Chapter 1: Comfort in the Wrong Arms
The velvet swallowed sound. Dunk pressed deeper into the corner sofa, the plush fabric cool against his bare forearms despite the lounge’s ambient warmth. Across the low table littered with empty champagne flutes and sweating tumblers, Joong laughed. It was a sharp, bright sound, directed at someone else. Dunk watched the curve of Joong’s smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners – a sight usually reserved for him. Tonight, it was currency spent freely elsewhere. A familiar ache bloomed beneath Dunk’s ribs, sharp and hollow.
He traced the condensation on his untouched glass. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows, making the abstract paintings on the walls seem to pulse. Perfume – heavy, expensive, cloying – mingled with the faint scent of cigar smoke lingering from earlier. The low thrum of bass from the main club floor was a distant heartbeat, muffled by the thick drapes and the murmured conversations of Bangkok’s glittering elite. He felt like an exhibit. The cheerful actor, momentarily out of character.
“Rough night?”
The voice was smooth, pitched low enough to be intimate without being intrusive. Dunk looked up. Benz Natthapong Pathong slid onto the sofa beside him, closer than necessary. His designer shirt was unbuttoned just enough, revealing a glimpse of toned chest. His smile was easy, confident, his dark eyes holding a warmth Joong’s had lacked all evening.
Dunk managed a weak shrug. “Just… tired. Long week.” The lie tasted stale.
Benz’s gaze didn’t waver. It traveled over Dunk’s face, lingering a fraction too long on his eyes. “Doesn’t look like tired,” he murmured. He leaned in slightly, the expensive citrus-and-sandalwood scent of his cologne cutting through the heavier perfumes. “Looks like hurt.”
The directness was a shock. Dunk flinched, his gaze darting involuntarily towards Joong, who was now engrossed in showing someone something on his phone, oblivious. When Dunk looked back, his vision blurred. Damn it. He blinked rapidly, turning his head away, but not before Benz saw.
A soft sigh escaped Benz. Not pitying. Almost… understanding. Dunk felt the dip in the sofa cushion shift as Benz moved closer still. Then, impossibly gentle, a thumb brushed his cheekbone, catching the single, traitorous tear that had escaped.
The touch was electric. Startlingly tender against the raw ache inside him. Dunk froze, breath catching. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying.
“Hey,” Benz whispered, his thumb lingering, tracing the damp streak down Dunk’s cheek. His voice was velvet over gravel. “Look at me.”
Hesitantly, Dunk obeyed. Benz’s eyes were dark pools in the candlelight, intense, focused solely on him. The rest of the lounge – Joong’s laughter, the murmurs, the oppressive scent – faded into a dull hum.
“Joong,” Benz said, the name dropping like a stone, “is an idiot.” His thumb swept gently again, wiping away the lingering moisture. “He doesn’t deserve you looking like that. Not for a second.”
The words were simple. Brutal. They sliced through the fog of Dunk’s hurt with terrifying precision. He doesn’t deserve you. The validation, coming from someone who moved effortlessly in Joong’s own circle, was a lifeline Dunk hadn’t known he needed. A warmth, alien and desperate, began to seep into the cold hollow in his chest. Starved for any scrap of kindness, any acknowledgement of his pain, Dunk leaned infinitesimally into Benz’s touch.
Benz’s gaze dropped to Dunk’s lips. A slow, knowing smile touched his own. The air crackled, thick with unspoken tension and the scent of spilled champagne. Dunk’s pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out reason. This was dangerous. Reckless. But the loneliness, the sharp sting of Joong’s indifference, was a louder scream.
Benz didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He simply closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was searing. Possessive. Benz’s lips were firm, demanding, tasting faintly of the champagne he’d been drinking – sweet, effervescent, intoxicating. Dunk gasped against Benz’s mouth, a sound swallowed instantly. He didn’t pull away. The hand that had wiped his tears slid around to cradle the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short hairs at his nape, holding him there. Anchoring him.
For a suspended moment, Dunk surrendered. The desperate need for connection, for any warmth to chase away Joong’s chilling neglect, overwhelmed caution. He kissed Benz back, clumsily at first, then with a rising desperation of his own. The plush velvet, the flickering candles, the distant bass – it all dissolved into the heat of Benz’s mouth, the pressure of his hand, the dizzying sweetness of champagne and shared breath.
It was a lie. A beautiful, desperate, champagne-sweet lie. And Dunk clung to it.
Across the dimly lit lounge, seated on a low chaise amidst a group, G watched. His expression was unreadable, a mask of cool observation. But his eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian shards, were fixed intently on the entwined figures on the sofa. They didn’t flicker. Didn’t waver. They burned with a predatory intensity that cut through the intimate haze surrounding Dunk and Benz – a silent, chilling counterpoint to the stolen heat.
The kiss broke, leaving Dunk gasping. His lips tingled, burning with the phantom pressure of Benz’s mouth, the lingering sweetness of champagne turning cloying in the sudden, suffocating silence that followed. The roar of the club, the murmurs of the elite – it all rushed back, amplified, crashing over him. Shame, hot and immediate, flooded his veins, warring violently with the desperate, starved part of him that had wanted that connection, that validation. He jerked back, his hand flying to his own lips as if burned.
Benz, however, looked utterly unruffled. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, his thumb brushing once more, possessively, over the spot he’d wiped Dunk’s tear. His dark eyes gleamed in the candlelight, holding Dunk captive. "See?" he murmured, his voice a low purr that vibrated through the charged space between them. "Better than crying over spilled milk, isn't it?"
Dunk couldn't speak. His gaze darted past Benz's shoulder, instinctively seeking Joong. Needing to see the impact. Needing... something.
Joong wasn't laughing anymore. He stood a little apart from his group now, his expression carved from ice. His eyes, darker and colder than Dunk had ever seen them, locked onto them. There was no visible anger, no shouting. Just that terrifying, predatory stillness. It wasn't jealousy Dunk saw – it was calculation. A cold assessment. And beneath it, a flicker of something dangerously close to contempt. For Dunk? For Benz? For the entire messy display? Dunk couldn’t tell. It froze him more completely than any shout could have.
"Wow," a voice drawled nearby, cutting through the tension like cheap scissors. One of the hangers-on in Joong's circle, a guy Dunk vaguely recognized but whose name escaped him in his panic, smirked. "Didn't see that coming. Bold move, Benz. Very bold."
Benz didn't even glance at the speaker. His gaze remained fixed on Dunk, radiating a smug confidence. He leaned in again, his breath warm against Dunk's ear. "Ignore them. They're just jealous they didn't think of it first." He chuckled, the sound rich and self-assured. "You taste even sweeter than you look, Dunk. Like forbidden fruit."
The casual possessiveness, the sheer audacity of it, finally snapped Dunk out of his daze. He wasn't a prize to be tasted. He wasn't a tool for Benz to score points against Joong. The warmth he'd momentarily craved curdled into something sickening. He pushed against Benz’s chest, this time with real force. "Get off," he choked out, his voice rough. He scrambled sideways, nearly stumbling off the low sofa in his haste to put distance between them.
Benz raised his hands, palms out, the picture of innocent amusement. "Whoa, easy there. Just giving you what you needed. A little pick-me-up after Captain Charm over there left you stranded." He nodded subtly towards Joong.
Joong chose that moment to move. Not towards them. Not away. He simply turned his head, deliberately breaking eye contact, and said something in a low voice to the person beside him. A short, sharp laugh answered him. The dismissal was absolute. Brutal. It landed on Dunk like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs far more effectively than Benz's kiss ever could. Joong hadn't just ignored the kiss; he'd erased Dunk from his reality.
Panic, sharp and clawing, replaced the shame. Dunk couldn't breathe. The heavy perfumes suddenly smelled like poison. The flickering candlelight felt accusatory. The velvet upholstery seemed to cling to him, trapping him. He had to get out. Now. Before he shattered into a million pieces right here in front of them all.
He lurched to his feet, swaying slightly. "I... I have to go." The words were barely a whisper, lost in the ambient noise, but Benz heard.
"Leaving so soon?" Benz asked, feigning disappointment, though his eyes still held that calculating gleam. He reached out, fingers brushing Dunk's wrist. "The night's young. We could find somewhere quieter… talk."
Dunk yanked his arm away as if electrocuted. "No." The word was firmer this time. He couldn't look at Benz. He definitely couldn't look at Joong. His vision tunnelled, focusing solely on the heavy velvet drapes obscuring the exit. Sanctuary.
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and pushed his way through the clusters of people, their murmured conversations falling silent as he passed, their eyes like tiny spotlights burning into his back. He felt their judgment, their curiosity, their cruel amusement. The walk to the curtain felt like miles. He shoved the heavy fabric aside, the sudden, overwhelming bass thump from the main club floor hitting him like a wall.
He didn't stop. He plunged into the seething mass of dancers on the main floor, the strobe lights disorienting, the crush of bodies oppressive. He pushed blindly, elbows out, not caring who he jostled. Angry shouts followed him, but they were drowned out by the music and the frantic drumming of his own heart against his ribs. He needed air. Cold, clean air. He needed to be anywhere but here.
Bursting through the club's main entrance, the humid Bangkok night hit him like a damp slap. He stumbled forward, gulping in deep breaths that did little to clear the frantic buzzing in his head. The streetlights blurred. He leaned heavily against the cool brick wall of the building, the rough surface a grounding anchor. The shame returned full force, hot and nauseating. Benz's touch, Joong's cold stare, the smug whispers – they replayed on a loop.
He bent double, retching violently onto the pavement. Nothing came up but bile, burning his throat. The forbidden fruit had turned to ash. He wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, the taste of champagne now irrevocably soured. Behind him, the club's bass throbbed, a relentless heartbeat. Inside, the game continued. Benz was probably already charming someone else, weaving his honeyed lies. Joong… Joong was likely already dismissing the entire incident as a minor, distasteful blip.
Dunk pushed himself upright, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He felt utterly, devastatingly alone. The carefully constructed facade of the cheerful, romantic actor had cracked, revealing the desperate loneliness beneath. And two predators had seen straight through it. One had offered poison disguised as nectar. The other had simply turned away.
He started walking, not knowing where he was going, just needing to put distance between himself and that velvet-lined vipers' nest. The city lights stretched out before him, vast and indifferent. The echo of Benz's voice whispered in his mind, "He doesn't deserve you." But the chilling silence from Joong, the predatory watchfulness of G, screamed a different, more terrifying question into the humid night: What if I don't deserve anything at all? The weight of their gazes, one scorching hot with possession, the other freezing cold with disdain, pressed down on him as he vanished into the anonymous flow of the late-night crowd, the sour taste of betrayal thick on his tongue.
The sour tang of betrayal wasn't just in his mouth; it coated his throat, thick and burning, worse than the cheap liquor he hadn’t drunk. Dunk stumbled, the humid Bangkok air pressing down like a wet blanket after the club's sterile chill. Neon signs bled colour onto rain-slicked pavement – garish pinks and greens reflecting in oily puddles. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hunching his shoulders, trying to fold into himself and disappear. The late-night crowd flowed around him, a river of oblivious faces: laughing groups spilling out of bars, street vendors packing up, couples leaning close. He was adrift, invisible, yet hyper-aware of every glance, imagining judgment, pity, the ghost of Benz’s smirk or Joong’s icy dismissal.
He needed to get home. Needed walls. Needed silence. Hailing a taxi felt like an impossible task under the weight of their phantom gazes. He ducked into a narrow side alley, seeking momentary refuge from the glaring lights and the press of people. The sharp, acrid smell of garbage bins warred with the lingering floral notes of Benz’s cologne that clung stubbornly to his skin. Leaning his forehead against the cool, damp brick wall, he squeezed his eyes shut. Images flashed: Benz’s dark, possessive eyes inches from his own, the searing heat of the kiss that had felt like both salvation and damnation, and then… Joong. The utter blankness. The deliberate turning away. Like Dunk was a stain to be ignored.
A dry heave wracked him. He doubled over, bracing himself against the wall, retching violently. Only bile came up, acidic and bitter, leaving his throat raw. He spat, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. Pathetic, the voice in his head sneered. Just a fucking mess.
A sleek, low-slung sports car, its engine a predatory purr that seemed far too loud for the narrow alley, rolled to a stop at the alley entrance. The window slid down silently.
"Sweetheart? Running so soon?"
Dunk froze. Benz. He didn’t turn around, kept his forehead pressed to the cool brick, bracing himself.
"Thought you might need a ride," Benz continued, his voice smooth as silk, carrying easily over the distant city hum. "You looked a little… lost out here. Vulnerable." The word hung in the air, laced with amusement.
Dunk finally pushed himself off the wall and turned. Benz leaned out of the window, one arm resting casually on the doorframe. He looked immaculate, utterly unruffled, a stark contrast to Dunk’s rumpled clothes and haunted eyes. That easy confidence was infuriating. A shield Dunk desperately wished he possessed.
"I'm fine," Dunk managed, his voice rougher than he intended. "Just getting some air."
"Air?" Benz chuckled, low and knowing. "Looked more like you were trying to escape the scene of the crime." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming in the dim alley light. "Or maybe just escape him?"
Dunk flinched. "Leave it alone, Benz."
"Why?" Benz pushed, his tone shifting subtly. The charm was still there, but edged now with a harder curiosity. "He saw, you know. Saw us. Saw you kissing me back." He paused, letting the words land. "And he did nothing. Not a flicker. Doesn't that tell you everything?"
The raw truth of it hit Dunk like a physical blow. He felt exposed, flayed open. "Fuck you," he whispered, the words lacking any real heat, just a dull ache.
Benz’s smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "See, that's the spirit. A little fire." He pushed the car door open. "Get in. Let's ditch this depressing alley and find somewhere actually interesting. My place has a spectacular view. And better champagne." His gaze travelled over Dunk, lingering. "We could… talk. Properly."
The invitation was clear. The dangerous allure of escape, of oblivion, of feeling wanted, even if it was toxic, pulled at Dunk. A temporary balm for the deep wound Joong had carved. For a second, he wavered, exhaustion warring with a desperate need to feel anything except this crushing loneliness and humiliation.
He took a step towards the open car door. Benz’s smile turned triumphant.
Then Dunk stopped. He saw it again: the predatory stillness in G’s eyes watching them from the VIP lounge. The cool calculation. Benz wasn't offering solace; he was offering a different kind of cage. Another game. One where Dunk was just a pawn being moved against Joong.
"No," Dunk said, stronger this time. He took a deliberate step back. "I'm going home. Alone."
Benz’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of irritation that quickly smoothed over. He leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable. "Suit yourself, Dunk. But remember," his voice dropped, low and dangerous, "opportunities like tonight? They don't knock twice. And Joong saw everything. He knows exactly what you’re willing to do when you're feeling… neglected." He gave a dismissive little wave. "Sweet dreams."
The window glided up, sealing Benz behind tinted glass. The engine revved, a throaty growl, and the car peeled away, disappearing into the neon stream of the main road.
Dunk stood alone in the alley, the stink of garbage suddenly overwhelming. Benz’s final words echoed, laced with threat. He knows exactly what you’re willing to do. It wasn't just rejection he faced now; it was exposure. His moment of weakness, broadcast to the very person whose opinion gutted him the most.
He finally managed to flag down a taxi. The ride was a blur of passing lights and oppressive silence. He kept replaying the kiss – the shocking tenderness of Benz’s thumb on his tear, the searing heat of the kiss itself, the terrifying moment of surrender, and then the icy plunge into reality. The warmth he’d craved had been a lie, a trap baited with cheap sympathy and expensive champagne.
His apartment felt cavernous and cold, the silence ringing louder than the club’s bass ever had. He didn't turn on the lights. He walked straight to the large window overlooking the city. Bangkok glittered below, indifferent, vast. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes. Images collided: Joong’s laugh directed at someone else, Benz’s predatory smile, G’s chillingly observant stare.
He’d walked into that VIP lounge craving connection, starved for a scrap of warmth from Joong. He’d walked out branded. Seen kissing Benz. Seen being comforted by him. Seen being rejected by Joong. Seen by G. He was no longer just Dunk, the cheerful actor. He was a story now. A piece of gossip. A weakness to be exploited.
He slid down the window until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. The polished wooden floor was hard and unyielding. He buried his face in his hands, the scent of Benz’s cologne still faintly clinging to his wrist. The sour taste was back. Not just betrayal. Shame. Deep, corrosive shame that seeped into his bones.
He was an actor. Trained to project emotions he didn't feel. To become someone else. Tonight, in that velvet vipers' nest, he hadn't been acting. He’d been terrifyingly, humiliatingly real. And the audience had been perfect. Benz, the charming opportunist. Joong, the indifferent observer. G, the silent predator.
He didn't cry. The tears felt useless now. He just sat there in the dark, suspended in the wreckage of the evening, the city lights painting shifting patterns on the walls. He felt hollowed out. The carefully constructed persona he showed the world – the kind, cheerful romantic lead – felt like a brittle mask that had shattered, revealing someone raw, desperate, and utterly powerless.
The silence pressed in, heavy and accusing. Outside, Bangkok pulsed with life. Inside, Dunk Natachai Boonprasert sat perfectly still, the faint, lingering sweetness of champagne on his lips a mocking reminder that the performance wasn’t over. The curtain had merely fallen on the first act of his own humiliation, and he had no idea what brutal scene awaited him when it rose again. He was adrift in the aftermath, the script irrevocably rewritten, and he didn't recognize his character anymore.