Chapter Text
Theerakit Kian Lee:
The cuff squeezes my arm like it has a personal vendetta against me.
"I swear to God, Thap, if that thing pops and kills me, I'm haunting you," I say, glaring down at the blood pressure monitor as if intimidation might lower the numbers.
Dr. Thapfah Kittiphokhin doesn't even look impressed. He's leaning against the marble counter of my penthouse kitchen, white coat off, sleeves rolled up, hair annoyingly neat for someone standing in the middle of my crisis.
"Stop talking," he says. "You talk too much when you're stressed."
"I am not stressed," I snap immediately, which is a lie. A beautifully performed lie, but still a lie.
The machine beeps. Thap looks at it. His eyebrow twitches.
"You're stressed," he says flatly.
"I am hosting an unwanted human disaster in my home," I correct. "There's a difference."
He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man who has known me since college and regrets it every single day. "You're hosting a twenty-year-old piano prodigy with trauma. You sound like you're preparing for an alien invasion."
"They're the same thing," I say. "One plays Chopin. The other destroys civilizations."
The cuff finally loosens. I yank it off dramatically and stand, pacing across the kitchen, silk robe flaring behind me like I'm in the third act of a lakorn tragedy. Outside, the Chao Phraya reflects the afternoon sun. Inside, my soul is at war.
My father's voice echoes in my head, calm and merciless.
You will take care of him.
No discussion. No room for theatrics. Just an order.
I didn't leave that world just to be dragged back into obligations like this. I built Arseni from the ground up. Perfume. Beauty. Control. I curated my chaos. I did not sign up to babysit Neungdiao Kiattrakulmet—spoiled heir, bad attitude, sharp tongue, walking migraine.
And he hates me.
Which, fine. Mutual hatred is honest. Clean. Manageable.
Thap watches me pace like I'm a case study. "You know you can say no."
I stop so abruptly he almost blinks. "Don't be stupid."
He shrugs. "I'm serious. You're not your father."
"But I am his son," I say, softer, sharper. "And our families are... entangled."
That gets a look. Thap doesn't believe in fate, but he understands gravity. Some things pull whether you like it or not.
Before he can respond, my phone rings on the island counter.
I freeze.
The screen lights up.
Khun Thanya Kiattrakulmethee
Neung's mother.
Of course.
Of course.
The universe has timing like a vindictive ex-lover.
I don't pick it up immediately. I stare at it as if ignoring it might make it disappear. It rings again. Louder. Insistent.
Thap smirks. "You going to answer, or should I start CPR preemptively?"
I snatch the phone. "If I die, I'm suing you in the afterlife."
I answer. "Khun Thanya."
Her voice is composed. Too composed for a woman whose husband was murdered and whose son is being hunted by shadows. That kind of calm is forged in fear.
"Khun Thee," she says. "Thank you for agreeing to this. I know it's... an inconvenience."
Inconvenience is when the elevator is slow. This is a controlled demolition of my peace.
"It's fine," I lie gracefully. "Neungdiao will be safe here."
My jaw tightens so hard it aches.
"I'm trusting you with my son," she continues. "He won't say it, but he's scared."
I almost laugh. Neungdiao, scared? The boy who looks at people like they're beneath his shoes?
But something settles uncomfortably in my chest.
"I understand," I say instead. "Everything is prepared."
Which is also a lie. Nothing is prepared. My house has never housed a hostile piano-playing aristocrat with unresolved trauma and a talent for pushing my buttons.
We end the call politely. Respectfully. Like civilized adults standing on the edge of a disaster.
The second the line goes dead, I lose what little composure I had left.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Absolutely unbelievable."
I storm toward the living room and immediately bark at the house manager the moment he appears. "Why are the curtains still ivory? I said pearl. Do you know the emotional difference between ivory and pearl?"
"Yes, Khun Thee," he says, already retreating.
"And where is my driver?" I demand, even though I don't need to go anywhere. "I asked for the car fifteen minutes ago."
"In traffic, sir."
"Of course he is," I snap. "This city exists solely to test my patience."
Thap follows me, unbothered. "You're redirecting."
"I am expressing," I correct. "There's a difference."
I collapse onto the sofa, dramatic sigh included, staring up at the ceiling like a man wronged by the gods. Bangkok roars beyond the glass. Somewhere in this city, Neungdiao Kiattrakulmet is on his way to my house, my life, my carefully controlled chaos.
He isn't even here yet.
And already, my blood pressure is a tragedy, my peace is dead, and my father is winning from afar.
I close my eyes.
"This," I announce to no one in particular, "is the beginning of a nightmare."
The city does not argue.
Neungdiao:
My mother doesn't raise her voice.
She never has to.
We're sitting in the backseat of the car, Bangkok sliding past the tinted windows in blurs of heat and concrete and guarded gates. The driver keeps his eyes forward. The bodyguard in front keeps his hand near his jacket. This is what my life has become—quiet instructions wrapped in danger.
"Neung," my mother says, smoothing the crease in her skirt. "You will stay at the Lee residence for now."
I nod once. Clean. Precise. The way I was taught.
"You will lay low," she continues. "No unnecessary outings. No social media. No performances. Nothing that draws attention."
"Yes, Mom."
She turns to me then, finally looking, her eyes sharp with worry she refuses to indulge. "And you will show respect to Khun Theerakit."
That makes something sour twist in my chest.
"Yes, Mom," I repeat.
I don't argue. I don't complain. I don't tell her that Khun Theerakit Kian Lee is arrogant, dramatic, and treats me like an inconvenience with legs. I don't say that the last time we were in the same room, he looked at me like I'd personally offended his bloodline.
I am twenty years old and very good at obedience.
That doesn't mean I'm not angry.
The car stops briefly at a red light. I pull out my phone and type with controlled irritation.
Neung: I'm going to Lee Mansion.
In: ...like the Lee Mansion?
Neung: Unfortunately.
In: Say less. I'm coming with you.
I exhale slowly through my nose. Inthu Thammasirikul has never understood the concept of danger, but he understands me. Right now, that's enough.
⸻
In arrives ten minutes later on his motorcycle, helmet crooked, grin too bright for the situation. He knocks on the car window like we're meeting for coffee instead of a security transfer.
My mother allows it. She always liked In. Said he had "gentle eyes," even if she didn't quite believe in his cards or visions.
"Text me when you're inside," she tells me as I steps out. "And remember what I said."
"I will," I promise.
I always keep my promises to her.
The ride to Lee Mansion is shorter than I expect. The gates rise slowly, deliberately, as if the house itself is deciding whether I'm worth letting in. The property is massive—too polished, too controlled. Money with taste. Power without apology.
In whistles low. "Wow. If ghosts exist, they definitely wear suits here."
"Don't," I mutter, pulling my helmet off.
The moment we step inside, the air changes. Cooler. Quieter. Like the house is listening.
That's when I see him.
Not Khun Thee.
Someone else.
A tall man in scrubs, leaning against the side table near the entrance, coffee in hand, expression mildly amused. He looks at us like he's walked into an unexpected subplot.
In stops dead.
"Oh," In says softly.
The man raises an eyebrow. "That's usually not how people greet doctors, but I'll take it."
"In," I hiss under my breath. "Focus."
He doesn't. He's staring. Then, with absolute sincerity, he blurts, "You have very stable energy. Rational. Annoyingly grounded."
The man snorts. "I get that a lot."
"Dr. Thapfah Kittiphokhin," he adds, offering a hand—to me, not In. "You must be Neungdiao."
I shake it politely. "Yes. Thank you for being here."
In finally snaps out of it. "I'm In. His best friend. Tarot reader."
"Of course you are," Dr. Thap says, completely unbothered.
Before In can say anything else embarrassing, a voice cuts through the space like it owns it.
"Why are there more people in my house?"
I turn.
Khun Theerakit Kian Lee stands at the foot of the stairs, silk shirt half-buttoned, hair perfect in a way that feels intentional and offensive. He looks at me like he's already tired, like I arrived late to ruin his day on purpose.
I straighten immediately.
"Good afternoon, Khun Thee," I say, bowing slightly. "Thank you for taking me in."
His eyes narrow, clearly suspicious of my manners.
"...You're being polite," he says.
"Yes," I reply evenly.
He clicks his tongue. "Don't overdo it. It's unsettling."
In shifts beside me, vibrating with unspoken commentary. Dr. Thap watches this like it's his favorite show.
"I'll be staying temporarily," I continue. "I won't cause trouble."
Khun Thee laughs. Not kindly.
"You already are," he says. "You just walked in."
I meet his gaze, calm, sharp. "With respect, Khun Thee, I didn't choose this either."
His smile tightens. "Ah. There it is."
We stare at each other, polite words sharpening into blades beneath the surface. Sparks, instant and unwanted.
Chaos, I realize, doesn't always announce itself.
Sometimes it just opens the door and smiles.
And I've just stepped inside.
In:
I know energy when I walk into it.
Lee Mansion doesn't just have energy—it has layers of it, stacked and polished and aggressively expensive. Old power. New money. Control disguised as elegance. The kind of place where even the air feels like it's been trained to behave.
Neung is trying very hard to look calm beside me. Straight spine. Neutral expression. Good son posture. I recognize it immediately and hate that he has to wear it.
Then I see him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Scrubs. Coffee in hand like he's using it as emotional armor. His aura is... irritatingly solid. No flicker. No chaos. No static. Just logic and confidence sitting comfortably in human form.
I stop walking without meaning to.
"Oh," slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.
He looks up. Meets my eyes. Assesses. Dismisses. All in half a second.
"That's usually not how people greet doctors," he says dryly.
Neung elbows me. Hard.
I grin anyway. "Sorry. You just have very stable energy."
He snorts. Actually snorts. "I get that a lot."
I don't believe him for a second.
He introduces himself—Dr. Thapfah Kittiphokhin—and shakes Neung's hand first. Respectful. Professional. Annoyingly decent. When he looks at me again, his gaze is sharp, curious in the way scientists get when they're looking at something they don't believe in but might dissect later.
"I'm In," I say. "Tarot reader."
"Of course you are."
No hesitation. No surprise. Zero interest.
Oh. This one's fun.
Khun Thee's dramatic voice cuts through the room seconds later, tension snapping into place like a live wire. Neung goes into polite mode. Khun Thee goes into theatrical hostility. Dr. Thap watches like he's front-row at a comedy show he didn't pay for.
I clock everything. The way Khun Thee bristles. The way Neung's jaw tightens. The way this house is already sharpening its teeth.
This is not my battlefield.
Once Neung is settled—well, as settled as someone can be while verbally fencing with his unwilling guardian—I step back.
"I should go," I tell Neung quietly. "Text me. Any time."
He nods. Doesn't say thank you. He doesn't need to.
I head out toward the front drive, helmet in hand, already mentally planning three tarot spreads for his survival.
That's when I hear it.
A very unhealthy, very final clunk followed by silence.
I turn.
Dr. Thap is standing by a sleek but very dead-looking car, keys in hand, staring at the hood like it has personally betrayed him.
I walk over, peering at it. "Car trouble?"
"It was working an hour ago," he says. "Which statistically makes this annoying."
I smile. "Fate."
He shoots me a look. "Mechanical failure."
"Sure," I say pleasantly. "Where do you need to go?"
"Hospital," he replies. "ICU shift."
I gesture to my motorcycle. "I can take you."
"No," he says immediately.
"Relax," I add. "I don't crash. My cards say so."
"That's not comforting."
Five minutes later, he's still standing there, the mansion security already calling a tow.
Ten minutes later, he sighs like a man surrendering to a deeply irritating variable.
"Fine," he says. "But if I die, I'm haunting you."
I grin. "Deal."
⸻
The ride through Bangkok traffic is... intimate.
He's tense at first, posture rigid, hands hovering like he's not sure where human contact is supposed to go. By the third red light, he relaxes just enough to stop looking like he's preparing a will.
"So," I shout over the noise, "you don't believe in tarot."
"No," he answers immediately.
"None at all?"
"Nope."
"Destiny?"
"No."
"Soulmates?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Absolutely not."
I laugh. "You're no fun."
"I save lives," he says. "That's enough."
When we stop at the hospital, he gets off and hands me my helmet back like he's returning borrowed equipment, not ending a meet-cute he refuses to acknowledge.
"Thanks for the ride," he says.
"Anytime," I reply. "Your aura's going to get messier soon, by the way."
He pauses. Turns. "That's not a thing."
"It is," I say lightly. "You just haven't measured it yet."
He studies me for a moment, unreadable.
Then he walks away without another word.
I watch him go, smile fading into something thoughtful.
Rational men are always the most fun to unravel.
And something tells me this one's about to get very inconveniently entangled.
Dr.Thap:
The day was already compromised the moment I set foot in Lee Mansion.
I had come to check Kian's blood pressure, not bear witness to the arrival of a traumatized hotel heir and his... tarot-reading escort. I was still mentally cataloguing all the ways Kian was shaving years off his own life when the front doors opened and the atmosphere shifted. He might be Khun Thee on the outside but inside he is still my best friend Kian.
Neungdiao Kiattrakulmet walked in like someone taught from birth how to survive rooms full of predators—polite posture, controlled expression, eyes too sharp for his age. I clocked the trauma immediately. Anyone with medical training would.
What I didn't expect was the person next to him.
He stopped short the second he saw me.
"Oh."
That was it. Just oh. Like he'd tripped over something interesting.
I looked up from my coffee. Took him in. Lean build. Bright eyes. That specific kind of confidence people get when they believe the universe is on their side.
"That's usually not how people greet doctors," I said.
"You have very stable energy," he replied, completely serious.
I snorted before I could stop myself. "I get that a lot."
Which was a lie. No one had ever said that to me in my life.
I introduced myself properly to Neung first—because he was the actual responsibility in the room. The other one hovered too close, studying me like I was a puzzle he'd already decided to solve.
"I'm In," he said. "Tarot reader."
"Of course you are."
The words came out automatically. Reflex. Defense mechanism.
He didn't look offended. If anything, he looked entertained.
Kian descended into the room moments later, already dramatic, already irritated by the concept of additional humans existing in his house. The dynamic between him and Neung ignited instantly—polite words sharpened into weapons, tension buzzing just beneath the surface.
I watched. Assessed. Filed it away.
This was going to be a mess.
Once Neung was officially absorbed into the chaos, In stepped back. I assumed he was leaving for good—sensible choice.
I followed him outside a few minutes later to retrieve my car.
It did not start.
I stared at the dashboard in silence, waiting for reality to correct itself.
It didn't.
Behind me, a voice: "Car trouble?"
I turned. In stood there, helmet tucked under his arm, expression far too pleased for the situation.
"It was working an hour ago," I said. "Which makes this annoying."
"Fate," he offered lightly.
"Mechanical failure."
"Sure," he said, smiling. "Where do you need to go?"
"Hospital. ICU shift."
Without missing a beat, he nodded toward his motorcycle. "I can take you."
"No," I said immediately.
"Relax. I don't crash. My cards say so."
"That's not comforting."
I stood there longer than I should have. Long enough for security to call a tow. Long enough for my irritation to turn into inconvenience.
Finally, against my better judgment, I sighed. "Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting you."
He grinned like I'd just agreed to something far more personal.
The ride through Bangkok traffic should have been terrifying.
It wasn't.
He rode clean. Confident. Predictive. Like he anticipated movement before it happened. I stayed tense anyway, because trusting people like him felt like inviting variables I couldn't measure.
"You don't believe in tarot," he said over the engine noise.
"No."
"Destiny?"
"No."
"Soulmates?"
"Absolutely not."
"You're no fun."
"I save lives," I said. "That's enough."
We reached the hospital too quickly. I got off, handed him his helmet, and thanked him because I'm not an animal.
"Anytime," he said easily. "Your aura's going to get messier soon."
I paused. Looked at him. "That's not a thing."
"It is," he replied. "You just haven't measured it yet."
I walked away without responding.
Engagement encourages delusion.
⸻
Inside the hospital, everything made sense again. Scrubs. Charts. Numbers. Patients who deteriorated for reasons I could explain.
Still, my thoughts kept circling back—unwanted, persistent.
His confidence. His certainty. The way he'd looked at me like my disbelief was just another step in a process he'd already seen through.
I checked my phone.
Three unread messages from Kian.
Kian:
WHY is your car DEAD.
Did you OFFEND the ENGINE.
Another buzz.
Kian:
Neung is staring at my furniture like it's judging him.
I hate this.
I typed back while walking.
Thap:
He's twenty and traumatized. Be normal.
Immediately:
Kian:
I AM being normal.
He said thank you.
That's aggressive.
I exhaled through my nose.
I didn't like Neung's situation. I didn't like Kian being forced into it. And I really didn't like that, for the first time all day, the most unsettling variable wasn't a patient—
—but a tarot reader who'd gotten me to trust his steering.
I silenced my phone and stepped into the ICU.
I don't believe in fate.
But something was already misaligned.