by the heavy iron doors, shadows blending into the dark.

A private medic was frantically stitching a deep laceration across Taehyung’s ribs. No anesthesia. No painkillers. Taehyung didn’t flinch. His jaw remained relaxed, his veins absolute ice, though his fingers gripped the edge of the crate tight enough to make the wood groan.

“The Kang Syndicate knew the route,” Joon-gi grunted, his eyes fixed on his weapon. “It was a coordinated ambush. We should have gone to the safehouse clinic, Boss. Bleeding out on a dock isn’t a good look.”

Taehyung let out a low, dry chuckle that vibrated dark and dangerous in his chest. “No. I wanted to see who would stop. In a city built on money, everyone ignores a dying man unless they can strip his corpse for parts.” He narrowed his dark, piercing eyes, staring into the flickering overhead bulb. “But someone did stop. Not to save me. But to complain about the minor inconvenience of my bleeding body blocking her path.”

Joon-gi paused, looking up. “The Mayor’s daughter? Park Chaeyoung?”

A slow, dangerously sharp smirk curved Taehyung’s lips. “The ‘Angel of the Nation.’ The girl the public treats like a living saint.” He leaned his head back against the concrete wall. “The world is blind, Joon-gi. She didn’t look at a dying man with horror or pity. She looked at me like I was a cheap mud stain on her pristine white rug. She has the eyes of a serpent masquerading as a doll. I find that... deeply offensive. And highly intriguing.”

(Flashback)

The rain had been torrential, turning the neon-lit streets of Seoul into a blurred, watery kaleidoscope. Taehyung had collapsed against the passenger side door of a sleek, pearl-white Maybach, his blood smearing in long, ugly streaks across the pristine paint.

Inside the vehicle, protected by layers of soundproof glass and heavy tint, Park Chaeyoung didn’t even look up from her phone screen at first.

When she fleetingly did, her face didn’t twist into a scream. She didn’t gasp. She simply lowered her silk sleeping mask, let her eyes track the blood sliding down the glass, and made a soft, clicking sound with her tongue.

“Eww,” she muttered, her voice dripping with pure, unadulterated disgust.

She rolled the window down exactly two inches, allowing the cold night air and the sharp scent of copper to seep into the leather cabin. She looked directly at Taehyung, who was staring back at her through a haze of pain, expecting a human reaction.

Instead, Chaeyoung tapped her chauffeur’s shoulder with her diamond-ringed finger. “Sang-woo, call an ambulance. Not for this trash, for the car. I don’t want his underworld grime setting into the custom paint. And tell the emergency operators to take him to the national university hospital. Tell them I found him. Make sure they note down my name so Mr. Choi can spin it into a charity press release by 6:00 AM.”

She finally flicked her gaze to Taehyung. Her eyes weren’t wide with fear; they were dead, cold, and utterly venomous.

“You’re disrupting my schedule, you disgusting thing,” she whispered through the gap.

Without waiting for a response, she smoothly rolled the window back up, cutting off his view of her face as she pulled out a compact mirror to check her lip gloss. The Maybach carefully maneuvered around his slumping body and disappeared into the neon fog.

The Next Morning

By noon, every major broadcasting network in South Korea was broadcasting a live, emergency press conference.

Park Chaeyoung stood at a mahogany podium, bathed in the blinding flashes of a hundred cameras. She was wearing a high-necked, modest white tweed Chanel dress, her hair perfectly styled.

Her eyes were perfectly rimmed with red, glistening with tears artificially induced by a clever dab of peppermint oil on her lace handkerchief.

“I... I couldn’t just drive away,” Chaeyoung sobbed into the microphone, her lower lip trembling with a precision that deserved an Oscar. “When I saw that poor, broken gentleman... bleeding in the cold rain... my heart shattered. I didn’t care about who he was or what he had done. I only saw a human life in danger.”

She paused, pressing the handkerchief to her eyes, letting the cameras capture her “fragile bravery.”

“I stayed up all night praying for his recovery. I have already instructed my foundation to cover all of his medical expenses. Violence is a plague on our beautiful city, and I hope my small contribution can help him find his way back to a peaceful, good life.”

The press room erupted. Reporters were frantically writing headlines:

“The Angel of Seoul: Park Chaeyoung Saves a Life in the Rain!”

“Dior’s Muse, Nation’s Savior.”

The Warehouse: 11:00 PM

Back in the dim warehouse, Taehyung sat perfectly still, his eyes locked onto a massive wall of high-definition monitors playing the press conference loop on repeat.

He watched her sob. He watched her delicate, manicured hand wipe away a non-existent tear. He watched the entire country fall to its knees to worship a girl who had called him “trash” twenty-four hours ago.

A low, rumbling laugh escaped his throat, a sound full of dark, dangerous amusement. He leaned forward, his long fingers reaching out to trace the frozen image of her porcelain jawline on the screen.

“You are spectacular, Park Chaeyoung,” Taehyung whispered into the empty room, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharp obsession. “You lie better than the politicians, and you kill with a smile better than my best hitmen.”

He turned his head slightly toward Joon-gi, his voice dropping into a register that signaled absolute ruin for anyone caught in his sights.

“Bury the syndicate guys who ambushed us. They’re boring. I want everything on the princess instead. I want her deleted messages, her offshore accounts, her school records, and every single person she has ever quietly made disappear. If she wants to play the saint for the world...”

Taehyung smirked, his dark eyes reflecting the glow of her frozen, smiling face.

“...I’m going to personally build her a hell to rule.”

Author’s Note:

Welcome to The Devil in Chanel! Chaeyoung is definitely not your average sweet heroine, and Taehyung has just found his new favorite obsession. What do you think of our black cat Barbie and the Underworld King? Drop a comment below with your thoughts, I read every single one!