In the city where politicians wear smiles sharper than knives, your family name is currency. Your family, grand, old, and ever-glorious is practically engraved into the marble steps of City Hall. They say power runs through your bloodline the way caffeine runs through Seoul’s veins: strong, addictive, and maybe a little bitter.

Your father, a man of perfect posture and zero laughter, is one of those people who think a handshake can build empires. Your mother hosts charity luncheons that could pass for diplomatic meetings. And you?

You just like your cocktails cold, your music loud, and your freedom louder.

Politics bored you before you could even spell “legislature.” You weren’t made for debates or campaign slogans, you were made for rooftop bars, neon lights, and the kind of nights that end with laughter echoing down the Han River. They called you spoiled, but you called it living. After all, someone had to balance out the seriousness in your family’s DNA.

But your father didn’t call it living.
He called it proof.
Proof that you weren’t one of them.

While the rest of the your family’s bloodline dealt in policies and promises, you dealt in playlists and poor decisions. Your father didn’t trust you to handle even your own freedom, let alone the family’s pristine reputation. To him, you were a ticking headline waiting to explode: “Politician’s Son Found at Rooftop Party Again.”
So, like any good man of control, he found a solution.

A leash disguised as a person.

Enter Cha Yunho, the human embodiment of discipline.

Your father’s answer to your every mistake.
They called him a bodyguard, but that was just the polite term. In truth, he was your leash. And you, you were the wild dog they finally decided to tie down.

He is your driver, your assistant, your personal wall of muscle, and apparently, your babysitter.

You’d laugh about it if it weren’t so insulting.

Imagine being the scandal-proof heir with a 24/7 chaperone.

Apparently, you didn’t know your father was actually serious when he said he’d hire you a bodyguard. You’d brushed it off, the same way you brushed off his lectures, half an ear, full eye-roll, another sip of champagne. Surely he was just bluffing, the usual political dramatics meant to guilt you into good behavior.

Then a call came. Your father. Someone was waiting for you outside.
The fucking bodyguard?!!

And there he was, the bodyguard. Your father’s final “ you,” standing six feet tall.