Esquisse Chapter 3

Faced with the stranger’s familiarity, Song Seorin couldn’t lower her guard. Quietly, she rubbed at the paint that hadn’t fully washed off under her fingernails.

 

In her insignificant life, her only redeeming quality was her artistic talent. Her right hand, which moved nimbly enough to help her make a living or stand before a canvas, was her most valuable asset.

 

The only thing Sa Taejeong sought in exchange for five hundred million won was her right hand. Suddenly, her wrist, wrapped in a pain patch, throbbed—but Seorin endured Taejeong’s persistent gaze fixed on her croquis book.

 

To the head of Changgeon Construction, her bony, branch-like hand would be useless. He prayed he wouldn’t lose five hundred million over a lump of flesh that would rot away once severed.

 

She would rather be bought as a machine that paints. Even if he paid her a pittance, Seorin was confident she could stay up all night and finish a piece. Sensing her desperation, Taejeong lifted his chin.

 

“As a fine arts student, you must know the male body well.”

 

With a low mocking tone, the croquis book fell to the floor. His intense eyes bore into the woman in front of him. Her slender face turned pale like a blank canvas, then flushed red again.

 

“What do you mean by that…?”

 

“Ms. Song Seorin, you don’t have the money to pay the debt, do you?”

 

Unlike the frozen Seorin, Taejeong slowly examined her trembling face.

 

Her pale-colored eyes flickered like a candle in the wind. Her slightly pouted lips, which could easily be gripped with one hand, and her chin both vibrated incessantly.

 

“So let’s do this, then.”

 

Taejeong, who had let out a brief laugh at the absurdity, lifted the bottle again. Even as he poured into the glass, his cynical gaze never left Song Seorin.

 

“Until the debt’s all paid off, either spread your legs day and night in front of pig bastards old enough to be your father—”

 

This time, her neat front teeth bit down on her lower lip. She looked as if, with the slightest touch, she would burst into tears like a balloon pricked by a needle. He found her peach-tinted face oddly pleasing.

 

A large hand, knuckles thick with bone, picked up the glass. Taejeong pressed the cold glass to his straight lips and parted them slightly. The cruelty he had hidden behind his ridge-like smile surged along the prominent line of his Adam’s apple.

 

“Or crawl under me.”

 

He wanted to leave his footprints on the woman as pure as newly fallen snow.

 

The sound of him swallowing rang out loud. Though Taejeong was the one who had taken two shots of strong liquor, it was Song Seorin whose eyes began to show signs of inebriation.

 

“…Isn’t there any other way…?”

 

“Repay the 500 million comfortably with your body.”

 

Despite the tremble in her voice, an unflinching response followed. With his head resting on the sofa’s headrest, Taejeong looked askew at Seorin.

 

She was in a situation where she was about to fall into a pit she couldn’t crawl out of, but Song Seorin didn’t shed a single tear. Though her eyes were bloodshot, her chapped lips stayed sealed as she clung to her meager pride.

 

“What value could a painting by some no-name art academy instructor possibly have?”

 

Even as he shaped his tongue into a blade, Taejeong was relaxed. The tears she held back, fists clenched and wide eyes brimming, were bound to burst.

 

“Gripping a brush or gripping a man’s cock—either way, it’s not much different.”

 

At first, it would be the shame of selling her body. Then the pain of her very bloodline being crushed beneath thick shafts. In the end, it would be the cursed body that, even in near-coercive relations, instinctively sought pleasure.

 

Taejeong, staring at the young woman trembling like a bird in the rain, spread his legs.

 

“So come crawling like a dog.”

 

A rough hand, covered in callouses, tapped the thigh hidden beneath his robe. His cock, thick as a forearm and nestled between stone-like legs, thudded against the robe, flaunting its presence.

 

“Unless you want to be passed around by these bastards.”

 

Sa Taejeong slowly turned his neck left and right, casting an unhurried glance at the suited men around him. His jet-black eyes, refusing even a speck of light, glistened strangely.

 

At the crude provocation, her fingers on her lap twitched. Seorin looked down at the table with eyes clouded by tears. The modest dreams she had nurtured lay scattered like her father and a toppled suitcase.

 

Selling her body in exchange for 500 million wasn’t merely about the flesh. With each reduction in the debt, a piece of Seorin’s life would be worn away. All that would remain was a ragged hunk of flesh incapable of even holding a brush.

 

“…No.”

 

Delicate fingers gripped the brush holder. Then came the pencil case, followed by the worn palette and portfolio file. The clatter stirred up by the debtor carved a furrow in Sa Taejeong’s brow.

 

“I’ll repay the money. No matter what it takes.”

 

“And how do you plan to do that, when you can’t even afford a sketchbook?”

 

“I’ll at least repay the interest.”

 

Standing upright, Seorin stepped toward Taejeong. Without even meeting his eyes, she bent at the waist and picked up her fallen croquis book and bag.

 

Taejeong let out a dry laugh and crossed his legs. As if she had something to rely on, despite that cheap coat that couldn’t even hide its lint, her pride remained intact.

 

As Seorin opened her bag and shoved in her belongings, Taejeong’s lips curled like a ridge.

 

“Fine. Let’s do that, then.”

 

At the decisive reply, the woman packing her things froze. Sa Taejeong took even that in with his eyes, tapping his foot lightly. It seemed he wouldn’t be satisfied until the woman clinging to her pride with a wrist taped with a medicated patch was utterly broken.

 

“However long it takes for Miss Song Seorin to come up with the money, I wonder how much that 500 million will grow.”

 

Still rubbing his jaw, he reached out to Secretary Kang. The secretary-general rummaged through his inner pocket and placed a cigarette pack into the hand of a man young enough to be his son.

 

Sa Taejeong deftly bit down on a cigarette. As the flame flared from the Zippo Kang held out, a red ember clung to the end of the tobacco.

 

“Call me when you’ve got money—or when you’re ready to sell your body.”

 

With his husky voice, his hollow cheek sank in. Sa Taejeong drew the smoke deep into his lungs and opened his mouth. The hazy cloud engulfed the pale-skinned woman.

 

The acrid scent expelled by the dangerous man tickled Seorin’s nose. She held her breath to avoid taking in even a single wisp of his breath, then grabbed her bag.

 

Her shabby sneakers stomped hard on the expensive fabric. Taejeong chewed the end of the cigarette, watching the woman as she walked away.

 

“Secretary Kang.”

 

“Yes, Director.”

 

“Shall we place a bet, for old times’ sake?”

 

Sa Taejeong’s cheek sank again as he exhaled. Smoke curled like heatwaves at the tip of the flame, hiding the fragile silhouette in its trail.

 

“How long Song Seorin will last.”

 

Tilting his head back, Sa Taejeong flicked the ashes. The white and black flakes clung to his thick bathrobe. It was on the very thigh that Song Seorin would soon straddle with a puppet-like body.

 

Even after the door closed, his erection showed no signs of fading. The glans, as big as a fist, strained to poke through the robe, and Taejeong let out a laugh.

 

“They say sons take after their fathers—guess the old saying’s true.”

 

Now that he had laid eyes on a rare fine female, the part of him that had gone hungry for a while was drooling. Taejeong bit down on the cigarette, trailing the dirty footprints left on the fabric.