Chapter Text
Three months.
That was how long it had been since Dr. Junn Tangsakultham, Assistant Professor of Classics at Chulalongkorn University, had stopped being himself and started being Mr. Junn Tangsakultham, Chief Executive Officer of the Tangsakultham Global Corporation.
Three months of emotional void. A profound emptiness where intellectual curiosity once resided, replaced by cold, transactional logic. He felt like a curator trapped in a vast, modern museum, forbidden from touching the ancient artefacts he loved.
Three months of reluctant responsibility, where duty was the only currency—a crushing debt he never asked to owe.
Three months of living a life that wasn’t his own.
He still caught himself glancing at books on his desk that he no longer had time to read—bookmarked pages from Virgil and Hesiod lying beside board reports and stock analysis. His handwriting, once used to pen thoughtful lectures about the enduring struggles of gods and mortals, now annotated supply chains, merger agreements, and quarterly summaries. The simple act of signing his name, endorsing decisions he cared nothing for, felt like an act of betrayal against his own soul.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as his secretary knocked on the glass wall of his office.
"Sir, the PR team is asking if you’ll approve the new campaign lineup."
Junn lifted his gaze. His eyes felt heavy, perpetually tired. He knew the campaigns were for glossy magazines and luxury cosmetics, products he had never once used. "I’ll review it later, Ciize. Just leave it on the desk."
"Yes, sir." She hesitated, her slight worry adding to the tension in the room. She was one of the few who had worked with Jinn and now saw the stark contrast—Jinn, loud and carelessly charming; Junn, silent and meticulously efficient, but utterly joyless. She left quietly. The moment the door shut, silence pressed in again. A silence that echoed in sterile boardrooms and private elevators, a cold, expensive quiet where no one spoke unless spoken to. It was the crushing antithesis of the vibrant, chaotic hum of a university library or lecture hall.
He missed the scent of ozone after a lecture, the palpable energy of debate, and the smell of chalk dust and old books. Here, everything was filtered, air-conditioned, flawless, and utterly lifeless. His previous life, steeped in ancient texts, had taught him the immutable importance of honour and sacrifice; the relentless pursuit of profit now felt hollow and transient by comparison.
Four years of undergraduate study, two years of a double master’s—Classics for his passion, Economics for his mother’s peace of mind—and three years of a PhD. He had been proud to be a scholar, someone who studied for the love of knowledge itself.
But all that specialised education, particularly the MPhil in Economics that his mother insisted upon, "just so you’ll understand decision-making, darling," had turned into ammunition against him. He hadn't realised she was creating a qualified, acceptable backup plan. Now, that backup plan was the only thing standing between the Tangsakultham empire and utter humiliation.
The headline still made him grimace whenever someone mentioned it: Heir Apparent Flees the Country with Married Woman.
His older brother, Jinn, thirty-two, former CEO, and general family disappointment, had embezzled millions. The stupidity of the decision was what truly offended Junn’s mind. They were billionaires with a 'B'. Both brothers possessed multi-million dollar trust funds, albeit restricted on annual withdrawal, yet Jinn still chose to steal, not enough to sink the company, but enough to crush their corporate prestige. His parents had immediately stopped Jinn's trust fund and used the principal to cover the theft, stabilising the finances, but the damage to the name was irreparable.
Worse, he had run away with a woman fifteen years his senior, whose children were still in high school, and who was, most catastrophically, the wife of a Supreme Court lawyer.
Was there no other graceful way of doing it? Junn thought bitterly. If Jinn was so determined to chase an older woman closer to their mother’s age, could he not have chosen someone who was at least divorced? Or someone who wasn't tied to the highest echelons of the legal system? IQ was clearly his strong suit, not Jinn's. The sheer lack of foresight was a personal offence that haunted Junn’s every business decision.
The tabloids had gorged on the story for months. This wasn't just a corporate hiccup; Tangsakultham Global Corporation was a vast conglomerate spanning entertainment agencies, high-society magazines, food distribution, cosmetics, and logistics—everything was tied to the family's brand of conservative wealth and integrity. The reputation was their foundation. A family member stealing and running off with a married woman, leaving behind "poor children" for the public to sympathise with, was devastating to that carefully constructed facade. Sales in their family-branded cosmetics and magazines, which traded on morality and aspiration, had taken a significant, immediate dive.
Junn still remembered his mother, Lalita, puking her gut out thinking of her friend’s wife running away with her son. His father, Chairman Kittisak Tangsakultham, had met with an accident a few years back. He was not fully paraplegic, but the damage was significant: he had difficulty standing up, having lost the functional sensation in one of his feet. This had confined him mostly to his wheelchair, leaving him in perpetual discomfort and having a bad day every day since the injury. Jinn's scandal was just dark cocoa over his already bitter day.
And so, they had needed someone reliable, someone untainted, to fix the mess. Junn, the polite, studious younger son. He had resisted at first, but his mother had shown up in his little cabin at the university, pearls glinting, expression unyielding, and dragged him back to the Rolls‑Royce.
"You can study Virgil again once we’ve rebuilt our reputation, Junn."
That was three months ago. Since then, every day had blurred into spreadsheets and PR calls. He had stopped attending family dinners altogether, retreating into his work and punishing himself with isolation. His parents, in turn, watched the light slowly drain from his eyes.
One afternoon, his mother decided to attend a high society tea party for the first time in months, hoping to project strength. She returned home smelling faintly of expensive jasmine tea and suppressed fury, her attempts at composure shattered.
Junn was in his study when she marched in, shedding her composure.
"Do you know what that old busybody, Khunying Wimon, had the gall to say to me today?" she demanded, her voice tight with controlled rage.
"I assume it was something about Jinn, Mother. People talk. You shouldn’t have gone."
"They were indelicately condescending," she corrected, pacing the rug, the silk of her dress rustling sharply. "They didn't dare speak directly, but they said: ‘Oh, but you are keeping an eye on your second one’s love life, right? Don’t want him following his elder brother’s path.’"
She stopped, hands on her hips, her expensive pearl bracelet digging into her skin. "And Khunying Preeya. She had the nerve to suggest: ‘Your younger was always more of a rebel than the elder one, so he shouldn't be hiding stuff from you.’ And then came the worst, ‘Do you want us to introduce him to one of our daughters? At least you’ll have one proper partner.’"
Junn rubbed his temples. "Mother, I don't care what they say. My love life is my business, and it is currently non-existent."
"That is exactly the problem! I protected our name!" she exploded. "I told them—I told all of them—that you were a sensible, gay man with a gorgeous, age-appropriate boyfriend, and you were only waiting for this corporate mess to blow over before announcing your engagement. I said, 'He has a gorgeous young age-appropriate bf who he is going to marry soon, they had planned to tie the knot soon, but his brother stole all the limelight, so they were waiting for things to calm down, and I would have told you all with invitations if you hadn't been so invested.'"
"You said what?" Junn asked.
She threw her hands up in exasperation. "The board, the shareholders, the public—they still see the CEO as unstable! You need to show stability, Junn. Immediate, tangible stability. A proper, committed future that demonstrates responsibility and trust."
When Junn walked into the dining room that night, he felt like he was entering a trap. His mother sat at the head of the table, expression deceptively pleasant. His father sat beside her in his wheelchair, stoic as always.
"Junn," Lalita said sweetly after serving him rice, "we need to talk about… your future."
"You've done well these last few months, son. But people are talking," his father echoed, voice gravelly but firm, never meeting Junn's eye.
"They think you’re unstable," Lalita corrected, tone sharp. "It's not helping that you’ve been single for years. You need stability. You need a partner. Marriage is—"
"Mom," he interrupted, voice rising slightly. "I just said I don’t have a partner. I am not marrying someone just to make the shareholders comfortable. I am already doing enough things against my will! My life is not a PR tool."
Her lips thinned. "If you don’t have someone, then I’ll find someone for you. If I say you are getting married, then you are getting married"
Junn let out a small, humourless laugh, brittle with exhaustion. "Of course you will."
Slam!
His father struck the table with his fist—a sound so rare and loud it silenced the room completely.
"That’s enough," Mr Tangsakultham’s voice was low and carried immense, weary weight. "Junn, your mother is right. I have been hearing things, and sometimes you have to atone for the sins of your blood. If marrying someone, securing a public future, will fix the family image, then you will marry someone."
The older man's tone softened, striking Junn where he was most vulnerable. "I met your mother through my parents. It was an arrangement. It was not the end of the world. You might even find a person whom you would finally open up to, because right now, son, you’re fading. You’ve shut yourself up and are punishing yourself for Jinn’s failure. The entire house is dark because you are dark."
The accusation of self-punishment struck true, hitting harder than any threat. Junn stared at his plate, the weight of his name crushing him, realising his father was not just talking about the company, but about the son he was losing.
After a long pause, he exhaled, the sound flat and lifeless. "Fine. Do what you want. Find me someone who understands the arrangement."
Lalita smiled, relief and victory gleaming in her eyes. Her immediate thought was the list of suitable candidates she had been compiling. The announcement would stabilise the stock and silence the gossip in one perfect move. She would not fail this time. "I will. Leave the rest to me. I’ll find you someone incredible."
That night, as Junn sat in his study, surrounded by stacks of unfinished reports and the ghosts of Greek heroes, he wondered when exactly his life had stopped belonging to him. Outside, the city lights of Bangkok stretched endlessly—glittering, cold, and untouchable.
˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚
Dylan Zhou sat on the edge of his custom-made, velvet sofa, the harsh ring light of his laptop illuminating the expensive, empty space of his penthouse living room. Outside, Bangkok glittered, but the reflection in the glass was just his own tired face. At twenty-eight, after eleven relentless years in the industry, he had tasted every success a T-Pop idol could dream of: platinum records, frequent world tours that spanned continents, sold-out stadiums in the USA, Europe, Seoul and Tokyo, and even a successful crossover into America with appearances on shows like Jimmy Kimmel and Graham Norton. He wasn't just a star; he was a phenomenon. People cosplayed him for Halloween; his choreography was global TikTok currency.
Yet, off-stage, the blinding glitter felt like prison bars.
His life was a perpetual performance managed by an iron fist in a silk glove. Every time he stepped onto a stage, he wore the mask of flawless, vibrant energy, but back in the rarefied silence of his apartment, the facade crumbled. The chronic ache in his knees from years of complex, high-impact choreography was a daily reminder that the body, unlike the brand, couldn't be perpetually renewed.
His agency had him on a strict leash. The number one rule: no public dating. This wasn't because he was closeted—his sexuality was an open secret carefully managed for brand appeal—but because the ambiguity allowed his team to cultivate a thriving "shipping" economy. He was perpetually paired with male co-stars, generating a separate, lucrative brand value based on fantasy.
He scrolled past a fan post detailing a "ship analysis" between him and a former co-star. The affection felt real from the fans, but the thought of a true CP made a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
That was his one big, non-negotiable rule: No CP work.
Don't get him wrong, he admired the genuine relationships built in the industry. His best friends, Saint and Shin, were not only in a long-term, successful CP but were also genuinely in love. But his own history was deeply tainted. At nineteen, hungry for his break, he was paired with an actor who saw BL as nothing more than an "easy cash grab." This actor, secure in his own straight masculinity, had constantly ridiculed Dylan’s natural grace and 'feminine' mannerisms behind closed doors, treating the BL concept as a humiliating joke he had to endure for a paycheck. Dylan felt like a commodity of shame, deeply betrayed by the intimacy of the forced coupling. The trauma had left a lasting, protective scar, and he vowed then that his art would never again be used to prop up someone else’s toxic brand of authenticity.
The irony was that Thai and international fans were largely accepting. The pressure came from his massive Asian fanbases. He was selling out venues in Korea and Japan, and their idol culture was extreme, demanding absolute purity and availability. His company, desperate to protect this cash flow, had imposed extra, suffocating rules that most other Thai actors and idols were happily exempt from.
"You look like you're calculating amortisation schedules, Dyl," a smooth voice cut through his thoughts.
Pepper, his long-time manager, walked in with a tumbler of fresh juice. Pepper wasn't just a manager; He was one of the few people who saw the exhaustion behind the dazzling smile.
"Worse, P'Per", Dylan sighed, running a hand over his face. "I'm calculating where they're taking the scissors next. It feels deliberate."
The numbers didn't lie. He was the agency's undisputed cash cow, selling millions in albums and setting tour records. But recently, a subtle, cold shift had begun. His creative projects were stalled. His occasional, highly praised acting role was now not being promoted. Most damningly, his brand deals were being silently, systematically cut off.
"Twelve endorsements a year ago, now seven," he recited, tossing the printed contract summaries onto the table. "They let the smartphone company walk, P'Pe. They let a smartphone company walk! What are we, Luddites? And the excuse? 'Digital detox' image."
Pepper’s expression was grim. "It's a flimsy, obvious lie. It wasn't just about the smartphone deal; the agency has quietly phased out your entire portfolio of youthful, technology-forward brands, claiming you need to mature into 'classic, timeless luxury.' But the luxury contracts aren't arriving. Instead, the void left by the endorsements forces you to rely more heavily on agency-controlled income streams."
They both knew the probable root cause: Mark. Six months prior, Dylan had ended his two-year private relationship with the actor. Mark wasn't younger—he was Dylan’s age, but had started his career later after college. Mark was conventionally "manly," with a celebrated six-pack and height that the agency was hellbent on leveraging. They were grooming him as the next big Lakorn heartthrob, hoping to copy the success of another superstar, Peach.
"It's like they're choosing him. They want the sturdy, reliable pillar of Thai masculinity, and they view me as... too expensive, too much effort, too 'flighty'," Dylan whispered, the humiliation cutting deeper than the financial loss.
Of his remaining seven deals, only three were truly secure, and he knew why. Two were the food brands under TG Foodville and the skincare line Nuvé under Amarisse Corporation. These were under the umbrella of the TG Corporation, which also held major shares in his agency. He strongly suspected his deals only survived because the parent company had discreetly threatened his agency against touching them, solely on the sales he generated for them. The other four were long-term international contracts.
He was the face of Dior, a massive five-year deal. But two months ago, when it was time to renegotiate, the agency had suggested to Dior that Dylan should transition to a "fresh face" because he should wear more "gender neutral" brands than just tailored suits.
"They told Dior we were pivoting to gender neutrality. I expected Chanel, maybe Dolce & Gabbana," Dylan snapped, his voice tight. "But they did nothing. Just left a massive, empty space in my portfolio. And they’re sending multiple new reps to every L'Oréal event—L'Oréal, the brand that takes me to Cannes every year! Losing Cannes is losing my most valuable connection to legitimate global fashion status, a place where my artistry, not my obedience, is celebrated. I have five years left on my agency contract, P'Per. I am being systematically bled dry."
He was caught in a perfect legal bind: he had no provable reason to sue the company for sabotage, but he was slowly being bled dry of his commercial value. He felt lonely, overworked, exhausted, and strategically sidelined. His stylist, Nano, and his producer, Po, noticed his despair, but their support felt flimsy against the agency’s strategic malice.
Dylan was a Buddhist, raised to believe that God had already blessed him immensely—rich doctor parents, a privileged childhood, and extraordinary success. He never felt the need to beg the heavens for more. He believed in earning, not asking, and saw greed as a spiritual weakness.
But today, the feeling of being wronged, of being trapped and systematically dismantled by the very people he had enriched, was too much.
He left his penthouse and drove discreetly to a small, quiet temple he hadn't visited since his college days. He bought flowers and incense, kneeling before the altar to make merit, the gold-leaf shimmering in the low light.
He went through the motions, lighting the candles and praying for wellness for his family and friends. Then, in a moment of utter, exhausted surrender, he lowered his head and whispered a selfish, human request—the first he'd ever consciously made in his adult life. The plea was stripped bare of pride.
"I’m exhausted. I just want to be looked after. I don’t want this feeling of being wronged and helpless anymore. I feel like an instrument that has been played too hard and is now being deliberately broken by its owners. Please, God, just... intervene. Send me a shield."
Little did he know, the answer to his prayer wasn't coming from the heavens, God, or maybe fate was just waiting for little Mr. Dylan Zhou to finally ask for help before delivering the most complicated intervention imaginable.