sana, 21 (04 liner). she/her. taehyung biased, ot7 always. red enthusiast. chocomint defender. i like things fresh, sweet & a little romantic but my stories tend to bleed a little.
NAVI
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SYNOPSIS: Your life was perfect, or so it seemed. As the wife of Jeon Jungkook, a powerful billionaire, you lived in quiet luxury, never questioning the shadows around him. Until Kim Namjoon appeared. What begins as curiosity turns into manipulation, and before you realize it, you're no longer a bystander.
You're leverage.
Caught between a husband with secrets and a man determined to expose them, trust becomes a weapon and every choice pulls you deeper into a game with no innocent sides.
The air in the grand study of the Jeon estate was suffocating, thick with the scent of burning cigar smoke and decades of unyielding power.
You stood just inside the doorway, your hand subconsciously tightening around your bag. You had left Rawoon at the hotel with a trusted sitter, thinking this was just another corporate summons from your father-in-law. You hadn't expected this.
Jungkook was leaning against the heavy oak desk, his jaw so tightly clenched that a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. His eyes burned into you, a toxic mix of betrayal, fury, and possession. But it was the man sitting on the leather couch who made your breath catch in your throat.
Kim Taehyung.
He sat with an agonizingly calm posture, one leg crossed over the other, dressed in a flawless, bespoke suit that practically screamed old money. His family’s wealth and political influence made even the Jeon empire look like a regional enterprise. When his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, there was no warmth. No memory of the secret comfort you once shared. Only a cold, glittering rage.
Chairman Jeon sat behind his desk, exhaling a thick cloud of grey smoke. He didn't offer you a seat.
"Y/n," the Chairman began, his voice like grinding stones. "I called you here because a rather disturbing rumor brought Mr. Kim to my doorstep today. A rumor regarding the bloodline of the Jeon heir."
Your heart dropped into your stomach. You looked from the Chairman to Jungkook, whose fists were trembling at his sides, and finally to Taehyung.
"Chairman, I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice wavering despite your best efforts. "Rawoon is-"
"Don't embarrass yourself further, Y/n," Taehyung interrupted. His voice was a smooth, deep baritone, entirely devoid of emotion.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a crisp, white envelope, and tossed it carelessly onto the glass coffee table. It slid to a stop right in front of you.
"I noticed the timeline didn't add up," Taehyung said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared you down. "I don't let sentimentality blind me. I had my people secure a DNA sample from the boy at his daycare last week. Open it."
With trembling hands, you picked up the papers. Your eyes blurred over the clinical jargon until they hit the bottom line: 99.9% Probability of Paternity.
"You kept my son hidden," Taehyung hissed, the calm facade finally cracking to reveal the roaring fire underneath. "A Kim heir, living like a fugitive because you couldn't keep your lies straight. Did you really think you could hide him from me forever?"
"That's enough!" Jungkook roared, slamming his fist down onto the mahogany desk. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. He stormed over, stepping directly between you and Taehyung, effectively blocking you from Taehyung's sight.
"He is my son," Jungkook snarled, his chest heaving as he glared down at Taehyung. "His birth certificate says Jeon Rawoon. I raised him. I held him. He is my child, and he will be the sole heir to Jeon Holdings. A piece of paper doesn't change a damn thing."
Taehyung let out a sharp, mocking laugh, standing up to face Jungkook eye-to-eye. The sheer tension between the two men made the air vibrate.
"An heir?" Taehyung scoffed, his eyes flashing with lethal amusement. "To what, Jungkook? A sinking ship? Don't act like your father hasn't told you yet."
Taehyung turned his gaze slightly toward the Chairman.
"The Kim Group just bought out the majority shares of your shipping logistics branch this morning. By next week, I’ll have enough leverage to force your board of directors into a hostile takeover. You’re bleeding cash from your scandals with Mina, your reputation is in the gutter, and you think you can provide for my son? You can't even protect your own company."
Taehyung stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I am filing for sole custody of Rawoon tomorrow. He will have the Kim name, the Kim fortune, and a life away from your foundation of filth."
"You arrogant son of a bitch!"
Jungkook lost it.
With a roar of pure, unadulterated rage, Jungkook lunged forward, his fist connecting squarely with Taehyung’s jaw. The force of the blow sent Taehyung stumbling back against the couch, knocking over a crystal decanter that shattered across the hardwood floor.
"Jungkook, stop!" you screamed, covering your mouth.
Taehyung didn't hesitate. Wiping a smear of blood from his lip, his eyes went pitch black. He surged forward, tackling Jungkook to the ground. The two men rolled across the floor in a brutal, chaotic blur of flying fists and torn fabric. It wasn't a refined fight; it was a primal, vicious battle for dominance. Jungkook threw a punch that caught Taehyung in the ribs, but Taehyung slammed Jungkook's head against the base of the desk, the sound sickeningly loud.
"Enough!" Chairman Jeon’s voice boomed, shattering the chaos.
The Chairman slammed a heavy brass paperweight onto the desk, his face purple with rage. "Security! Get in here!"
Within seconds, four burly security guards rushed into the room, forcefully tearing the two men apart. Jungkook was thrashing against the guards holding him, his face bruised, spitting blood onto the rug. Taehyung stood up slowly, brushing off his ruined suit jacket, his breathing heavy but his expression freezing back into a mask of pure aristocratic disdain.
"Look at yourselves," Chairman Jeon hissed, glaring at his son with utter contempt before turning to Taehyung. "Mr. Kim, a brawl in my study will not dictate the future of Jeon Holdings, nor will it handle a custody battle. We have contracts. We have alliances."
Taehyung adjusted his collar, ignoring the Chairman entirely. He looked past the guards, his eyes locking onto you. You were trembling, terrified, and completely trapped between the ghosts of your past.
"This isn't business anymore, Chairman," Taehyung said softly, his voice chillingly calm as he stared at you. "She took something that belonged to me. And I take back what's mine. Every single time."
Without another word, Taehyung turned and walked out of the study, leaving the heavy doors to click shut behind him, leaving you alone in the wreckage with a furious Jungkook and a ruined empire.
-------
Your hands were trembling so violently you could barely shove the key into the ignition. You locked the doors, the click of the deadbolts offering a pathetic illusion of safety. You slammed your forehead against the steering wheel, gasping for air as tears of pure, unadulterated frustration finally spilled over your eyelashes.
A chess piece. That’s all you were to them. A vessel. A pawn.
Suddenly, the harsh, shrill vibration of your phone against the passenger seat made you jump. The screen lit up the darkened interior of the car.
Kim Namjoon.
Your stomach twisted into a sickening knot. You didn't want to answer. You wanted to throw the phone out the window and drive until the gas ran out. But a terrifying intuition gripped you—a realization that in this web, no thread was spun by accident.
You swiped the screen and pressed the phone to your ear, your breathing ragged. "What do you want, Namjoon?"
"You left the estate rather quickly, Y/n," Namjoon’s voice slid through the speaker, smooth, perfectly modulated, and chillingly relaxed. There was the faint clink of ice against glass in the background. "How was the family reunion?"
Your blood ran cold. You sat up straight, your eyes darting to the rearview mirror as if he were watching you from the shadows of the estate. "How do you know I was there? Were you following me?"
"I don't need to follow you to know exactly where you are," he murmured, a low, humored exhale escaping him. "So, tell me. Did the Chairman look as poetic in his defeat as I imagined? I assume Taehyung played his part well."
Your heart stopped. The world seemed to tilt on its axis as his words registered. Taehyung played his part well.
"What..." Your voice cracked, a horrible, sinking comprehension dawning on you. "What did you say? What do you mean Taehyung played his part?"
"Taehyung is an aristocrat, Y/n. He prides himself on logic, but he is fiercely, predictably possessive of his bloodline," Namjoon explained, his tone conversational, like a professor laying out a simple equation. "He only needed a little... anonymous nudge. A whisper in the right ear about a certain daycare, a copy of a birth timeline, and a guarantee that the Jeons were too weak to fight back in court. He did exactly what I calculated he would do. He went in there, dropped the bomb, and shattered whatever delusion Jungkook had left of keeping you."
"You..." A hot rush of fury surged through your veins, replacing the fear with a blinding, white-hot rage. You gripped the phone so hard your knuckles turned white. "You told him? You gave Taehyung the DNA test? Namjoon, you psychotic bastard, why are you doing this?!"
"I told you before, Y/n. I think ten steps ahead," he said, his voice dropping, losing its casual edge and shifting into that heavy, dominant cadence that made your skin prickle. "If you try to divorce Jungkook on your own, the Jeon lawyers will drag you through the mud. They would keep you trapped in that marriage just to save face. But now? Jungkook's reputation is in ashes. The Kim Group is orchestrating a hostile takeover of their shipping branch. And now, the Kims are threatening a high-profile paternity scandal. The Jeons will practically force the divorce papers into your hands just to sever ties before they drown."
"And what about Rawoon?!" you shrieked, your voice echoing off the windshield, tears of rage pouring down your face. "Taehyung wants custody! He threatened to take my son away from me! He has the money, he has the power, he can actually do it!"
"He won't," Namjoon replied instantly, his voice absolute, terrifyingly confident. "Because I hold the debt of the judge who will be assigned to that family court circuit. Taehyung can file whatever papers he likes. The boy stays with you."
"You're playing with my life! You're playing with my son's life!" You slammed your fist against the dashboard, your chest heaving as you sobbed. "Why? Just out of spite? Just to ruin Jungkook?!"
There was a long, heavy pause on the line. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Namjoon’s deep voice cut through it, raw and stripped of all corporate armor.
"I did it to get you, Y/n."
The brutal honesty of his words hung in the air, violent and heavy.
"I told you," Namjoon whispered, his breath hitting the microphone, sounding dangerously close. "I'm not letting you walk out that door. I’m stripping away every single option you have left until the only roof over your head is mine. I’m clearing the board. Jungkook is ruined. Your father is bought. And Taehyung is just the tool I used to cut your final anchor to the Jeon family. You are coming back to me. It's just a matter of time."
A cold, lethal calm suddenly washed over you. The panic died, burned away by a maternal instinct so fierce it turned your blood to ice. You wiped the tears from your face with the back of your hand, your gaze hardening as you stared out into the dark night.
"Listen to me very carefully, Namjoon," you said, your voice dropping to a low, deadly whisper that didn't shake. "You think you’ve won. You think you can manipulate every person in my life like pieces on a board. But if a single hair on Rawoon’s head is harmed, if he sheds a single tear because of this war you started... I don't care about your money. I don't care about your power. I will not let it slide. I will burn your perfect, calculated world to the ground, and I’ll start with you. Do you understand me?"
On the other end of the line, Namjoon let out a low, dark chuckle, a sound that was equal parts thrilled and dangerous.
"I look forward to seeing you try, Y/n. Drive safely. I'll see you soon."
The line went dead. You stared at the black screen, your heart hammering against your ribs. You threw the phone onto the passenger seat, slammed your foot on the gas, and tore out of the estate parking lot, speeding into the dark, uncertain night toward the only thing that mattered: your son.
-------
The hotel room was too quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos inside your head. Rawoon was asleep in the adjacent room, his small, rhythmic breaths the only anchor keeping you tied to sanity. You had spent the last hour pacing the carpet, the echo of Namjoon’s chilling promises and Taehyung’s cold fury vibrating in your bones.
Then came the knock at the door.
It wasn't a polite request for entry; it was a heavy, demanding thud that rattled the cheap wood of the hotel frame. Your heart leaped into your throat. You crept toward the door, peeking through the peephole.
Jungkook.
Even through the distorted glass, you could see he was unravelling. His tie was completely undone, hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket was missing. When you opened the door just a crack, the suffocating stench of expensive whiskey and bitter sweat hit you instantly.
He didn't wait for an invitation. He slammed his palm against the door, forcing it open, and stumbled into your sanctuary.
"Jungkook, get out," you hissed, your voice a frantic whisper as you quickly shut the door behind him, terrified the noise would wake your son. "You're drunk. You can't be here."
He let out a dry, mocking laugh, swaying slightly on his feet. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a dangerous, volatile mix of humiliation and alcohol. He looked around the modest hotel suite with utter disdain before locking his gaze onto you.
"Get out? Of a room I probably funded?" he sneered, his voice loud, dripping with venom. He took a heavy step toward you, towering over you as his jaw clenched. "You think you can just run away after what happened today? After making me look like a fucking fool in front of my father? In front of him?"
"I didn't make you look like anything, Jungkook. Your own actions did that," you whispered, backing away until your spine hit the wall.
"Don't lie to me!" he roared.
"Leave, Jungkook," you hissed.
"You absolute whore," he rasped, stepping directly into your space, his breath reeking of liquor. He didn't touch you, but his shadow swallowed you whole. "Out of all the men in this city... out of every single person you could have crawled under, you chose him? You let Kim Taehyung fuck you? You let him put his bastard inside you?"
The word bastard cut through you like a rusty blade. "Don't you dare talk about Rawoon like that."
"Why shouldn't I?!" he roared, slamming his open palm against the wall right next to your head. The drywall cracked under the impact. "I raised him! I gave him my name! And every time I looked at him, I had to wonder whose face I was seeing. You know what the funniest part is, Y/n?" He leaned in so close his nose almost touched yours, a sick, mocking smirk twisting his bloody lips. "If I wasn’t infertile... if the doctors hadn't told me years ago that I couldn't have kids, I would have killed that child the exact day I found out you were pregnant with another man's blood. I would have rid my house of that filth. But I let it slide. I choked down my pride and pretended he was mine because I wanted an heir. And all this time, you were hiding that he belonged to the one man who could destroy my company."
Your stomach turned violently. The sheer malice in his voice made you feel physically sick. "He is a child, Jungkook! He is innocent!"
"And what about Namjoon?" Jungkook sneered, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper as his eyes scanned your disheveled clothes. "Did you let my cousin slide inside you too? Is that where you got the jacket? Are you just passing yourself around the family now?"
Something inside you snapped. The humiliation, the terror, the exhaustion of being hunted by these three men boiled over into a primal rush of adrenaline.
With a scream of pure rage, you shoved your hands against his chest, throwing your entire weight into it. Jungkook, caught off guard and heavily intoxicated, stumbled backward, his thighs hitting the low coffee table.
"Get out!" you screamed, your voice cracking, tears finally blinding your vision. "Get the fuck out of my room! You're disgusting!"
Jungkook straightened up, his eyes turning pitch black as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked dead inside. He took a heavy step toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
"Where is he?" Jungkook muttered, his voice dropping to a chilling, guttural low. "Where's my son? I want to see Rawoon."
"No!" You threw yourself in front of the hallway, spreading your arms to block him. "You are not going near him! You are drunk, you are unstable, and you just said you wanted him dead! You will never touch him again!"
"He is my child!" Jungkook yelled, his hand flying out to grip your wrist, his fingers squeezing until your bones protested. "I don't care whose blood is in his veins! He is a Jeon! I'm taking him back to the estate where he belongs!"
"Let go of me!" you gasped, fighting against his iron grip. "You don't care about Rawoon! You just care about your pride! You're just mad because your precious little world is falling apart. You want to talk about filth, Jungkook? Let's talk about you sleeping with Mina! You were screwing your own cousin's wife under his roof!"
Jungkook froze. His grip on your wrist tightened even further, his chest heaving as your words struck a nerve. "Mina is ten times the woman you will ever be," he growled, his voice trembling with a dangerous, fragile emotion. "At least she loved me. At least when she was with me, it was real. She didn't use me like a business transaction like you did."
A cold, bitter laugh escaped your throat. You looked him dead in the eye, ignoring the bruising pain in your wrist, and leaned into his face.
"She loved you?" you mocked, your voice dripping with pure, unadulterated scorn. "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Jungkook? If she loved you so much, why is she still wearing Namjoon’s ring? If she loved you enough, she would have left her husband. She would have stood by you when the tapes leaked. But she didn't, did she? She stayed in her mansion, protected by Namjoon's wealth, while you drowned in the scandal alone. She used you as a plaything, Jungkook. You were just a distraction for her, and now you’re nothing."
The words acted like a match dropped into a powder keg.
Jungkook’s eyes dilated with a manic, violent rage. With a guttural roar, he raised his free hand, his fist clenching as he yanked you forward, looking for a split second like he was going to erase the smirk from your face permanently. The sheer force of his fury radiated off him, a terrifying promise of violence that made your breath catch in your throat.
But at the last possible second, he stopped. His fist trembled in the air, inches from your face, his breathing sounding like a dying animal. He looked at you, really looked at the defiance and utter hatred in your eyes and his hand slowly dropped to his side.
He let go of your wrist so abruptly you nearly fell.
"Enjoy your night in this rat hole, Y/n," Jungkook whispered, his voice dangerously quiet, all the heat completely drained from it, leaving only a hollow, freezing void. He backed away toward the door, his eyes never leaving yours. "Because tomorrow, the lawyers will be here. I don't care what Taehyung's DNA test says. I don't care what Namjoon does. I will burn your life to ash, and I will take Rawoon. You won't have a single thing left when I'm done with you."
He slammed the hotel door behind him, the sound vibrating through the walls, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room, trembling so hard your knees finally gave out beneath you.
--------
The air inside the family courtroom was freezing, a sharp contrast to the suffocating humidity waiting outside the courthouse steps. The room was small, clinical, and stripped of the grand mahogany luxury these men usually surrounded themselves with. Here, your life wasn't a game of corporate leverage anymore; it was public record.
You sat at the center table, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, staring at the polished wood to keep from throwing up. To your left sat Jungkook, dressed in a sharp, dark suit that hid the bruises from his brawl with Taehyung, though his posture was rigid, radiating a volatile, desperate energy. To your right, seated at his own table with a team of three high-priced attorneys, was Kim Taehyung. He looked completely unbothered, leaning back with a cold, aristocratic detachment that made your chest tighten.
And behind you all, sitting alone in the first row of the gallery, was Kim Namjoon.
He hadn't said a word to you when you walked in. He just sat there, his legs crossed, a heavy wool overcoat draped over his shoulders, watching the back of your head with those deep, calculating eyes. You could feel his gaze like a physical weight on your skin. He was the puppet master, waiting for his strings to pull.
The judge, a stern woman named Justice Kang, flipped through the heavy dossier in front of her, her spectacles sliding down her nose.
"We are here today to address an emergency petition for custody modification and paternity recognition," Justice Kang announced, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Mr. Kim Taehyung, your council has submitted a certified DNA report."
Taehyung’s lead attorney stood up, adjusting his cuffs. "Yes, Your Honor. The evidence is irrefutable. The child, Jeon Rawoon, is biologically a Kim. My client comes from a lineage of immense political and financial stability. He is prepared to provide the child with an elite upbringing, proper security, and his rightful name. We are asking for immediate sole custody, with a transition period to remove the child from the unstable environment he is currently subjected to."
Your breath hitched. You leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table, your voice cutting through the courtroom before your own lawyer could stop you.
"He is not a piece of property!" you cried out, your voice trembling but fierce as you stared directly at Taehyung. "You can't just walk into a courtroom with a piece of paper and take my son. Rawoon doesn't even know who you are! He cannot be handed over to some stranger who just showed up out of nowhere claiming to be his father because of a blood test. I am his mother. I am the only constant he has ever had!"
Taehyung didn't blink. He slowly turned his head to look at you, his dark eyes devoid of the warmth he used to give you in secret. "A stranger, Y/n? I wouldn't have been a stranger if you hadn't spent the last three years running from the truth to protect your place in the Jeon family."
"That's enough," Jungkook snapped, slamming his hand on the table as he stood up, drawing the judge's sharp glare. "Your Honor, the boy’s legal name is Jeon Rawoon. I am the only father he has ever known. Mr. Kim’s sudden interest is nothing more than a malicious attempt to disrupt my family and attack my corporate standing."
Jungkook looked down at you, his jaw clenched, before looking back at the judge. "Rawoon belongs with us. With his parents. The environment he is in is perfectly stable. He has a home, a routine, and two parents who care for him."
Justice Kang raised an eyebrow, looking over the rim of her glasses at Jungkook, then at the thick stack of tabloids and police reports on her desk.
"Mr. Jeon, the court has received a copy of the leaked media reports regarding your... extra-marital affairs," the judge stated dryly. "Furthermore, we have a pending petition for divorce and separation terms drafted by your wife’s legal council. If you and Y/n are currently living in separate residences and preparing to dissolve your marriage, how can this court trust your definition of a 'stable family environment'?"
Jungkook’s chest heaved. He reached down, his fingers roughly grabbing your shoulder, pressing into your skin as if trying to force you into compliance. "We are working on it, Your Honor," Jungkook lied through his teeth, his voice strained with a desperate panic. "Every marriage has its rough patches, but Y/n and I are reconciling. For the sake of our son, we are staying together. The divorce is off the table."
Your stomach violently turned. The memory of him calling you a whore in your hotel room, the smell of his drunk, violent rage from the night before, flashed through your mind.
"No, we are not," you said clearly, your voice cutting through Jungkook’s desperation.
You forcefully knocked his hand off your shoulder and stood up, facing the judge directly. You refused to be his shield anymore.
"We are not working on our relationship, Your Honor. I will be filing the final divorce decree by the end of the week. I am leaving him, and I will not agree to raise my son in a house built on lies and hostility. But that does not mean my son belongs with a man he has never met," you added, flashing a glare at Taehyung. "I am asking for sole custody. I can provide for him on my own."
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the courtroom. Jungkook looked at you as if you had just driven a knife into his chest, his face pale with a mix of humiliation and pure rage. Taehyung merely smirked, realizing your refusal to stand with Jungkook had just completely destroyed the Jeon defense.
Justice Kang sighed, rubbing her temples. "This is a disaster. A high-profile paternity scandal, a hostile divorce, and a corporate war disguised as a custody battle. I am not letting this child become a casualty of your egos. I will take forty-eight hours to review the financial stability, living conditions, and psychological state of all parties before issuing a temporary custody mandate."
The judge slammed her gavel down. "Court is adjourned."
As the room erupted into the quiet chaos of lawyers shuffling papers, you felt a presence materialize behind you.
"You did beautifully, Y/n," a deep, velvety voice murmured right against your ear.
You jumped, turning around to find Namjoon standing dangerously close. He had walked up from the gallery, completely ignoring the murderous glares Jungkook and Taehyung were currently throwing at his back. Namjoon looked immaculate, his hands casually slipped into his coat pockets, a calm, triumphant aura radiating from him.
"Get away from me, Namjoon," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Why? I'm just here to support my family," he said, a faint, dark smile playing on his lips as his eyes flicked down to your trembling hands. He leaned in a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a pitch only you could hear. "Jungkook is exposed. Taehyung thinks he’s winning because he’s arrogant. But the judge’s debt belongs to me, Y/n. In forty-eight hours, she will rule that neither a broken Jeon household nor an unmarried, single Kim tycoon is fit for temporary custody. She will rule that the child must stay in a neutral, secure, married environment."
Your eyes widened in horror as the final pieces of his chess game clicked into place. The final anchor.
"You..." you breathed, the cold dread paralyzing you.
"I told you, I clear the board," Namjoon whispered, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying, absolute possessiveness. "By Friday, you will have your divorce from Jungkook. And by Friday night, you will marry me to keep your son. Drive back to the hotel, Y/n. Your time is officially up."
-------
The ink on the divorce decree felt heavier than it should have.
You sat across from Chairman Jeon in his private office at the firm, the silence between you absolute. He hadn't looked you in the eye once. He simply pushed the papers forward, his expression a mask of defeated, cold pragmatism.
"Jungkook is reckless, and his obsession with keeping the boy is actively hemorrhaging our stock prices," the Chairman said, his voice flat, devoid of any fatherly warmth. "The Kim Group's aggressive buying of our logistics shares has paralyzed our board. A public, dragged-out court case over a bastard child will ruin us permanently. Sign it, Y/n. Take whatever settlement my lawyers offered, and vanish from our lives. It’s what is best for this family."
You didn't hesitate. You signed your name, cutting the toxic anchor that had bound you to Jungkook for years.
But as you walked out of the Jeon corporate building, you realized you hadn't escaped the storm, you had simply walked right into the eye of it.
Waiting for you at the curb was a sleek, black sedan. The rear window rolled down slowly, revealing Kim Namjoon. He didn't say a word. He just opened the door from the inside, an unspoken ultimatum hanging in the cool afternoon air.
Forty-eight hours. The judge’s deadline was ticking. You had no money, your father’s debts were sitting on Namjoon’s desk, and Taehyung’s legal team was ready to tear Rawoon away from you.
"Let's go," you whispered, stepping into the car.
Within three hours, you were standing in a sterile, private magistrate’s office on the outskirts of the city. There was no white dress, no flowers, no family. There was only the scratch of a fountain pen as you signed your name onto a marriage certificate next to Kim Namjoon’s elegant, sweeping signature. When he slid the heavy platinum band onto your finger, his touch was just as cold as it had been in his study. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
"Welcome home, Y/n," he murmured.
-------
Two days later, you were back in the family courtroom for Justice Kang’s final mandate.
You sat next to Namjoon, your hand resting on the table, the new platinum ring catching the harsh fluorescent lights. Jungkook sat on the opposite side of the room, looking utterly destroyed, his eyes hollow as his lawyers quietly whispered to him that the Jeon family had officially withdrawn their claim. He looked at you, then at Namjoon, a look of profound, sickening betrayal dawning on his face.
But it was Taehyung’s reaction that made your blood freeze.
Taehyung’s lead attorney stood up, but instead of launching into an aggressive argument for sole custody, he calmly adjusted his glasses. "Your Honor, in light of recent developments... my client wishes to amend his petition. Given that the child's mother is now legally and securely wed to a stable, financially elite provider, Mr. Kim Namjoon and given that my client is currently an unmarried man whose schedule is demanding, we believe it is in the best interest of the child to remain in the primary custody of his mother. We are asking only for structured visitation rights."
Your jaw went slack. You sat frozen in your chair as Justice Kang nodded approvingly, banging her gavel to finalize the joint custody agreement, officially keeping Rawoon under your, and Namjoon’s roof.
The courtroom began to clear, the heavy atmosphere dissipating, but a sickening realization was bubbling up in your chest.
You looked at Taehyung, who was calmly buttoning his suit jacket. Then you looked at Namjoon, who was wearing that same, tight-lipped, triumphant smile.
The daycare sample. The sudden DNA test. The hostile takeover of Jungkook’s shipping branch that perfectly aligned with Namjoon's timeline. It hadn't been a coincidence. Taehyung hadn't been acting out of blind, aristocratic rage. He had been working with Namjoon the entire time.
Namjoon knew Taehyung would never want a prolonged, messy public scandal that could damage the Kim Group's political standing. He had used Taehyung’s sudden, aggressive custody threat to terrify you, to isolate you, and to force you into a corner where marrying Namjoon was your only survival mechanism. And Taehyung had played his part perfectly, backing down the exact second the ring was on your finger.
You had been completely, systematically played.
"You're sick," you whispered, turning your head slightly toward Namjoon as the lawyers walked out of the room.
"I'm a strategist, darling," Namjoon replied smoothly, standing up and smoothing down the front of his bespoke suit. "And look at the result. You have your son. Jungkook is gone. And you are safe. With me."
"Y/n."
A deep, velvet baritone cut through the tension. You turned around to see Taehyung walking toward your table. His hands were slipped casually into his pockets, his face entirely unreadable. He stopped just a foot away, his dark eyes scanning your face, lingering for a fraction of a second on the platinum band on your finger.
"Taehyung," you breathed, your voice dripping with bitter resentment. "I suppose I should thank you for the performance. How long did it take you and Namjoon to script that courtroom brawl at the Jeon estate? Was the blood on Jungkook’s face part of the plan too?"
Taehyung let out a low, amused hum, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. He didn't deny it. He didn't even have the decency to look guilty.
"Business requires... creative alliances, Y/n," Taehyung said, his voice smooth and entirely unapologetic. "Namjoon wanted you. I wanted Jungkook's shipping logistics branch. We both got exactly what we wanted. And Rawoon is safe from the Jeon wreckage. It’s a win for everyone involved."
He stepped closer, leaning over the table slightly, his gaze dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Don't look at me like that. You knew what kind of world we lived in when you crossed the line with me three years ago. I am a Kim. We don't lose."
Taehyung straightened back up, turning his eyes to Namjoon. The two men exchanged a brief, tight nod of mutual respect, two apex predators who had just successfully divided the prey.
Taehyung looked back at you, his expression turning mockingly polite. "Have a beautiful married life, Y/n. I'll see you and my son for my scheduled weekends."
Without another word, Taehyung turned and walked out of the courtroom, his heavy steps echoing down the marble hallway.
You sat there, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life. The trap had snapped shut, and the walls of your new prison were lined with gold, old money, and the terrifying intellect of the man standing right beside you.
Namjoon reached down, his heavy hand resting firmly on your shoulder. The grip was tight, possessive, a silent reminder of who owned the board now.
"Come along, Y/n," Namjoon said, his voice a low, dominant purr that vibrated against your spine. "Let's go pick up our son. It's time to go home."
--------
From the sun-drenched terrace, you watched the manicured lawn below. The sound of high-pitched giggles and splashing water cut through the heavy silence of the estate, softening the sharp edges of your anxiety.
Down by the modern stone fountain, six-year-old Rawoon was sprinting through the water jets, his cheeks flushed pink with pure joy. Chasing right behind him, a wide, genuine smile on her face, was Suri.
Namjoon’s twelve-year-old daughter from his previous marriage was a striking girl. She had inherited her father’s sharp, analytical eyes, but none of his coldness. From the moment you had walked through the front doors, clutching a terrified Rawoon by the hand, Suri hadn't shown an ounce of resentment. Instead, she had knelt down to Rawoon's eye level, offered him a basket of his favorite dinosaur toys, which she had meticulously researched beforehand and softly said, "Hi. I'm Suri. I've always wanted a little brother."
In just a few days, they had become inseparable. Suri fiercely protected him, helping him navigate the massive house, while Rawoon followed her around like a devoted shadow. To anyone watching, they looked like real siblings who had grown up together, completely untainted by the filth of the adults who had brought them here.
"She’s good with him," a deep, velvety voice murmured from behind you.
You didn't jump. You had grown accustomed to the way Namjoon moved through his own house, like a specter, quiet and omnipresent. You kept your eyes fixed on the children, wrapping your arms tightly around your middle. The platinum band on your finger felt heavy, a constant reminder of the bargain you had struck.
Namjoon stepped up to the terrace railing, placing his hands on the stone. He was dressed casually in a soft cashmere sweater, his hair slightly loose, looking entirely different from the predatory titan who had orchestrated a corporate war in the courtroom.
"Suri has been lonely for a long time," Namjoon continued softly, his eyes softening as he watched his daughter lift Rawoon up so he could reach the top of the water fountain. "Her mother didn't have much room for her in her life after the divorce. I was worried she would resent the sudden change. But she loves him, Y/n. And she likes you."
"Suri is an angel," you said, your voice tight, refusing to look at him. "She didn't inherit your ruthlessness, thank God. I’m grateful for how she treats Rawoon. It’s the only reason I haven't lost my mind in this house."
Namjoon let out a low, quiet sigh, the sound catching in the warm afternoon breeze. He turned his body slightly toward you, his dark eyes scanning your profile.
"You don't have to look at me like I’m going to lock you in a cellar, Y/n," he whispered, a rare touch of vulnerability bleeding into his tone. "The war is over. You’re here. Your son is safe, happy, and playing with my daughter. Is this life really so terrible?"
"You trapped me, Namjoon," you replied, finally turning your head to look him dead in the eye, your voice dripping with quiet, unyielding bitterness. "You and Taehyung played a game with my child’s life to force me here. Do not ask me to smile and pretend this is a happy family. I am here for Rawoon. That is it."
Namjoon’s jaw tightened, the brief warmth in his eyes freezing over into a familiar, calculated mask. "Then look at them," he said, gesturing toward the lawn. "And tell me my calculation was wrong."
-------
Dinner at the Kim estate was a grand affair, yet the atmosphere was surprisingly light, entirely carried by the children.
You sat at one end of the long mahogany table, with Namjoon at the other. But between you sat Suri and Rawoon, creating a vibrant bridge over the gulf of hatred between the adults.
"And then, true story, Noona used her book to smack the spider right off the wall!" Rawoon animatedly explained, his small hands waving in the air, a piece of broccoli forgotten on his fork.
Suri laughed, a bright, clear sound, gently wiping a smudge of sauce from Rawoon's chin with a napkin. "He screamed so loud, Dad. I thought there was a ghost in his room. He’s a little drama king."
"I am not!" Rawoon pouted, but he immediately leaned his head against Suri’s shoulder, completely comfortable. Suri reached over and casually wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.
Watching them, a genuine, soft smile broke across your face, the first real smile you had felt in weeks. For a fleeting second, the suffocating weight in your chest lifted. You felt a swell of profound gratitude for the twelve-year-old girl who was giving your son the stability he so desperately needed.
Across the table, Namjoon was watching you. He wasn't eating. His glass of red wine sat untouched. He was simply staring at your smile, his dark eyes dilated, capturing the rare sight of your happiness as if he wanted to burn it into his memory. When you caught him looking, your smile instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, guarded stare.
Namjoon didn't look angry. He just looked patient. Like a man who knew he had a lifetime to turn your hatred into something else.
Later that night, after the house had fallen completely silent, you walked down the grand hallway to check on Rawoon.
When you quietly cracked his door open, your heart melted. Rawoon wasn't in his bed. Instead, he was down the hall, tucked into Suri’s larger canopy bed. The two of them were fast asleep, tangled in a mess of blankets. Suri’s arm was protectively thrown over Rawoon’s chest, and Rawoon was clutching the sleeve of her pajamas, his breathing peaceful and deep.
You stood in the doorway, a tear slipping down your cheek.
A heavy warmth materialized behind you, a broad chest gently brushing against your back. Namjoon stood over your shoulder, looking into the room at his daughter and your son.
He didn't try to touch you. He didn't try to force a kiss. He just stood there, sharing the silence with you, his presence an inescapable, heavy shadow.
"They are the future, Y/n," Namjoon whispered into the darkness of the hallway, his voice a low, fierce vow. "I will destroy anyone who tries to break what they have. I built this cage to keep the world out, not just to keep you in. Remember that."
You didn't answer. You just watched your son sleep, knowing that while you were trapped in the dark with a brilliant monster, at least your child was safe in the light.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
END
AN: Lost my brain cells writing this chapter 😭 I hope this ending was okay with you guys… I genuinely didn’t know how else to end it. This chapter is fully messed up and I’m so bad at endings, I know 😔 But I’ll try my best next time ♡
SYNOPSIS: A girl raised on scripture, an arranged engagement, and a digital god of sin, she was never supposed to click on. You only wanted one secret before the wedding. One night. One mistake. But he doesn't do 'just once.' Now your rebellion has a name, and it won't let you go.
GENRE: dark romance | cheating | smut | thriller | slow burn
You shouldn't have come straight from church. The scent of incense still clung to your hair. The white dress brushed your knees modestly, sleeves soft against your wrists pure, untouched, obedient. You looked like you belonged under stained glass, not beneath flickering neon. The club doors opened and heat swallowed you whole. Music pulsed through the floor. Lights cut through the dark like blades. Bodies moved without shame, without prayer, without apology.
And there you were. White in a room full of sin.
"Y/N!"
Hana's voice carried over the bass as she waved you over from the VIP booth. She looked you up and down the moment you reached them. Her smile widened. Then her nose scrunched.
"Oh my God," she laughed, grabbing the fabric of your sleeve between her fingers. "You came dressed like the Virgin Mary." The table erupted in laughter. You slid into the booth anyway, smoothing your dress calmly. "I just came from church."
"We know," one of the others snorted. "We can see that." Hana leaned closer, lowering her voice teasingly. "Did you at least pray for our sins too?" You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The waiter arrived. Hana ordered shots before you could object.
"You're engaged," she reminded you, lifting a brow. "You're basically almost married. Isn't this your last chance to do something stupid?" You took the glass when it was pushed toward you. The liquid burned on the way down.
"I don't do stupid," you replied softly.
Hana tilted her head. "That's the problem." Another drink came. Then another. The music grew louder. Or maybe your thoughts did.
They teased you about your father, about his church donations, his charity galas, his polished speeches about morality while negotiating business deals behind closed doors.
"Saint by day. Shark by night," someone joked.
"And you," Hana added, nudging you, "are his perfect little angel." You smiled again. That soft, trained smile. But inside, something twisted.
You were tired of being perfect. Tired of white dresses and folded hands. Tired of pretending the engagement didn't feel like a contract. Like ownership.
"Just once," Hana said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Do something rebellious. Something no one would expect from you." Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. Rebellious. The word felt heavy. Because rebellion in your world wasn't just sneaking out. It wasn't drinking. It wasn't dancing.
"Hana," Kevin suddenly cut in, pointing at her with lazy curiosity, "didn't you say you went to Jessi's birthday last week?"
Hana paused mid-sip, eyes widening. "Oh my God," she laughed, nearly choking on her drink. "I completely forgot to tell you guys. That got everyone's attention. She set her glass down dramatically, lowering her voice even though the music swallowed half her words.
"It wasn't just a party. It was private. Invitation-only. Jessi rented out the top floor of this hotel and-" she grinned wickedly, "-she hired entertainment."
Minseo raised a brow. "Entertainment?"
Hana nodded slowly. "Sexy men. Like... unreal. They looked like celebrities."
"P*rnstars, you mean?" Minseo snorted, leaning back against the booth.
Hana snapped her fingers. "Exactly." The table erupted into laughter and whistles.
"They weren't just guys," Hana boasted, her eyes wide and glassy. "They were art. Jessi was in the middle of it all, just... completely unraveled. It was filthy, it was loud, and it was the best night of my life. I think I'm still sore."
Kevin let out a low whistle. "That's insane."
"She didn't care who judged her," Hana added, shrugging. "It was her birthday. She said if men can do stupid bachelor parties, she can have her own version."
Minseo laughed. "Iconic." You didn't laugh. You just listened.
Jessi. Sweet, soft-spoken Jessi from university. You pictured her in some dim hotel suite, music low, strangers' hands on her waist while she threw her head back without worrying who would find out. No fear. No guilt. No consequences.
"Apparently she was the boldest one there," Hana went on. "Completely fearless. Filthy, honestly. But in a fun way." The word lingered in the air. Filthy. You glanced down at your white dress. Your entire life had been curated to look untouched. Clean. Holy. Even your engagement had been arranged like a contract sealed with polite smiles and handshakes. You were meant to walk down an aisle pure and grateful.
And Jessi? She hired men whose faces probably lived on hidden tabs and late-night searches. Men who belonged to fantasy, not family dinners. "Can you imagine?" Hana said, nudging you. "You at a party like that?" The group burst out laughing at the thought.
"Y/N would faint before the first song starts," Kevin teased.
"She'd start reciting Bible verses," Minseo added dramatically. You forced a smile. But something unfamiliar flickered in your chest. Not embarrassment. Curiosity. What would it feel like to not care? To not measure every action against your father's reputation? Against the church's whispers? Against a fiancé you barely knew?
Hana tilted her head at you, studying your expression more carefully now. "You're thinking about it," she said softly.
You looked away, lifting your drink to your lips.
When Hana grabbed your phone, the intrusion felt like a physical violation, but the website she flicked through a dark, sleek interface of profiles and unapologetic desires lingered in your mind even after you snatched the device back.
"Look," Hana said, her tone softening but her eyes remaining sharp. "Just one night. No strings. No Bible verses. Just skin, breath, and forgetting who you're supposed to be. I know a guy. Or use an app. But do something before you wither away."
You looked at the group, at Kevin's smirk and Minseo's expectant gaze. The 'Good Girl' armor you had worn for years suddenly felt too tight, suffocating the pulse that was now thrumming in your throat.
"Fine," you whispered, the word tasting like copper.
"What was that?" Kevin leaned in, cupping his ear.
"I said fine," you said louder, your grip tightening until the glass threatened to shatter. "I'll do it. Arrange it, Hana. Or I'll find someone myself. But I'm done being the punchline."
-------
The rain began to smear the neon lights of the city into bleeding streaks of oil and light as you slammed your car door shut. Your chest was heaving, the air in the vehicle tasting like leather and the bitter copper of adrenaline.
Hana's 'perfect guy' was currently buried face-first in a stranger's neck at the VIP bar, his hands roaming over her with a practiced, hollow hunger. If you hadn't seen the photo Hana sent, the sharp jawline, the specific silver ring you would have walked right into his trap. You would have let that mouth, currently slick with another woman's saliva, touch yours. You would have let his skin, probably already layered in the sweat and scents of a dozen club flings, press against your own.
The thought made your stomach roll. You weren't just a 'Good Girl'; you were a woman with a fiancé and a reputation, and the idea of being just another notch on a sticky club couch felt like a physical violation.
Your phone buzzed aggressively in the cup holder.
A text from him. "Where r u? I'm waiting near the booth." You didn't even give him the satisfaction of a block. You let the notification hang there, a rotting piece of digital trash.
Then, the other notifications started to bleed through. The website Hana had forced open was now a persistent, pulsating itch on your lock screen. It was a sewer of desperation and cheap thrills:
"Single MILF nearby... feeling lonely?"
"Daddy issues? I can fix that for a price."
You went to swipe them away, your thumb hovering over the 'Clear All' button, when one caught your eye. It wasn't loud. It wasn't colorful. It was just a black icon with two letters: JK.
"Lonely tonight? Mature men ready now."
You clicked it. You told yourself it was curiosity, but the way your heart hammered against your ribs told a different story. The profile picture was a masterclass in shadowed temptation, a glimpse of a broad, ink-covered shoulder, a hand with prominent veins gripping a glass of dark amber liquid, and a jawline so sharp it looked like it could draw blood.
You scrolled down, but the screen was a sea of blurred, tantalizing shapes.
A glimpse of a muscular torso arched in a dark room. The suggestion of a mouth pressed against a neck.
Captions that read: "Whatever you crave, I provide. No judgment. No names. Just the heat."
To see the truth behind the blur, you had to pay.
You stared at the 'Subscribe' button. Money was never the obstacle; your family's accounts were deep enough to buy the club you just fled. But this was different. This was paying for a fantasy, paying for a man who promised to be exactly what you needed, without the messy, cheating reality of the guy you just left behind.
You shifted the car into gear, the engine purring beneath you like a caged animal. You didn't need a club. You didn't need Hana's sloppy seconds. You needed something dark, something controlled, and something that would make you forget your fiancé's face for one long, filthy night.
You pulled out of the parking lot, your thumb hovering over the screen. You'd look at his 'content' when you got home. You'd see if JK was worth the investment or if he was just another lie wrapped in a pretty package.
-----
The silence of your bedroom was deafening, a sharp contrast to the pulsing chaos of the club you'd just escaped. You kicked off your heels, the silk sheets of your bed feeling like a cool, mocking caress against your skin.
With a trembling thumb, you hit Subscribe. The transaction cleared instantly, a drop of water in the ocean of your family's wealth and the digital veil lifted.
The blur vanished, replaced by high-definition sin. Your breath hitched. He wasn't just handsome; he was a visceral assault on the senses.
One photo showed him leaning against a stark white wall, shirtless and unbothered. His skin was a map of dark, intricate ink that disappeared beneath the waistband of low-slung black boxers. The fabric was strained, the heavy, unapologetic bulge casting a shadow that made your throat go dry.
Another shot was a close-up of his tatted hand, thick veins and scarred knuckles possessively gripping himself through the cotton, as if marking his own territory.
Then came the shower shot. His hair was slicked back, dripping diamonds of water down a chest that looked carved from marble. He was sitting on a velvet chair, legs spread wide, his boxers pulled down just far enough to reveal the deep, lethal carve of his V-line. It was a jagged invitation into the darkness.
He looked into the camera with a heavy-lidded gaze, his silver lip piercing catching the light as he pulled his lower lip between his teeth. It wasn't just a pose; it was a challenge.
Your phone vibrated, the haptic feedback buzzing against your palm like a heartbeat. A direct message popped up.
JK: "Hey, princess. I see you lurking. I'm glad you decided to pay the entry fee. The view is better from the inside, isn't it?"
Your heart thudded. Before you could even think of a reply, another message followed, dripping with a casual, expensive arrogance.
JK: "For the real show, check the link below. And if you want to talk... my inbox is always open. As long as your wallet is as heavy as your curiosity."
You clicked the link, expecting more suggestive teasers. Instead, the screen exploded into motion.
This wasn't just 'content.' These were professional, high-production scenes of raw, unbridled intimacy. You watched, paralyzed, as JK, the man who had just called you princess, commanded the screen. He was a force of nature, his tattooed body slick with sweat as he moved with a feral, rhythmic intensity.
He wasn't just a model; he was a pornstar. A top-tier, high-demand performer whose every groan and movement was documented for thousands of paying voyeurs.
You saw him dominant, his eyes darkened with a hunger that felt terrifyingly real, his hands pinning a woman's wrists above her head as he took what he wanted. He looked nothing like the polished men in your social circle. He looked like the end of your reputation and the beginning of the best mistake of your life.
------
The silence of your bedroom felt heavy, pressurized by the secrets you were suddenly keeping. Your fiancé's photo seemed to watch you with silent judgment, but the heat pooling in your lower stomach was louder than any conscience.
You stared at the empty text box, the cursor blinking like a taunting heartbeat.
You: Hi there.
The moment the message sent, you threw the phone face-down on the silk duvet as if it were a live grenade. What are you doing? you hissed to yourself, staring at the ceiling. You were a woman of status, a woman with a ring on her finger, and yet you were reaching out to a man who made a living out of every primal, unfiltered instinct you had been taught to suppress.
Bzzzt.
The vibration against the mattress made you jump. You hesitated, then crawled toward it.
JK: Just 'Hi'? A girl with a wallet like yours usually has more to say, Princess. Or are you just shy because you've been watching my videos?
Your face flushed a deep, stinging crimson. He was blunt. No pleasantries, no dancing around the fact that you'd just spent the last hour watching him ruin women on camera.
You: Maybe I'm just selective.
JK: I like selective. It makes it more fun when I finally get you to beg. Tell me... what are you wearing right now? Are you touching yourself while you think about what I did in that last clip? I bet you're soaking wet just imagining those tattoos against your skin.
The rawness of his words hit you like a physical blow. It was filthy, direct, and completely devoid of the 'gentlemanly' mask every man in your life wore. You felt a rebellious streak flare up. You didn't just want to be a fan; you wanted to be the one in control of the interaction.
You tapped the Tip button. $500. > You: Less talking. More showing.
There was a long pause. The "typing..." bubbles appeared and disappeared. You had caught him off guard. A man like him was used to being the predator, but you were playing a different game.
JK: $500 just for a greeting? You really are a spoiled little thing, aren't you? You want to see what that money buys you?
Bzzzt. A notification flashed: New Media Received.
You clicked it, your breath hitching in your throat. It was a mirror selfie, taken in a dimly lit bathroom. He was wearing nothing but a pair of thin, heather-grey sweatpants, the kind of fabric that hid absolutely nothing.
He was leaning against the counter, a bright red lollipop caught between his teeth, his lips slick and stained. But your eyes dropped lower. The grey fabric was stretched tight, a massive, unmistakable bulge straining against the seam, thick and heavy. You could see the distinct outline, the sheer weight of him demanding release.
JK: "Do you like the view, Princess? Or do I need to pull these down so you can see exactly how much you're affecting me? I haven't even started yet... and I'm already wondering how you'd taste."
You gripped the phone so hard your knuckles turned white. The Good Girl was gone; there was only the woman in the dark, staring at a digital god of sin and wondering just how much more it would cost to make him yours for the night.
You were about to type something reckless when the three dots appeared again. This time, his tone shifted. The raw, unfiltered heat was still there, but a sudden streak of professional caution cut through the filth.
JK: "Hold on, Princess. Before I slide these off and show you exactly what that $500 just bought... I need to know who I'm playing with. I've had too many eighteen-year-olds trying to play grown-up games, and I'm not interested in babysitting. I also get guys in my DMs thinking they can handle a man like me. I'm straight, I'm a Dom, and I like to know exactly whose mind I'm breaking."
He was drawing a line in the sand. He wasn't just a body; he was a man who took up space, demanded truth, and controlled the narrative.
JK: "So, tell me. How old are you? And what exactly am I looking at on the other side of this screen? Give me a reason to keep this video recording."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You looked at the diamond engagement ring on your left hand, a symbol of a life that felt like a gilded cage. You weren't a girl. You were a woman, suffocating under the weight of expectations.
You: I'm 26, JK. And I'm definitely a woman. A woman who is tired of being told what she can and can't want.
The "typing" bubble was instant.
JK: "26... perfect. Prime. Old enough to know the damage I can do, and young enough to want it anyway. And a woman? Good. Because the things I want to say to you next... a man couldn't handle them."
Bzzzt. Another notification. New Video Attached (0:15).
You tapped it with shaking fingers. The lighting was low, the camera focused entirely on his waist down. He was still in the grey sweats, but his hand those large, tattooed fingers hooked into the waistband. You heard the low, gravelly sound of his voice, a dark rumble that vibrated through your phone's speakers.
"See this, Princess? This is what happens when you talk back to me."
Slowly, agonizingly, he began to peel the fabric down. The camera caught the deep ridges of his hip bones, the dark hair trailing down into the shadows, and then the release. The grey fabric dropped, and for a split second, you saw the raw, pulsing reality of him, thick and heavy, before he cut the feed.
JK: "That was just the teaser. If you want the full 10 minutes of me taking care of myself while I say your name... it's going to cost you more than $500. But I think you've got the taste for it now, don't you?"
-------
The cool air of the en-suite bathroom hit your flushed skin, but it couldn't chill the fire burning beneath the surface. Your hand was still trembling as you set the phone on the marble counter. The screen was dark now, but the ghost of JK's low, gravelly voice, moaning your name into the speaker as he took himself to the edge replayed on a loop in your mind.
You had actually done it. You had paid a stranger to ruin your composure, touching yourself to the rhythmic sound of a man who didn't even know what your face looked like. The Good Girl wasn't just cracked; she was shattered.
Next day, the transformation was complete. The disheveled woman on the silk sheets was buried under layers of designer silk and heirloom diamonds. You stood before the mirror, the heavy weight of your engagement ring back on your finger, looking every bit the pristine daughter of a political dynasty.
A high-stakes gala where business deals were signed in blood-red wine.
The silent, supportive fiancée to Kim Seokjin, a man whose ambition was as cold as the stone floors of the ballroom. You felt like a walking lie, the ghost of JK's tattoos still burned into your retinas.
As you stood in the grand foyer, flanked by your father's imposing presence and Seokjin's possessive hand on the small of your back, your clutch bag vibrated.
Buzz. Buzz.
You ignored it, keeping your chin high as you greeted a senator.
Buzz.
Under the pretense of checking the time, you stole a glance at the screen.
JK: "Princess. I'm feeling generous tonight... or maybe just restless. I'm available for your 'entertainment' for the next hour. Want to see what I can do with my hands when I'm thinking of you?"
The sheer audacity of the text, the filthiness of his offer sent while you were surrounded by the elite 'saints' of your world made your breath catch. He was a digital demon whispering in your ear while you played angel for the cameras.
You looked up at Seokjin. He was discussing quarterly projections, his face a mask of bored perfection. He didn't know the woman standing next to him had spent her afternoon watching a pornstar come undone. He didn't know that right now, in your purse, a man was offering to show you things that would make this entire ballroom faint.
You felt a surge of power. For the first time, you weren't the one being controlled.
You didn't reply. You didn't even unlock the phone. You let the notification hang there, unanswered. JK might be a god in his digital kingdom, but here, in the world of power and pearls, he was nothing but a distraction you had bought and paid for. You weren't going to give him your attention just because he asked for it.
You slid the phone back into your bag, the "typing" bubbles likely still flickering in the dark. You had a role to play, and for tonight, the only thing that mattered was the cold, calculated perfection of being Seokjin's future wife.
------
Jungkook tossed his phone onto the leather sofa, the screen dimming on the silence of your chat. He didn't pace; he didn't fret. At thirty-two, he had moved past the age of chasing validation. He was a man built of muscle, ink, and a decade of performative sin, and he knew exactly how the game was played.
He remembered being twenty young, hungry, and possessing a body that the industry wanted to colonize. Back then, the lights felt like a spotlight; later, they felt like a dissection. He had become a household name in the darkest corners of the internet, a titan of the screen who could command a room with a single look. But the reality had been a grind of faked moans, sterile sets, and the exhausting tax of staying aroused for a camera crew while burying his own soul.
He had walked away from the contracts and the forced chemistry, but he couldn't walk away from the reputation. He became his own master. He curated his past, uploading vault footage and shot-from-the-hip content to exclusive sites where the elite came to play.
He had seen it all. He had been the 'daddy' for broken girls, the secret thrill for bored socialites, and the wrecking ball for marriages that were already crumbling.
Then there was you. 'Princess.'
Most of his new subscribers were predictable, bratty teenagers using their parents' credit cards or lonely men hiding in the shadows. When you first started throwing hundreds of dollars at him for a simple greeting, he had pegged you as a bored kid with a trust fund. He had almost felt a flicker of annoyance; he wasn't a toy for children.
But then came the revelation. Twenty-six.
A woman. A grown woman with a voice that sounded like she was starving for something real, even through a text. That changed the math. You weren't just looking for a thrill; you were looking for a transformation. And as he stared out his window at the city skyline, he felt a predatory curiosity he hadn't felt in years. You were rich, you were mature, and you were currently ignoring him while you played your part in a world of high-society lies.
He liked a challenge. And he especially liked breaking good things to see what they were made of inside.
------
The drive home was conducted in the stifling, climate-controlled silence of Seokjin's silver sedan. The leather smelled of expensive citrus and ambition. Outside, the city blurred into a streak of grey, but inside, the tension was a physical weight. Your parents had stayed behind to finish a round of late-night networking, leaving you in the capable hands of your future.
Seokjin drove with a one-handed, effortless precision, the light from the streetlamps dancing off the sharp crease of his suit trousers.
"The merger looks solid," he began, his voice smooth and devoid of any real warmth. "Your father was impressed with the way you handled the Senator tonight. You looked the part. Dignified. Untouchable."
He didn't look at you as he spoke; he was already three steps ahead, calculating the next move on the chessboard of your lives.
"I've been meaning to talk to you about the timeline," he continued. "Once the wedding is finalized in June, I'll be moving our primary operations overseas. London, most likely. Maybe a stint in Singapore. It's the only way to truly scale the family brand."
He wasn't asking. He was informing you of your new itinerary. You were an asset to be moved, a piece of luggage wrapped in silk and diamonds. You nodded, your gaze fixed on the window, listening to him drone on about logistics and tax havens, while the ghost of a tattooed hand and a red lollipop burned in the back of your mind.
When the car pulled up to the gates of your family's estate, the engine cut with a quiet, expensive hum. Seokjin turned to you then, his expression softening just enough to be considered "affectionate" by his standards.
"You've been quiet tonight," he noted, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. "Are you nervous about the move? Don't be. You'll have everything you need there. More than you have here."
"I'm just tired, Jin," you lied, the words feeling like ash.
"Get some rest, then," he said. He leaned in, his lips pressing against yours. It was a kiss that was perfectly practiced polite, dry, and entirely devoid of the hungry, visceral heat you had felt pulsing through your phone only hours ago. It was the kiss of a business partner sealing a deal, not a man claiming a woman.
"I'll call you tomorrow about the venue," he whispered against your mouth before pulling away.
You watched the red glow of his taillights disappear down the driveway. The house was silent, a hollow museum of your family's status. You walked inside, the click of your heels echoing on the marble floor.
The house was silent, your parents still tangled in the web of the party. You kicked off your heels in the foyer and retreated to your bedroom, the shadows of the large room feeling like a sanctuary. You reached into your clutch and pulled out your phone.
JK's last message was still there, glowing in the dark. 'Available for your entertainment.'
The contrast between Seokjin's sterile overseas transition and JK's raw, unapologetic filth was too much to ignore. You didn't just want a distraction; you wanted to burn the bridge between who you were and who you were supposed to be.
You: I need you to make me forget everything about tonight. Name your price. Whatever the amount, I'll pay it. Just... don't stop.
You didn't expect an immediate reply. It was late, and a man like him surely had other clients to attend to. But the notification popped up before you could even set the phone down.
JK: "Whatever the amount? Careful, Princess. You're talking to a man who knows exactly how to bleed a bank account dry. But money isn't what I'm craving right now."
Your heart skipped.
JK: "I've been watching your silence for the last three hours. You were somewhere, weren't you? $2,000 for a live call. Right now. No scripts. No filters. I want to see exactly where you are and what you're willing to do to earn my time."
He wasn't asking. He was demanding. And for the first time in your life, you found yourself reaching for the "Pay" button without a single second of hesitation.
The screen of your phone was a void of black, but your speakers were alive with the sound of his breathing low, steady, and dangerously calm. You sat on the edge of your bed, the silk of your dress pushed up to your hips, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The thought of your face, the face of a a corporate bride-to-be appearing on his screen was a death sentence.
Then, his video feed flickered to life.
You gasped, the sound muffled by your hand. Jungkook was sprawled across a messy bed, the sheets a dark, tangled contrast to his glowing, tattooed skin. He was completely naked, one arm tucked behind his head, flexing the thick bicep covered in intricate ink. The camera angle was unapologetic, looking down the length of his hard, sculpted torso to where his heavy length lay resting against his thigh.
He leaned in closer, a dark, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Why, Princess? Are you scared of revealing yourself?" His voice was a gravelly vibration that seemed to pulse right between your legs. "Are you hiding a face I'd recognize? Or are you just shy because you know exactly what I'm going to make you do?"
"I'm not turning it on," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just... do what I paid for."
Jungkook let out a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down your spine. He didn't push further; he liked the power dynamic of the mystery. His free hand traveled down his chest, his thumb grazing his nipple before sliding down the ridges of his abs.
"Fine. Keep your secrets," he groaned, his eyes darkening as they stared into the blackness of your side of the call. "But if I can't see you, I need to hear you. I want to hear the fabric of that expensive dress rustling. I want to hear your breathing get ragged. Tell me, Princess... what do you want me to do to myself while I think about breaking you?"
"I want to see you play," you breathed, your own hand sliding tentatively beneath the lace of your underwear. "I want to see... everything."
"Direct. I like that," he said, his hand finally closing around himself. He started a slow, rhythmic slide, his head falling back against the pillow. "I'm imagining you right now. I bet you're sitting on the edge of that big, lonely bed, your legs spread for me. Spread them wider, Princess. Touch yourself."
-------
The video call became a fever dream of filth and friction. The sight of him, his veins popping in his forearms as his grip tightened, his jaw clenching with every upward stroke was a visceral assault.
"God, you're so loud in my ear," he hissed, his pace quickening, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing through the line. "Are you wet for me? Tell me how much you want this sticky, filthy mess all over you."
"Shut up," you gasped, your eyes rolling back as you reached your peak, the image of his tattooed body moving with feral intensity driving you over the edge. "Just... don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
"I'm not stopping until I hear you shatter," he growled, his voice dropping into a guttural roar as he watched the black screen, imagining the ruin he was causing in your high-society bedroom. "Give it to me, Princess. Tell me who you really belong to tonight."
You couldn't hold back anymore. The friction of your own fingers, the sight of his head lolling back as he reached his limit, and the sheer, forbidden thrill of the moment snapped something deep inside you. You let out a broken, high-pitched moan, your body arching off the bed as the first wave of a violent climax hit you.
"God... JK," you gasped, his name slipping out like a prayer and a sin all at once.
The sound of his name seemed to trigger the end for him. On the screen, his muscles corded, his veins bulging in his neck as his grip tightened into a final, desperate rhythm. His jaw locked, a low, animalistic growl vibrating from his chest as he finally came, the raw evidence of his release slicking his abdomen and his tattooed hand.
He stayed like that for a moment, chest heaving, his skin glistening with a film of sweat under the dim lights of his room. He looked utterly wrecked, a man who had just given everything to a black screen.
The silence that followed was deafening. You lay there, your dress ruined and hiked up around your waist, your breath coming in shallow hitches. The reality of what you had just done the sheer filth of it, the distance between this and the cold, sterile life Seokjin offered felt like a physical weight.
Jungkook finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly at the camera. He reached out, his thumb grazing the lens as if he were trying to touch the woman behind the darkness.
"You're a quiet one after the storm, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice honeyed and rough.
He didn't ask about your life. He didn't ask who you were or why you were hiding. To him, you were just a high-paying fantasy, a voice in the dark that needed him. He had no idea about the diamond ring sitting on your nightstand or the political merger that was currently dictating your future.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk returning to his lips as he began to reach for a towel to clean himself up. "Or did I finally give you enough to keep you satisfied for a while?"
You didn't answer. You couldn't. With a trembling hand, you reached out and tapped the red 'End Call' button, plunging the room back into a cold, suffocating silence.
--------
The air in the cathedral was thick with the scent of aged frankincense and the heavy, suffocating weight of tradition. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting vibrant hues of ruby and sapphire across your folded hands, but you felt none of the peace the priest was droning on about.
You were kneeling between your mother, who was draped in modest Chanel, and Seokjin, who looked like a saint carved from marble. His eyes were closed, his profile sharp and perfect. To the world, you were the picture of piety, the cherished daughter of a dynasty, preparing to enter a sacred union.
Inside, you were a riot of sin.
Your thighs ached from the tension of the previous night's call. Every time the choir hit a high note, you didn't think of angels; you thought of the way JK's voice had dropped into that guttural, animalistic growl when he watched you peak through the screen.
The small clutch purse on your lap vibrated.
It was a sharp, jagged intrusion into the silence. Your mother cut a sharp glance toward you, her perfectly arched brow twitching in warning. You offered a tight, apologetic smile and slipped your hand into the bag, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You knew you shouldn't. Not here. Not in front of the altar. But the hunger was a physical itch you couldn't scratch.
You shielded the screen with your palm, the brightness biting into the dimness of the pew.
JK: Thinking about how you sounded last night.
JK: Bet you're being a good girl right now, aren't you? Sitting somewhere pretty, pretending you don't have a filthy mind.
A heat, sudden and violent, bloomed at the base of your throat. You shifted in the hard wooden pew, the wood creaking, a sound that felt like a scream in the silent church. Your mother cut a sharp, questioning look at you. You offered a tight, strained smile and looked down at your lap, your fingers trembling as another notification popped up.
It was an image.
You shouldn't have opened it. Not here. Not under the eyes of the saints. But curiosity was a hunger you couldn't starve.
The photo loaded. It was a mirror selfie, taken in what looked like a dimly lit bathroom. JK was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, his hand curled around the back of his neck to flex the heavy muscle of his shoulder. His hair was damp, falling over his eyes, and he was biting his lower lip, that same lip you had watched him wet with a red lollipop.
The caption read.
JK: I'm bored, Princess. Saturday feels too far away. Tell me what you're wearing. I want to know exactly what I have to take off you before I show you what $2,000 actually buys.
The unholy thoughts hit you like a physical blow. You could almost feel his tattooed fingers tracing the zipper of your dress, pulling it down to reveal the virginity you were planning to hand him like a sacrificial lamb. The irony was suffocating, here you were, surrounded by prayers for your soul, while your heart was racing for the man who promised to ruin it.
"Y/N," your mother whispered, her hand resting on your arm. Her touch felt like ice. "Are you alright? You're flushed. You're shaking."
"I... it's just the incense, Mother," you choked out, the lie tasting like ash. "It's a bit stifling in here."
You looked back at the phone one last time. The image of his sculpted torso, the V-line of his hips disappearing into the fabric of his pants, burned into your retinas. You felt a coil of heat tighten deep in your belly, a visceral ache that made the church feel like a cage.
You typed back with a daring you didn't know you possessed, your thumb hovering over the keys as the choir began to sing.
You: I'm in church, JK.
You: And you're making it very hard to pray.
A second later, his reply came, and you nearly dropped the phone.
JK: In church? Perfect.
JK: Kneel down for me then, Princess. Tell God I'm the one coming for you on Saturday. And tell him I don't plan on being gentle.
You snapped the clutch shut, the metallic click echoing too loudly in the hollow space. Your breath was ragged, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You looked up at the crucifix at the front of the hall, but all you saw was the dark, hungry gaze of a man who didn't care about your soul, only your body.
Saturday wasn't just a date. It was a countdown to a total eclipse of the life you had been forced to lead. And as the congregation stood for the final blessing, you realized you weren't praying for forgiveness. You were praying for the week to end.
--------
The air in the garden was thick with the scent of peonies and overpriced champagne. Everything, from the silk ribbons tied around the topiary to the macarons on the tiered trays, was a precise, aggressive shade of blush pink. It was beautiful, curated, and utterly exhausting.
Seokjin stood beside you, looking every bit the heir to an empire in a tailored cream suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. He held a glass of sparkling cider, his posture perfect, his smile appearing and disappearing with the mechanical precision of a shutter.
"A girl," he remarked, his voice low enough only for you to hear. "It's good for the family lineage. Softens the brand's image. My cousin, Hana, has always been savvy about these things."
You nodded, feeling the weight of the pink silk dress you'd been instructed to wear. "She looks happy, Jin. It's a celebration, not just a branding opportunity."
He chuckled, a dry, polite sound. "In this family, darling, they are one and the same."
Hana, glowing and draped in chiffon, glided over to you both. "Y/N! You look stunning. Pink really is your color," she chirped, kissing both of your cheeks. She leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with a mix of genuine excitement and family expectation. "So, I hear the wedding is set for June. Just think, in a year or two, we could be throwing one of these for you and Jin. Can you imagine a little Seokjin running around?"
Your stomach did a slow, nauseating somersault. "We're just focusing on the merger, the wedding, right now, Hana," you managed to say, your smile feeling like it was held up by wires.
"Of course, of course," she winked. "But don't wait too long. We need to keep the dynasty strong."
As they descended into a conversation about offshore investments and the guest list for the upcoming charity gala, your mind drifted. The pink balloons began to look like blurred spots of light. You were bored no, you were suffocating. This was your life, a series of gender reveals, sterile conversations, and softening the brand.
As the afternoon wore on, the fun began. There were games involving guessing the baby's birth weight and advice cards for the new parents. You sat at a circular table with three other corporate wives who discussed nothing but interior designers and the local private school rankings.
Seokjin was a few yards away, locked in a deep conversation about tax-free zones with his uncle. He didn't look back at you once. He knew exactly where you were, exactly where he'd left you.
You picked at a pink cupcake, the frosting too sweet, your mind drifting. You looked at the pink ribbons tied around the trees and thought about how everything in your life was being pre-packaged. The color of the nursery, the city you'd live in, the man you'd wake up next to.
"Everything alright?"
You looked up to see Seokjin standing over you. He checked his watch, a habit he couldn't break even at a family party.
"I'm just a bit drained, Jin," you said, echoing the same lie you'd told him in the car. "The sun is a bit much."
"We'll leave after the final toast," he said, patting your hand. It wasn't a gesture of comfort; it was a promise of an end to the social obligation. "You've done well today. My aunt was very complimentary of your poise."
Poise. To him, you were a well-behaved pet.
As the "It's a Girl!" confetti cannons went off, showering the lawn in a blizzard of pink paper, you stood there clapping politely. The sight was objectively beautiful, but you felt nothing but a hollow ache for something messy, something unscripted, and something that didn't require a Pay button even if that was the only way you knew how to find it.
You followed Seokjin toward the car, your heels sinking into the manicured grass, a dignified bride-to-be who was secretly counting down the seconds until she could be alone in the dark.
--------
You stood before your full-length mirror, two dresses draped over the velvet chair behind you.
The red dress was a statement. It was bold, a "femme fatale" armor that screamed of the woman you were trying to become sensual, confident, and unapologetic. But as you held it up, it felt like a costume.
Then there was the white dress.
White was your signature. Your closet was a graveyard of ivory, cream, and pearl the color of purity, the color of a bride. Choosing the white silk slip dress felt like a deliberate act of sabotage. You wanted him to see you in the color of innocence just before you let him ruin it. You pulled the silk over your head, the fabric cool against your skin, sliding down your curves like a secret. No bra, just lace-trimmed stockings and the frantic thrum of your heart against your ribs.
The hotel was a discreet, high-end establishment on the edge of the city, the kind of place where the staff was paid for their silence. Your hands shook as you pressed the button for the penthouse floor.
When you reached the door, you hesitated. Your reflection in the polished brass of the room number looked like a stranger pale, wide-eyed, and desperate. You knocked, the sound muffled by the thick carpet of the hallway.
The door swung open almost instantly.
The camera hadn't done him justice. In person, Jungkook was an overwhelming physical presence. He was in a black silk button-down, the top three buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of the intricate, dark ink sprawling across his chest. His hair was pushed back, and the light caught the glint of the silver rings in his ears and the sharp, silver stud in his lip.
His dark eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, moving from your trembling lips down to the hem of your white dress. He didn't look like a service you had paid for; he looked like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.
"You're late, Princess," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that settled deep in your bones. He stepped back, gesturing for you to enter. "And you're wearing white. Are you trying to remind me of what I'm taking from you tonight?"
The door clicked shut, sealing out the world and its expectations. The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"I... I was nervous," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "I didn't know if I'd look the same to you in person."
Jungkook walked toward you, his movements fluid and predatory. He stopped inches away, the scent of expensive tobacco and something dark and masculine filling your senses. He reached out, his hand, covered in the intricate tattoos of a snake and a crown, sliding up your arm. The contrast of his ink against your pale, pristine skin was startling.
"You look better," he hissed, his thumb grazing your jawline before hooking into the corner of your mouth, tugging your lip down slightly. "The camera didn't show me how much you tremble when I touch you."
He didn't waste time with the polite, dry kisses. When his mouth crashed against yours, it was a claim. It tasted of hunger and heat. His lip piercing dragged against your skin, a sharp, metallic sensation that sent a jolt of pure electricity through your nerves.
The room felt smaller now that the door was shut, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and the dangerous, electric hum of his presence. You stood by the foot of the bed, your fingers fumbling with your clutch until you managed to pull out your phone. With a few frantic taps, you hit 'confirm.'
The $2,000 left your account, a digital sacrifice to the man standing before you.
"It's sent," you whispered, your voice thin.
Jungkook didn't even glance at his phone. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, the silver rings in his ears catching the light. He looked at you not like a client, but like something he had finally hunted down.
"You think I care about the notification, Princess?" he murmured, stopping so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "I've got plenty of money. But having the pristine, high-society bride-to-be standing in my room, shaking because she wants to be touched by a man like me? That feels like winning a trophy I wasn't supposed to have."
He reached out, his tattooed hand cupping your cheek, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "So, how do you want to start? You paid for the time. Tell me how you want me to ruin you."
"I... I don't know," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "I've never... I've never done this."
A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. "You don't know? After all that talk on the phone?" He leaned down, his lip piercing cold against your ear as he whispered, "I like that. A blank slate."
He didn't wait for another word. He gripped your waist, his large hands sinking into the ivory silk of your dress, and guided you back until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. With a gentle shove, he sat you down and then eased you back until you were lying against the pillows, your dark hair splayed out like a halo.
Jungkook hovered over you for a second, his dark eyes raking over your body with a proprietary hunger. Then, he dropped to his knees between your legs. The movement was so sudden, so worshipful yet dominant, that you gasped.
He didn't look up. Instead, he gripped the hem of your white dress and slowly slid it upward. The silk bunched in his tattooed hands, revealing your trembling thighs, inch by inch, until the fabric was gathered at your hips.
He leaned in, pressing a searing, open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of your inner knee. His breath was hot, sending a violent shiver straight to your core.
"I'm here to please you, and I'm getting paid a lot of money to do it right," he murmured against your skin, his voice muffled by your thigh. He moved higher, his tongue tracing a line toward the lace of your underwear, his nose brushing against the heat of you. He looked up then, his jaw sharp, his eyes hooded and dark. "Tell me what you want, Princess. Give me an order."
Your hands found the mess of his dark hair, your fingers curling into the strands. The dignified version of you was dead. The girl who belonged to Seokjin was gone.
"I want you," you choked out, your hips instinctively arching toward him. "Please... I just want you."
"Good girl," he growled, a jerkish, satisfied smirk pulling at his lips.
He stood up just long enough to shed his shirt, his muscular torso a map of dark ink and raw power in the dim light. He crawled over you, his weight a welcome pressure, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.
"I'm going to be your favorite mistake," he promised, his mouth crashing onto yours with a visceral, filthy intensity that tasted of leather, metal, and the end of your innocence.
-------
Jungkook loomed over you, his eyes dark with a predatory focus as he pinned your wrists to the headboard with a single, tattooed hand.
"You're so tight," he rasped, his voice dropping into a guttural register. "Just looking at you like this... I can tell you've been holding your breath for years."
He didn't give you a chance to answer. His free hand traveled up your torso, the rough texture of his calloused palms dragging against the smooth silk of your dress until he reached your breasts. He didn't hesitate; he squeezed firmly, groaning at the soft, heavy weight of you in his hand. With a flick of his thumb, he caught your nipple through the thin fabric, rolling the sensitive peak until a sharp jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core.
You let out a broken moan, your head tossing back against the pillows. "JK... please..."
"Please what?" he taunted, his smirk returning, sharp and cruel in the best way. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear before he moved to your neck, sucking a dark mark into the skin. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to these."
He didn't wait for your stuttered reply. He used his teeth to snag the neckline of your dress, pulling the white silk down until your breasts were bared to the cool air of the room. He stared at you for a long beat, his chest heaving. Then, he dipped his head, taking one aching peak into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, the wet heat of his tongue, the sharp scrape of his lip piercing, and the rhythmic suction as he nursed you like he was starving.
"God, you're so responsive," he hissed against your skin, moving to the other side, his hand sliding down to the damp lace between your thighs.
He began to play you like an instrument he'd spent a lifetime mastering. His fingers found your center, circling and dipping with a relentless, expert friction that had you sobbing his name. Every time you neared the edge, every time your breath hitched and your back arched, he would stop. He would pull his hand away, watching you crumble in frustration.
"Not yet," he whispered, his eyes burning into yours. "I want you so desperate that you'll forget your own name. I want you begging for the ruin."
He edged you again and again, his mouth never leaving your skin, his hands mapping every inch of your trembling body until you were a raw nerve, weeping and pleading for him to finish it.
Finally, he sat back, stripping off the rest of his clothes with a fluid, impatient grace. He looked like a god of ink and sin as he moved back between your knees. He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt heat of him pressing against your virginity.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick.
You opened your eyes, blurred with tears of pleasure, to find him watching you with a terrifying intensity.
"This is the part you can't take back," he murmured, his hands sliding under your hips to tilt you up. "This belongs to me. Not the businessman. Not your father. Me."
With one slow, heavy thrust, he broke through.
A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your fingers digging into his biceps, tracing the ridges of the tattoos that covered his skin. It was a searing, full sensation, a stretching ache that quickly began to melt into a deep, thrumming heat. Jungkook stayed still for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped.
"Breathe, Princess," he grounded out, his thumb catching a tear on your cheek. "Just breathe for me."
As the initial sting faded, replaced by a blossoming, primal hunger, he began to move. It wasn't the polite, measured rhythm of a gentleman. It was a hard, unapologetic pace that made the bed frame groan and your vision swim. Every thrust was a claim, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing in the quiet room.
You were lost in the friction, the silver glint of his piercings, and the way his name felt like the only word left in your vocabulary. As you spiraled toward a violent, soul-shattering peak, you realized you hadn't just paid for a night; you had paid to finally feel alive, even if it meant burning everything else to the ground.
---------
The room was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the rustle of ruined silk. You felt heavy, your body aching in places you hadn't known existed, marked by a man who was now watching you from the shadows of the pillows.
You stood by the edge of the bed, your back turned to him as you stepped into your lace underwear. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the ivory dress on the floor. It was wrinkled, a far cry from the pristine garment you'd arrived in, much like yourself.
"Running away so soon, Princess?"
Jungkook's voice was a low, gravelly vibration. You glanced back. He was sitting up, completely naked, the sheets pooled at his waist. The morning light caught the sharp lines of his tattoos and the glint of his piercings. He looked devastatingly unbothered, his jaw shadowed by stubble, a dark lock of hair falling over his eyes.
"I have to go," you whispered, pulling the dress over your head. The silk felt cold against your sensitive skin. "This... tonight was... it was what I needed. But it's the last time we'll see each other."
A dry, dark chuckle escaped his throat. He reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, his movements fluid and predatory even in his stillness. "The last time? You paid two grand to have me break you open, and now you're acting like we just had a polite coffee."
"I'm serious, Jungkook," you said, finally turning to face him as you zipped the side of your dress. Your voice gained a desperate edge. "The merger is moving forward. My wedding to Seokjin is in June. I can't risk this. I can't risk you."
Jungkook paused, a lighter sparking in his hand. The flame illuminated the hard, jerkish tilt of his smirk. He took a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke that curled around his head like a halo.
"Seokjin," he repeated the name like it was a bad joke. "The man who kisses you like he's signing a contract. You really think you can go back to that? After how loud you were screaming my name an hour ago?"
"I don't have a choice," you snapped, grabbing your clutch. "This was a distraction. A final act of rebellion. But on Monday, I go back to being the woman I'm supposed to be."
Jungkook stood up then, uncaring of his nudity, and walked toward you. He stopped just inches away, the scent of tobacco and sex clinging to him. He loomed over you, his presence suffocating. He didn't touch you, but the heat from his body made you want to melt right back into the sheets.
"June is a long way off, Princess," he murmured, leaning down so his lip piercing almost brushed your ear. "You've tasted what it's like to actually feel something. You think you can survive three months of silence with him? You'll be back. You'll get bored, or lonely, or just plain hungry for the way I make you hurt."
"I won't," you lied, stepping back toward the door. Your heart was thudding against your ribs, a frantic, rhythmic warning.
"We'll see," he said, his eyes darkening. The "care" he'd shown earlier was gone, replaced by a cold, possessive streak. He didn't like being told 'no.' He didn't like being a chapter that was closing.
You didn't say goodbye. You couldn't. You turned and walked out of the room, the click of your heels on the hotel carpet sounding like a funeral march.
Behind you, Jungkook didn't follow. He leaned against the doorframe, naked and etched in ink, taking another long drag of his cigarette. He watched your retreating back through the haze of smoke, a dark, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. He knew the truth you weren't ready to admit: you hadn't just bought a night of pleasure. You had bought a hunger that a man like Seokjin could never satisfy.
As the elevator doors closed, the last thing you saw was the red glow of his cigarette in the dim hallway, a small, burning warning of the fire you had started and couldn't put out.
-------
The days following that night were a blur of suffocating tradition. Jungkook had gone silent, a ghost in your digital world, and you tried to convince yourself that the $2,000 had finally bought you peace. You threw yourself back into the role of the perfect daughter, the Untouchable Princess of the Min political dynasty.
Tonight, you are at a gala for your father's re-election campaign. The ballroom is a cathedral of gold leaf and forced laughter. You are wearing a champagne-colored gown, modest, floor-length, and expensive. It feels like a shroud.
"You're doing well, Y/N," your father whispers as he steers you through a crowd of donors.
You offer a practiced, porcelain curve of your lips to a local Governor, nodding at the right intervals, while inside, you feel hollow. Your skin still feels the phantom heat of tattooed hands; your ears still ring with the sound of a voice that was anything but stable.
Miles away, in a dimly lit apartment that smells of stale smoke, Jungkook is slumped on a leather sofa. The only light in the room comes from three different monitors. One shows a live feed of the gala, a social media broadcast from a local news outlet.
He zooms in on your face. He watches the way you tilt your head, the way you hold your champagne glass with a poise that looks like it would shatter if he so much as whispered your name.
"Liars," he chuckles, the sound dark and jagged in the quiet room. "Every single one of you."
He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the private folder he has dedicated to you. He knows things Seokjin doesn't. He knows you hate the taste of the expensive truffles served at these events, preferring the street-food spicy rice cakes you used to sneak as a teenager. He knows your favorite color isn't the dignified white you wear for the public, but a deep, bruised violet.
He knows the exact shade your skin turns when you're pushed past your limit.
He stares at the screen, at the way your dress clings to the hips he claimed only nights ago. The memory of your first time, the way you gasped, the way you were so tight and terrified and then so utterly wrecked, hits him like a physical blow. He feels the familiar, heavy throb in his veins, a visceral hunger that the money didn't satisfy. It only made him want to own the soul behind the bank account.
He stands up, his hand moving to the waistband of his dark sweats. He doesn't just want you; he wants to haunt you in the middle of your perfect life.
Back at the gala, your clutch vibrates against your ribs.
You excuse yourself from a conversation about tax reform, retreating to a quiet alcove behind a velvet curtain. Your heart is already racing before you even see the screen. You know that vibration. It's the rhythm of a disaster.
You open the app. Your breath hitches.
It's a photo. Unapologetic. Raw. Filthy.
It's a close-up of him, his hand gripping the thick, straining bulge beneath the fabric of his pants. His tattooed knuckles are white from the pressure, and you can see the dark v-line of his hips. It is a violent intrusion of reality into your gilded cage.
Followed by a text:
JK: I see that fake smile you're giving everyone, Princess. It's pretty. But we both know what you look like when you're crying for me.
JK: I can't stop thinking about how you felt. How you tasted. I'm sitting here getting hard just watching you pretend for the cameras.
JK: You said it was the last time. But you haven't blocked me yet, have you? You're still holding onto the leash I put on you.
You lean your head against the cold marble wall, your eyes fluttering shut. The sound of the orchestra in the ballroom feels miles away. All you can feel is the phantom weight of him, and the terrifying realization that while you were trying to forget him, he was busy memorizing every way to destroy you.
You don't reply. You can't. But you don't delete the photo, either. You just stand there in your champagne silk, shivering in the heat of his obsession.
--------
The silence of your bedroom is stifling, a stark contrast to the thrumming energy of the gala you just fled. You don't even bother unzipping your dress; the champagne silk feels like a straitjacket as you pace the length of your hand-tufted rug. The glow of your phone is a jagged blade in the dark, cutting through the carefully constructed peace you've tried to build over the last forty-eight hours.
Your thumbs fly over the screen, fueled by a mixture of terror and a lingering, traitorous heat.
You: Stop sending me those. I have already made it clear that this needs to stop.
You hold your breath, watching the three dots dance. He's there. He's always there, lurking in the digital shadows of your life.
JK: But i thought this just started.
JK: Common Y/n you can't forget me just like that, I need a good farewell don't I?
JK: I have done everything you asked me to do for money.
The mention of the money makes your stomach flip. It was supposed to be a shield, a way to keep it a transaction. But in his hands, that paper trail has become a tether. He's reminding you that he knows your secrets, that he's seen the princess at her most vulnerable, and that he has the receipts to prove it.
You: What do u want now?
You sit on the edge of your bed, the same bed where you've spent the last two nights staring at the ceiling, haunted by the memory of his ink-covered skin. The reply comes instantly, as if he's been waiting for you to crack.
JK: Can we meet one last time please?
You stare at the word please. Coming from him, it doesn't feel like a request. It feels like a challenge. It feels like a predator offering a hand to the prey, knowing she's already halfway into his mouth.
You: I can't. Seokjin is coming over tomorrow for a formal dinner. My father is watching me. The security...
JK: I don't care about the security. And I definitely don't care about Seokjin.
JK: One last time, Princess. A real goodbye. No screens. No "Pay" buttons. Just us.
JK: Unless you're scared that if I touch you one more time, you'll realize you can't actually go through with that wedding in June.
The words burn. He's poking at the bruise, finding the exact spot where your resolve is weakest. You look at the vanity mirror, at the 'Untouchable Princess' reflected there, and then back at the phone. The obsession in his tone is palpable a dark, heavy weight that seems to pull you toward the screen.
He knows you. He's spent the last few days dissecting your life from afar, watching your polite smiles and your public purity, and he's decided he's not done being the one who stains it.
JK: I'll be at the old pier at midnight. The one near the warehouse district.
JK: Come alone. If you don't show up, I might just have to drop by that formal dinner tomorrow.
It's a threat wrapped in a plea, delivered with the jagged edge of a man who has decided that if he can't have you as a client, he'll have you as his captive audience.
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SYNOPSIS: Your life was perfect, or so it seemed. As the wife of Jeon Jungkook, a powerful billionaire, you lived in quiet luxury, never questioning the shadows around him. Until Kim Namjoon appeared. What begins as curiosity turns into manipulation, and before you realize it, you're no longer a bystander.
You're leverage.
Caught between a husband with secrets and a man determined to expose them, trust becomes a weapon and every choice pulls you deeper into a game with no innocent sides.
The ballroom was a carcass, stripped of its prestige in less than five minutes. As security began aggressively shoving reporters and socialites toward the gilded exits, the space felt cavernous and cold.
Jungkook was slumped against the mahogany edge of the tech podium. His tie was loosened, his hair usually lacquered into perfection was disheveled. For the first time in his life, the 'Golden Son' of the industry looked small. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked hollowed out, staring at the blank LED screen as if he could wish the last ten minutes out of existence.
You walked toward the exit, your heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. You didn't look back at him. You couldn't. The man you had feared for years had been reduced to a headline, and yet, the weight in your chest only grew heavier.
Just past the heavy oak doors of the ballroom, the chaos of the lobby faded into a haunting quiet. This was the VIP corridor the safe zone.
Mina was gone. Whether she had fled through the service tunnels or been whisked away by a fixer, she had vanished, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the wreckage of two families behind.
Then, you saw him.
Namjoon was leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall, watching the flashing blue and red lights of the police and press vehicles gathering below. He looked utterly bored.
When he heard your footsteps, he straightened up, adjusting his cuffs. There was no trace of the devastating smirk from the ballroom. Now, his expression was one of chilling, professional clarity.
"The guards are clearing the floor," he said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly steady. "In an hour, the board of directors will trigger the morality clause in Jungkook's contract. By tomorrow morning, he won't even own the desk he sits at."
He stepped into your personal space, the sheer power of his presence forcing you to stop.
"You're looking at me like I'm the villain," he murmured, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your forehead. His touch was cold. "But remember who gave you the view from the front row. You wanted him to pay. I just made sure the currency was his soul."
You pulled back, your voice trembling. "You used me. You knew he was with Mina, and you let it happen. You let us happen just to keep his attention away from your actual plan."
Namjoon’s eyes darkened, a flash of something, perhaps a shred of genuine ruthlessness flickering in his gaze.
"I didn't let us happen. I chose it," he corrected softly. "Jungkook is finished. Mina is a ghost. That leaves you and me."
He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing yours against the hallway wall.
"The question is, are you going to go back into that room and go down with his sinking ship? Or are you going to walk out of those doors with the man who won?"
Down the hall, you heard a crash the sound of Jungkook finally snapping, throwing a chair or perhaps a bottle. The sound of a king screaming at an empty room.
------
The air in the ballroom was no longer thick with champagne; it smelled of ozone, burnt tobacco, and the dying embers of a dynasty.
Jungkook sat on the edge of the stage, the very place where he had been king only twenty minutes prior. The overhead spotlights had been cut, leaving only the dim, flickering security lights that cast long, jagged shadows across his face. He looked like a fallen god in a tailored shroud. His tattooed hand trembled slightly as he brought the cigarette to his lips, the orange cherry glowing fiercely in the dark.
When you spoke, he didn't even flinch. He just exhaled a cloud of grey smoke that swirled around his head like a storm front.
"If you are here for an explanation, I’m not in the mood for it now," he rasped. His voice was a jagged blade, stripped of its usual silk.
"Since how long?"
The question was simple, but it hung in the air like a noose. Jungkook closed his eyes, his head dropping back as he let out a heavy, rattling sigh. "Y/n... can you just leave me alone?"
"NO. I want to know since when you have been fucking your cousin's wife." Your voice didn't shake. It was colder than he had ever been to you. A bitter, jagged chuckle escaped your throat. "No wonder I have never actually met them. You kept the families apart, kept me in the dark, because your little secret was too filthy to see the light of day. Our marriage was a business deal, Jungkook, but this? This is depravity."
He finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrifying mix of exhaustion and a lingering, toxic pride. He didn't deny it. He didn't even have the energy to lie. He just watched you, the smoke curling from his nostrils.
"I need a divorce," you said.
The words hit the floor like shattered glass. Jungkook’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. The silence that followed was heavy, pressing against your eardrums. Slowly, he stood up, his tall frame looming over you, the arrogant lines of his suit now wrinkled and stained with the night’s failure.
"Are you serious?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato.
"Yes. I am. Nothing is right between us. This marriage, this life... it’s a theater of the absurd. We’ve both been hiding so much, playing these roles while the world watches. It’s over, Jungkook. I’m done."
A slow, twisted smile began to spread across his face, a look that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a snarl. He took one last drag of his cigarette and crushed the butt out on the expensive mahogany floor, grinding it into the wood with the heel of his shoe.
"Divorce," he echoed, stepping into your space until you could smell the acrid tobacco and the expensive scent of his panic. "You want to walk away now? Now that the ship is sinking?"
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes searching your soul for the fear he usually found there.
"Where would you go, Y/n? Back to your family? Back to the people who sold you to me for a seat at the table?" He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a needle under the skin. "Or are you planning on running straight into the arms of the real father of Rawoon?"
The world stopped. The blood drained from your face so fast your head spun.
"You knew?" your voice was a ghost of a whisper. "And you never... you never said a word?"
"Why would I?" Jungkook reached out, his fingers gripping your chin with a bruising strength, forcing you to look at the man who had traded his humanity for an empire. "How could an infertile man like me get a woman pregnant? I knew the math didn't add up the moment you handed me that test. But I needed an heir. I needed a legacy to secure the board's trust. You were a vessel, Y/n. It's good that you were already pregnant; it saved me the effort of finding a surrogate."
He let go of you as if you were something tainted. "I accepted you. I looked past your infidelity because it served the bottom line. Our families are tied by billions, Y/n. A divorce isn't a personal choice; it’s a market crash."
The sheer, icy depravity of his logic snapped something inside you. For years, you had lived in fear of his judgment, only to realize he had no soul left to judge with.
"You really only care about the business," you said, a bitter, hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat. "You’re sitting in the ashes of your reputation, and you’re still worried about the bottom line?"
You took a step toward him, your eyes blazing with a fire that finally matched the chaos of the room.
"Since we’re clearing the air, Jungkook, since you’re so comfortable with infidelity then you should know the full extent of your loss."
You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a deadly, silky register. "You know I've been unfaithful. You think I’ve been a good little ghost while you were busy with Mina?"
"Since you already know that Rawoon isn’t your son, you should know this too" you spat, the words tasting like venom. "I’ve been fucking your cousin. While you were redefining the industry with Mina, Namjoon was redefining me. And unlike you... he actually knows how to finish what he starts."
Jungkook’s face didn’t just turn pale; it turned gray. The realization that his greatest rival hadn’t just stolen his project but had also found his way into his wife’s life and her thoughts, was the killing blow.
His hand flew out, grasping the edge of a table to keep from falling.
"You..." Jungkook choked out, his voice finally breaking. "You and him... the whole time?"
"The whole time"
--------
The air in the Kim estate was thick with the suffocating silence of a tomb. The only light came from the fireplace, casting long, dancing shadows of the furniture against the walls, and the pale moon reflecting off the deep crimson wine in Namjoon’s glass.
He didn't look like a man who had just been publicly cuckolded. He sat in his wingback chair, his posture perfect, his expression as smooth as polished marble. He was the picture of a man who had already processed his grief and replaced it with a cold, crystalline fury.
The heavy front doors creaked open. Mina’s footsteps were uneven, stumbling. She looked like a ghost of the woman she was four hours ago, her dress was torn at the hem, her makeup was smeared into dark bruises under her eyes, and her dignity was somewhere on the floor of that ballroom.
She didn't look at him. She couldn't. She tried to drift toward the staircase, a shadow trying to escape the light.
"Too ashamed to even face me?" Namjoon’s voice cut through the dark like a blade. "I suppose that’s the only decent thing you have left, the sense to hide your face. You don’t even have the right to ask for forgiveness."
Mina froze, her hand gripping the banister until her knuckles turned white. She turned slowly, her eyes brimming with tears that spilled over the moment she saw him. "Namjoon..."
"DON’T YOU DARE TALK."
The roar of his voice made her flinch, the wine in his glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He didn't stand up; he didn't have to. His presence filled the entire room. He let out a low, dark chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine.
"You must have no idea," he said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of the wine. "You think you were clever? You think those late night meetings and errands were subtle? Do you know how long I have known about this?"
"You... you knew?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
"Years, Mina. Years of watching you look at him across the dinner table. Years of smelling his cologne on your skin when you came home late." He stood up now, setting the glass on the side table with a definitive clack. "I waited. I thought you would realize what you were throwing away. I thought, perhaps, you would find a shred of loyalty and leave it behind. But no. You just got hungrier for him."
He walked toward her, each step echoing like a heartbeat. He stopped just inches away, his shadow looming over her. "Have you ever thought of me? Of our family? Of the name you just dragged through the dirt?"
"He loved me and-" Mina started, a desperate plea for her own heart’s justification.
"AND I DIDN'T LOVE YOU ENOUGH?" Namjoon snapped, his eyes flashing with a rare, raw pain before the mask of stone slid back into place. "You knew he wanted you before we even traded rings. You had the chance to choose him then. You could have been the Queen of his empire of steel."
He reached out, his thumb catching a tear on her cheek, but there was no tenderness in the gesture. It was the touch of a man inspecting a broken object.
"Then why? WHY did you agree to marry me? Why did you stand at that altar and look me in the eye only to crawl into his bed years later? Was my love too quiet? Was I too stable? Did you need the chaos of a man like Jungkook to feel alive?"
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly soft whisper.
"Tonight, I didn't just destroy him, Mina. I destroyed you. You wanted his attention? Now the whole world is staring. You wanted to be with him? Go. See if he still wants you now that you’ve cost him his billion-dollar crown."
He turned his back on her, walking back toward the fire. "Pack a bag. By morning, this house will be scrubbed clean of your existence. I won’t have the scent of a traitor in my halls."
-------
The private lounge of the Jeon suite felt like a morgue. The television was muted, but the flickering light of the 24-hour news cycle bathed the room in a nauseating blue. Headlines about the 'Jeon-Kim Scandal' and the plummeting stock of JK Holdings scrolled across the bottom of the screen like a countdown to a funeral.
The door burst open. Mina stumbled in, her silk heels clicking frantically against the marble. She looked frantic, her eyes darting around the room until they landed on Jungkook.
"He kicked me out," she gasped, her voice thin and high. "Namjoon... he had my bags at the door before I even arrived. He’s filing for divorce, Jungkook. It’s all over the news. Every lawyer in Seoul has already blacklisted me."
Jungkook didn't move. He was staring at a glass of whiskey, his thumb tracing the rim. The fallen god look from the stage had hardened into something much uglier cold, calculating resentment.
"I know," he said flatly. "I’ve seen the reports."
"Then we're free," Mina said, a desperate, hysterical hope bleeding into her tone. She rushed to his side, her hand trembling as she reached for his shoulder. "Y/n told me she’s leaving you. She’s done. We can finally-"
"Get away from me."
The words weren't a shout. They were a low, guttural warning. Mina flinched as if he’d slapped her.
"What?" she whispered. "Jungkook, this is what we wanted. The masks are off. We don't have to hide anymore."
"You think this is about us?" Jungkook finally looked at her, and the sheer vacancy in his eyes made her blood run cold. "Do you have any idea what happened the moment that tape started playing? My father called. Not to ask if I was okay, but to tell me that the L-Group merger, the one Y/n’s father controls is being pulled."
He stood up, towering over her, the scent of expensive tobacco still clinging to his hair.
"Y/n’s father doesn't give a damn about my happiness, Mina. He cares about his daughter’s status. If I divorce her, I lose the 30% equity stake her family holds in my shipping ports. Without those ports, my board of directors will have my head on a platter by Monday morning. I’m not just losing a wife; I’m losing the foundation of my empire."
"But she cheated too!" Mina cried out, her face twisting. "She told you about Namjoon! She told you Rawoon isn't yours!"
"It doesn't matter," Jungkook hissed, leaning in until his forehead touched hers, though there was no intimacy in it. "In the eyes of the law, Rawoon is a Jeon. In the eyes of the market, Y/n is my wife. If I let her walk away now, I am proving to the world that I am a failure who couldn't keep his house or his business in order."
He turned away from her, walking toward the window to look out at the city he was losing his grip on.
"I can't let her divorce me. I will drag her through the mud, I will blackmail her with the truth about Rawoon, or I will bury her family’s debt but I will not sign those papers. The partnership with her father is the only thing keeping the banks from foreclosing on my latest acquisition."
Mina stood in the center of the room, looking small and broken in her ruined couture. "And what about me? Where do I go?"
"I don't care," Jungkook replied, not even turning around. "Go back to Namjoon. Go to a hotel. Just get out of my sight. You were a luxury I could afford when the world was quiet, Mina. Now? You’re just a liability I can’t account for on the balance sheet."
He took a slow, methodical sip of his drink.
"I have to go find my wife. I have a business proposal she can't afford to refuse."
-------
The hotel suite was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioner. You had spent the last hour scrubbing the makeup from your face, but you couldn't scrub away the feeling of Jungkook’s fingers on your chin or the look of pure malice in his eyes.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Rawoon sleep through the cracked door of the bedroom, when a heavy knock thudded against the wood of the main door.
Your heart jumped into your throat. You thought it was Jungkook. You thought he had come to finish the fight, to take the boy, or to force you back into that theatre of the absurd.
But when you opened the door, it wasn't the man you hated. It was Namjoon.
He stood there in the dimly lit hallway, his tie pulled loose, looking like a man who had just won a war but lost everything else in the process. He didn't wait for an invite; he stepped past you into the room, his presence immediately making the expensive hotel suite feel small and cramped.
"What are you doing here?" you whispered, closing the door quickly. Your hands were shaking. "You did it, Namjoon. You played the tape. You broke him. You destroyed the event. What more do you want from me? Haven't we all bled enough for one night?"
Namjoon didn't answer right away. He walked to the center of the room, his eyes scanning the space until they landed on the cracked bedroom door.
"Where is he?" Namjoon asked. His voice was low, devoid of the rage he had shown Mina.
"He’s in the room. Sleeping," you said, stepping between him and the door, your motherly instincts flaring up. "Don't wake him. He doesn't know anything. He thinks we're just playing a game... staying in a hotel for fun."
Namjoon’s gaze softened for a split second before turning back into stone. He moved to the window, looking out at the city lights.
"I kicked her out," he said suddenly. "Mina. I told her the divorce papers would be ready by morning. By the time the sun comes up, she won't have a penny to her name or a place to call home. The Kim family is done with her."
You leaned against the wall, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You got your revenge. You're a free man, and Jungkook is a laughingstock. So why are you in my hotel room at three in the morning?"
"You think I’m here for a victory lap? Jungkook is a cornered animal, Y/n. You told him you were with me. You threw it in his face while he was already drowning." A dark, almost admiring smile touched his lips. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that Jungkook is losing his mind. He’s not thinking about Mina anymore. He’s thinking about the fact that I took his pride, and he thinks I’ve taken you, too."
You shook your head. "I don't care what he thinks. I want the divorce. I want my son and I want out."
"He won't give it to you," Namjoon said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "He had a meeting with his father ten minutes after you left. Your father’s partnership is the only thing keeping the Jeon name from turning into a punchline. If he loses you, he loses the L-Group merger. He’ll keep you prisoner in that mansion before he lets you sign a single legal paper."
He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm but not touching.
"You told him you were mine tonight to hurt him. But now, you have to actually stay with me if you want to be protected. Because the moment you walk out of this hotel alone, Jungkook’s security will be waiting to take you back to a house that is now a cage."
You looked at him, realizing the nightmare wasn't over. You had traded one devil for another, and Namjoon was standing there, offering you the only exit that didn't lead back to Jungkook.
"You really planned it all, didn't you?" you breathed, your eyes wide. "Even this."
"I don't leave things to chance, Y/n. Especially not things or people, that I want."
--------
You are sitting on the floor, trying to build a Lego tower with Rawoon, when the heavy sound of a keycard bypass echoes. The door swings open, and Jungkook strides in. He looks terrible, his tie is gone, his eyes are sunken, and he smells like stale cigarettes and desperation.
"Get out," you say, standing up and pulling Rawoon behind your back.
"We need to talk, Y/n. Now." He doesn't even look at the boy. He looks at you like you are a piece of property that has been moved without his permission. "My father is losing his mind. The board is meeting in forty-eight hours to discuss the L-Group merger. If you aren't standing by my side at that press conference, they’ll vote me out. I’ll lose the shipping ports. I’ll lose everything."
"Then lose it," you snap. "I already told you, Jungkook. I want a divorce."
"You don't get it!" he roars, slamming his hand against the doorframe. The loud crack makes Rawoon flinch, his small lip beginning to tremble. "If I go down, your father’s company goes down with me! I’ll pull every string I have to sink his stocks before I let you walk away with my legacy!"
"You're a monster," you whisper, your voice shaking with rage.
"I'm a businessman!" he counters, stepping closer, his shadow falling over both you and the child. "Rawoon is a Jeon on paper. I will take him, Y/n. I will sue for full custody and paint you as an unstable, cheating wife. Don't test me."
At the mention of his name, Rawoon starts to cry a quiet, terrified whimpering. He grips your leg, hiding his face in your skirt. Seeing his son's fear finally seems to pierce Jungkook’s armor. He looks down at the boy, then back at you, the realization hitting him that he’s already lost the person he was trying to "save" for his legacy.
"Fine," Jungkook rasps, his voice breaking. "Stay here. Rot in this hotel. But when the banks come for your family, don't call me." He turns and slams the door, leaving you shaking in the middle of the room.
Across town, at the prestigious international middle school, Namjoon stands by his black sedan. He is waiting for his twelve-year-old daughter, Suri.
The crowd of parents parts like the Red Sea when they see him, but one person doesn't move. Mina is standing near the gate, wearing large sunglasses to hide her swollen eyes. She looks small and fragile, a ghost of the woman who once ruled the social scene.
"What are you doing here?" Namjoon’s voice is like a sheet of ice.
"She’s my daughter, Namjoon," Mina says, her voice trembling. "I came to pick her up. I haven't seen her in three days. I have every right to be here as her mother."
"You lost your rights when you chose Jungkook’s bed over your own home," Namjoon says, his tone flat and merciless. "You don't need to be here. You’re a distraction she doesn't need right now."
"I'm her mother!" Mina cries, a few parents turning to whisper. "You can't just erase me!"
"If you were a good mother," Namjoon says, leaning in close, "you wouldn't have chosen a path that would lead to your face being plastered on every tabloid in the country. You didn't think of Suri when you were at the ballroom tonight. Why start now?"
The school bell rings, and a moment later, Suri walks out. She is tall for her age, with Namjoon’s sharp eyes and a quiet, observant dignity. She stops when she sees both of them.
She looks at her mother disheveled, crying, and desperate. Then she looks at her father, standing tall, calm, and holding the car door open for her.
Mina reaches out a hand. "Suri, baby, come with Mommy today. We can go get ice cream, we can-"
Suri doesn't move toward her. She gives her mother one long, sad glance, a look of deep disappointment that hurts worse than any insult Namjoon could have thrown. Without a word, she adjusts her backpack and walks straight to her father’s car.
Namjoon watches Mina as Suri slides into the backseat. He doesn't say "I told you so." He doesn't have to. The silence as he closes the car door is the final verdict. Mina stands alone on the sidewalk, realizing that in his quiet, calculated way, Namjoon hasn't just taken her home, he’s taken her future.
--------
The meeting was set in a private, windowless room at the back of a high-end traditional restaurant. When you walked in, your steps faltered for just a second. It wasn’t just the Chairman. Your father was there too. The air felt suffocating, thick with the scent of bitter tea and something heavier, something that felt too much like judgment.
“Sit down, Y/n,” your father said quietly, not meeting your eyes. You did.
“I tried using my card today,” you said coldly. “Couldn’t even buy my son a meal. Was that your idea, Chairman- or Jungkook’s?”
Chairman Jeon poured tea calmly. “A temporary measure. To remind you that everything you have, the lifestyle, Rawoon’s security, comes from this union. Not from you.” Your fingers curled slightly.
“I want a divorce.”
“There will be no divorce,” he replied, voice low and firm. “The L-Group merger depends on this marriage. If you leave now, the market will collapse. Stocks will fall. Your father’s company will go with it.”
Your father finally looked at you, desperation in his eyes. “If the Jeons fall, we fall too. This marriage… it’s not just yours. It’s everything.”
A hollow laugh escaped you. “So I’m a hostage.”
Silence.
“We’re willing to compromise,” the Chairman continued. “Jungkook will apologize publicly. He’ll cut ties with Mina. In return, you stay. Your allowance will increase, and Rawoon’s inheritance will be secured—regardless of his bloodline.” That last line lands harder than everything else.
Then, quietly. “Where will you go without money, Y/n?” he added. “Who will protect you when your father’s debts come knocking?”
You look at your father. Hoping for something. Anything. But all you see is fear. Not for you. For his business. They think they’ve trapped you. That you’ll break. That you’ll go back.
Slowly, you stand. “I don’t agree to anything,” you say softly.
“Y/n-” your father starts, panic rising.
“You have nothing!” the Chairman’s voice cuts through sharply. “By tomorrow, you’ll be begging to come back!” You don’t respond.
------
His grip on your wrist is tight, too tight as he drags you away from the eyes, away from the performance. The moment you’re out of sight, he lets go. But the tension doesn’t. It lingers in the air, thick, suffocating.
“You were putting on quite a show out there,” Jungkook says, his voice low, controlled, but there’s something sharp underneath. “Acting like some kind of saint.”
You scoff, rubbing your wrist. “Right. I’m no saint.” Your eyes meet his, steady, unyielding.
“But neither are you.” A pause. Heavy.
“We’re not good together,” you continue, your voice calmer than you feel. “You know that. I’m done with this, whatever this is. I want out. I want to be free from all of this.” For a second. He doesn’t react. Then he exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, as if he’s forcing himself to stay calm.
“You’re overreacting,” he mutters.
“I’m not-”
“You are,” he cuts in, sharper this time, but still holding onto that thin thread of control. “This is temporary. You just need to act like you always have.” Your brows furrow.
“What?”
“Play your part,” he says, stepping closer. “Be the perfect wife. Smile when needed. Stand beside me. That’s all you have to do.” You stare at him, disbelief creeping in.
“That’s your solution?” you whisper. “Pretend nothing happened?”
“It’s not pretending,” he says, jaw tightening. “It’s maintaining what matters.” You let out a hollow laugh.
“And what about Mina?” The name hangs in the air like a trigger. Jungkook’s expression shifts instantly. There it is. The crack. His jaw clenches, his gaze hardening as irritation flashes through him. “Don’t start,” he warns.
“No, answer me,” you push, your voice rising slightly. “Out of everyone, you chose her? Your cousin’s wife?” Silence.
Thick. Dangerous. For a moment, it looks like he won’t answer. "I loved her.”
The words land heavier than you expected. Your breath falters. Jungkook looks away briefly, his expression darkening, something raw flickering beneath the surface. “I saw her first,” he continues, his voice lower now, edged with something close to resentment. “Before him.”
Your brows knit together.
“But he got her,” Jungkook scoffs bitterly. “He always gets what I want. Always one step ahead. Always the one people look at like he’s better.” There’s something deeper here. Something personal.
“And you think I was just going to sit there?” he adds, his eyes snapping back to yours. “Watch him build a life with someone I couldn’t have?” Your chest tightens.
“Mina wanted me too,” he says, almost defensively. “It wasn’t one-sided.” The justification doesn’t make it better. It makes it worse.
“And now?” you ask quietly. A pause. His expression hardens again, the vulnerability gone as quickly as it came.
“Now things are different.” Different. Not over. Not wrong. Just, different.
Your stomach twists. “You’re unbelievable,” you murmur, shaking your head. “You expect me to just stand beside you after all this? Like nothing happened?”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate. You blink at him. “You don’t have a choice,” Jungkook adds, stepping closer again, his presence overwhelming now. “You think you can just walk away? After everything?” Your breath catches slightly but you don’t step back.
“I will,” you say, your voice quieter, but steady. Something flashes in his eyes. Dark. Dangerous. “Don’t,” he says, his tone dropping.
A warning. “You don’t get to control this anymore,” you shoot back. That’s when it happens. That shift. His expression changes not calm, not controlled anymore. Possessive.
“You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you?” Your heart stutters.
“What?”
“Namjoon,” he says, his voice laced with something bitter. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Silence. Your silence. And that’s enough. A humorless laugh escapes him. “Of course,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Of course it’s him.” Your chest tightens.
“Still trying to take what’s mine,” Jungkook adds, his jaw clenching.
“I'm not-” you start, but he cuts you off. “You think I don’t see it?” he steps even closer now, his voice lowering, almost dangerous. “The way he looks at things like they belong to him. Like he can just walk in and take them.” His eyes lock onto yours.
Intense. Unyielding. “I won’t let that happen.” A chill runs down your spine.
“Jungkook-”
“I’m not letting you go,” he says, each word deliberate. “Not to him. Not to anyone.” Your breath catches.
“You don’t get a divorce,” he continues. “You don’t get to walk away. You stay and you play your role.” His hand lifts, brushing a strand of your hair back but the touch feels nothing like before. Not gentle. Not soft. Controlled. Claiming.
“You’re still my wife,” he murmurs and this time. It doesn’t sound like a title. It sounds like a warning.
-------
The air in Namjoon’s study was thick with the scent of old books and expensive leather, a scent that used to mean safety to you, but tonight, it felt like a trap. You had left Rawoon at your father’s house, needing a moment of silence away from the sticky fingers and innocent questions of a child who didn't know his world was a battlefield.
You felt hollow. Every person in your life looked at you and saw something different: a business asset, a vessel for an heir, a tool for revenge, or a beautiful ghost to be kept in a cage.
Namjoon was standing by the window, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight. When he turned, his smile didn't reach his eyes. It was tight-lipped, cold the smile of a man who had already won the game and was now just playing with the pieces.
"Oh, you came. Welcome," he said, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet.
He didn't wait for you to speak. He moved with a predatory grace, walking to the crystal decanter and pouring two glasses of deep red wine. He sat on the velvet couch, patting the spot next to him. When you sat, he handed you the glass, his fingers brushing yours. His touch was cold.
"So," he began, leaning back and watching you with eyes that seemed to strip you bare. "Did you decide?"
You looked down at your lap, the wine swirling in the glass like a pool of blood. You let out a long, broken sigh. "I don't know what to do. Maybe being with Jungkook, maybe going back is the only-"
"Obviously you will have to choose him," Namjoon interrupted, a sharp, jagged laugh escaping his throat. "Or else your father’s debt will bring you to the streets. You’re a smart woman, Y/n. You know how to calculate a loss."
"Namjoon, what are you saying? I have no choice," you whispered, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. You expected comfort; you found a mirror of Jungkook’s own cruelty.
"Right, Y/n. What can I expect? You both are so good together, you know," he mocked, his voice dripping with venom. "A perfect match. You cheated on him and had the baby of another man, and he was already screwing his cousin’s wife. It’s poetic, really. A house built on a foundation of filth."
You rolled your eyes, the bitterness finally rising in your throat. "Look, I had no idea about the tape, and I wouldn't have cared about Mina if you hadn't-"
"Right, you wouldn't have cared. Because you are selfish, Y/n," he snapped. He reached out, his hand gripping the back of your neck, not painfully, but with a terrifying possessiveness that forced you to stay still. "You only care about what you can take."
"Then what do you want me to do?" you cried out, your voice cracking. "This marriage wasn't out of love! I don't care who he sleeps with! I just care about Rawoon!"
"And you wouldn't mind sleeping with another man, too, would you?" he whispered, his face inches from yours. "As long as it serves you. As long as it keeps you comfortable."
"Namjoon, can you stop?" you tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, his eyes flashing with a raw, dark hunger.
"You know, Y/n... I fucking hate you," he rasped, his voice a low, terrifying vibrato that vibrated against your skin. "I hate how you make me feel. I’ve spent my whole life being the rational one, the stable one, the one who wins because he thinks ten steps ahead. But you? You’re the chaos I didn't account for."
He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of bitter grapes.
"I want to make this feeling stop. I want to cut you out of my head. But even if I keep you for myself. I feel like you’ll leave me, too. They say a cheater will always be a cheater, don't they?"
He tilted your head back, his eyes searching yours for a spark of the betrayal he was so sure was coming.
"I should let you go back to Jungkook. I should let him ruin you. But the thought of him touching you again... it makes me want to burn this entire city down with us inside it." He took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving yours.
"You hate me?" You let out a dry, jagged chuckle, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of his study. "I hate you too, Namjoon. You’re a hypocrite. You talk about loyalty, but you’re a cheater just like the rest of us. You used me to satisfy your ego, used me as a distraction from your own failing marriage... and here you are, acting like you’re the judge and jury."
You stepped into his space, your eyes stinging with tears of pure frustration. "Why don't you just let me go? You got your revenge. You destroyed Jungkook, you shamed Mina. It's over. Just let me-"
The words were choked out of you as Namjoon lunged, his hand catching the back of your neck. He silenced you with a kiss that tasted like iron and cold fury. You struggled in his grip, your hands drumming against his chest, pushing with every ounce of strength you had left. "Leave... me..." you gasped against his lips.
But Namjoon didn't pull away. He just smirked against your mouth, a dark, triumphant look in his eyes that made your blood run hot. He kissed you again, more roughly this time, his teeth grazing your lower lip until you let out a sharp breath. The anger in your chest twisted into something primal. You stopped pushing and grabbed his lapels, pulling him closer, kissing him back with the same desperate aggression. It wasn't love; it was a collision of two broken people trying to burn each other alive.
Namjoon groaned, his hands moving from your neck to your waist, lifting you effortlessly and slamming you back against the heavy mahogany desk. Documents scattered and a lamp flickered, but he didn't care. He hiked your skirt up, his fingers digging into your thighs with a bruising, obsessive possessiveness.
"You think I'm letting you walk out that door?" he rasped, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural low. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and demanding. "You're not going back to Jungkook. Not ever."
"He'll... he'll come for me," you panted, your head falling back as his lips traced the sensitive line of your throat.
"Let him," Namjoon growled, his hands moving to the buttons of your blouse, tearing them open in his haste. "Let him try to take what’s mine. I’ve bought your father, I’ve buried your husband’s reputation, and now I’m going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to."
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his gaze dark and dilated with a hunger that bordered on madness. "You said we're both filthy, Y/n. Fine. Let's be filthy together. But don't you ever think for a second that you're leaving this house."
He surged forward again, his touch frantic and heavy, claiming every inch of skin as if he were marking a territory he had waited years to conquer. The hatred was still there, simmering between you, but as he pulled you closer, the heat of his body was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.
AN: been spiraling down a rabbit hole of AI relationship reels on insta and somehow this fic started feeling like one of those 😭 like… what is even happening here. it’s so messy, all drama no thoughts.idk if it’s giving dark romance or just giving ?? at this point. also not me lowkey getting bored while writing it… am i dragging this too much?? be honest with me pls.
okay so… I’ve seen a few people not really vibing with the endings of my stories, and yeah.... I get it. I kinda suck at writing endings sometimes 😭
but also… not everything wraps up perfectly, you know? stories don’t always end the way we want them to, and I guess that reflects a bit in what I write too.
at the end of the day, these are my stories. I’m just here making up little scenes in my head and sharing them because I like doing it. I’m not getting paid, I’m not trying to please everyone it’s just a hobby, something that makes me happy.
if you still stick around and read them anyway, it really means a lot 💓
SYNOPSIS: Your life was perfect, or so it seemed. As the wife of Jeon Jungkook, a powerful billionaire, you lived in quiet luxury, never questioning the shadows around him. Until Kim Namjoon appeared. What begins as curiosity turns into manipulation, and before you realize it, you're no longer a bystander.
You're leverage.
Caught between a husband with secrets and a man determined to expose them, trust becomes a weapon and every choice pulls you deeper into a game with no innocent sides.
AN: not sure what this even is. some strange, twisted storyline my brain threw together, again. but i needed to put it out here. i couldn’t leave it rotting in my drafts, even if it hadn’t been there that long.
You looked around the room, your gaze drifting over the crowd. People moved in clusters laughing, negotiating, exchanging handshakes that meant far more than they showed. Every conversation here had a purpose. Deals were being made, alliances formed, relationships built on nothing but profit and power.
It was suffocating.
A quiet sigh slipped past your lips as you adjusted your posture, the weight of the evening settling heavily on your shoulders. You were tired, tired of the constant expectations, tired of playing your role so perfectly, tired of being present in a life that never truly felt like yours.
For a moment, your eyes searched for something, anything real.
Instead, they landed on him.
Jungkook stood a few feet away, effortlessly commanding attention as he spoke to one of his clients. His posture was confident, his voice calm yet firm, every word calculated. He looked exactly like what the world saw him as powerful, untouchable, in control.
He had introduced you earlier, his hand briefly resting at your back as he presented you with quiet pride. You had smiled, of course. You always did. Polite, graceful, composed. You spoke when required, nodded at the right moments, and played your part flawlessly before excusing yourself under the pretense of needing some air.
No one questioned it. No one ever did.
It had been seven years.
Seven years since you became his wife. And yet, standing there now, watching him from a distance, you couldn't help but wonder how it had all come to this. You didn't hate him. You didn't love him either.
Somewhere along the way, feelings had simply never existed.
Your marriage wasn't built on affection or understanding. It was an agreement, a merger between two powerful families, carefully planned and executed. You came from wealth, from influence, from a name that carried its own weight.
But Jungkook.
He was always a step above. With his family deeply rooted in politics and his own dominance in the business world, he held a kind of power that went beyond money. And you had learned, quietly and without resistance, where you stood in that hierarchy.
Beside him. But never truly with him.
You exhaled softly, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand as the noise of the room faded into a dull hum. Surrounded by people, yet entirely alone. You had grown used to this feeling. Perhaps too used to it and maybe that was the most exhausting part of all.
------
You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the liquid catch the light as it moves in slow circles. The golden hue reflects faintly against your fingers, almost mesmerizing. Without much thought, you bring the glass to your lips, taking a small sip, more out of habit than desire. You don't even taste it.
Your attention shifts when you feel it a presence, familiar and heavy, settling beside you. Before you can turn, Jungkook leans in, his breath brushing lightly against your skin before his lips press against the side of your neck. The gesture is brief, almost casual, yet deliberate enough to be noticed.
Claiming.
"Bored?" he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you despite the crowded room.
You don't flinch. You don't react.
Just a small smile touches your lips as you nod simple, honest. You never pretended with him. Not about things like this and it never changed anything.
Jungkook was a man who moved according to his own will. Decisions were made long before anyone else had the chance to question them. You had learned that early on. You could voice your thoughts, your discomfort, your quiet complaints.
But never in a way that interfered. Never in a way that asked him to stop and he preferred it that way.
There was something almost unsettling about how well the two of you had settled into this rhythm, silent understanding without emotion, presence without connection.
"The event is going to end soon," he says, straightening slightly, his gaze flicking across the room as if calculating something even now. "We can leave in a few minutes."
You nod again, your fingers tightening slightly around the glass before relaxing.
Of course.
Leave the moment it was no longer useful.
That's how everything worked in his world.
His attention returns to you, softer this time, but not warmer. His hand lifts, fingers brushing through your hair as he gently fixes a loose strand, tucking it back into place with careful precision. The touch lingers for a second longer than necessary, controlled, almost thoughtful.
Anyone watching would think it was affection.
It wasn't. It was habit.
Presentation.
Just another part of the image the two of you upheld so perfectly.
Your eyes meet his for a brief second, searching for something, anything but finding the same calm, unreadable expression he always wore and just like that, he steps away. Back into the crowd. Back into control.
Leaving you standing there, glass in hand, surrounded by noise. Yet wrapped in a silence that felt far too familiar.
------
You roll your hips, your breath coming in ragged, shallow pants as you straddle him. Sex with Jungkook is always a masterclass in controlled chaos; he knows exactly how to unravel you, and exactly how to take what he wants. He likes it rough, and tonight, he isn't holding back.
His left hand, the one covered in a beautiful, intricate sleeve of tattoos he usually keeps hidden beneath crisp shirt cuffs, grips your hip with bruising force. The stark contrast of his rough, inked skin against your flushed flesh is dizzying. You are one of the few people allowed to see this side of him, both the art on his skin and the predator in his bed.
Feeling the friction and the heat of you, Jungkook lets out a low, gravelly grunt. But when your pace falters and you begin to slow down, his patience evaporates.
"Did I tell you to stop?" he growls, his voice dripping with dark authority.
Before you can answer, his large palm connects sharply with your right cheek. The sting of the slap cuts through the haze of pleasure, making you gasp and let out a loud, needy moan.
He smirks at your reaction, knowing exactly how much you love it when he takes control. "Good girl," he murmurs darkly, though his words quickly turn more degrading as he demands your complete submission. "You're nothing but a needy little mess for me, aren't you?"
He doesn't wait for a reply. Jungkook hooks his fingers aggressively into your hips, manhandling your body to position you exactly where he wants you. Flipping the power dynamic in a second, he takes full control, pinning you down and pounding into you with a relentless, punishing rhythm that leaves you completely breathless.
Your fingers dig desperately into the mattress, your knuckles turning white as Jungkook continues his punishing pace. Every heavy thrust drives the breath right out of your lungs, leaving you capable of nothing but high-pitched, broken whimpers. He is relentless, using his superior strength to keep you pinned exactly where he wants you.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates straight to your core.
You force your heavy eyelids open, finding his dark eyes fixed on yours. They are dilated and wild, burning with an intense possessiveness. He reaches up, his tattooed hand tangling firmly in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat. He leans down and bites the sensitive skin right where your neck meets your shoulder, marking you as his.
You let out a cry, your body arching as a violent wave of pleasure begins to ripple through you. You are so close, teetering right on the edge of a shattering climax.
Sensing your peak, Jungkook smirks against your skin. Instead of letting you fall over the edge, he abruptly slows his pace to agonizingly slow, shallow thrusts.
"Jungkook, please..." you whine, your voice cracking with desperation as you try to roll your hips against him to chase the friction.
"Please what?" he taunts, his grip on your hips tightening to keep you still. He watches your desperate expression with pure amusement. "Beg for it. Tell me how badly you need to cum for me, you desperate little thing."
The degrading words should sting, but instead, they act like gasoline on a fire. The raw vulnerability of it sends a fresh spike of heat straight to your lower belly.
"Please, Jungkook... I need it. I'm yours, just please..." you desperately plead, completely unraveled by him.
He gives a dark, satisfied chuckle, clearly pleased by your total submission. "That's what I thought."
With a sudden, explosive burst of energy, he slams back into you with full force. He hammers into you, fast and deep, showing no mercy as he drags you over the precipice. Your vision goes white as your climax hits you in violent, crashing waves. You scream his name, your body locking up around him.
Jungkook lets out a loud, guttural groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his own release takes over, his body shuddering violently as he spends himself inside you.
-----
The morning light filtering through the heavy drapes felt like an intrusion. You woke up with a soft groan, the sound catching in your throat as a deep, ache pulsed through your muscles. Your body felt heavy, wonderfully wrecked, and incredibly sore in places that vividly reminded you of Jungkook's relentless possessiveness from the night before.
Rolling over, your hand searched the mattress, but the sheets beside you were cool. He was already gone.
You attempted to sit up, the cool morning air hitting your bare, flushed skin. You were still completely naked, your body painted with the faint, purplish marks of his possessiveness. You desperately wanted to wash the sweat and scent of him off in a warm shower, but your trembling muscles flatly refused to cooperate. You felt utterly drained.
Suddenly, a bright, bubbly giggle echoed from the hallway, slicing through the quiet room.
Instinct took over. Panicked by the sound, you frantically grabbed the heavy duvet and pulled it up to your chin, burying yourself in the warmth just as the bedroom door swung open.
Standing in the doorway was a tiny, energetic figure. Right behind him stood Jungkook.
He was the picture of effortless, devastatingly handsome domesticity. He was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants that hung off his hips, displaying the hard ridges of his abs and the mesmerizing, intricate sleeve of tattoos on his arm. His hair was messy, and his dark eyes softened the moment they landed on you.
"Mama! Dad said I can make a smoothie today!" your five-year-old son, Rawoon, announced proudly, his eyes shining with excitement.
You couldn't help the warm smile that took over your face at the sight of him. "Oh, really?" you rasped, your voice still a little thick and breathless from sleep.
Rawoon marched closer to the bed, crossing his little arms over his chest as a dramatic pout took over his face. "And I wanted you to help me, Mama. But Daddy wouldn't let me wake you up!"
Before Rawoon could climb onto the bed and accidentally discover why his mother was hiding under the covers, Jungkook moved with lightning speed. He swooped in, scooping the giggling five-year-old up into his arms, holding him effortlessly against his chest.
"Hey, no fair badgering your mother," Jungkook chuckled, his deep, raspy voice sending a familiar shiver down your spine. He looked over at you, a knowing, wicked smirk playing at the edge of his lips as his eyes raked over your bare shoulders, silently communicating that he was the reason you couldn't move.
Jungkook turned his attention back to his pouting son, booping Rawoon's nose. "Your mom needs to get ready for work, buddy, and she's very, very tired today. Ms. Suzy will help you make the smoothie instead, okay?"
Rawoon looked at you, seeking confirmation. You gave him an encouraging nod and blew him a kiss. Resigned but still excited about the smoothie, Rawoon nodded. "Okay! I'm gonna make a strawberry one!"
"That's my boy," Jungkook praised, adjusting his hold on the child as he started to walk out of the bedroom.
-----
You had just dropped Rawoon off at school, watching as he disappeared past the gates without looking back. The morning air felt unusually still as you sat behind the wheel for a moment longer than necessary, your hands resting lightly on it. Work was waiting.
It always was. But today, you didn't feel like going just yet.
A quiet thought crossed your mind, coffee. Something simple. Familiar. A small pause before stepping back into the routine that never really gave you space to breathe.
Without thinking much, you turned the car toward the café you always went to, the one just a few minutes away from Rawoon's school. It was your place. Quiet, tucked away from the noise of the city, warm in a way that didn't demand anything from you.
You needed that.
But as you pulled up, something felt off. The doors were shut. No lights. No sign of movement inside. Your brows furrowed slightly as you checked the time, certain you weren't early. This place was always open by now. Always.
A soft groan escaped your lips as you leaned back in your seat, irritation bubbling up in a way that felt disproportionate but you let it. Of course.
Even this one small thing didn't go your way. You stepped out of the car, the morning air brushing against your skin as you leaned against the side, your fingers slipping into your small bag. You pulled out a cigarette, placing it between your lips with practiced ease, already craving the distraction it would bring.
Your hand searched for the lighter.
Once. Twice. Nothing.
You exhaled sharply, annoyed now, your patience thinning far quicker than it should have. Tilting your head back slightly, you let out a quiet huff, your fingers digging deeper into your bag as if it would magically appear. It didn't. And just as you were about to give up. A presence. Close. Too close.
Before you could fully react, there was a soft click. A small flame flickered to life beside you. Your eyes shifted. A man stood there, holding the lighter up with steady fingers, the fire casting a faint glow against his face. For a brief second, you simply looked at him taking him in without meaning to.
You didn't ask.
You didn't question. You just leaned in slightly, bringing the cigarette closer to the flame. The tip burned, smoke curling upward as you took a slow drag, the familiar burn settling into your lungs. Only then did you pull back. Only then did you actually look at him.
There was something, unreadable about his expression. Calm, composed, but not entirely open. Like he was watching more than he let on. You exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting between the two of you as a quiet silence settled.
"The café is closed," he says, his voice low, even. "There's some alteration going on."
Your gaze flickers briefly toward the building before returning to him. You nod slightly, it makes sense. He must've seen you pull up, seen the way you lingered, the irritation written all over you. Still, something about the way he said it felt intentional.
Like he had been waiting. You don't dwell on it. Instead, you lift your hand, holding the cigarette out toward him, a silent offer. He takes it without hesitation. His fingers brush yours, just barely. Intentional or not you can't tell.
He brings it to his lips, taking a slow drag before exhaling, his gaze shifting away for a moment as if he's giving you space, yet somehow not really leaving it.
"I'm Namjoon," he says after a beat, his voice softer now. He gives a small, tight-lipped smile and there it is. Dimples.
It should've felt normal. Casual. Just a stranger being polite. But something about him didn't feel like a coincidence.
"Y/n," you reply, your voice steady despite the faint unease settling somewhere deep inside you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence lingers a little longer than it should. You take another drag, your gaze drifting away from him, trying to shake off the strange heaviness that settled the moment he appeared. It was just a random interaction, you've had plenty of those.
So why did this feel different? Beside you, Namjoon exhales slowly, the smoke curling into the air between you. His posture is relaxed, almost too relaxed, like he belongs exactly where he is. Like he planned to be here.
"A place like this..." he starts, his voice casual, almost thoughtful. "Didn't expect to see someone like you here." Your brows knit slightly as you turn to look at him.
"Someone like me?" you repeat, a hint of confusion slipping through your otherwise composed tone. His lips curve faintly, not quite a smile.
"Yeah," he says, glancing at you briefly before looking ahead again. "You don't look like someone who waits outside closed cafés in the morning... looking annoyed over coffee." There's something in his words, light on the surface, but carrying weight underneath.
You let out a quiet breath, a small, almost dismissive smile touching your lips. "And what exactly do I look like?" He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies you.
Not in a way that feels admiring. In a way that feels knowing.
"Someone who doesn't have to settle for something like this," he finally says. The words land softly but they don't feel light.
You hold his gaze now, your expression shifting just slightly. "You don't know me."
"No," he agrees easily. "I don't." A pause. Then, "But I know enough."
Something in your chest tightens. Your fingers curl slightly around the cigarette as your eyes narrow just a fraction. "What is that supposed to mean?" Namjoon finally turns fully toward you, his attention no longer divided. The ease in his expression doesn't fade but there's something sharper beneath it now.
Measured. Intentional.
"It means..." he begins slowly, his voice dropping just enough to make you focus, "you're not someone who should be standing here alone."
A beat passes. Then he adds. "Especially not when you're married into the Jeons."
The world doesn't stop. Cars still pass in the distance. The wind still moves lightly through the trees. But for a second. Everything feels still. Your expression doesn't change immediately. But your mind does. Sharp. Alert. Careful.
"...Excuse me?" you say, your voice quieter now, controlled. Namjoon doesn't look surprised by your reaction. If anything, he looks like he expected it.
"You heard me," he says, his tone calm, almost indifferent but his eyes don't leave yours. "Jeon Jungkook's wife." The way he says it isn't curious. It's certain. A slow, uneasy feeling creeps in. This wasn't a guess. This wasn't luck.
You straighten slightly, your guard slipping into place without you even realizing it. "People know him," you reply, keeping your voice steady. "That doesn't mean they know me." A faint smile touches his lips not wide, not warm. Just enough.
"I know enough." Your stomach sinks, just slightly. He exhales, smoke curling lazily into the air as if this conversation means nothing to him, as if he hasn't just crossed a line he shouldn't even be near.
"You dropped your son off just now," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "Rawoon, right?" Your heartbeat stutters. This time, your reaction is immediate. Your gaze sharpens, all traces of casual politeness gone.
"...How do you know that?" your voice is quieter now, but firmer. Namjoon doesn't answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching you like he's observing how far you'll go before you break.
"I like places like this," he says instead, ignoring your question entirely. "Quiet. Not too crowded. Not... performative." His eyes flick briefly toward the café before returning to you.
"Seems like you do too." A pause.
"It's interesting," he continues, almost thoughtfully, "considering your husband prefers the exact opposite." Your jaw tightens. There's something wrong here. This isn't coincidence. This isn't harmless. This man, he knows too much.
"Who are you?" you ask, the question sharper now, more direct. But again, he sidesteps it effortlessly.
"Does Rawoon get along well with Jungkook?" The words hit differently this time. Not just intrusive. Targeted. Your breath catches, just for a second.
"What?" you frown, the confusion finally breaking through the tension. "What kind of question is that?" Namjoon watches you carefully. Too carefully. As if he's waiting for something in your reaction. A slip. A truth.
"Just curious," he says lightly, but there's nothing light about the way his eyes don't leave yours. "Children can be... sensitive to things adults pretend not to notice." A chill runs down your spine. You don't like where this is going. At all.
"Why does it matter to you?" you ask, your voice dropping, guarded now. "You don't even know us." That's when it happens. That small shift. The corner of his lips lifts slow, knowing.
A smirk. "I think I know enough," he says quietly. Your chest tightens. There's something he's not saying. Something he wants you to think about and then, he leans in just slightly. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to make it feel suffocating.
"What do you think would happen..." his voice drops, softer now, almost a whisper, "...if Jungkook found out Rawoon isn't his son?" Everything stops.
The air. The sound. Your thoughts. For a second, you don't even breathe. Your eyes widen, just slightly but it's enough. Enough for him to see and he does. Of course he does. You take a step back, your pulse racing now, panic clawing its way up your chest despite how hard you try to suppress it.
"...Who are you?" you repeat, but this time it's not just a question.
It's a demand. A warning. A plea. Namjoon straightens, watching you with something unreadable in his expression satisfaction, maybe. Or something darker. You swallow hard, forcing your voice to steady.
"What do you want?" There's a beat of silence, that smirk returns. Slow. Certain. Like he's been waiting for you to ask that exact question.
"That's a good question," he murmurs. His eyes lock onto yours. Sharp. Unwavering.
"I was wondering when you'd get there."
---------
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a blade. You didn't understand why you were obeying a man you had only just met, but Namjoon possessed a terrifying weapon: knowledge. He knew more about the fractures in your life than your own husband did, and that leverage was a noose around your neck.
Rawoon was and always would be, your first priority. Your husband, Jungkook, was a different story. He was a man consumed by the cold mechanics of business and the preservation of his reputation; he allowed no one to stand in his way. Not his rivals, not his enemies, and certainly not you.
You didn't know Namjoon’s endgame, but you knew the weight of the device in your pocket. It was a sleek, silver spy recorder, cold against your palm. He hadn't given you a choice; you couldn't risk Rawoon’s safety for the sake of a husband who barely saw you.
After waiting for the mahogany doors of his office to swing open and the trail of clients to vanish, you slipped inside. The click of the lock felt like a final judgment. Jungkook looked up, his expression unreadable, though his dark eyes held a silent demand for an explanation. You never came here. In this marriage of convenience and cold distance, your presence was an anomaly.
Swallowing your terror, you forced a smile to your lips, a mask of practiced grace. You crossed the room, your fingers trailing softly over the polished surface of his desk, a predator-turned-prey. As you reached his chair, you didn't hesitate. You sank onto his lap, the proximity making your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You leaned in, the scent of his expensive cologne filling your senses, masking the metallic tang of fear.
"I wanted to talk to you," you whispered, your voice a fragile thread of silk.
"Yeah?" he responded, his voice dropping an octave, wary yet intrigued.
"Is it absolutely necessary to enter my office this seductively?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips a rare, sharp flash of humor.
You didn't answer with words. You leaned closer, pressing light, feather-soft kisses against the pulse point of his neck. You felt the vibration of a low moan in his chest as his hand came up to caress your hair, his grip firm and possessive. As your lips finally met his in a kiss that tasted of desperation and deceit, your hand moved stealthily toward the underside of his desk, the recorder ready to slip from your sleeve.
The heat between you was a lie you had to sell with every fiber of your being. As Jungkook’s kiss deepened, turning hungry and possessive, you arched your back to meet him, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He pulled you closer, his large hand sliding down to grip your waist, anchoring you against him. Every time his breath hitched, you felt a sickening jolt of adrenaline, this wasn't passion; it was a distraction.
While you hummed into the kiss, feigning a surrender that made his pulse race against your skin, your right hand moved with ghostly precision. You let your arm drape naturally off the side of his chair, your fingertips brushing the cool, hidden underside of the heavy mahogany desk.
With the recorder gripped tight between your shaking fingers, you felt for the flat surface beneath the ledge. Jungkook’s mouth moved to your jawline, his focus entirely consumed by the rare warmth you were offering him. Now. You pressed the adhesive side of the device firmly against the wood, holding it for a split second until it caught.
As you pulled your hand back, sliding it up his chest to steady yourself, the deed was done. You broke the kiss just enough to look into his dark, clouded eyes, your heart thundering so loudly you were certain he could feel it through your ribs. You had just invited a monster into his sanctuary, all to protect the only person who mattered.
------
The ping of the text message felt like a physical sting. "Good job," Namjoon had written, two simple words that made your skin crawl. You wanted to smash his face in, to erase that smug satisfaction he carried, but the paralyzing fear of Jungkook kept you anchored. You had convinced yourself that once this task was done, you would be free. You were wrong.
When the unknown number flashed on your screen, you didn’t have to guess. You picked up, your voice a sharp blade of ice. "What is it now? I did exactly what you asked."
A low, dark chuckle vibrated through the receiver. "Oh, sweetheart," Namjoon purred, his voice dripping with a terrifying calmness. "This is only the beginning."
Despite your internal screaming to walk away, his leverage pulled you like a leash. That was how you found yourself standing at the threshold of a sleek, glass-walled penthouse overlooking the city. When Namjoon opened the door, the opulence of the place felt suffocating.
"Why am I here, Namjoon?" you spat, glaring at him with enough vitriol to burn.
"Care for a drink?" he asked, gesturing nonchalantly toward the bar.
You rolled your eyes, the sheer audacity of his hospitality snapping the last thread of your patience. "I'm done playing. I'm leaving."
You turned toward the door, but his next words froze the blood in your veins.
"I wonder how your husband would react if he saw these."
You whirled around, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. He held a manila envelope, tossing it onto the marble coffee table. You snatched it up, your fingers trembling as you pulled out the glossy prints.
There you were. And there was Taeyang.
The images captured the truth you had buried under layers of designer clothes and a high-society marriage. You and Taeyang had been "friends with benefits" long before you were bartered off to Jungkook for the sake of business mergers and family legacies. The marriage was a contract, a cold exchange of power, but what you had with Taeyang was a fire you refused to put out, even after the wedding.
Then came the darkest secret of all, Rawoon.
Neither Taeyang nor Jungkook knew the truth of the boy’s parentage. You didn't particularly care for either man’s heart, but the secret was your only protection. Now, looking at Namjoon’s predatory smile, you realized he didn't just want a favor. He wanted your entire life in the palm of his hand.
"So," Namjoon leaned back, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity. "Shall we discuss our next move, or should I give Jungkook a call?"
"What do you want from me?" your voice cracked, the desperation finally bleeding through your mask of indifference. "I’ve done the dirty work. I’ve played your games. Why are you digging into a past that has nothing to do with you?"
Namjoon didn't flinch. Instead, he closed the distance between you, his footsteps silent on the plush rug. He stopped just inches away, the scent of expensive cologne and old wood smoke filling your senses. He reached out, his fingers tracing a slow, agonizing line across your bare shoulder. The touch wasn't warm; it sent a jagged chill straight down your spine.
"Maybe," he murmured, his voice dropping to a silk-wrapped threat, "I just want you."
Your face twisted in a mask of disgust. "You’re delusional."
"Come now, Y/N," he chuckled, his eyes dark with a predatory gleam. "You’ve kept so many secrets from Jungkook already. What’s one more added to the pile? This wouldn't even hurt him, he doesn't know the real you anyway."
The air in the penthouse felt thick, unbreathable. You stared at him one last time, a silent vow of hatred burning in your eyes. You snatched your purse from the table and turned on your heel, heading for the door. You needed to run, to breathe, to scrub the feeling of his touch off your skin.
But halfway to the exit, you stopped.
Your breath came in ragged, heavy hitches. You ran your fingers through your hair, pulling at the roots as you fought the hollow void in your chest. Your marriage to Jungkook was a hollow shell, a masterpiece of performance art. You played the doting wife, he played the powerful husband, and together you played the perfect parents. But behind closed doors, there was only silence. Just a cold business arrangement that had left you starving for something, anything, real.
If the world was going to burn, you might as well be the one to light the match.
With a sudden, violent movement, you whirled around. You hurled your purse onto the leather couch and lunged at Namjoon. Your hands fisted into the expensive fabric of his dress shirt, bunching it up as you slammed your lips against his.
It wasn't a kiss of love; it was a collision of two dark forces.
You knew your heart was an empty chamber, a place where nothing grew and no one stayed. You didn't care about Namjoon, and you certainly didn't love him, but in this moment, the friction was better than the numbness.
Namjoon didn't hesitate. He let out a low, guttural growl, his hands sliding firmly to your waist to pull you flush against him. He took control of the kiss, his movements aggressive and demanding, mirroring the chaos of the secrets you both held. In the shadows of the penthouse, the line between victim and accomplice finally blurred into nothingness.
------
The days blurred into a haze of adrenaline and deception. What had started as a moment of desperate defiance had spiraled into an addiction you couldn't shake. Yet, despite the tangled sheets and shared breaths, the mystery remained.
"Why are you doing this?" you would ask in the quiet aftermath, your voice barely a whisper. "Why are you so obsessed with destroying Jungkook?"
Namjoon’s responses were always the same: cold, cryptic, and frustratingly calm. "The truth is a heavy burden, Y/N," he’d mutter, his eyes staring at the ceiling as if calculating a move on a chessboard. "You’ll know everything when the time is right. For now, just play your part."
Hiding the scent of another man from Jungkook was becoming a high-stakes game of Russian roulette. For weeks, you walked a tightrope, returning home to a cold husband while your skin still burned from Namjoon’s touch. But something had shifted. The hollow, aching emptiness that defined your life with Jungkook that sterile, loveless void was being filled by Namjoon’s dark intensity. With him, you didn't feel like a pawn or a socialite. You felt alive, even if that life was built on a foundation of lies.
The air in the penthouse was thick, heavy with the scent of expensive bourbon and the looming threat of discovery. Every time you were here, you felt like you were dancing on the edge of a jagged cliff, but the adrenaline had become more addictive than the safety of your gilded cage with Jungkook.
Namjoon’s hands were calloused and warm as they slid firmly over your ribs, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your waist. He pulled you flush against him, the friction of your damp skin creating a heat that rivaled the midsummer night outside. You let out a breathless, airy giggle when his tongue darted out to lick your earlobe, a sharp contrast to the calculated, cold man he played in the light of day.
"You're getting bold, Y/N," he rasped, his voice a low vibration against your neck. "Does the thought of him catching us make you thrive, or is it just me?"
You couldn't answer. Your breath hitched as he spun you around, pressing your chest into the cool leather of the sofa. The contrast of the cold material against your heated skin made you shiver. He didn't offer gentleness; he offered a raw, primal intensity that Jungkook had never even attempted.
Namjoon loomed over you, his heavy weight a grounding force. He reached down, his hand gripping your hip to anchor you as he entered you with a slow, devastating thrust. You arched your back, your spine forming a perfect, desperate curve as you gasped into the cushions. The sensation was overwhelming, raw and unfiltered.
He moved with a rhythmic, punishing pace, each movement echoing the power he held over your life. There were no sweet words or soft promises here, only the visceral reality of two people bound by secrets and sin. As his grip tightened on your waist, leaving faint marks that you knew you’d have to hide tomorrow, you felt that familiar, hollow ache in your chest finally begin to shatter.
In the wreckage of your marriage and the chaos of his blackmail, this was the only time you felt like you weren't a ghost in your own life. You clung to the edge of the sofa, your nails digging into the leather, lost in the storm that Namjoon had conjured. Whatever his endgame was, in this dark, sweat-soaked sanctuary, you were no longer a pawn, you were the flame.
------
The smoke from your cigarette swirled in the dim light of the bedroom, a gray ghost dancing in the air before vanishing into the shadows. You sat at the edge of the bed, the cool air of the penthouse raising goosebumps on your naked skin. Your phone screen cast a clinical, blue glow over your face as you scrolled aimlessly, trying to ignore the heavy silence that usually followed the storm of your encounters.
The mattress shifted. You felt the warmth of Namjoon’s body before you felt his touch. He leaned in, pressing a lingering, feather-light kiss to the curve of your shoulder.
"I wonder," he began, his voice dropping into that low, melodic register that usually signaled a shift in the wind. "I wonder how you'll be reacting tomorrow."
The smoke caught in your throat. You pulled the cigarette away, your brow furrowing as you turned your head to meet his gaze. "What is that supposed to mean? What happens tomorrow?"
Namjoon didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, his eyes scanning your face as if he were memorizing a map of a city he intended to burn. Then, his lips curved into a smile. It was that tight-lipped, dimpled grin you usually found yourself drawn to, the one that made him look almost human, but today, the light didn't reach his eyes. It was a hollow imitation. A mask.
"Nothing," he said, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "I'm just thinking about what tomorrow would be like. For everyone."
He reached out, his thumb grazing your jawline with a tenderness that felt more threatening than a physical blow. You stared at him, your heart beginning a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. You knew that look. It was the look of a man who had already set the timer on a bomb and was simply waiting for the world to notice the ticking.
"Namjoon," you whispered, the cigarette ash falling unheeded onto the silk sheets. "What did you do?"
------
You step out of your room, your footsteps slow as you descend the stairs, but something feels off. The house is louder than usual. Voices. Movement. The faint clatter of utensils from the kitchen. Your brows knit together as your gaze moves across the space. Maids are rushing around, setting the table, adjusting decorations, carrying trays, far more than what was ever needed for a normal day.
Even the air feels different. Prepared. You pause midway down the stairs, your eyes narrowing slightly. Jungkook stands near the dining area, giving instructions short, precise, controlled.
That, in itself, isn’t unusual. But what is that he’s involved at all. He was never particular about these things. Never cared what was cooked, how things were arranged. The house functioned, and that was enough for him. So why now?
“What’s happening?” you ask as you step closer. Your voice cuts through the movement around him. Jungkook turns to look at you. For a second, just a second his expression shifts. Subtle. But you catch it. Then it’s gone.
“It’s nothing,” he says smoothly, but not as effortlessly as usual. “One of my cousins is coming over. With his family.” Your gaze lingers on him. Cousin? He licks his lips briefly before turning away, adjusting his cuff like it suddenly demands his attention and that’s when you notice it.
He doesn’t hold your gaze. Not like he always does. Jungkook was many things but uncertain wasn’t one of them. Yet right now. There’s something restrained about him. Measured.
You watch him for a moment longer, trying to place it, trying to understand. But then you look away. You don’t care enough to question it.
“Hmm,” you hum softly, brushing it off as you move past him. Whatever this is, it’s his world. Not yours.
------
The doorbell rings later that afternoon. Everything stills for just a second. Then movement resumes, faster this time. One of the maids rushes to open the door. You remain where you are, standing near the living room, your expression calm, unbothered.
Until, you see them. First, a woman steps in elegant, composed, her presence quiet but refined. Beside her. A young girl, no older than twelve, holding her hand, her eyes curiously scanning the house and then. Him. Your breath stops. Namjoon. For a second, everything around you blurs. The room. The voices. The sound. All of it fades into nothing.
Your mind struggles to catch up with what your eyes are seeing.
No.
Your gaze locks onto him as he steps inside like he belongs here, like this is normal. Like this is how you were supposed to meet him. Jungkook walks forward, his expression now composed, controlled back to the man you know.
“Namjoon,” he says, extending his hand. Namjoon takes it. Firm. Polite. But there’s something beneath it. Something sharp. Unspoken.
“Good to see you,” Jungkook adds, his tone smooth but not warm.
“Likewise,” Namjoon replies, just as calm. Your heart pounds. You feel it now. That tension. That invisible line between them. Jungkook turns slightly, gesturing toward the woman beside Namjoon.
“You remember her,” he says, his tone softening just slightly. “Noona.” She smiles politely at you, and you return it out of habit, your mind still spinning.
Your eyes flick back to him. He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Like none of this is unusual. Like you’re just, another part of the room. Your stomach twists. Dinner is quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful but heavy. Jungkook sits across from Namjoon, both of them composed, both of them speaking like this is just another formal meeting. But it’s not. You can feel it in every word. Every pause. Every glance.
“I heard you’ve been considering entering politics,” Jungkook says, leaning back slightly, his tone casual but edged. “Not a good move.” Namjoon doesn’t react immediately. He takes a sip of his drink before placing it down.
“And why is that?” he asks calmly. Jungkook smirks faintly.
“Because it doesn’t just affect you,” he says. His gaze flicks briefly toward Namjoon’s wife. “Noona would have to deal with the pressure. And your daughter…” A pause. “…she’ll grow up under scrutiny.” The words are polite. But the meaning isn’t. It’s a warning. A judgment.
Namjoon’s jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t lose composure. Instead, he leans forward just a bit, his voice lowering. “Maintaining business ties with… risky partners,” he says slowly, “and being involved in things that aren’t exactly legal-”
Your breath catches.
“-is far more dangerous,” he finishes. Jungkook’s eyes darken. There it is. The shift. The mask slips, just enough.
“You should be careful with your words,” Jungkook says quietly, his tone no longer casual. Namjoon meets his gaze.
“You should be careful with your actions.” The tension between them thickens instantly, suffocating, like the room has shrunk. No one else speaks. No one dares to and you.
You feel it now.
The truth settling in your chest. This isn’t random. This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t just business. This is rivalry.
Personal. Deep and dangerous. Your eyes move between them Jungkook, calm but cold Namjoon, controlled but sharp and suddenly, everything makes sense.
The café. The threats. The way he knew everything. The way he pushed you. It was never about you. Not really. You were just a way in. A tool.
Leverage.
Your chest tightens, something sinking deep inside you as realization fully settles. Namjoon wasn’t in your life by accident. He placed himself there. For this.
-------
The air in the hallway felt thin as you dragged Namjoon toward the sanctuary of your room, far from the prying eyes of the staff. Downstairs, Jungkook was playing the attentive host to Namjoon’s wife, Mina, and their daughter, but the domestic facade felt like a fever dream.
You whirled around to face him the moment the door clicked shut. "You did all of this just to beat Jungkook? At what, Namjoon? I don’t get it." Your voice was a jagged whisper, trembling with a mix of fury and exhaustion. "This is childish. We are grown adults, and I’m done. I don't want to be your pawn anymore."
The absurdity of it all was suffocating. Whether it was a personal grudge or a deep-seated business rivalry, involving you was a bridge too far. You felt a wave of nausea roll over you, the weight of your double life, the secrets of Taeyang and Rawoon, and the sheer disgust at having allowed Namjoon to use your body as a battlefield against your husband.
"Childish?" Namjoon repeated, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over you. "Perhaps. But your husband... he deserves exactly what’s coming to him."
He spoke with a venom that suggested a history far darker than simple professional jealousy. You didn't wait for an explanation. You couldn't. "I'm done talking," you snapped, pushing past him. You felt like a fool, you hadn't just risked your own safety; you had put Rawoon’s future on the line for a game you didn't even understand.
When you returned to the hall, the scene before you stopped you cold. Jungkook was sitting on the sofa with Mina. He was leaning in, murmuring something that made her let out a soft, genuine giggle. Then, with a tenderness you had never once received, he reached out and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Jungkook was never like this. Even in your most intimate moments, he was a man of cold mechanics and calculated pleasure. Seeing him offer Mina a glimpse of warmth that he denied his own wife felt like a physical blow to the chest.
The moment was shattered by Namjoon’s voice as he descended the stairs. Mina flinched, pulling away instantly, while Jungkook’s posture snapped back into a rigid, defensive line.
"It was wonderful catching up," Namjoon said, his eyes tracking the lingering tension between Jungkook and his wife. "I’m truly excited for your new project launch, Jungkook."
Jungkook regained his trademark smirk, his arrogance returning like a shield. "It’ll be the highest-earning project the firm has seen in a decade. You’d do well to watch and learn."
Namjoon’s gaze shifted to you, a predatory glint dancing in his dark eyes. "Oh, I’m watching. In fact, there are so many surprises waiting for both you and your lovely wife tomorrow."
Your blood ran cold. The way he said surprises sounded less like a promise and more like a death sentence.
Jungkook tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he sensed the shift in the room. "Is that so? Well," he replied, his voice dripping with dangerous curiosity, "I’d certainly like to know what those are."
-------
The day of the launch felt like a slow walk toward a guillotine. You moved through the crowded ballroom, the air thick with the scent of expensive champagne and the stifling ego of the city’s elite. You felt like a ghost haunting your own life, watching the high-society vultures circle Jungkook. They laughed at his jokes and nodded at his business brilliance.
Jungkook finally took the stage, the spotlight catching the sharp, arrogant lines of his suit. He looked every bit the king of the empire he had built on cold steel and calculated mergers. "Today," he began, his voice booming with a confidence that made your skin crawl, "we don't just launch a project; we redefine the industry."
As he spoke, you spotted Namjoon entering from the back. He walked with Mina on his arm, the picture of a supportive cousin. When his eyes locked onto yours, he didn't look away. Instead, he flashed a slow, devastating smirk, the look of a man about to pull the trigger.
"And now," Jungkook announced, gesturing grandly to the massive LED screen behind him, "a first look at the future."
The room went dark. The crowd leaned in, prepared for high-tech blueprints and glossy architectural renders.
The screen flickered to life, but there was no music. No corporate logo.
Instead, the speakers hummed with the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing. The image resolved into grainy, high-definition footage of a hotel suite. It was unmistakable. It was Jungkook his back arched, his muscles tensed, stripped of his dignity and his designer suit. And beneath him, her fingers dug into his shoulders as she let out a shattered, desperate moan, was Mina.
The silence that followed was deafening, lasting only a second before the first gasp broke the air. Then, the room erupted.
"Is that...?"
"With his own cousin’s wife?"
"My God, the scandal..."
The whispers rose like a swarm of hornets. You stood frozen, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle a cry of pure shock. You knew your marriage was a lie, and you knew Jungkook was cold, but the sheer depravity of him sleeping with Namjoon's wife the very woman he had been so tender with just days ago, turned your stomach.
On stage, the "King" was crumbling. The blue light of the sex tape washed over Jungkook’s horrified face, highlighting every drop of sweat. "Turn it off!" he roared, his voice cracking as he lunged toward the tech booth. "Stop the feed! Now!"
Mina looked as though she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. She stood paralyzed, the flickering image of her own betrayal projected thirty feet high for the world to see.
But your eyes drifted to Namjoon.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look like a heartbroken husband. He stood in the center of the chaos, perfectly still, watching Jungkook’s frantic, pathetic attempts to hide the truth. Namjoon looked like a scientist watching a predictable chemical reaction.
He had known. He had known all along that Jungkook was sleeping with his wife. And he had used you, your body, your fear, your secrets simply as a distraction to keep Jungkook’s eyes off the trap until it was too late to escape.
The rivalry wasn't just about business. It was a total, scorched-earth war. And as the crowd’s cameras flashed, capturing the downfall of the man you called your husband, you realized that in Namjoon’s world, everyone was collateral damage. Including you.
hi there! i hope you guys are doing okay 🤍
lately i’ve had zero motivation to write anything… my mind just feels blank. i try coming up with scenarios, but there’s no strong plot, no interesting direction, and i can never find a good ending, so i just give up halfway.
and i’ve been so lazyyyyy… at work, at home, everywhere. literally doing nothing 😭
anyway, just wanted to let you know that i’ll be updating this wednesday. 🫶
SYNOPSIS: You wake up staring at a white ceiling, white walls, the sterile silence pressing in until you realize, you're inside an asylum. Everyone around you looks unhinged, dangerous and according to them, you're no different. That's what they say. That's what he says too. Your therapist. Your doctor. Dr. Min Yoongi.
You want to escape, and he promises he'll help you. He promises he'll fix you. But nothing about him or this place feels right.
You wake up with a jolt, lungs tight, heartbeat thundering in your ears. The first thing you see is white, too much white. A white ceiling. White walls. White sheets. A sterile brightness that stings your eyes. For a moment you think you're dreaming, or dead. But the throbbing pain in your skull makes it painfully clear: you're alive, and something is wrong.
You push yourself up slowly, everything in your body feeling heavy, drugged. Your fingers brush the thin fabric clinging to your skin a white gown, cheap and stiff, nothing you remember ever wearing. Your eyes sweep the room. There's almost nothing inside except the metal bed you're sitting on and a door no, not a door. A grilled gate, like you're in a cage, not a room.
Panic crawls up your throat.
You slide off the bed and stumble toward the bars, gripping them with trembling hands. They're ice-cold, biting into your skin. Outside is a long corridor, too quiet for a place filled with people. Too empty.
What is this place?
Why are you here?
Your breath quickens as you shake the bars. "Hello? Is someone there? Open this!"
The metal rattles loudly, echoing down the hallway, but nothing happens. You tug harder, your voice rising, cracking. "Let me out! Why is this locked?!"
Finally, hurried footsteps echo in your direction. A woman in a pale uniform approaches, her expression already annoyed, like she's dealing with something she has seen a thousand times.
You latch onto hope. "Please- please open this. I think there's been a mistake. I don't know why I'm here." She stops in front of your cell, looks at you like you're something stuck to the bottom of her shoe, and scoffs.
"A mistake?" She raises a brow, almost mocking. "Do I look stupid to you? Why would I open the gate for a murderer? Especially a psychotic one."
Her words crush into you like a punch. Murderer? Psychotic? You feel your pulse spike, confusion flooding you. "I- I'm not- I didn't do anything! I'm not a psychopath and I'm not a murderer. I swear, you're wrong. Please just open it... please." But she only shakes her head like she's heard it too many times before.
"Save it. They all say that." And then she turns away.
"No- wait! WAIT!" you shout, rattling the bars until the metal groans. "Come back! Let me out! I don't belong here!" But her footsteps fade, swallowed by the endless white corridor. Leaving you alone. Locked in. With no answers.
_____
Your throat aches from screaming. From begging. From trying to make anyone hear you. But the only answer you get is silence thick, suffocating silence that settles in your chest like concrete. Tears blur your vision as you press your forehead against the cold bars. Your breaths come out shaky and uneven. It hits you slowly, brutally: they aren't going to open the door. They don't care.
When your eyes finally lift, you notice him.
Across the hallway, directly facing your cell, lies a man on a narrow bed, so still he might as well be dead. He hadn't flinched when you screamed. Hadn't looked your way once. Just lay there with his back turned, like your panic meant nothing. Like he had heard it too many times before.
A chill creeps down your spine.
Before you can call out to him, a harsh sound slices through the corridor shoes scraping, something heavy dragging. You turn quickly.
Two guards are wrestling a girl down the hallway. She laughs, like being manhandled is hilarious. Her hair is wild, her smile manic, her feet barely touching the floor as she lets herself be pulled.
"Gentle, boys~" she purrs, batting her lashes. "Shut up," one guard mutters, tugging harder.
She only giggles, delighted.
You stare, horrified. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with this place? Right. You're in an asylum. And these are the people they think you're the same as.
Your stomach twists.
"Please!" you call out, desperation cracking your voice. "Please listen! They put me here by mistake! I don't belong here- please just check, please just-" But the guards ignore you completely. Not even a glance.
As if you're invisible. As if your words don't matter.
When they disappear around the corner with the giggling girl, the corridor falls eerily quiet again. You step back from the bars, wiping your face, trying to breathe, trying not to fall apart.
And then, you feel it. Eyes on you.
Slowly, you lift your gaze and see him. The man who was motionless minutes ago is now sitting up on his bed. Hair falling over half his face, head tilted slightly, his stare fixed directly on you unblinking, unreadable, too dark.
Your breath catches when you notice the numbers printed on his shirt: 046. Just like the number stamped on your own gown.
"Stop being noisy," he says, voice low and raspy, like he hasn't spoken in days. Not angry just cold. Empty. As if noise annoys him more than your suffering ever could.
A shiver runs through you. You don't know who he is but every instinct in your body screams danger. Without another word, he turns away, curling back into his bed, pulling his knees close like he's done this a thousand times like this place swallowed him long ago. You're left staring at him through the bars, your heart pounding.
You're not alone. But somehow, that feels worse.
--------
Eventually, the fight drains out of you. Your voice cracks into silence. Your fingers slip from the bars. And you sink back onto the narrow bed knees pulled close, hands trembling slightly as the reality settles in like a cold fog.
You stare at the wall, blank and white and merciless. Why are you here?
The question loops in your head until it hurts.
You search your memory dig for anything, anything, but it's like clawing at smoke. Faces blur. Names dissolve. Your past is a locked room and someone threw away the key.
Did you have a family? Did someone love you? Why haven't they come for you? Why aren't they looking for you?
Your heartbeat grows loud in your ears, painful, panicked.
They called you a murderer. But you don't remember killing anyone. You don't remember anything.
Your breath stutters. You want answers. You need answers. Before the panic can rise again, metal clanks sharply, a door unlocking.
A woman steps in, stiff uniform, hair tied back severely. Her eyes scan you like checking an item on a list, not a person.
"047," she calls your number, not your name. "Out. It's time for food."
You hesitate, unsure if this is another trick, but she glares like she'll drag you if she must. So you stand, legs shaky, walking toward the gate as she unlocks it.
As you step out, you freeze.
In front of your cell, the man 046 is already outside. He moves with a strange, lazy grace, tall and broad-shouldered, but with a slouch that makes him unreadable. His hair falls messily over his eyes, hiding most of his expression. But you feel his presence like cold air on your spine.
The male guard beside him gives a rough shove. "Walk."
He obeys without a word, hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted down, but there's tension in his shoulders. Like a quiet wolf forced back into its cage. You follow behind as the guards escort you both down a long hallway.
The corridors stretch endlessly, buzzing lights flickering overhead, echoing with distant screams, laughter, and whispers you can't make out. Every sound reminds you this place is wrong, you don't belong here.
046 walks a few steps ahead of you, silent, but you can't help glancing at him. There's something about him unsettling. Heavy. Like he's seen too much. Or done too much and yet somehow, you feel his presence more sharply than anyone else's here.
You arrive at a wide cafeteria room sterile, loud, chaotic. People like you broken, lost, dangerous sit at long metal tables. Some rocking, some laughing to themselves, some staring empty-eyed at the walls. The smell of disinfectant and cheap food hits you hard. The guards shove trays into your hands.
---
They seat you beside him. He doesn't look at you, not once as he picks up the metal spoon and begins eating with slow, controlled movements. No twitching, no muttering, no erratic behavior like the others around you.
To your left, a woman giggles while smearing mashed potatoes across the table. To your right, someone rocks back and forth, whispering into their sleeves. Another patient sobs quietly in the corner, ignored by everyone.
But 046. He's calm. Too calm.
You watch him from the corner of your eye. Maybe he's dangerous. Maybe he's worse than the rest. But something about that quietness, that stillness feels almost safe compared to the chaos around you. When the guards walk away to patrol the far end of the room, you swallow, gathering whatever courage you have left.
"Hey..." you whisper tentatively. "Can you- can you tell me where we are? Or why we-" He doesn't respond. He doesn't even glance at you. He just scoops another spoonful mechanically, jaw working steadily like you don't exist.
You try again, a little louder this time. "046?" Nothing. You take a breath, nerves buzzing. "What's your name?"
This time he pauses. Slowly, he turns his head until his eyes dark, unreadable, heavy lock onto yours. For a moment, you forget how to breathe. His voice is low. Flat. Emotionless. "Taehyung," he says. "Kim Taehyung."
"Oh." Your voice cracks slightly. "Nice to meet you... I guess."
His gaze sharpens, and then unexpectedly his lips curl just barely, not a smile but something like annoyance twisting at the edges. "You should stop sitting near me," he says calmly. Too calmly. "And stop being so noisy." Your eyebrows shoot up. "Rude," you mutter before you can stop yourself. "I was just trying to talk."
"I don't care," he responds, already going back to his food. "Don't try to know me." His indifference stings more than you expect. You look down at your untouched tray, fists tightening around the edges.
"I just..." you whisper, "wanted to know someone here." He stops chewing again. Looks at you briefly. Not with kindness. Not with anger.
Just, blank. As if he's analyzing something. But the moment passes, and he turns away again, uninterested. You inhale shakily. You want to tell him your name too. It feels right, normal even comforting.
But the words don't come. Because you don't remember. Your breath halts as panic prickles up your spine.
'What is my name?'
How do you forget something like that? You press a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the sudden nausea. Something is wrong with you. Something big. Something missing. And Taehyung? He watches your reaction out of the corner of his eye. Just for a second.
-------
After lunch, the guards escort everyone back to their rooms. You don't fight. You don't even bother trying anymore. You quietly return to your narrow cot, your gaze following the peeling paint on the walls, thinking of nothing yet thinking of everything. You tell yourself you just need the right moment, the right person, someone who can finally explain why the hell you're here.
Minutes blur together. Silence. Footsteps. Then.
Clang.
Your door swings open again. Two guards walk in without a word. Their hands grip your arms, too firmly as they pull you up from the bed. "Where are we going?" you ask, your voice small, tired.
They don't answer. The hallway feels colder today. Longer. You're marched down it, past doors with metal plates, past muttering voices, past screams that rise then vanish like ghosts. Finally, they shove you into a large room. A single bright light illuminates a table and behind that table sits a man.
Tall. Neatly dressed. Smiling. Too politely. Too warmly. As if he rehearsed it. "Y/n," he greets you, voice smooth. "It's finally nice to meet you."
You stop breathing.
Y/n? That... that was your name?
Your thoughts twist violently. How did he know? Why didn't you know? The guards force you into the chair opposite him. Cold metal cuffs clamp around your wrists, locking you to the table. You jerk in surprise.
"H-Hey- why are you doing that?!" you snap at them. "I didn't do anything!" They again give no reply. They simply step back like shadows obediently returning to the walls.
You turn back to the man. His smile never changes.
"Who are you?" you ask slowly. He places a hand on the table, calm. "Kim Woobin. You may call me Doctor Woobin if that makes you comfortable."
"Nothing about this is comfortable," you hiss. "Why am I here? Why do people keep calling me a murderer? I didn't murder anyone. I'm not a psychopath. So stop treating me like one!" Woobin only tilts his head, studying you like something under a microscope.
"I know," he says softly. "You're not a psychopath."
You blink, confused.
"But..." His smile widens just a fraction. "There is something inside you. A monster you're not aware of yet."
You laugh. You actually laugh a short, bitter sound. "Okay, great. So you're insane too. Everyone here is insane."
"Oh, Y/n," he murmurs, almost pitying, "you don't remember most of the things you've done." Your breath catches.
"How do you know I don't remember?"
"You don't even remember your own name," he says simply. Before you can respond, a voice rises from the shadows behind you deep, familiar, unsettlingly calm.
"She doesn't remember because she can't." You twist around in your seat. A figure steps out from the darkness. Hands in pockets. Dark hair falling over steady, unreadable eyes. His presence alone changes the air colder, heavier.
"Now who the hell are you?" you demand. His lips curl into a faint smirk, the kind that knows you more than you know yourself.
"Yoongi," he says. "Min Yoongi." He steps closer until you can see him clearly under the light.
"It's been a while," he adds, almost gently. "I was wondering when you'd finally wake up." Your heartbeat stutters.
Wake up? Wake up from what?
The room feels too small. Too bright. Too dangerous and for the first time, you begin to fear that the answers you want, might not be the ones you can survive.
-------
"Let's keep this session simple, Y/n," Woobin says gently, folding his hands on the table as though this is a friendly conversation, not an interrogation. Yoongi silently takes the empty chair beside him. The two of them look too calm, too comfortable, like they've done this a hundred times. Like you've sat here a hundred times.
Your eyes linger on Yoongi. There's something about him something old, something familiar like a face pulled from a dream you can't fully remember. It bothers you. Everything in this place bothers you. The walls feel too close, the light too bright, the air too thin.
You just want to leave.
You want to breathe somewhere that isn't painted white. "I would like you to-" Woobin begins, voice steady.
"No." The word rips out of you before you can stop it. "I'm not taking one more word from you." Woobin pauses. Yoongi's gaze flicks to you sharp, unreadable.
"You can't keep me locked up like this," you snap, tugging at the metal cuffs. "I didn't do anything. I don't belong here. I'm not-" You shake your head, breathing hard. "I'm not whatever you think I am." Yoongi leans back slightly, observing you the same way someone would watch a storm forming.
Woobin sighs softly, like he's heard all of this before.
"Y/n... I know how it feels to not remember," he says quietly. "The confusion. The fear. Waking up and not knowing where you came from or who you hurt-"
"I didn't hurt anyone!" you cut in, louder than you meant to. Your voice echoes in the big room, bouncing off the walls like a desperate plea. But they don't look convinced.
Yoongi finally speaks, slow and controlled "We're here to help you."
You shake your head violently. "No. No, you're not helping me- you're manipulating me." Neither of them react. They just watch.
"You're trying to make me believe I'm some kind of... psychopath," you spit the word out like poison. "A murderer. Someone dangerous. But I know myself enough to know I'm not that." Yoongi exhales through his nose, something between irritation and disappointment.
"You think we're framing you?" he asks, tone flat.
"I know you are." Your voice cracks, not with weakness, but with frustration. "All of this- this room, these cuffs, your fake calm voices- you're trying to trap me. Make me doubt myself. Make me think I did something horrible so I'll obey you."
Woobin glances at Yoongi, then back at you with a pitying smile that makes your skin crawl. "You're fighting the wrong people, Y/n," he murmurs.
"No, I'm fighting the only ones I can," you shoot back.
Yoongi looks at the guards and lifts a hand dismissively. "Take her back."
Your breath catches. "Wait- No! I'm not done!"
But the guards are already grabbing you, unlocking the cuffs only to replace them with a tighter grip. You thrash against their hold, feet scraping against the floor as they drag you toward the door.
"Let me go! You can't keep doing this! I'm not who you say I am- I'm NOT—"
The door slams. The hallway swallows your voice as they pull you back to your room. Back to the white walls. Back to the silence. Back to the place where they want you to finally break and start believing the monster they keep insisting lives inside you.
-------
Yoongi studies you like a man watching something fragile crack open. Days, maybe weeks you're not sure anymore, but he has been trying. Trying to pull answers out of you. Trying to make you remember. Trying to make you break and you haven't. Not yet.
His jaw tightens. "I guess this won't work anymore," he murmurs to Woobin. Woobin only nods, expression unreadable. Your heart stutters. You don't like the way they're looking at you now, like you're a problem they've finally decided to fix by force.
"Look, Y/n," Yoongi says, voice chillingly calm, "we don't want to do this to you. But you've left us with no choice." Before you can ask what, he means, Woobin gives a small signal.
The guards grab you.
"No- wait- don't-" Your voice breaks as they strap your arms and legs against the metal chair bolted to the floor. Leather cuffs bite into your skin. Your breath comes fast, too fast.
You shake your head frantically. "Please- I don't know anything! I didn't do anything!" Yoongi steps closer, face expressionless. His fingers flip a switch. A soft, dangerous hum fills the room.
Your stomach drops. "No- NO! Please-!" The first shock hits you like lightning splitting your bones. Your back arches, vision exploding into white static. A sharp cry tears from your throat before you can bite it back. When it stops, you're gasping, trembling, tears blurring your sight.
"April 12th," Yoongi says, voice steady. "Where were you?"
You blink through the ringing in your ears. "I- I don't... I don't know..." The words stumble out, weak and panicked. "I don't remember..."
Another shock slices through you shorter, sharper. Your head slams back against the chair. You swallow a scream but fail; it rips out anyway. When the buzzing fades, Woobin is already leaning closer, studying your face.
"What was your relationship with Yunjin?" he asks softly, almost kindly. Yunjin? The name drops into your mind like a stone falling into dark water.
You try to focus, try to think but your vision keeps warping at the edges, stretching and bending like you're underwater. Woobin's face shifts. For a second he looks closer. Then, farther. Then split into two.
"You're... saying something... I..." Your voice is slurred. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the room keeps tilting. Yoongi's hand rests on the switch again. Your heartbeat stutters in fear.
"I asked you a question, Y/n," Woobin reminds you, tone gentle but sharp. "Yunjin. Who was she to you?"
"I- I don't know!" you cry. "I don't even know who that is! Please I swear, I don't- my head-"
Your vision flickers again. For a moment, only a split second you see something behind Yoongi. A shadow. A girl? A figure? You blink hard. She's gone. Were you... seeing things? Hearing things? Or were they doing something to you?
"Her memory is still resisting," Woobin says quietly to Yoongi, as if you're not even there. "She's disoriented."
"Shock her again," Yoongi says. Your blood runs cold. "No- WAIT- YOONGI- DON'T-" The third shock tears through your entire body. You don't even scream this time, your voice disappears, swallowed by pain so blinding it wipes out sound.
You hang limp in the restraints, chest heaving, tears slipping down your cheeks. Yoongi crouches so he's eye-level with your wrecked, trembling form.
His voice is soft. Too soft. "We're trying to help you remember," he whispers. "But you keep fighting us." You try to speak, your lips barely move. "P-please... I... I'm not a murderer..."
Yoongi tilts his head. "That's what you think," he murmurs, almost tenderly. "But the truth is always harder to accept." He stands.
"Take her back." The guards unstrap you and drag your limp body across the floor. You can barely keep your eyes open. The last thing you see is Yoongi watching you leave calm, patient, like a man waiting for a broken puzzle to finally fit together.
-------
The days blur together, and the nights blur even worse. After each session with Yoongi and Woobin, they drag your trembling body back to your small cell. Sometimes you still feel the shocks in your bones, buzzing under your skin even hours later. Sometimes you wake up gasping, thinking you're drowning in memories that aren't even yours and sometimes you wake from nightmares with a scream, only to slap a hand over your own mouth because you're terrified they'll hear you.
You curl up on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself, your whole body shaking. Across the hall, through the dim light of the corridor, 046 watches.
Taehyung.
At first, he never cared. About anyone. About anything. He hated this place and everything inside it including the people who cried and begged and broke.
But you, He sees you differently.
He sees the way you curl into a small ball at night, flinching at every sound. He sees you tossing in your sleep, whispering "No, please- stop..." as tears slip down your temples. He hears your muffled sobs when the lights go out, the way your breath hitches like your lungs are collapsing on themselves and every time you break a little more, something inside him cracks too.
Because he remembers being exactly like you, Hopeless. Confused. Alone. He watches you at lunch too, sitting alone now. Not next to him like the first week, when you used to ask innocent questions he never answered. Back then you were loud, determined still full of fight. Now you sit with your shoulders caved in, staring at your untouched tray like the food itself hurts you.
It bothers him more than he expected.
So today, he moves. You're sitting at the lonely end of the cafeteria table, pushing a cold spoon through your porridge without tasting anything. You hear footsteps steady, slow and you freeze. Taehyung sits opposite you. Your head snaps up. You weren't expecting him. You weren't expecting anyone. You've been trying so hard to avoid every single person in this place.
His hair hangs low over his eyes, but you still feel his gaze settle on you quiet, heavy, observant.
"Hey," he says simply. You swallow. Your throat aches. You don't answer. You don't trust your voice anymore. He studies your face for a moment, then your trembling fingers.
"I don't know what they've been doing to you," he begins, voice low, controlled, "but... I just hope you don't give up on yourself." That breaks something inside you. Your breath shakes. Your lips part. Your eyes burn.
"They're... they're trying to make me believe I'm a monster..." Your voice splinters apart as you shake your head violently. "I'm not- I'm not a murderer- I don't even remember anything-" You cover your face with your hands before you fall apart completely.
Around you, the cafeteria continues people screaming, laughing, arguing, staring at walls but everything feels far away.
"You're not a monster," Taehyung says, firmer this time. Your hands slowly slide down, and you look at him searching, desperate. He leans in slightly, eyes burning with something dark and familiar.
"Don't fall into their manipulation, Y/n," he murmurs. "People like them... they make us confess to things we never did. They twist us until we can't tell what's real anymore." You blink at him, confused, breath trembling.
"What are you trying to say?" His fingers tap lightly on the metal table. His eyes stay locked onto yours.
"I'm saying," he whispers, "that you're not the only one they tried to break." Your heart skips. His expression darkens painful, distant. "And I'm saying... I won't let them do to you what they did to me."
-------
Lunch is over before you realize it. The guards shout orders, metal chairs scrape patients shuffle back into lines like puppets with broken strings. You stand too, but Taehyung doesn't move yet. He watches the guards walk further away, waits for the noise to rise enough to cover his voice, then leans a little closer.
"Yoongi," he says quietly, like the name itself tastes wrong. "That doctor of yours? He joined this place right after you did." You inhale sharply.
"What... does that mean?" He doesn't blink. Doesn't look away.
"It means he's not what he pretends to be." Your heartbeat jumps.
"How do you know?" Taehyung's jaw tightens, eyes flickering with something dark, something that feels too close to truth.
"I've had sessions with him too," he says, voice low. "Back when he first came. Never liked him. Never trusted him." A humorless scoff leaves his lips.
"He talks sweet. Soft. Calm. Like he's helping you. But underneath-" His eyes narrow. "he enjoys watching people unravel."
Your stomach twists. You want to ask more, what Yoongi did to him, what he saw, what he knows but Taehyung suddenly stops talking. Two guards approach from behind, calling out.
"046, back to your block."
Taehyung straightens, his expression going blank like he locked everything away in a second. One guard grabs your arm. Another grabs Taehyung's. You look at him, panic rising.
"Taehyung, what were you trying to say? Why are you here? What did Yoongi-" He yanks against the guard's grip just enough to get closer to you, his voice a rushed whisper right before they pull you apart.
"You're not alone here, Y/n." The guard drags him away, but he twists his torso to stay facing you for one last moment.
"I'm here," he calls out quiet but firm, like a promise carved into stone. "You're not alone. Not anymore."
Then the guards pull him around the corner and he's gone. Your body trembles not from fear this time, but from the strange, dangerous comfort in his words.
Because for the first time since you woke up in this place. Someone is on your side. Someone sees you. Someone believes you. Even if that someone is 046. Even if he is a danger all on his own. But in a place like this, maybe danger is the closest thing to safety.
-------
The room is colder today. Maybe it's the empty chair beside Yoongi, the one Woobin usually occupies maybe it's just him. Min Yoongi sits across from you, elbows resting lightly on the table, posture relaxed in a way that feels wrong.
Relaxed men don't look at you like they're dissecting every breath.
No Woobin today. Just him and that alone makes your spine stiffen. "Another session," he says, voice smooth, unreadable. You don't answer. You don't want to give him anything not a reaction, not a word, not a crack to slip into. But he smiles anyway. He always smiles like he knows something you don't.
"Today," Yoongi continues, folding his hands, "we're going to talk about you." Your stomach knots. Of course you are. They always want to talk about you, your past, your memories, your identity the parts of yourself you can't reach no matter how hard you try.
"You won't get anything out of me," you say, voice sharp. "I barely remember anything about my past. Thanks to you people." He chuckles. A soft, amused sound, like your anger entertains him.
"Blaming us now?" he asks. Your jaw clenches. He slides something toward you a sheet of white paper, edges neat, untouched and a pen. The pen rolls slightly, stopping at your fingers. You stare at it, then at him.
"What is this supposed to be?" you ask.
"You can draw whatever comes to mind," Yoongi says, tilting his head as if assessing you more closely. "Anything your memory offers. Even fragments." You scoff.
"I'm not playing some child's game," you snap. "Like I'm in kindergarten." He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. "If you remember anything," he says softly, "even the smallest thing... draw it." You push the paper back.
"No. I'm not falling for your tricks." His gaze sharpens for half a second. Then smooths out again. "Tricks," he repeats under his breath, almost amused. "You think that's what this is?" You think of Taehyung. His warning. His voice whispering Don't let them break you.
Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. "I remember nothing," you say firmly. "Stop forcing things on me. Stop trying to make me into something I'm not." Yoongi stands abruptly not aggressive, but swift enough that your heart stutters.
He picks up the paper, folds it once, then places it gently back on the table in front of you. "You can keep it," he says quietly. You look up. He's watching you again too closely, too long, like he's waiting for something inside you to snap.
"It was nice talking to you today, Y/n." Your name leaves his lips too softly. Too familiar. The guards appear behind you. Metal cuffs click around your wrists again. You look away from him, refusing to give him even one more glance.
Because being in this room with Yoongi, It doesn't feel like therapy. It feels like being studied. Like prey being watched by something patient and hungry behind glass and the worst part?
He knows it.
--------
Taehyung walks down the narrow corridor with slow, heavy steps. His wrists still ache. Not from the cuffs but from memory.
The session had ended only minutes ago, yet Dr. Min's voice still echoes in his head, calm and precise, cutting deeper than any blade ever could. Dr. Kim had sat there too, watching, nodding, writing, always writing while Taehyung spoke words that were never his to begin with.
Confessions they taught him to say. Mistakes they told him to own.
He had learned long ago that resistance only prolonged the pain. The shock therapy. The isolation. The endless repetition until truth and lies blurred into the same suffocating fog.
So he had agreed.
He had agreed to a crime that was never his. Agreed to become what they wanted him to be. Because sometimes, survival looks like surrender. As he reaches his cell, his eyes drift without meaning to yours.
You're curled up on the narrow bed, knees pulled tight to your chest, your back turned toward the bars. Your shoulders tremble slightly, like you're trying to make yourself smaller, quieter, invisible. The blanket is clutched in your fists as if it's the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.
Taehyung's chest tightens. He recognizes that posture. He's worn it himself, countless nights spent staring at cracked walls, convincing himself that if he stayed still enough, silent enough, maybe they'd forget about him. One look at you and he knows.
Your session didn't go well.
Dr. Min doesn't break people all at once. He wears them down carefully soft words first, then confusion, then doubt, until you start questioning your own thoughts. Taehyung grips the cold metal bars of his cell.
You haven't given in yet and that both relieves him and terrifies him. Because he knows what comes next for people who don't. The torture grows quieter. Crueler. More convincing. He forces himself to look away before the guards notice his lingering gaze. He steps into his own cell, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, jaw clenched.
Don't break, he thinks not sure if he's saying it to you or to himself. Dinner is still hours away. But he makes a silent promise anyway. Tonight, he'll talk to you.
-------
You sit in the far corner of the cafeteria, the plastic plate resting in your trembling hands. The food looks dull colorless, tasteless, lifeless. You stare at it anyway, as if it might suddenly tell you something about the world outside these walls. You wonder what life was like beyond this place.
Did you have a home? A favorite food? Someone waiting for you?
You don't know. That thought alone makes your chest feel hollow. A soft sigh slips past your lips before you can stop it. Then, you feel it.
A presence. Not threatening. Not loud. Just there. You lift your head slightly, and your eyes meet his. Taehyung. He sits beside you, careful, as if afraid he might startle you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The clatter of trays, distant laughter, and muttered sobs from other patients fill the space between you.
"Are you fine?" he asks quietly, his voice low enough that only you can hear. You hesitate, then nod. Not because it's true, but because it's easier than explaining how broken you feel.
"Good," he murmurs, nodding once as he looks down at his own plate. Another pause.
"I wanted to tell you something," he says after a moment. You turn slightly toward him, your attention fully his now. "I know you barely remember anything from the outside world," he continues, his voice steady but strained, "but whatever they tell you... never give up on yourself."
Your brows knit together in confusion.
"They'll try to twist your thoughts. Make you accept things you never did," he says, his jaw tightening. "Never agree to those things, Y/n. Never."
"I- I don't understand," you whisper. "Manipulate me how?" He exhales slowly, like he's been carrying these words for years and only now letting them go.
"I came here just like you," he says. "I woke up one day, locked behind bars, being called a murderer. A danger. A mentally ill monster." Your grip tightens on your plate.
"I wasn't any of it," he says firmly. "I never killed anyone." Your heart pounds louder.
"That's when I realized something was wrong," he continues. "I overheard Dr. Kim talking one night. He was laughing, laughing about a case he 'successfully buried.'" Taehyung's eyes darken. "I didn't understand at first. So I waited. Watched. Learned their routines."
You swallow as he speaks. "One night, when the guards changed shifts, I followed Dr. Kim. His office was unlocked just for a minute." He lets out a bitter chuckle. "Funny how the people who cage us are so careless." He lowers his voice even further. "I found my file."
Your breath catches. "Every detail of my life was there," he says. "A normal upbringing. No violent history. No mental illness. Nothing." His fingers curl slowly into a fist. "And then I saw it. Another file. A rich man's son. A real crime. A real body." Your stomach twists.
"They needed someone expendable," he says quietly. "Someone poor. Someone alone. Someone no one would fight for." His eyes meet yours. "They chose me." You can barely breathe. "I confronted Dr. Kim," Taehyung continues. "Asked him why my life was written as a lie. You know what he said?"
He lets out a hollow laugh. "He told me I was hallucinating. That my mind was creating false innocence to protect itself."
Your nails dig into your palm.
"I didn't believe him," he says. "So I pushed. Asked again. And again." His voice drops, trembling just slightly. "That night... they took me to the room you don't come back the same from." You've heard the screams from there. Everyone has.
"They shocked me," he says bluntly. "Over and over. Told me I was dangerous. Told me I killed someone. Told me I deserved to be here." Your eyes burn. "By the end," he whispers, "I wasn't sure what was real anymore." He looks down at his hands.
"They won," he admits softly. "I said what they wanted. I believed what they wanted." Then he looks back at you eyes sharp, desperate. "But you don't have to." He leans closer. "You're not alone here, Y/n. No matter what they say. No matter how convincing they sound."
For the first time since waking up in this place, something inside you shifts. Fear is still there.
-------
After Taehyung's words settle deep in your chest, something shifts inside you. A slow, frightening realization. If he was framed, If he was broken into believing lies. Then what does that make you?
You sit once again in the same cold session room. The walls feel closer today, the air heavier. Dr. Kim Woobin is already seated, his expression unreadable, fingers neatly folded. Dr. Min Yoongi stands near the window, arms crossed, watching you like a problem he hasn't solved yet.
"I asked you to make a sketch," Yoongi says calmly, turning toward you. "Did you complete it, Y/n?" You roll your eyes, irritation bubbling over. "No. There was nothing in my mind. And I'm not playing childish games with you, Dr. Min."
Silence stretches. Yoongi hums softly. "Strange. I thought you liked drawing." Your jaw tightens. "You don't know anything about what I like."
Woobin clears his throat, smoothly stepping in. "Alright. Then today, let's talk about your childhood." Your stomach twists. "Do you remember your parents, Y/n?" he asks gently. You stare at the table. The word parents feels hollow, like something you're supposed to understand but don't.
No answer comes. Woobin sighs, not frustrated disappointed. "What about friends? Anyone you were close to as a child?"
"No," you snap, lifting your head. "I don't remember anything. And how would I, when you people are the reason my memories are gone?" Your voice comes out rough, shaking despite yourself. Taehyung's words echo in your mind. They twist things. Yoongi's gaze sharpens.
"We're not the reason, Y/n," he says coolly. "You are." A bitter laugh leaves your lips. "Ridiculous." Yoongi lifts a hand toward Woobin, just a small gesture. Woobin stands without protest and exits the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Your heart starts to pound. Now it's just you and Yoongi.
"I'm trying to help you," Yoongi says, stepping closer. His voice softens, dangerously so.
"I didn't ask for your help," you reply. He ignores that. Instead, he reaches for your hands.
You flinch, but the cuffs stop you from pulling away. His fingers wrap around your wrists, thumbs brushing lightly over your skin as if grounding you. The touch is gentle. Too gentle.
"You need to trust me," he murmurs. Your breath stutters. There's something terrifying about the way he looks at you not like a patient, not like a criminal but like someone who knows you better than you know yourself.
"You're trapping me here," you whisper. Yoongi doesn't deny it. Instead, he releases your hands and slides a glass of water across the table. "Drink," he says. "You need rest." You hesitate. This again. Every session ends the same way.
"You said the cafeteria water isn't filtered," you mutter. "It isn't," he replies smoothly. "This is better for you." Your throat feels dry. Your head aches. Against your better judgment, you lift the glass and drink. The taste is faintly metallic. Unfamiliar. By the time you place it back down, your vision blurs just slightly. Yoongi watches.
Satisfied. "Have a good sleep, Y/n," he says softly. And for the first time, fear creeps in not loud, not panicked but quiet and suffocating.
-------
The gates to the ground open with a heavy metallic sound. For the first time in days, maybe weeks you feel the sun.
It's too bright at first, making you squint as the warmth settles over your skin. The walls are still there, towering and unforgiving, guards posted at every corner with weapons resting against their shoulders. Freedom is only an illusion here. But the air, The air feels different.
Fresh. Alive. The smell of grass hits you, damp and earthy, and you breathe it in without realizing you've been holding your breath for so long. You like it here. Too much. Around you, patients scatter across the ground. Some laugh too loudly, some wander aimlessly as if chasing invisible thoughts. A few sit alone, staring at the sky like it might give them answers.
A sudden shout breaks the calm. Two men get into a fight angry, uncoordinated. Guards rush in instantly, dragging them away while they scream and struggle. The gate slams shut behind them.
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. You freeze.
Why did you find that funny?
Your smile fades as quickly as it came. You turn your head and find Taehyung sitting near the steps, shoulders leaned back against a pillar, one knee drawn up. The sunlight catches his face, making him look almost, normal. Like he belongs somewhere outside these walls.
You walk toward him slowly. "Do you remember anything from your past?" you ask, breaking the quiet. He gives a small smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and nods. "There are things I forgot," he says. "And things that came back."
He tilts his head, eyes lifting to the sky. "I miss my childhood." The words hit you harder than you expect. "My grandparents," he continues softly. "My friends." You stare at him. "You remember them?"
He nods again. "Yeah. I had a family." Something twists inside your chest. You have nothing like that. No warmth. No faces. No laughter hiding in your memories.
"You know," he adds, almost smiling now, "there was this tteokbokki place a few blocks from my house. It tasted amazing. I still think about it." He keeps talking little details, ordinary moments. Food. Streets. People. A life and you just sit there, listening, feeling emptier with every word. You don't remember anything good.
Anything at all. "When did you start remembering?" you ask quietly.
"After a few weeks here," he replies. "That's when things didn't add up. That's when I started doubting Dr. Kim." Your fingers curl into your palms. It's been more than two months for you and still, nothing. No flashes. No warmth. No past trying to return. Only white rooms. Cold voices. Needles. Water that tastes wrong.
You look at the grass beneath your feet, at the sun shining down on a place that still feels like a cage.
------
You wake up with a sharp gasp, your chest rising and falling too fast, as if you've been dragged out of something deep and suffocating. The dream clings to you, fragments of images, sounds that don't make sense yet feel painfully familiar. It's midnight. A dull yellow-orange light spills through the bars of your cell, casting long shadows across the walls, making the room feel smaller than it already is.
Your eyes dart around in panic until they land on the paper and sketch pen Dr. Min left behind. Your heart pounds harder. An overwhelming fear grips you, that if you don't get it out now, whatever you saw will disappear again, slipping away like everything else. You grab them with shaking hands and sit up, pressing the paper against your knees.
You don't think. You just draw.
Lines spill across the page, messy and rushed, as your hand struggles to keep up with your mind. Your vision blurs, tears dripping onto the paper, smudging the graphite, but you don't stop. You don't even wipe your face. Whatever this is whatever you saw, it hurts in a way you can't explain, like a wound reopening without you knowing when it was first made. You sob quietly, biting your lip to keep the sound from escaping the cell, your shoulders trembling as the sketch takes shape.
When you finally stop, your fingers ache and your throat burns. You stare down at the drawing, your breath uneven, your heart aching with a grief you don't understand. You pull the paper to your chest, clutching it like it might vanish if you let go, and curl back onto the thin mattress.
As you close your eyes, exhaustion seeps into your bones. The lights outside flicker softly, the shadows sway, and despite the fear still clinging to you, sleep slowly pulls you under once more heavy, quiet, and full of unanswered questions.
------
You wake with a jolt as the sharp clang of metal against metal echoes through the corridor. The lady guard's baton strikes the cold bars of your cell again, the sound harsh and unforgiving. Your heart jumps into your throat as you scramble up, quickly shoving the paper and sketch pen under the bed like a guilty secret. Her eyes rake over you with clear disgust. "Get up and take a bath," she orders. You nod silently, knowing better than to say anything.
Not long after, you're herded into the cafeteria along with the others, your steps heavy, your body still sore from restless sleep. You take your breakfast tray and move forward, the smell of food barely registering. That's when you see him. Taehyung is already seated, and when his eyes meet yours, his face softens into a smile. For a moment, you forget where you are. Even in those dull, lifeless clothes, he looks unreal warm, gentle, painfully human in a place that strips people of that very thing.
You walk toward him and sit down, holding your plate close. "Good morning," he says quietly, and you return the greeting. Something about it feels grounding, like proof that you still exist beyond these walls. You talk softly about how the food tastes like nothing, how every meal feels the same, and he chuckles under his breath. Then he starts talking about his past again small things, harmless things and suddenly something inside you shifts.
Your fingers tighten around the edge of your plate. You lower your voice, leaning closer. "Taehyung... will you help me find my documents?" you ask, your heart pounding as the words leave your mouth. "I want to know more about myself." The need in your voice surprises even you. You're tired of emptiness, tired of not knowing who you are.
He looks at you and you hold your breath, silently hoping he'll say yes hoping you're not alone in this anymore.
-------
Taehyung doesn't answer you immediately. He studies your face, the way hope and fear tangle together in your eyes, and something in him shifts. He knows that look too well, the desperation of being trapped in darkness with no answers, the slow suffocation of not knowing who you are while everyone else claims they do. He exhales quietly and nods. He doesn't want you to end up like him, broken down until you accept lies just to make the pain stop. "I'll help you," he says at last, voice low and firm. "You deserve to know the truth, Y/n. No one should be left like this."
The plan comes together in whispers, careful and dangerous. Taehyung knows this place too well, knows how chaos draws the guards like moths to flame. Minhwa is the key. Everyone knows him, the most volatile among them, a man who only needs the smallest push to explode. During yard time, Taehyung watches, waits, and then plants the spark. A word here, a shove there. It doesn't take long. Minhwa lunges, fists fly, and suddenly the ground is filled with shouting, bodies scrambling back, guards rushing in with batons raised. The noise is deafening, a storm perfectly timed.
At the same time, you're called for your session. Your heart is hammering so hard you think it might give you away, but you step into the room with your head held high. Yoongi and Woobin sit there like they always do, calm, composed, convinced they own you. That's when you snap. Your voice rises, sharp and furious, every word soaked in months of fear and rage. When you pull out the fork, hidden with Taehyung's help the room freezes. Your cuffs aren't on. Woobin's smile falters for the first time as you press the cold metal close, your hands shaking but your eyes blazing. You scream, threaten, spit words you didn't even know you had in you. Guards flood the room, trying to restrain you, shouting orders over one another. All their attention is on you, exactly as planned.
While they're distracted, Taehyung moves. He slips down the hallway like a shadow, heart pounding, every footstep a risk. He reaches Woobin's office first, rifling through drawers, files, folders nothing. Panic claws at his chest, but he doesn't stop. He knows better. Yoongi is careful. Yoongi hides things where no one thinks to look. When Taehyung enters Yoongi's office, the air feels heavier, colder. His hands tremble as he searches until there. A file with your name on it. Y/n. Clear. Real. His breath catches as relief crashes into him so hard it almost hurts. He clutches it to his chest, a small, victorious smile breaking through. He found it. He found you.
And while you're still screaming, still fighting, still pretending to be the monster they want you to believe you are.
--------
Taehyung's fingers tremble as he opens the file, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than steel. The first thing he sees is you small, fragile, smiling in a way he has never seen in this place. Childhood photographs spill across the page, your hair neatly tied, your eyes bright with a softness that doesn't exist in the asylum.
His chest tightens as he reads line after line of your history, medical notes written in cold, clinical words that don't match the warmth of the girl in the pictures. His heart begins to pound harder with every page he turns, confusion turning into dread. This isn't what he expected. This isn't the story he built in his head. As he flips further, more reports, more images, more truths stare back at him, and suddenly his hands feel numb, icy. His breath stutters.
No... this can't be right.
He wants to stop reading, wants to shut the file and pretend none of it exists, but the words burn into his mind. You weren't dangerous the way they claimed but you weren't untouched either. You were sick. And not in the way they accused.
A voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, calm and almost gentle. "You finally believe she needs help now, don't you, Taehyung?" His body stiffens as he turns, heart slamming against his ribs. Yoongi stands behind him, expression unreadable, eyes sharp with a knowing that makes Taehyung's stomach drop. "Tell me this is a lie," Taehyung demands, his voice low and shaking, clutching the file as if it might disappear.
"Tell me they made this up too." Yoongi doesn't flinch. He simply sighs, as if he's been waiting for this moment. "It isn't a lie," he says quietly. "And I know what you're thinking. I know you shouldn't be here. You were framed for someone else's crime." Taehyung's eyes widen at that, how did he know? but Yoongi continues before he can speak. "But Y/n... her case is different. She truly needs help."
Taehyung shakes his head, anger and fear twisting together in his chest. "I don't know if I can believe this," he mutters, torn between what he's read and what he feels when he looks at you quiet, broken, terrified, but never cruel. Yoongi watches him carefully, his voice softer now, almost human.
"I'm not asking you to trust me," he says. "And I won't promise to help you escape this place. But Y/n belongs here not as a prisoner, not as a monster, but as someone who needs treatment before she destroys herself without even realizing it."
Taehyung's grip tightens around the file, his heart aching as the truth sinks in. Yoongi steps closer, lowering his voice. "I'll explain her case." Taehyung realizes the truth is far more terrifying than any lie they were ever fed.
--------
FLASHBACK
The psychiatric hospital stood quietly on the edge of the city, surrounded by tall iron gates and long corridors that echoed with footsteps and whispers. To most people, it was an asylum — a place where broken minds were locked away.
But to Yoongi, it was something else. A place where minds could be rebuilt. He had joined only a few weeks ago, newly appointed as a psychiatrist. While most doctors here believed in strict routines, medication, and containment, Yoongi believed in something different, understanding.
Every patient had a story. And every story had a reason. He spent hours talking with them, not like a doctor speaking to a subject, but like a person speaking to another human being. Slowly, some patients began to open up. Some cried. Some remembered things they had buried for years.
Yoongi considered that progress. Until he met you.
Your file was unusually thin.
That alone made him pause.
Name: Y/n
Age: 19
Background: Orphanage resident
Incident: Murder of another orphan girl
Condition: Severe amnesia
No known family. No prior psychological history. Just a single violent act. And then, nothing.
The first session was quiet.
Too quiet.
You sat across from him in the small therapy room, sunlight spilling through the barred window behind you. Your fingers were folded neatly in your lap, your posture calm, your expression almost gentle. Not the face of someone who had taken a life. Yoongi leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you.
“Do you know why you're here?” he asked softly. You shook your head.
“I told them already,” you murmured. “They brought the wrong person.” Your voice was steady. No panic. No guilt.
“I didn't kill anyone.” Yoongi had heard denial before. It was common. But something about the way you said it felt, different. Like you truly believed it.
The next question came carefully. “Do you remember the orphanage?” You frowned slightly.
“Yes.”
“And the girl who died?” Your brows pulled together in confusion.
“No.” Yoongi wrote something down in his notebook.
“Do you remember anything before that?” You hesitated. Then quietly said,
“I have a family.” That made Yoongi stop writing.
“A family?” You nodded quickly, relief flickering across your face like someone finally acknowledging something important.
“Yes. I need to go back to them.”
“Who are they?” You opened your mouth. Then paused. The relief disappeared. Your eyes slowly filled with confusion.
“I… don't know.”
That was the first strange thing. You were certain you had a family. Yet you couldn't remember a single detail about them. Not a name. Not a face. Not even a place. Just the feeling that they existed.
Days turned into weeks. Your sessions continued almost every afternoon. Yoongi tried different approaches, memory triggers, photographs, guided recollection exercises. He asked about the orphanage, the day of the incident, the girl who died.
But your answer never changed.
“I didn't kill anyone.” Or sometimes.
“I think you're confusing me with someone else.” There was never anger. Never fear. Just quiet certainty and every time Yoongi pushed further, your memory would collapse into the same blank wall.
But there was one thing he noticed. You liked to draw. The first time it happened was during a silent session. Yoongi had placed a notebook on the table between you, trying something different.
“Sometimes memories don't come through words,” he explained. “If something comes to mind… try drawing it.” You stared at the pencil for a long time. Then slowly picked it up. Your hand moved cautiously at first. Then faster. Almost instinctively.
-------
Dr. Min Yoongi had stopped trying to force your memories back. At first, he had been determined. Every drawing, every word you said, every pause between your sentences, he had studied them like clues in a puzzle. He believed there had to be something hidden inside your mind that would eventually surface.
A detail. A name. A face. Something that would explain why a quiet girl from an orphanage had been accused of murder. But weeks passed.
Then months. And nothing changed. Sometimes you drew pictures of food, bowls of noodles, slices of cake, fruits arranged carefully on a plate. Other times you drew the sky, filled with drifting clouds or birds flying far away. Occasionally you would just drag the pencil across the paper without meaning, creating meaningless lines that went nowhere.
Random. Disconnected. No pattern. No memories. Eventually, Yoongi began to accept something he had resisted for a long time.
Maybe the past wasn’t the answer. Maybe the best thing he could do for you wasn’t digging through a broken memory, but helping you build a future. A future where you could live like a normal person. Not locked behind iron doors and observation windows.
Not labeled as a dangerous patient. Just, a person.
------
That afternoon, Yoongi had just finished a session with another patient. The corridor outside the therapy wing was quiet, the dull hum of fluorescent lights filling the silence as he walked toward his office. He loosened his tie slightly, exhaustion weighing on his shoulders. Then he noticed footsteps behind him. Light. Unhurried.
He already knew who it was before he even turned around. When Yoongi glanced over his shoulder, there you were, walking a few steps behind him with a small smile on your face, like a child who had been caught following someone.
He stopped. You stopped too. Tilting your head slightly.
“Where are you going?” you asked casually. Yoongi sighed softly. He should have expected this.
Over the months, you had grown unusually comfortable around him. You spent more time with him than most patients did with their doctors, sometimes because of extended therapy sessions, sometimes because you simply appeared near wherever he happened to be.
Not that Yoongi complained. He had always believed trust was the foundation of treatment.
But with you, it was different. “I’m going to have my lunch,” he replied calmly. Your eyes lit up immediately.
“Oh.” You clasped your hands together behind your back and took a few quick steps closer.
“I haven’t had my lunch yet.” The way you said it made the implication painfully obvious.
Yoongi frowned slightly. “They already served lunch in the cafeteria,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It’s past-”
“I didn’t feel like eating earlier,” you interrupted quickly. Then you added with a small pout,
“So I skipped it.” You looked at him expectantly before finishing the sentence in a softer tone.
“Now I’m hungry… Suga.” The nickname rolled off your tongue naturally.
Yoongi’s eyebrow twitched slightly. You had started calling him that a few weeks ago, claiming his name sounded “too serious” for someone who always looked half-asleep. Normally, doctors discouraged that kind of familiarity. But Yoongi had never corrected you.
For some reason, hearing it from you didn’t bother him. In fact, he had gotten used to it. Still, he studied your expression for a moment. There was something strangely innocent about the way you looked at him, like you had already decided the answer and were just waiting for him to agree. Yoongi exhaled quietly.
“Fine,” he muttered. Your smile instantly widened.
“Really?”
“Yes,” he said, already turning toward his office. “But only because you skipped your meal.” You followed beside him immediately, your steps light as if you had just been given permission to escape a boring class. Together, you walked down the long corridor toward his room.
The halls were mostly empty at this hour, the distant sounds of nurses and metal carts echoing faintly from somewhere deeper in the building. You glanced around curiously as you walked. Then suddenly spoke again.
“You’re nice to me.” Yoongi glanced at you briefly.
“That’s my job.” You shook your head.
“No,” you said softly.
“Other doctors talk to patients like they’re… problems.” Your gaze lifted to him.
“But you talk to me like I’m a person.” Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He simply unlocked the door to his office and pushed it open.
“Sit,” he said. You stepped inside first, immediately settling onto the small couch like you had done it a hundred times before. Yoongi placed his lunch container on the desk before glancing at you again.
“Next time,” he added quietly, “eat when they serve food.” You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand.
“But then I wouldn’t get to eat with you.” Yoongi paused. Just for a moment. Then he shook his head faintly and opened his lunch box. But something about the way you said it lingered in the air longer than it should have. And Yoongi couldn’t explain why but whenever you were around, the quiet routine of his job suddenly felt a little less predictable.
-------
The cafeteria inside the psychiatric facility was loud that afternoon. Metal trays scraped across tables. Plastic chairs dragged against the tiled floor. Patients laughed, argued, or spoke to themselves in quiet corners while nurses walked between tables with tired expressions. It was the usual chaos.
You walked in slowly, holding your tray with both hands. Rice. Soup. A small piece of bread. Your steps were careful, quiet, almost hesitant.
For a moment, no one noticed you. Then someone did. A chair scraped loudly. A man sitting at the far table leaned back, nudging the person beside him before tilting his head toward you. A smirk slowly spread across his face.
“Well, look who it is.” A few others turned to look. Their eyes followed you as you walked.
“Dr. Min’s favorite little pet,” the man said loudly, his voice dripping with mockery. A few people at his table chuckled. You kept walking. You had heard things like this before. More times than you could count.
“Look at that slut,” another patient added, leaning forward with a grin. “Always hanging around Dr. Min.” The first man snorted.
“She thinks if she keeps pleasing him he'll get her out of here.” Laughter erupted around the table. You kept walking. Your expression didn’t change. Your eyes stayed on the floor. Ignoring them had become a habit.
But they weren’t done. “Hey!” the first man called out suddenly, his voice louder now.
You stopped. Slowly. Your fingers tightened slightly around the tray.
“Come here, girl,” he said, spreading his arms dramatically. “Please me too.” More laughter.
“I can be much better than Dr. Min.” Someone else leaned forward, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Isn't she the one who killed someone at her orphanage?” A chorus of murmurs spread through the cafeteria.
“Oh yeah…”
“I heard that too.”
“Murderer.”
“No wonder no one adopted her.” The words echoed. Overlapping. Growing louder. You tried to keep walking. But the voices around you were no longer the only ones speaking. Something else was creeping into your head. A voice. Familiar. Cold. Laughing.
No one's going to adopt you, Y/N.
Your breath caught. The tray trembled slightly in your hands. The cafeteria faded for a moment and suddenly. You weren’t there anymore. You were somewhere else.
A small room. Children’s drawings on the walls. Beds lined neatly in rows. And her.
Alysa. Standing in front of you.
Her face blurry but her voice clear. Bright. Cruel.
“I’m getting adopted today, Y/N.” She spun happily in place, holding a small stuffed bear.
“They chose me.” Children around her were whispering. Looking at you. Some giggling.
“You’re still here,” Alysa continued, her smile widening. “Maybe something is wrong with you.” Your younger voice echoed weakly in the memory.
“That’s not true…” But she just laughed louder.
“No one wants you.” The other children laughed with her.
“No one will ever take you.”
The memory shattered. You were back in the cafeteria. Your breathing had become uneven. The tray slipped slightly in your hands. The voices around you blended with the ones inside your head.
“No one adopted her.”
“No one wants you.”
“No one's going to adopt you.”
Your fingers moved slowly. The tray dropped. Food spilled across the floor with a loud clatter. No one cared. They were still laughing. Still watching you. The man who had been mocking you leaned back comfortably in his chair.
“What?” he said mockingly. “Going to cry now?” Something inside your chest twisted. Your hands slowly rose to your head. You pressed your palms against your ears.
“Stop…” you whispered. But the voices only grew louder.
Kill them.
Your eyes widened.
Kill him.
The voice was right beside your ear now. Soft. Encouraging. He’s laughing at you. You looked up slowly. The man was still laughing.
Kill him.
Your fingers curled tightly around the fork lying beside the fallen tray. Your grip tightened. Your knuckles turned white.
Do it. Kill him.
Your feet moved before you even realized. The man barely noticed you approaching. He was still laughing with the others.
“Look,” he chuckled. “The murderer is coming-” The sentence never finished. Your hand moved suddenly. Fast. The fork plunged straight into his neck. A wet choking sound escaped his throat. For a moment, the cafeteria went completely silent. Then chaos erupted. Someone screamed. Blood sprayed across the table as the man collapsed backward. But you didn’t stop. The voices were louder now.
Again. You stabbed him again. And again. And again. Each strike faster than the last. Metal hitting flesh. Wet sounds filling the air. Hands grabbed your arms. Patients shouted. Chairs fell over. But the voices inside your head were stronger than all of them.
Good girl.
Keep going. Your lips moved as you continued stabbing the motionless body beneath you.
“I'll have a family…” Your voice trembled. More hands tried to pull you away. Guards rushed in. Someone shouted your name. But you barely heard them. Your eyes were wide. Unfocused.
“I’m a good girl…” The fork rose and fell again. Blood covered your hands now.
“I’ll soon have a family…” Strong arms finally grabbed you from behind. Dragging you away. The fork slipped from your fingers. Your body struggled violently as the guards restrained you. But your eyes stayed locked on the lifeless body on the floor. Your lips still whispering softly.
“I’m a good girl…”
“I didn’t kill anyone…”
The cafeteria had become a scene of pure horror. And somewhere in the chaos. Standing frozen in the doorway. Dr. Min Yoongi had just witnessed everything.
------
“I didn’t kill anyone.” Your voice came out hoarse, almost childlike, as the guards forced you down the sterile white corridor. Your wrists were restrained now. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly as they dragged you past patients who stared through the glass panels of their rooms. Some whispered. Some laughed nervously. Others simply watched with empty eyes. Your hands trembled.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” you repeated again, softer this time. Blood had dried on your fingers. You kept staring at them like they belonged to someone else. Like they couldn’t possibly be yours. The guards pushed you into a holding room small, cold, with nothing but a metal chair bolted to the floor. One of them forced you down into it while the other locked the cuffs around the metal ring attached to the table.
The door shut behind them with a heavy click. For a moment, everything was quiet.
Then the door opened again. And you looked up. Your eyes immediately found him.
Dr. Min Yoongi. Your face brightened slightly the moment you saw him. Relief washed over your expression like a child spotting a familiar figure in a crowd.
“Dr. Min,” you whispered. Your voice trembled.
“I haven’t killed anyone.” He stepped inside slowly.
The door shut behind him. For a few seconds, Yoongi simply stood there, looking at you. Your hair was messy. Your hands were stained with blood. Your eyes were wide with confusion. Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Just fear and something inside Yoongi’s chest twisted painfully. He had already reviewed the security footage. He had watched every second of what happened in the cafeteria.
The way you walked toward the man. The way your hand moved. The way you stabbed him again and again while whispering to yourself. There was no doubt about what you had done. But the expression on your face right now. It didn’t belong to a murderer.
“Dr. Min,” you said again, more desperately this time.
“Please tell them.” Your eyes searched his face anxiously.
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
Yoongi slowly walked closer. He pulled a chair across the floor and sat down in front of you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He had spent months studying your case. Digging into your past. Contacting the orphanage. Reading reports and the deeper he went, the more disturbing the picture became. Your childhood hadn’t just been lonely. It had been cruel. You were the child no one wanted. The child other kids blamed for everything. The child teachers ignored. The girl who watched other children get adopted one by one while you remained behind.
Years of rejection. Years of isolation and somewhere along the way, your mind had started breaking.
Not in the loud, chaotic way people imagined. But quietly. Fragments disappearing. Memories erasing themselves. Creating blank spaces where pain used to be. Your brain wasn’t forgetting by accident. It was protecting you. But the protection had turned dangerous. Because when your memories vanished, your emotions didn’t. They stayed buried.
Waiting.
And sometimes they exploded. Just like they did in the cafeteria.
Yoongi sighed quietly. Then he leaned forward slightly. “I know,” he said softly. Your breathing slowed a little. “I know you’re not a bad person.” Your eyes immediately filled with tears.
“I’ll make sure you get the treatment you need.” You stared at him desperately.
“I don’t want treatment,” you whispered.
“I want to go home.”
Your voice cracked.
“I have a family.”
Yoongi felt that familiar ache in his chest again. You had said that so many times. Yet no records showed any family connected to you. No relatives. No guardians. Nothing. Just an abandoned child in an orphanage.
“Suga…” The nickname slipped from your lips quietly. Yoongi’s eyes flickered slightly. You looked at him like he was the only safe thing left in your world. “I don’t want to stay here.” The way you said it. It wasn’t anger. It was fear.
Real fear and Yoongi realized something that unsettled him. He had grown attached to you too. Not professionally. Not the way a doctor should. Somewhere along the way. He had started caring about you more than he should have.
“I know,” he murmured. His voice was quieter now.
“I know.” The treatment began again. But this time. It was different. After the cafeteria incident, the hospital board decided your case had become too unstable for standard therapy. Your violent episodes were escalating. Your memory loss was spreading and Yoongi was considered too emotionally involved in your treatment.
-------
After the incident, things changed. The hospital board reviewed your case carefully. The violent outburst had made your condition far more serious than before. Your treatment plan was adjusted. And a new doctor was assigned to lead your therapy.
Dr. Kim.
Unlike Yoongi, Dr. Kim believed in aggressive psychiatric intervention. His methods were colder, more clinical. Less talking. More evaluation. More medication. The sessions with him were longer, stricter. Where Yoongi had allowed you to talk freely, draw pictures, wander through your thoughts slowly. Dr. Kim asked direct questions.
Sharp ones. Questions you often couldn’t answer. At first, Yoongi still checked on you whenever he could. Sometimes he would stop by the therapy wing hoping to see you. But the change became noticeable. You didn’t follow him down the corridors anymore. You didn’t wait outside his office.
You didn’t call him “Suga” in that quiet voice that used to echo through the hallways. In fact. You barely spoke to him at all. The first time Yoongi tried to talk to you after the new treatment began, you simply looked at him with a blank expression.
Polite. But distant. Like he was just another staff member. He told himself it was part of the treatment. That Dr. Kim’s methods were working. That the distance was necessary. But something about it unsettled him.
------
Weeks later, Yoongi finally confronted Dr. Kim in his office. “What exactly are you doing in those sessions?” Yoongi asked quietly. Dr. Kim adjusted his glasses before replying.
“Stabilizing her condition.” Yoongi frowned.
“She’s different.”
Kim nodded slowly. “Yes.” Then he spoke words that made Yoongi’s stomach sink. “Her amnesia is progressing faster than expected.”
Yoongi stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Her brain is suppressing more memories,” Kim explained calmly. “The trauma triggers are being buried deeper.” Yoongi knew about that risk. But something didn’t add up.
“She still remembered certain things,” Yoongi said. “The hospital. Me.”
Kim leaned back slightly in his chair. “Not anymore.” The words landed heavily in the room. Yoongi’s expression hardened.
“What?”
Kim opened a file on his desk. “She no longer remembers the events that triggered her breakdown in the cafeteria.” Yoongi clenched his jaw.
“And?”
Kim looked at him calmly. “She doesn’t remember you either.” The silence that followed felt suffocating. For months, Yoongi had been one of the few stable anchors in your fractured memory. You remembered his name. His voice. Even the nickname you had given him and now, that piece was gone too.
Erased. Like it had never existed.
The final incident happened only a week later. Another violent episode. Another patient injured. This time worse. The hospital administration had no choice. Your condition was now considered too unstable for their facility. The transfer papers were signed quickly. A higher-security psychiatric institution. Stronger restrictions. Stricter monitoring. When the ambulance finally arrived to take you away, Yoongi watched from the far end of the corridor. You walked past him slowly, escorted by guards. Your eyes briefly passed over his face. But there was no recognition.
No familiarity. No smile. Just the empty gaze of someone looking at a stranger and for the first time since he became your doctor. Min Yoongi realized something terrifying.
He had spent months trying to unlock your memories. Trying to help you remember. But now, he might be the only one who still remembered the version of you that had once trusted him. The version that called him Suga.
And that version of you. Was gone.
------
PRESENT
The room was quiet except for the soft rustling of paper. The thick patient file lay open on the desk, its pages worn from being reviewed too many times. Medical notes, incident reports, psychological evaluations, every page carried pieces of a life that had slowly fallen apart.
Kim Taehyung sat across the desk, staring at the final page in silence. His fingers were still resting on the paper, but he wasn’t reading anymore. He was trying to process what he had just learned. At first, when he had heard about you, he thought you were like him.
Another person thrown into this place for something they didn’t do. Another person trapped by circumstances, misunderstood by the world outside those iron gates. That thought had almost comforted him. But now. Now the truth sat heavily in front of him and it was worse.
Far worse.
Taehyung leaned back slowly, his gaze drifting toward the window of the office. The bars cast long shadows across the floor, the evening light fading behind them. “She was all alone,” he murmured quietly. His voice carried something unusual not sarcasm, not indifference. Something closer to pity.
“She didn’t even have anyone to rely on.” Across the desk, Min Yoongi remained silent for a moment. Yoongi had spent months studying your case. Months trying to understand the strange maze your mind had created. He knew every detail. Every broken piece. But hearing someone else say it aloud still made something heavy settle in his chest.
Taehyung’s eyes returned to the file again, stopping on one particular note written in Yoongi’s handwriting. He tapped the page slowly.
“She kept saying she had a family,” he said. The words lingered in the room. Yoongi exhaled quietly before answering.
“That’s her illusion.” Taehyung looked up. Yoongi’s expression remained calm, but his voice carried the weight of something deeply complicated.
“That’s the only thing her brain was able to create to survive.” He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together.
“When someone goes through prolonged trauma, especially abandonment during childhood, the mind sometimes builds something artificial to replace what was missing.” Taehyung listened carefully. Yoongi continued, his voice steady but low.
“She created a world in her head,” he said. “A place where she wasn’t the unwanted child in the orphanage.”
“A place where someone chose her.”
“A place where she had a family waiting for her.”
Taehyung’s jaw tightened slightly. “So she believed it was real.”
“Yes,” Yoongi said simply.
The silence stretched again. Taehyung closed the file slowly. For the first time since arriving in this hospital, something about another person’s situation disturbed him. Because this wasn’t just injustice. This was a mind slowly destroying itself.
“She forgot everything,” Taehyung said quietly. Yoongi nodded once.
“Her brain keeps erasing things that trigger her trauma.”
“The memories become too painful, so her mind deletes them.”
Taehyung frowned slightly.
“And you?”
Yoongi’s expression barely changed.
“She forgot me too.”
For a moment, Taehyung studied Yoongi carefully. Something about the way he said it felt, heavier than it should have been. Like that fact carried more weight than a doctor normally allowed himself to feel. Taehyung leaned forward slightly in his chair.
“You still want to help her.” It wasn’t a question. Yoongi didn’t deny it. “I can help you get out of here,” Yoongi said calmly, meeting Taehyung’s gaze.
Taehyung blinked once, slightly surprised. Yoongi rarely spoke about his patients leaving the facility so openly. But his voice remained steady.
“I’ve been reviewing your case for weeks.”
“You were wrongly admitted.”
“You don’t belong here.”
The words hung between them.
-------
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal. The restraints around your wrists were tight, cutting into your skin each time you struggled. The chair you were strapped to was bolted to the floor, a precaution the staff had learned to take after your recent episodes. The white walls around you felt too bright, too clean, too silent.
But none of that mattered. Because what Yoongi had just told you felt far more suffocating than the restraints. It couldn’t be true. Your breathing came out uneven as tears blurred your vision. Your head shook repeatedly, refusing to accept the words he had spoken.
No.
That wasn’t possible. Taehyung wouldn’t leave you. He couldn’t. For weeks he had spoken to you through the narrow window of the ward room, whispering about plans, about finding the truth buried in your past. He had promised he would get your files, your records, the things the hospital kept hidden from you.
He said he would prove you weren’t what they claimed. He said he would help you get out. You had believed him.
More than that, you had helped him.
The guards had been distracted because of you. The chaos in the hallway earlier, the alarms, the arguments with the nurses all of it had been part of the moment he needed to slip away unnoticed.
You had done that.
For him.
Because he promised he wouldn’t abandon you. So when Yoongi stood there calmly telling you that Taehyung had escaped without you, something inside your chest refused to accept it.
“You’re lying,” you said hoarsely. Your voice trembled, but the anger behind it was real. Across from you, Min Yoongi remained standing, his expression carefully controlled.
You stared at him with red, tear-filled eyes.
“Taehyung wouldn’t leave me like that,” you insisted. “You’re just saying that so I stop asking questions.”
Your voice broke at the end.
“He promised he’d come back.”
Yoongi didn’t interrupt you.
He had seen patients react like this before denial, desperation, the mind trying to protect itself from another painful truth.
But the longer you cried, the heavier the silence in the room became.
Because Taehyung really had escaped.
And he had done it alone.
“You don’t understand,” you continued, your voice growing louder as panic crept in. “He said he would get the documents about my past. He said he would prove everything.”
Your breathing turned sharp as the realization slowly began creeping closer, like something you were trying to outrun but couldn’t.
“I did everything for him,” you whispered.
The words fell from your lips before you could stop them.
You had screamed in the hallway earlier. Thrown objects. Fought the guards. Created the distraction he needed. And now he was gone. The room felt colder. A broken laugh slipped out between your tears.
“I was just… a distraction.” The words tasted bitter. Your head dropped forward as the truth slowly crushed the hope you had been clinging to.
“He used me.” Yoongi’s eyes softened slightly as he watched you crumble under the weight of it.
In a way, he had allowed it to happen. Because Taehyung needed to leave. Taehyung had been wrongly placed in this facility, trapped in a system that would have destroyed him slowly. Yoongi had seen too many cases like that before sane people losing their minds because no one believed them.
Taehyung deserved freedom. But you. You needed something else.
Treatment.
Protection.
Someone who would not abandon you to the chaos inside your own mind and Yoongi had already decided that person would be him.
“Y/N,” he said quietly. But you barely heard him. Your body shook violently as sobs tore through your chest, the restraints rattling softly with every movement.
“Everything he said was a lie,” you cried. “Everything!” The anger and grief tangled together until your thoughts began spinning again, the familiar dizziness creeping behind your eyes.
“I’m such a fool,” you whispered. Yoongi stepped closer.
“Y/N, listen to me.” But you only shook your head harder, your voice growing louder and more frantic.
“He promised he’d help me!” you cried. “He said we’d find out about my family!” Your words echoed against the sterile walls.
“My family…” you whispered again, weaker this time. Yoongi watched you carefully. That word again.
Family.
It always circled back to that. You had built your entire fragile sense of hope around the belief that someone, somewhere, was waiting for you. That you weren’t alone in the world. Your sobs slowly quieted, leaving only uneven breaths as exhaustion settled into your body.
Yoongi crouched down in front of you then, lowering himself to your level so you couldn’t avoid his gaze.
“I can help you,” he said softly. The calmness in his voice cut through the chaos in your mind. Slowly, your eyes lifted to him. Your lashes were wet with tears, your face pale from the emotional storm that had just passed through you.
“I can help you get out of here.” For a moment, the words hung between you. Something flickered in your expression. A strange mixture of hope and bitterness. A weak laugh escaped your lips.
“You said that before.” Yoongi froze. His brows drew together slightly.
“What?”
“You said the same thing years ago,” you murmured, your voice rough from crying.
“You told me they would transfer me somewhere better… that I would get proper treatment.”
Your eyes locked onto his.
“And that eventually I would leave.”
Yoongi felt something inside his chest tighten. You tilted your head slightly, studying him through blurred vision.
“But I’m still here.”
Your voice cracked again.
“Still trapped.”
The room fell into heavy silence. For a moment, Yoongi didn’t know what to say. Because the way you had spoken. It sounded like you remembered. Like a fragment of the past had somehow slipped through the cracks of your amnesia.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you whispered suddenly. The desperation in your voice returned, quieter now but deeper. Your eyes searched his face helplessly.
“Please.” The single word carried more pain than all your shouting earlier.
“I want to have a family too.” Yoongi stared at you. Something shifted behind his calm expression. Something darker. More determined.
Slowly, he stood up straight again. Then he spoke.
“I can be your family.” Your crying stopped. Your head lifted slightly.
“I can get you out of this place,” Yoongi continued, his voice steady and certain now.
“You won’t stay here.” Your eyes searched his face, trying to understand what he meant.
“You’ll be transferred soon,” he said.
“To a private facility.”
His gaze didn’t leave yours.
“And I’ll be there.” The quiet confidence in his voice sent a strange chill down your spine.
“I’ll take care of you, Y/N.” His words sounded gentle. Reassuring. But something about the way he said them felt different. Possessive.
Final.
“I’ll be your family.” He leaned slightly closer. “The one who will cure you.”
------
Months had passed since the day Min Yoongi finally completed the paperwork that changed everything.
It hadn’t been easy.
Endless evaluations. Legal documents. Medical reviews. Statements written and rewritten until the hospital board finally agreed to something rare, supervised release under a private psychiatric guardian.
That guardian was Yoongi.
You weren’t fully free. Not yet.
Technically, you were still a patient under observation, required to attend therapy sessions at the hospital twice a week. Doctors still monitored your condition, your medications, your emotional responses.
But compared to the cold rooms and locked wards you had spent years inside…
The world outside felt almost unreal.
You lived in Yoongi’s apartment now.
A quiet place on the upper floor of a modest building, filled with soft lighting and large windows that let the sunlight pour in during the mornings. At first, even the smallest things had overwhelmed you, the hum of city traffic outside, the smell of fresh food cooking, the feeling of walking through streets without guards watching every step you took.
Everything had felt new.
Terrifying at first.
But also beautiful.
Yoongi had been patient through all of it.
He took you grocery shopping, guiding you through crowded aisles when the noise made you nervous. He brought you to small movie theaters where you would sit beside him in wonder, watching stories unfold on giant glowing screens.
Sometimes he took you to arcades, where the flashing lights and cheerful sounds made you laugh in a way he had never heard inside those hospital walls.
Slowly, the world stopped feeling so frightening and slowly. You started healing.
Not perfectly.
There were still gaps in your memory. Entire pieces of your past remained foggy, like half-forgotten dreams that slipped away whenever you tried to grasp them. Some nights were still difficult, when old fears crept quietly into your thoughts.
But the violent storms inside your mind had softened and Yoongi saw the difference every day.
It made every sleepless night, every legal battle, every risk he had taken to bring you here feel worth it. Because the girl who once sat in restraints screaming that she had a family. Was now slowly learning how to build one.
-------
That afternoon, soft sunlight filled the apartment living room. You were sitting on the floor, laughing quietly as a small black kitten pounced clumsily toward your hands. The tiny creature had only been in the apartment for a few weeks, but it had already become your favorite companion whenever Yoongi wasn’t home.
The kitten jumped again, trying to catch your fingers as you moved them across the carpet. You giggled softly as it tumbled sideways.
“Hey,” you laughed. “You’re getting stronger.”
Across the room, Yoongi sat comfortably on the couch, one leg crossed over the other as he slowly sipped his coffee. His eyes lifted occasionally from his mug to watch you and the kitten playing together.
The sight still felt surreal to him sometimes.
For safety reasons, he had installed small CCTV cameras around the apartment, not hidden ones, but visible ones you were fully aware of. They were meant to ensure your safety whenever he was working late at the hospital.
When he had first explained them to you, he expected hesitation.
But you had only shrugged lightly.
“I don’t mind,” you had said.
“If something happens to me you’ll see it, right?”
The trust in your voice had left him quiet for a long moment. Now, as he watched you laughing on the floor with the kitten, Yoongi allowed himself a small smile. You looked peaceful.
Healthier.
Alive in a way he had never seen during those early months. The kitten suddenly leapt into your lap, its tiny paws kneading against your sweater. You lifted it gently, smiling down at the small creature.
“He’s growing fast, isn’t he?” you said. Yoongi hummed softly in agreement.
“He is.” You stood up then, carrying the kitten briefly before setting it down again to wander across the living room. Then you walked toward the couch where Yoongi sat. Without hesitation, you settled beside him, leaning your head comfortably against his shoulder. Yoongi didn’t move.
He had grown used to the small ways you sought comfort near him. But every time it still made something quiet stir in his chest. You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him.
“Can we go out today?” Your voice carried that familiar hopeful tone that had become more common lately. Yoongi lowered his coffee mug, glancing down at you.
“Where do you want to go?” You thought for a moment, your eyes drifting upward thoughtfully.
“Hmm…” Then your face brightened.
“Maybe dinner?” Yoongi raised an eyebrow.
“Dinner?” You nodded eagerly.
“Like the restaurant you took me to last time.” The memory clearly excited you the warm lights, the soft music, the unfamiliar but delicious food you had tasted so cautiously at first.
“It was nice there,” you added softly. Yoongi watched your expression for a moment before nodding.
“Alright.” Your face immediately lit up.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Before he could say anything else, you suddenly wrapped your arms around him in a quick, happy hug. The movement caught him completely off guard. But what happened next surprised him even more. You leaned forward and kissed him. Right on the lips. It was quick. Soft. Innocent. But it left Yoongi completely frozen. For a second, he simply stared at you, his brain struggling to process what had just happened. You pulled back casually, smiling like nothing unusual had occurred.
Meanwhile, Yoongi’s pale face slowly began turning red. He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to recover some of his usual composure. But you were already watching him with amused curiosity.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Yoongi turned his head slightly, pretending to focus on his coffee again. But the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him completely. You giggled softly.
For a moment, the apartment felt warm and peaceful in a way that had nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through the windows.
Outside, the city moved on with its usual rhythm people rushing to work, cars passing in endless lines, strangers living lives that would never know the long journey it had taken for you to sit here now.
Safe. Healing. Slowly learning the world again and beside you, Min Yoongi allowed himself something he rarely permitted.
Hope.
Because the girl who once believed her family only existed inside her mind. Was finally beginning to realize something gentle and real. She wasn’t alone anymore.
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Did Jungkook kill Eunjae the same day she told him she was pregnant? Did she really say she wanted to replace Y/N and their child? 🫣 He shocked me!! I thought this whole time he loved Eunjae it turns out everything he did was to get a reaction from Y/N😱
Let's just say yes, he killed her after finding out she was pregnant with his child. His goal was never to be with her; he only wanted to see Y/N suffer. He wanted her to crawl back to him and beg him to take her back, but nothing worked.
In many ways, he became just like his father when he thought about how his father treated his mother. He ended up repeating that cycle, but Y/N wasn't like his mother.
Eun-jae was confident that she had Jungkook all to herself, and she believed her pregnancy would make him forget about his wife and son. Instead, it only made him realize she was no longer useful in his game.
So let's just say he planned Eun-jae’s death carefully, something that looked like an accident so Y/N would never find out. He didn’t want to get caught, and he even made sure the blame would fall on her father so she would never suspect the truth.
Heyyy I loveddd Veiled Secrets sooo muchhh aaahhhh jk at the end really got me jauwjwususjwjwkks
I just wonderrr what would have happened if yn finds out jk’s true feelings - and also what he did to Eunjae?
Such gooodd writingggg!!
You mean Velvet Ruin, right? 😭 idk if I’ll write another part tbh… I actually thought about adding a scene where Jungkook kills Eunjae, but it felt way too cruel for him so I decided not to include it and just leave the story like this.
SYNOPSIS: You were raised to rule, not to love. When your father kills Jungkook's father and forces him to marry you, you treat him like strategy nothing more. Revenge turns your marriage into a battlefield. Blood is spilled. Lovers die. Children become the only innocence left between you.
In the end, you don't win the war. You just choose to leave it, together.
GENRE: forced marriage | morally grey couple | toxic love | revenge | pregnancy trope | villain x villain
WARING: Dubious Consent • Breeding Trappings • Dirty talk • Creampie •Hateful/Degrading Dialogue • Hate Sex • Aftermath of Mutual Loathing • Praise Kink (Negative/Spiteful)
WC: 10k
Requested by anon
Five months. Your body had changed, heavy in ways you hated to acknowledge, carrying a life no one had asked for least of all you. Jungkook never looked at your stomach with warmth, never asked how you felt, never placed a hand there like a proud husband should. And you didn’t want him to.
What you wanted was distance. But what your father wanted was control.
And that was becoming harder by the day. Jungkook barely spoke to you now. No pointless arguments, no sharp exchanges, just cold silence. Worse than hatred. It made it impossible to get close, impossible to dig under his skin and into his mind.
His mother, on the other hand, had attached herself to you like a shadow. Eat this, not that. Don’t wear tight clothes. Don’t go out so often. Rest. Sit. Be careful. It grated on your nerves.
The last time you snapped raised your voice, told her she wasn’t your mother, she had broken down and fled to Jungkook in tears. And when he confronted you later, his words had been sharp, restrained, and cutting. Neither of you apologized.
Today, you were done playing polite.
You stood in the hallway outside his office, one hand resting lightly on your stomach, the other tapping impatiently against the desk of his secretary. “Tell him I’m here,” you said sweetly. “We’re going out for lunch. He promised.” The lie slipped out easily.
The secretary hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, when the office door opened. Jungkook stepped out. Annoyance flashed across his face the moment he saw you. Your lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.
“What are you doing here?” he asked under his breath.
“You promised me lunch,” you replied calmly.
“I never-” People were staring. Employees. Assistants. Curious eyes lingering too long on the pregnant wife standing her ground.
Jungkook exhaled sharply. “After the meeting,” he said tightly. “Now leave.”
“I’ll wait,” you replied. His jaw flexed, but he turned and walked away, disappearing into the conference room. The moment the doors shut, your smile faded. This wasn’t about lunch. As soon as the hallway cleared, you turned and walked straight into his office.
His space was immaculate cold, organized, everything in its place. You closed the door quietly behind you, heart beating faster than it should. Your father had been losing his grip. For weeks now, Jungkook had been careful too careful. Meetings unreported. Calls taken in private. Documents kept off the main system.
You moved to his desk, opening drawers until you found what you were looking for. A locked folder. You hesitated only a second before pulling a small pin from your hair and working the lock. It clicked open. Inside, contracts.
Your breath hitched. Foreign names. Shell companies. New partners. Investments routed through subsidiaries that weren’t tied to Kang Seojun’s network. Jungkook was expanding. Building something of his own.
“Smart,” you muttered under your breath. He was preparing an escape or worse, a counterattack. You snapped photos quickly, hands steady despite the rush of adrenaline. Emails followed encrypted communications with men loyal to his late father, men your father had been trying to track for months.
So this was why Kang Seojun was uneasy.
You closed the folder just as footsteps echoed in the hallway. You slipped back to the door, smoothing your expression, resting a hand on your stomach as if nothing had happened. When Jungkook returned after the meeting, you were already waiting.
“Ready for lunch?” you asked innocently. He studied you for a long moment suspicious, sharp-eyed. Something in his gaze made your pulse spike.
------
You lay still on the hospital bed, exhaustion weighing down every limb. Sweat clung to your skin, your body aching in places you didn’t know could ache. For a moment, you were sure you had brushed death itself—felt it hover close enough to breathe you in. You never wanted to be pregnant again. Never wanted to feel this fragile. Never wanted to hurt like this.
And yet. Your gaze drifted to the small cradle beside you. So tiny. Curled into himself like he still belonged somewhere warmer. Softer. The rise and fall of his chest was barely noticeable, but it was there—steady, real.
Worth it, you admitted silently. Just this once.
The door opened.
You didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Jungkook walked in like a storm barely contained steps rushed, shoulders tense, eyes already searching. He didn’t look at you first. Not even for a second. His entire focus locked onto the cradle as he crossed the room. You watched him reach out, hands hovering for a brief moment, uncertain then carefully slide beneath the baby, lifting him with a gentleness that almost felt foreign coming from him.
“Careful,” you said, voice weak but sharp enough to cut. “He’s not one of your files or deals.” Jungkook stiffened but didn’t look back.
“He’s heavier than he looks,” you added dryly. “I named him already.” That got his attention.
He turned slowly. “You what?”
You shifted slightly on the bed, ignoring the pull of pain. “Minjae.” The name hung between you.
“You didn’t think to tell me?” he asked, jaw tightening.
“You weren’t exactly present,” you replied coolly. “Besides, you never wanted a child so badly. Now you suddenly care about his existence?” His eyes flashed.
“I never said I didn’t want to be a father.”
You scoffed softly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I said,” he corrected sharply, finally meeting your gaze, “I didn’t want you to be the mother of my children.” The words landed hard. For just a second, something cracked behind your eyes.
Then it vanished. You smiled faintly, pride snapping back into place. “Funny. Because here we are.” Jungkook said nothing. His grip tightened slightly around the baby before he adjusted, careful again.
“You survived,” he said instead, quieter. “Both of you.”
“Barely,” you replied. “And don’t mistake that for gratitude.” Silence settled, heavy and unresolved. Minjae stirred softly between them, unaware he was born into a marriage built on resentment, power, and pride too sharp to bend.
-------
Minjae grew faster than anyone expected. Too fast. One moment he was a fragile bundle curled against your chest, the next he was crawling, reaching, crying existing loudly in a house that had never known peace. Drama followed him like a shadow, born not from him, but from the adults who claimed to love him.
You let Jungkook’s mother help at first.
Only because it was convenient. She washed him with trembling hands, humming old lullabies as if trying to erase the sins of the past. She learned his feeding times, memorized his cries, stayed awake through the nights when you didn’t want to. From baths to sleep routines, she poured herself into him.
And Jungkook. He came home exhausted, shoulders heavy with responsibility, only to freeze at the sight of his son in his mother’s arms safe, warm, smiling.
That smile on his face.
You hated it.
Something ugly twisted in your chest every time you saw it. Like you were being erased. Like they were becoming a family without you. That’s when your father’s voice echoed in your head.
Remember why you’re there.
The opportunity came sooner than expected. Minjae cried harder than usual that day. Fever followed by nightfall, his tiny body burning beneath your hands. The mark on his skin small, but visible was enough.
Enough for you.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t hesitate. You blamed her. “She was careless,” you said coldly, holding Minjae close as he whimpered. “Look at him. Look what she did.” Jungkook stood frozen. He knew. He knew his mother’s hands shook sometimes, that age had made her slower but not cruel. He knew it was an accident. He knew she would never hurt Minjae intentionally.
But facts didn’t matter. Minjae’s fever spiked. Doctors spoke in worried tones. And suddenly, logic had no place in the room. His mother broke. She collapsed into herself, apologizing over and over, sobbing like she had when Jungkook was a child small, helpless, guilty for existing.
That night, you packed. You took Minjae and left. Jungkook watched you walk out without stopping you, his fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms. He told himself it was temporary. That Minjae needed care. That you couldn’t handle him alone.
At your father’s house, things were different.
Crueler.
Jungkook had to come there just to see his son had to sit under Kang Seojun’s roof and listen to words designed to humiliate him.
“You look tired,” your father would say casually.
“Work too hard for a man who owns so little.”
“Funny how your son sleeps so well here.”
You watched it all with quiet satisfaction. Minjae grew walking now, babbling words that didn’t include appa. Laughing in halls Jungkook hated. Learning comfort in a place Jungkook despised. By the time Minjae turned one, the arrangement had become routine.
A routine Jungkook loathed. He hated his son being there. Hated that the first place Minjae felt safe wasn’t his own home. But he told himself it was necessary. He had work. Power to build. A future to secure. And he couldn’t trust his mother anymore.
That guilt alone kept him awake at night.
Just until Minjae grows up, he promised himself.
Then I’ll take him back. I’ll raise him myself.
But deep down, something colder whispered a truth he refused to face. Minjae wasn’t just growing up. He was growing away.
-------
The city lights blurred past the window, distant and muted, as Jungkook sat beside Eun-jae in the quiet café tucked away from the noise of his world. The place smelled of warm coffee and rain-soaked pavement—simple, peaceful things he rarely allowed himself anymore.
Eun-jae’s fingers rested over his on the table. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there. For a long time, Jungkook said nothing. Then his voice broke the silence.
“I miss him,” he said quietly.
Eun-jae looked up, eyes soft. “Minjae?”
He nodded, jaw tightening. “Every day. I see other kids his age… and I think about how fast he’s growing. I wasn’t there for his first steps. His first words.” He exhaled sharply. “It feels like someone’s carving pieces out of me, little by little.”
Eun-jae squeezed his hand gently. “Why don’t you leave?” she asked, carefully. “Why don’t you divorce her… and take Minjae with you?” Jungkook’s gaze dropped to the table.
“You know I would if I could,” he said. “But it’s not that simple.”
“I’d help you,” Eun-jae said immediately. “I’d take care of him like he was my own.” That made him look up.
“You would?” he asked, almost surprised.
She smiled faintly. “I already care about him. He’s a part of you.” Something warm but painful settled in his chest.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Jungkook said honestly. “It means more than you know.”
He paused, then added, “But Minjae’s attached to her. More than to me. More than to anyone.” His voice softened. “I don’t want to tear him away from the only comfort he knows. I won’t be the reason my son cries himself to sleep.”
Eun-jae’s eyes stung, but she nodded. “That’s why you’re a good father.”
He shook his head faintly. “I don’t feel like one.”
She leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “You are. Even when you’re hurting.” Jungkook closed his eyes, letting the moment sink in.
“I’m… grateful,” he said quietly. “That you stayed. That you understood.” A small, tired smile touched his lips. “It took months for me to even trust you with pieces of my life.”
Eun-jae smiled back, pressing her forehead lightly against his. “I love you,” she said simply. “All of you. Even the broken parts.” For the first time in a long while, Jungkook didn’t feel like he was suffocating.
Just for this moment. He felt seen.
-------
The photographs lay scattered across the table like quiet accusations. You stared at them without a word. Jungkook standing too close to a woman you didn’t recognize at first. Sitting across from her at a restaurant that wasn’t discreet enough for lies. Walking beside her, his coat draped over her shoulders, his expression unreadable but softer.
Eun-Jae.
That was her name. Your father watched you closely, waiting for a reaction. When none came, irritation flickered across his face. “You knew,” he said finally. Not a question. “Or at least you suspected.”
You shrugged faintly. “Men get bored.” But your eyes lingered on one photograph longer than the rest. Jungkook wasn’t touching her yet the space between them was intimate in a way that made your stomach tighten. This wasn’t desire. This wasn’t lust.
This was familiarity.
“She’s been with him for weeks,” your father continued, voice sharpening. “And no one told me.” You said nothing. Because what angered him wasn’t Jungkook’s infidelity. It was the possibility of loss.
“You need to go back to him,” he said flatly. “Before he leaves you.” That finally made you look up.
“You don’t leave things behind,” you replied coldly. “You discard them.” Your father scoffed. “Not when they carry the Jeon legacy.”
There it was. The truth he never bothered to dress up.
You hadn’t planned on Minjae. Hadn’t wanted a child, a marriage, this life. Yet somehow, impossibly, you had learned to accept your son, learned the shape of his laughter, the weight of him asleep against your chest. He was yours in a way nothing else ever had been.
But Jungkook? You didn’t want him.
You never had. And still seeing another woman in his orbit scraped at something raw inside you. Not love. Not longing.
Fear. Because if Jungkook walked away, truly walked away then everything you had endured would mean nothing. Your father leaned forward. “The Jeons have heritage,” he said quietly. “Power. Loyal men. Money buried so deep even Jungkook doesn’t know all of it yet.”
You clenched your jaw. “And if he chooses another woman,” he continued, “you lose your position. Your son loses his claim. And I lose leverage.” Silence swallowed the room. For the first time, something like exhaustion crept into your bones. You didn’t want to fight anymore.
Didn’t want to manipulate, lie, perform. But your father’s greed was relentless, chewing through everything in its path, including you.
“You’ll go back,” he said calmly. “You’ll remind him who you are. Who you belong to.” You looked back down at the photographs, fingers brushing the edge of one.
-------
You didn’t want to be here. The gates closed behind you with a finality that made your spine stiffen, Minjae’s small weight warm and familiar in your arms. Your father’s voice still rang in your head, sharp and demanding, but you pushed it aside as you stepped inside the house you once ruled and then abandoned.
Your mother-in-law froze when she saw you. Surprise flickered across her face, followed by something like dread.
“What?” you asked coolly, adjusting Minjae on your hip. “You weren’t expecting me?”
“No, child, I thought you were-” You walked past her before she could finish.
“Anyhow, your son doesn’t care enough about his son,” you said flatly, “so I had to bring him myself.” Minjae rested his head against your shoulder, sleepy, unaware of the tension tightening the air.
She didn’t answer. Then, a giggle. Soft. Intimate. “Eomma,” a woman’s voice rang from the kitchen, light and familiar. “Jungkook says you make it better than-” The words cut off. Eun-jae stepped into view, wiping her hands, a faint smile still on her lips, until her eyes landed on you.
Jungkook followed right behind her. You straightened slowly, your lips curving into something sharp and dangerous. “Well,” you said softly, “this makes things easier.”
Your gaze locked onto Eun-jae. “And who,” you asked coldly, “are you?”
Eun-jae hesitated, then lifted her chin. “I’m Jungkook’s-”
“wife?” you cut in with a scoff. “Funny. I don’t remember dying.”
Eun-jae frowned. “Who are you?” That audacity. You laughed low, bitter. “I’m his wife. The woman who carried his son.” You looked straight at Jungkook now. “And apparently, the one being cheated on while he brings a woman into this house like it’s nothing.”
“Y/N,” Jungkook snapped, stepping forward.
“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me,” you shot back.
Your eyes burned as you turned on him fully. “You really are your father’s son, aren’t you? Running around, playing house with women while abandoning your family.”
His jaw clenched. “Don’t talk about my father.”
“Oh, I will,” you said cruelly. “Because you’re no different. Same habits. Same selfishness. Same excuses.” You turned sharply to his mother. “And you, how could you let this happen? You were home. You saw this. You let your son bring another woman here while I’m still his wife?”
Her face crumpled. “Y/N, please-”
“Don’t,” you cut her off. “Don’t act innocent now.”
Jungkook stepped between you and them. “I love Eun-jae,” he said, voice shaking with anger and resolve. “And I won’t pretend otherwise.” The words hit but you refused to let it show.
“Love?” you mocked. “You don’t even know what that means. You confuse comfort with escape.”
Eun-jae’s eyes welled up. “You don’t get to talk like that-”
“Oh, I do,” you snapped. “Because you knew exactly what you were doing.” Jungkook lost control then, his hand lifting, rage flashing across his face. But before anything could happen. Minjae cried.
A sharp, terrified wail. You spun around instantly, pulling him closer, whispering softly as he clutched your clothes, shaking. “It’s okay. It’s okay, mama’s here.”
Jungkook froze. The sound shattered him. His raised hand dropped, horror flooding his expression as he realized what his son had just seen. You looked up slowly. Your glare cut through him, through all of them.
“You terrified him,” you said quietly. “Congratulations.” Without another word, you turned and walked away, Minjae pressed safely against your chest, his cries slowly easing as you whispered comfort into his hair. Behind you, the house fell into stunned silence. And for the first time. Jungkook realized he might have already lost more than he could ever get back.
-------
You come downstairs quietly. The house is dim now, heavier than before. Minjae is finally asleep, his tiny breaths still echoing in your ears as you descend the steps. You hear voices before they see you. “I’m not leaving,” Eun-jae says, her tone stubborn, righteous. “This is his house too.”
“I said go home,” Jungkook replies, low and controlled. “This has nothing to do with you.” She scoffs. “Everything about her has something to do with me.” You stop on the last step. Interesting.
“So you’ll just let her take your son away?” Eun-jae continues. “After everything her family did to you? Her father killed yours. Forced you into that marriage. And now she’s punishing you by keeping Minjae from you.” You chuckle.
Soft. Mocking. All heads snap toward you. You lean against the railing lazily, arms folded. “That’s cute,” you say. “You’ve memorized the story—but only the parts that make you feel important.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightens. “Y/N-”
“No,” you cut in smoothly. “Let her speak. I want to hear how you were briefed.” You step fully into the light.
“First of all,” you continue, eyes locking onto Eun-jae, “his father wasn’t some tragic saint. He was a cruel, violent man.” You tilt your head toward Jungkook’s mother. “You can ask her. She lived with him. Endured him. Loved him and survived him.”
The room goes silent.
“He’s dead,” you say plainly. “And yes, he’s fine that way.” Jungkook’s fists clench. “And don’t pretend,” you add softly, “that Jungkook didn’t feel relieved. He hated him.”
Jungkook doesn’t deny it.
Eun-jae’s lips tremble, but she pushes on. “You still trapped him. Your father forced him to marry you.”
You laugh again, this time sharper. “I didn’t want that marriage either.”
You step closer. “That was between families. Power. Blood. Legacy. Things you don’t understand.”
Eun-jae straightens. “I’m his girlfriend.” You look her up and down slowly.
“No,” you say coldly. “You’re the woman who warmed his bed when his wife wasn’t around.” The slap comes fast. Your head turns slightly with the force but you don’t fall back. The room freezes. You touch your cheek, then look back at her, smiling.
“Why?” you ask quietly. “Isn’t that true?”
Jungkook glares at you. “Stop.” You ignore him.
Eun-jae is shaking now, furious. “You act like a victim, but you’re the reason he’s suffering. You’re characterless. You use a child to trap him. You enjoy making him miserable.”
That’s when it happens. Something inside you snaps clean and violent. You step forward so fast Jungkook barely reacts. “You don’t get to speak to me like that,” you hiss. “Not you. Not ever.”
Eun-jae scoffs nervously. “Or what? You’ll cry? Run back upstairs and hide behind the baby?” Your smile disappears.
“If you ever,” you say, voice dropping to something lethal, “talk about my child or my character again” You lean in close enough that only she can hear.
“I’ll kill you.”
Jungkook grabs you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you back. “Y/N!” he snaps.
His mother rushes forward. “Enough!”
She turns to Eun-jae, her voice cold and final. “Leave. Now.” Eun-jae struggles as she’s dragged toward the door. “Don’t forget,” she shouts back at you, “he loves me! He’ll always choose me over you!” You don’t move. You don’t blink. You simply watch her go. And when the door finally slams shut. You exhale. Slow. Controlled. Then you turn to Jungkook.
“Don’t ever,” you say quietly, “let anyone disrespect me or my son in this house again.”
-------
You sit on the floor with Minjae, your back against the bed, legs stretched out as he toddles between his scattered toys. A soft block slips from his hand and he babbles loudly, frustrated for half a second before breaking into a grin.
“Ma… ma,” he says proudly, pointing at you, then turns and points at a toy car. “Vroom.” You smile despite yourself, brushing his hair back. He’s warm, solid, real. Not fragile anymore. Not something people can toss around without consequence.
The door creaks. You don’t look up immediately, you already know who it is. Jungkook’s mother stands there, hands clasped, eyes softening the moment she sees Minjae wobble on his feet. He notices her too and laughs, pointing again.
“Halmeoni,” he says clumsily, mispronounced but earnest. Her breath stutters. She steps inside slowly, as if afraid the moment might break. You finally look at her.
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” you say calmly. The words land heavy.
She freezes. “What…?” Her eyes flick to Minjae, then back to you. “Leaving where?”
“My father’s house.”
Silence stretches.
She takes a step forward. “Y/N, please don’t do this. Let’s talk. You’re upset, I understand, but—”
You stand, lifting Minjae into your arms effortlessly. He settles against your shoulder, one hand gripping your collar, the other clutching his toy.
“No,” you say. “You don’t understand.”
She swallows. “Jungkook didn’t mean-” You laugh. Short. Sharp.
“Stop.” You turn fully toward her now. “Don’t defend him. Not today.”
Her shoulders sag slightly. “I just don’t want you to break this family.” You stare at her.
“Family?” you repeat quietly. Then your voice hardens. “I’m not like you.” Her eyes widen.
“I won’t sit quietly and endure,” you continue, every word deliberate. “I won’t pretend not to see what my husband does. I won’t let my son grow up watching his father cheat, lie, and humiliate his wife in her own house.” She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“You stayed,” you go on, anger rising now, raw and unfiltered. “You watched your husband destroy you piece by piece and called it patience. Strength. Love.”
You shake your head. “That’s not strength. That’s survival.” Her eyes glisten.
“I refuse,” you say, tightening your hold on Minjae, “to raise my son around people who normalize betrayal.” Minjae shifts, pressing his cheek into your shoulder. “Mama,” he murmurs again, sleepy this time.
Her face crumples. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
You scoff. “Sorry for what?” She doesn’t answer.
“For not stopping him?” you push. “For welcoming another woman into this house while your daughter-in-law was upstairs with your grandson?” Her lips tremble.
“You didn’t fail as a wife,” you say coldly. “But you failed as a mother.” That one breaks her. Tears spill freely now, but she doesn’t wipe them away.
“I raised him better than this,” she whispers, almost to herself.
“No,” you reply softly, crueler than shouting. “You raised him to believe consequences don’t apply to him.” She closes her eyes.
For the first time, she sees it, how easily she smiled when Jungkook seemed happy with Eun-jae, how she chose peace over truth, how she didn’t once think of you until shame knocked on her door.
Maybe you’re right, she thinks. Maybe I deserve this.
Minjae wriggles in your arms, suddenly alert again. He points past her, toward the window. “Sweet,” he says, remembering the candy your father always sneaks him. You kiss his temple.
“I won’t let this house shape him,” you say, final. “Not your silence. Not Jungkook’s choices.” She nods slowly, defeated.
“I won’t stop you,” she murmurs. “But… please. Let me see him.” You hesitate only a second.
“We’ll see,” you say. And that uncertainty is worse than any punishment. She leaves the room quietly, shoulders bent, guilt heavy on her back. You sit back down with Minjae, your heart racing but steady.
-------
You were finally back at your father’s house, the iron gates closing behind you with a sound that felt heavier than it should have. The place smelled the same power, money, control but it no longer felt like home. Not that it ever truly had. Your father’s voice droned on as usual.
“You couldn’t even keep your own husband wrapped around your finger,” he scoffed, sipping his drink. “Useless. After everything I planned-” You stopped listening.
Your gaze stayed on Minjae, who sat on the carpet pushing his toy car back and forth, completely unaware of the poison filling the room. That was all that mattered now. Him. His soft laughs. His tiny fingers. The way he looked for you even when you were just a step away.
You didn’t care anymore if Jungkook was with Eun-jae or ten other women. You didn’t care if your father’s empire collapsed or flourished. You wanted distance. Space. An end to this marriage that felt more like a punishment than a bond.
But wanting didn’t mean having power. So you stayed. And only then did it hit you, how deeply all of this had carved into you. How the damage wasn’t just yours anymore.
It was Minjae’s too.
Days blurred into weeks. Jungkook came to see Minjae. At first, his visits were short and stiff. Then longer. Sometimes he stayed for hours, sitting in the same room, watching his son play as if memorizing him. As if afraid Minjae might vanish if he blinked. You and Jungkook never spoke normally.
Every conversation turned sharp. Every silence grew hostile.
Old resentment spilled out in every word, every look. Your voices rose without warning. Accusations flew like knives. And Minjae, caught between the tension would cry.
He always ran to you. He clung to your clothes, buried his face in your chest, sobbing as if the world itself felt unsafe. When Jungkook reached out, Minjae turned away. When Jungkook tried to hold him, Minjae resisted, trembling. He never called him appa.
Not once.
That hurt Jungkook more than any insult you ever threw at him. You saw it in his eyes the confusion, the helplessness, the quiet grief of a father rejected by his own child. But you didn’t comfort him. You couldn’t. There was too much between you. His mother was growing weaker.
Hospital visits became frequent. Jungkook looked thinner every time you saw him, exhaustion carved deep into his face. He was barely holding himself together, stretched thin between guilt, responsibility, and grief.
And still, your father pressed. Buttons were pushed deliberately. Threats disguised as advice. Pressure wrapped in smiles. But something had changed. Before, Jungkook had been predictable. Controllable. Now, he was slipping out of your father’s grasp.
Your father suffered a major loss, one that shook his confidence. He no longer had you feeding him information, no longer had eyes inside Jungkook’s world. His men tried to fill the gap, but it wasn’t the same. Jungkook was getting smarter.
Quieter. More dangerous. Then the news came. Jungkook’s mother was dead. The words didn’t feel real at first. They floated, distant and hollow.
But it had happened. You went. Not for Jungkook.
For Minjae.
The house was filled with people dressed in black, whispers thick in the air. Grief hung heavy, suffocating. You saw Jungkook standing near Eun-jae, his face pale, eyes empty, as if something inside him had finally collapsed. He looked miserable.
You felt nothing for him. Your focus stayed on Minjae, who clutched your hand tightly, eyes wide at the unfamiliar faces and quiet sobs around him. You knelt to his level, brushing his hair back, grounding him. You didn’t go to Jungkook.
You didn’t offer comfort. You didn’t owe him that. Life didn’t pause for grief not yours, not Minjae’s. Your son was growing. He needed stability. Love. Protection and you were tired.
Tired of schemes. Of marriages built on power. Of men breaking and women enduring. As you stood there, holding Minjae close, one truth settled heavy in your chest. You were both tied to struggles you never asked for.
But unlike everyone else. You would fight to make sure Minjae didn’t inherit them.
-------
Seojun hadn’t been invited. That alone told him something was wrong. The office Jungkook had summoned him to wasn’t the one Seojun knew, the polished glass tower where Jungkook used to sit like a restrained dog under watchful eyes. This place was different. Quieter. Older. Concrete walls. No windows. The kind of space where conversations didn’t leave alive.
Seojun entered with two men. Jungkook was already seated. Not behind a desk, beside it. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. Calm. Too calm. And behind him stood men Seojun did not recognize. That made Seojun’s jaw tighten.
“You’ve changed offices,” Seojun remarked lightly, taking the seat across from him. “That one suited you better.” Jungkook didn’t smile.
“I sold it.”
Seojun’s eyes flickered. “Sold it?”
“Yes.” Jungkook folded his hands. “Along with thirty-two percent of the shares you thought were still frozen.” Silence.
Seojun leaned back slowly. “You can’t sell what you don’t fully own.”
Jungkook’s gaze sharpened. “I dug through my father’s records. The real ones. Offshore holdings. Shell companies registered under dead men. Properties managed by intermediaries who were loyal to him, not you.”
He tilted his head. “They’ve been waiting for me.”
Seojun’s fingers tightened around his cane. “You went behind my back.”
“I went around you,” Jungkook corrected. “You were never the center. You just stood in the way.” One of Jungkook’s men stepped forward, placing a thin file on the table.
Jungkook didn’t touch it. “Your ports in Busan?” he continued calmly. “No longer yours. Your logistics route through Vladivostok burned. Two of your middlemen switched sides last month.”
“They were given a choice.” The implication settled heavy in the room. Seojun stared at him, truly looking at Jungkook now, not the boy he once cornered, not the man he married off like currency. This was someone else.
“You think killing obstacles makes you powerful?” Seojun sneered.
“No,” Jungkook replied quietly. “Removing them does.” A pause.
“My father built an empire you’ve been feeding off for years,” Jungkook continued. “You wore it like borrowed clothes. I’m taking it back.”
“You wouldn’t survive without me,” Seojun snapped. “Your mother-” Jungkook’s eyes went cold.
“Don’t.”
Seojun smiled thinly. “She’s gone. And now you’re alone.” The word alone lingered. Then Seojun spoke again, softer. Deadlier.
“But your son isn’t.” The room shifted. Jungkook didn’t move but something dark passed through his expression.
“Minjae is still tied to my blood,” Seojun said. “To your wife. To me.” Jungkook stood. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. He walked around the desk slowly, stopping inches from Seojun.
“You don’t get to say his name,” Jungkook said lowly.
Seojun looked up, unflinching. “You forget who controls the strings.” Jungkook bent slightly, his voice quiet enough that only Seojun could hear.
“You touch my son,” he said, “and I won’t dismantle your business.” He straightened.
“I’ll erase your bloodline." Seojun’s smile faltered, for the first time. Jungkook turned, signaling to his men.
“This meeting is over.” As Seojun was escorted out, Jungkook added calmly. "Stay out of my business. Stay out of my life.”
A pause.
“And pray my son never learns what you tried to make of his father.” The door closed. Jungkook exhaled slowly. For the first time since his mother’s death since everything, he wasn’t reacting anymore.
He was building.
-------
Jungkook didn’t expect the house to feel so unfamiliar with his own son in it. Minjae’s tiny shoes were left near the entrance, slightly crooked, one sock stuffed inside the other. Jungkook paused there longer than he should have, chest tightening at the proof that his world had entered a space that no longer felt safe, or whole.
Eun-jae stood a few steps away, hands clasped in front of her, unsure of where to place herself. She smiled, tentative and strained, the kind of smile people wore when they were afraid of being rejected.
“Minjae-ya,” she tried softly. “Do you want some juice?” Minjae looked up at her, big eyes unreadable. Then he turned his head away and waddled toward Jungkook instead, tugging at his pant leg.
“Appa,” he said, voice small but firm. Eun-jae froze.
Jungkook bent down immediately, lifting Minjae into his arms without hesitation. The child relaxed against him instantly, cheek pressing into Jungkook’s shoulder as if this was where he had been meant to be all along. That small act so natural, so instinctive stung Eun-jae more than she expected.
“I made him porridge,” she said, trying again. “He hasn’t eaten much.” Minjae wrinkled his nose the moment the bowl was brought closer.
“No,” he said bluntly. Then, after a pause, added, “Yuck.” Jungkook swallowed hard.
Eun-jae laughed awkwardly. “He’s just being fussy.”
“He’s two,” Jungkook replied, tone even but sharp underneath. “He knows what he likes.”
Minjae pointed toward the freezer with a dramatic little gasp. “Ice cream.”
“It’s late,” Eun-jae said gently. “Ice cream isn’t good right now.”
Minjae’s face crumpled instantly. His fingers clenched into Jungkook’s shirt.
“No! Ice cream!” Then, quieter but far more devastating “Eomma gives.” The room went silent. Jungkook closed his eyes for half a second.
Eun-jae stiffened. Something dark flickered across her face before she could stop it. “You spoil him too much,” she muttered. “He’s… difficult.” That was it. Jungkook looked at her slowly, carefully, like a man deciding where to place a blade.
“He’s not difficult,” he said, voice low. “He’s my son.” Eun-jae exhaled sharply. “Jungkook, I’m trying. But he doesn’t even look at me. He cries, complains, rejects everything I do. He’s-” She stopped herself, then said anyway, “-a problem.”
Minjae whimpered, sensing the shift, small hands gripping tighter. Jungkook’s jaw clenched.
“You don’t call him that,” he said.
Eun-jae stepped back, startled by the steel in his voice. “I didn’t mean-”
“You did,” he cut in. “And you won’t say it again.” He turned away from her completely, focusing on Minjae instead, brushing his thumb gently over his son’s hair.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Appa’s here.” Minjae sniffled, then nodded, resting his head against Jungkook’s chest.
Eun-jae watched the scene unfold, something bitter curling in her stomach. This wasn’t how she imagined it. She imagined a clean life. A fresh start. Not tantrums, not a child who didn’t want her, not a man whose heart was already claimed by someone else, even if that someone was a two-year-old boy.
“I didn’t sign up to compete with a child,” she said quietly. Jungkook looked at her then.
“You’re not competing,” he replied coldly. “You’re choosing whether you can exist beside him or not.” The words landed heavy.
Minjae suddenly lifted his head. “Ice cream?” he asked again, hopeful. Jungkook sighed, defeated and smiling faintly for the first time that evening.
“Just a little,” he said. “Don’t tell Eomma.” Minjae giggled.
Eun-jae didn’t. She turned away, realization sinking in slow and cruel. No matter what place she held in Jungkook’s bed, she would never come before his son and that truth raw, undeniable made something inside her crack.
------
The gates slide open with a dull clang, and the moment you step inside, regret crawls up your spine. You shouldn’t have come. The house feels wrong too quiet, too arranged, like a place rehearsed for something that didn’t include you. And then you see them. Jungkook stands near the living room, Minjae in his arms. Your son. Your chest tightens instantly. And beside him too close, too familiar, is Eun-jae.
Your jaw clenches so hard it aches. So this is what he meant by spending time. You walk in without greeting, heels striking the floor with purpose. Minjae turns first, his eyes lighting up the second he sees you.
“Mama,” he murmurs, reaching out. Your heart breaks and hardens at the same time.
“So this was the plan?” you say coldly, eyes never leaving Jungkook. “You take my son so you can play family with her?” Jungkook doesn’t answer. That silence, the same one he’s always used feels louder than any insult.
“You couldn’t even look me in the eye when you asked for him,” you continue, voice rising. “Was this always it? Getting Minjae closer to her so you could slowly take him away from me?” Still nothing.
Eun-jae shifts, lips pressing together before she speaks, falsely calm. “You’re overreacting.”
You snap your head toward her. “Stay out of this.”
She scoffs. “Minjae is Jungkook’s son too. He doesn’t belong only to you.” Your hands curl into fists.
You step forward and stretch your arms out. “Minjae, come to Mama. We’re going home.” Minjae doesn’t hesitate. He wriggles out of Jungkook’s hold and runs to you, clinging to your legs like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
Eun-jae’s voice sharpens. “He’s not going anywhere.” That does it. You look at her slowly, deliberately, like you’re carving her face into memory.
“Say that again,” you whisper.
She tilts her chin up, emboldened by Jungkook’s presence. “You’re unstable. Always angry. Always dramatic. Maybe Minjae would be better off here, with a calmer woman.”
Your breath leaves you in a sharp laugh. “A calmer woman?" Your eyes flick to Jungkook. “Is this what you think too?”
Jungkook finally speaks, voice tight. “Enough.”
You let out a bitter smile. “You disgust me.”
Eun-jae laughs under her breath. “At least he chose me willingly. You were nothing but a contract.” The world goes red. Before anyone can stop you, your hand moves sharp, loud, final. The slap echoes through the room. Eun-jae stumbles back, stunned, a hand flying to her cheek. Minjae gasps and bursts into tears, clutching your shirt, burying his face into you like you’re his only safe place.
“It’s okay,” you murmur instantly, holding him tight. “Mama’s here.” You lift your head slowly, eyes locking onto Eun-jae with something dark and unhinged.
“You ever come near my son again,” you say softly, dangerously, “and I promise you won’t wake up to see another morning.”
Jungkook explodes. “Y/N!”
You turn on him, glare full of venom. “You don’t get to raise your voice at me. Not after this.” He looks furious shocked, even but Minjae’s sobs freeze him in place. You don’t wait. You adjust Minjae in your arms, shielding him with your body, and walk past them both.
At the door, you stop once. “This,” you say without turning back, “is why you’ll never have him.”
------
Days passed like slow poison. You never opened the gate for him again. No calls. No messages. No excuses. Only armed men at the entrance, your father’s men standing like a wall between Jungkook and his son. Every time Jungkook came, it ended the same way. A silent stare. A firm shake of the head. Hands tightening around guns. And Jungkook walking away with his jaw clenched so hard it hurt, nails biting into his palms until crescents bloomed in his skin.
He never begged. But the rage lived in his chest hot, restless, suffocating. Minjae’s face haunted him. The way his son had clung to you. The way he hadn’t looked back.
At night, Jungkook lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything he’d done wrong. Every silence. Every moment he’d chosen control over care. He told himself this was temporary, that he’d find a way to break your grip, to dismantle Seojun’s hold, to take his son back.
But every plan ended the same way.
You. Minjae. Blood. War. And then, Eun-jae came to him. She stood in his office, hands trembling slightly, eyes bright with something fragile and hopeful. Jungkook noticed the way she kept touching her stomach before she spoke.
“Jungkook,” she said softly. “I need to tell you something.” He looked up, irritated at first, until he saw her expression.
“I’m pregnant.” The world stopped. For a moment, everything inside him went quiet.
“Pregnant?” he repeated, almost breathless.
She nodded, tears welling up. “It’s yours.” He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He crossed the room in two strides, hands gripping her shoulders, eyes searching her face like he was afraid she’d disappear.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
She smiled through tears. “I wouldn’t lie about this.” Something cracked open inside him. Happiness surged real, genuine, uncontrollable. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, as if grounding himself in the reality of it. A child. A new life. With a woman he loved, by choice.
“This is… this is good,” he said, voice rough. “This is really good.” For a second, he felt light. Free. Victorious. But then. It crept in.
A strange emptiness
------
The midnight silence didn't just break; it shattered. The rhythmic crack-crack-crack of suppressed gunfire tore through the hallway, followed by the wet, gurgling pleas of your father’s elite guard. You didn’t think; you moved. Your palm stung against the grip of the pistol you kept hidden, a silver insurance policy for a life lived in the shadows.
You lunged into Minjae’s room, locking the door with a trembling hand before scooping his small, shaking body into your arms. "Hide in the bathroom, Minjae. Don't make a sound. Don't come out until I say," you whispered, your voice cracking as you shoved him into the small space and clicked the lock.
Then, the silence returned. It was heavier than the noise a suffocating, predatory stillness.
When the bedroom door finally groaned open, you leveled the gun, your sight fixed on the chest of the intruder. But the man who stepped through the threshold wasn't a stranger. It was Jungkook.
He looked like a nightmare birthed from a slaughterhouse. His white dress shirt was ruined, soaked through with a deep, visceral crimson that wasn't his own. A jagged cut on his cheek wept blood down his jaw, but it was his eyes that terrified you they were hollow, gleaming with a frantic, sinister light.
"How poetic," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that made the hair on your arms stand up. He didn't even flinch at the barrel pointed at his heart. "First, your father slaughters mine. Then, he executes my girlfriend like she was nothing. And now? Now I have my own wife pointing a gun at me."
"Girlfriend?" The word tasted like ash. You knew your father was a monster, but this was a secret buried too deep. "Jungkook, leave. You’ve had your revenge. You killed him, didn't you? My father is dead. Just take your blood and go. Minjae is in there... he’s terrified."
"Oh, he’s dead," Jungkook chuckled, a dry, mocking sound that didn't reach his dark eyes. He stepped into your space, ignoring the weapon. "But does his death bring back the woman I loved? Does it bring back the life Eun-jae was carrying? The child your father snuffed out before it could even draw breath?"
The air left your lungs. A child. Before you could pull the trigger or retreat, he was a blur of motion. His hand clamped over yours, his strength terrifyingly absolute. He didn't disarm you; instead, he twisted your arm, forcing the cold muzzle of your own gun deep into the soft flesh of your throat. He spun you around, pinning your back against his blood-soaked chest, his breath hot and smelling of copper against your ear.
"Stop it, Jungkook," you choked out, the steel pressing against your windpipe. "Minjae needs me. You can’t do this... you’re his father."
"You’re right, Y/N. He does need a mother." He released the gun, letting it clatter to the floor, only to replace it with his hand. His fingers curled around your neck, squeezing just enough to make the world tilt. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear in a chilling caress.
"Give me a child, y/n," he demanded, his voice dropping to a dark, predatory crawl. "Replace the soul your father took. Give me another heir to stand beside Minjae. Or I decide right now that I don't need a wife at all."
His eyes searched yours, devoid of any warmth, waiting for you to break.
------
The air in the mansion was heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the suffocating silence of a house that had just witnessed a slaughter. You had spent the last hour curled around Minjae, whispering lies about "monsters being gone" until his small, shaking frame finally went limp with exhaustion.
Leaving him was the hardest thing you’d ever done. As the maid took your place by the bed, her eyes wide and downcast, you stepped into the hallway. You were a ghost in your own home, your silk nightgown stained with the red handprints of a man who no longer recognized the concept of mercy.
You pushed open the heavy oak doors to the primary suite.
Jungkook was there. He hadn't showered. He hadn't even moved. He sat on the edge of the expansive bed, his head bowed, the crimson on his white shirt now drying into a dark, crusty rust. The lamp on the bedside table cast long, jagged shadows across his face, highlighting the jagged cut on his cheek.
"He’s asleep," you said, your voice cracking the silence like glass.
Jungkook didn't look up, but his shoulders shifted. "Does he still tremble?"
"He’s two years old, Jungkook. He doesn't understand why his father smells like a graveyard."
At that, his head snapped up. The look in his eyes wasn't just anger; it was a hungry, hollow void. He stood up slowly, the springs of the mattress groaning. Every step he took toward you felt like a countdown.
"He will learn," Jungkook whispered, stopping so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "He is a son of this family. He will learn that blood is the only currency we have."
He reached out, his fingers calloused and stained tracing the line of your jaw. You flinched, but he caught your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch was electric and terrifying, a predatory claim that made your skin crawl and your heart stutter.
"I told you what I wanted, y/n," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, vibrato growl. "Your father took a life from me. A life that was supposed to be mine to protect. Now, you’re going to give it back."
He didn't wait for an answer. His hand moved from your chin to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours, not with affection, but with a dark, suffocating possession.
"The debt is high," he breathed against your mouth, his other hand sliding firmly around your waist to jerk you flush against him. "And tonight, we start paying it."
The gunshots from earlier were nothing compared to the sound of your own heart hammering against your ribs as he began to unbutton his ruined shirt, his eyes never leaving yours.
------
The atmosphere in the room was suffocating, a toxic blend of grief, adrenaline, and the metallic tang of the night's slaughter. Jungkook didn’t just want your body; he wanted to dismantle your spirit. He wanted to reach inside you and tear out every lingering trace of the man who had ruined his life.
"Your father watched her cry," Jungkook hissed, his voice a jagged blade against your ear as he pinned your wrists to the headboard. "He watched the light leave Eun-jae’s eyes while she begged for the life of our child. Do you think he felt pity? Do you think he cared about his grandson then?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He stripped you with a violent efficiency, the sound of tearing silk punctuating his rage. When he shoved your legs apart, there was no preamble, no warmth. He entered you with a brutal, punishing force that made you arch off the bed, a broken cry dying in your throat.
"You’re going to feel every bit of the void he left in me," he growled, his thrusts heavy and relentless. "I’m going to fill you with a debt you can never fully pay."
You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching the pillows until your knuckles turned white. You didn't look at him. You couldn't. Instead, you drifted to the room down the hall. You saw Minjae’s small, tear-stained face, his tiny hands clutching his blanket. For Minjae, you told yourself as the bed frame groaned under Jungkook’s fury. I am the shield between my son and this monster. If I break, Minjae breaks.
Jungkook noticed your mental retreat. He leaned down, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his hand winding into your hair to yank your head back.
"Don't you dare go somewhere else," he snarled, his face a mask of beautiful, terrifying agony. "Look at me. Look at the man who’s taking what your father stole. You’re nothing but a vessel tonight, y/n. A beautiful, hollow vessel for my vengeance."
He flipped you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees, his fingers bruising the soft skin of your hips as he pulled you back against him. The degradation was systematic; he treated you like property, a trophy won in a war of blood and betrayal. Each movement was a reminder of your father’s sins, a physical manifestation of a blood feud that had finally come to claim its due.
"Cry for me," he whispered, his breath hot and smelling of copper as he drove himself into you with a desperate, rhythmic violence. "Cry the way she did. Maybe then I’ll feel something other than this goddamn hole in my chest."
You bit your lip until it bled, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your screams. You let the shame wash over you like a tide, drowning in the raw, friction-heated contact. Underneath the cruelty, you could feel him trembling—a king mourning his fallen queen by desecrating his current one.
When he finally broke, it was with a guttural, animalistic sound, his body collapsing heavily onto yours, pinning you into the mattress. He stayed there for a long time, his heart hammering against your spine, the silence of the room returning with a vengeance.
"One down," he breathed into the nape of your neck, his voice devoid of any triumph, only a cold, lingering hunger. "We’ll stay here until I’m sure. Until I know you’re carrying what he took."
------
The grey light of dawn filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting a ghostly pallor over your sleeping form. Jungkook sat up, his bare back a map of tension and drying sweat. He looked down at you, the woman he had spent the last few hours trying to break, and felt a familiar, sickening surge of hatred.
But as his eyes traced the curve of your shoulder, the skin already blooming with the faint purple of his fingerprints—a dark, jagged question pierced through his rage. Did he miss this? The quiet of a room shared with you? He shook the thought away like a physical blow. No. He hated you. He had to.
His mind drifted back to Eun-jae. He remembered the night she whispered that she was pregnant, her eyes shining with a domestic hope that had made his skin crawl. She had promised him a "real" family, a life where he could finally discard you and Minjae. She’d promised to be the woman who would make him forget the forced marriage, the blood feuds, and the fierce, bratty woman who shared his name.
But the moment she spoke of erasing you, of replacing his son, something inside Jungkook didn't just snap; it turned into a predator. He realized then that he didn't want a "peaceful" life with a soft woman. He wanted the war that was you.
He remembered your wedding night, the way you smirked at him even as you were being sold like a prize. He had expected a submissive doll, but instead, you had marched to his mother the next morning and told her exactly how he had failed to perform his "husbandly duties" out of spite. It had enraged him, yes, but god, it had excited him more than any sweet word ever could.
When your father demanded an heir, Jungkook had planned to be cold, to treat it as a chore. But watching your belly swell with his blood, seeing you become even more fierce and protective of the life growing inside you... it was the most beautiful thing he had ever sought to destroy.
Then came the possessiveness. He watched you with Minjae, saw the way you hovered, the way you curated his every meal and comfort. You were a mirror of him, the same obsessive, territorial streak he felt when his own mother tried to interfere. You weren't just his wife; you were his double.
And then you left.
You took his son to your father’s house, the lair of the man he hated most in this world. You broke the bond, chose your blood over his bed, and stayed away even when he paraded Eun-jae in front of the world. He had expected a scene. He had expected you to come crawling back, screaming in a jealous rage, begging him to choose you. He wanted the drama; he wanted to see you broken and desperate for him.
Instead, you grew cold. You grew distant. You became a ghost that haunted his every waking thought.
He looked at his hands, the same hands that had ended Eun-jae’s life when the realization hit him that her child was an intruder, an insult to the legacy he had already built with you. He didn't love Eun-jae. He had used her as a weapon to wound you, but you had simply walked away and let the wound fester in him instead.
Having Eun-jae in his bed had been a distraction. Having you in his bed was a haunting. He leaned over, his shadow swallowing you whole. He reached out, his thumb dragging roughly over your lower lip, which was still swollen from his kisses.
"I hate you," he whispered into the silent room, his voice a dark, fractured vow. "I hate that you’re the only thing that feels real. I hate that I had to kill for you to be back in this bed." He wasn't going to let you go. Not now. Not ever. He would build a throne out of the bodies of your family if it meant you had nowhere else to run but to him.
-------
Three months had passed, and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a second life had taken root in your womb. You had once convinced yourself that Minjae would be the only piece of your soul you’d ever have to surrender to this bloodline, but fate and Jungkook had different plans.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the sunroom, you watched Minjae. He was a blur of toddler joy, shrieking with laughter as he was chased by the golden retriever puppy Jungkook had brought home last week. It had been a calculated move; a trip to the park, a whispered request from a son who didn't yet know his father was a king of shadows, and suddenly, a new life was added to the household.
The sofa dipped beside you. Without looking, you knew it was him. The scent of expensive tobacco and cedarwood always preceded him. He slid a bowl of sliced, chilled fruit onto the table in front of you, the ceramic clicking sharply against the glass.
"Eat," he commanded, his voice a low, melodic friction.
You pointedly turned your head away, staring at the garden. The very idea of his "care" made your skin crawl. It wasn't tenderness; it was maintenance. He wasn't looking after a wife; he was tending to an investment.
"I’m not hungry, Jungkook."
"I didn't ask if you were hungry," he countered, his tone dropping into that dangerous, quiet register. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your temple. "I want my child healthy. You barely kept anything down at dinner. You’re pale, y/n. Don't make me force-feed you."
You felt the familiar sting of tears but blinked them back. This was his favorite refrain: the debt. He was systematically extracting the life your father had stolen from him, one pound of flesh at a time. You still missed your father, a complicated, jagged grief for a man who had been a monster to the world but was the only architect of your reality. Jungkook had demolished that reality and built a gilded cage in its place.
Later that night, the house fell into a suffocatingly domestic silence. Jungkook had tucked Minjae into bed.
When he entered the primary suite, you were already in bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn't say a word as he sat beside you, the weight of him pulling the mattress down. His hand, large and calloused, found your waist, sliding upward to caress the slight curve of your three-month belly. Then, he leaned down, pressing slow, lingering kisses into the sensitive hollow of your neck.
"Jungkook-" you warned, your voice trembling as you tried to push his shoulder away. "Not tonight. Please."
"Don't 'please' me, y/n," he murmured against your skin, his lips vibrating against your pulse. "You know the terms. These are your duties. You are paying back what was taken, remember? Every night is an installment."
His hand didn't stop. It slid beneath the hem of your silk sleep shirt, finding the bare skin of your ribcage. Since you weren't wearing a bra, there was nothing to shield you from the predatory heat of his palm. When his fingers found your breast, kneading with a possessive, expert pressure, a traitorous moan escaped your throat.
Jungkook let out a low, dark chuckle, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
"That’s it," he whispered, his voice thick with a twisted sort of satisfaction. "Be a good wife. Enjoy the degradation, y/n. Let me take what’s mine." he grunted, flipping you onto your back and pinning your arms above your head with a single, crushing hand. "I want to see the moment you realize you’ll never belong to anyone else. Not even your father’s ghost can save you now."
He slid his free hand down, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your silk shorts, ripping them down your legs in one violent tug. You gasped, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the radiating heat of his body. He didn't wait. He drove two fingers inside you with a sudden, deep thrust that made your hips buck off the mattress.
"Jungkook-" you choked out, your fingers curling into the sheets as he began a relentless, punishing rhythm.
"You're so tight, y/n," he rasped, his voice a dark, jagged caress. "Even after all this time, your body still acts like it’s being conquered for the first time."
He increased the pace, his thumb grinding against you with a precision that was meant to degrade as much as it was to arouse. He watched your face, savoring the way your resolve crumbled, the way your eyes rolled back as the friction dragged a high, broken sob from your throat. He wanted you drowning in him, unable to think of anything but the man who had claimed your womb and your life.
When he saw you were on the edge, he replaced his fingers with the blunt force of his length. He entered you in one heavy, unapologetic stroke that pinned you into the mattress. He didn't pace himself. He drove into you with a raw, animalistic desperation, his chest heaving against yours, the scent of sweat and possessiveness thick between you.
"Another one," he hissed against your lips, his thrusts deepening, hitting your cervix with a force that made you cry out his name. "I'm going to fill you so full of me that you forget your own name. You're going to carry my legacy until you're heavy with it."
The world narrowed down to the sound of the headboard rhythmic thudding against the wall and the frantic heat of his skin. As the climax built, a terrifying, white-hot tension, Jungkook let out a guttural roar. He lunged deeper than ever before, his body locking up as he emptied himself into you, a warm, thick flood that signaled the absolute finality of his claim.
He stayed buried inside you long after the tremors stopped, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged, exhausted hitches. He didn't pull away; he wanted you to feel the weight of it, the literal life he was forcing back into the void your father had left.
"You're mine now," he whispered, his voice devoid of the earlier rage, replaced by a cold, terrifyingly calm certainty. "And this time, you aren't going anywhere."
Waiting for velvet ruin is running me 😭. It was soooo good. When's the upcoming chap?
Maybe today… Maybe tomorrow… Idk i’m fighting for my life rn 😭 office work has been eating me alive and i’ve been sooo tired lately. I promise i’m trying to finish it asap pls don’t give up on me.
SYNOPSIS: You were raised to rule, not to love. When your father kills Jungkook's father and forces him to marry you, you treat him like strategy nothing more. Revenge turns your marriage into a battlefield. Blood is spilled. Lovers die. Children become the only innocence left between you.
In the end, you don't win the war.
You just choose to leave it, together.
GENRE: forced marriage | morally grey couple | toxic love | revenge | pregnancy trope | villain x villain
WC: 11.6k
WARING: Dubious Consent • Breeding Trappings • Dirty talk • Creampie • Hateful/Degrading Dialogue • Hate Sex • Aftermath of Mutual Loathing • Praise Kink (Negative/Spiteful)
Requested by anon
Jungkook's world had taken a tragic turn, one he never imagined would feel this suffocating. Yes, he had envied his father. Envied the power, the fear he commanded, the name that made men bow. But despite everything, seeing him dead was never something Jungkook wished for.
Now here he was, arms wrapped tightly around his fragile mother. Her body felt lighter than it should have, as if grief had hollowed her out from within. She was exhausted from crying, her tears long dried, leaving behind swollen eyes and a dull, lifeless stare fixed at nothing. There was no anger left in her. No hope. Just emptiness.
No matter how abusive her husband had been, how his words had broken her mentally, how his actions had scarred her physically, she had still hoped. Hoped that one day he would change. That one day he would understand her, love his family, love his son.
But that day never came.
What hurt her the most was not even his death. It was the fact that she never got to see his face one last time.
His men had taken care of everything. Or rather, his rival's men.
The empire that once belonged to Jeon's now stood under another name. The men who once worked under Jungkook's father now bowed to someone else. Loyalty in the mafia world was never permanent, only power was.
Jungkook himself had no desire to see his father's body. He had buried that man in his heart years ago. But for his mother's sake, he wanted to. He needed to.
Yet he never agreed.
You walked into the room where Jungkook and his mother sat silently, their expressions dull and drained. Of course you knew they would be here. They always came. Day after day. Standing in your house, begging your father for mercy, begging to see the dead man who had never cared about his family.
A man who had multiple affairs. Who spent money he earned through blood and crime. Who committed illegal acts without remorse. Who killed not just to gain power but sometimes, simply for fun.
That was the mafia world.
"Aww... hello, aunty," you said sweetly, tilting your head. "Back again to beg my father to let you see your husband?"
You sighed dramatically. "It's day two now. He's dead somewhere, probably rotting."
Jungkook's jaw clenched instantly, his eyes snapping toward you with pure fury.
You chuckled. "Oh my God, why are you looking at me like that?" you mocked. "Don't worry, my dad asked his men- oops, your father's former men to bury him."
Hatred burned in Jungkook's eyes. His fists tightened at his sides, knuckles turning white as his body trembled with restrained rage.
You wore a black mini skirt, paired with a matching top. Every step you took toward them was slow, deliberate walking on your tiptoes like you owned the ground beneath you. That irritating smirk never left your lips. God, how he wished he could slap the shit out of you.
But he wasn't that kind of man.
"Are you eye fucking me right now, Mr. Jeon Jungkook?" you said mockingly as you finally sat on the couch. "That's not very respectful, the way you're eyeing me. Especially not in front of your mother." Jungkook stood up abruptly, chest heaving as he inhaled sharply, ready to finally speak, ready to put you in your place. But before a word could leave his mouth, his mother's trembling hand gripped his arm, stopping him.
"Y/N... child," Jungkook's mother spoke softly, her voice trembling as if it might break any second. "I just want to see my husband one last time. Please."
Her words were barely louder than a whisper, yet they weighed heavy in the room.
Jungkook's chest tightened painfully. His jaw clenched as he looked at his mother, this woman who had spent her entire life begging. Begging for love. Begging for kindness. Begging to be seen. She had never lived for herself, never chosen herself. Always shrinking, always enduring, always hoping.
And now, even after death, she was still begging.
You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness before sighing dramatically.
"Mrs. Jeon," you said calmly, almost bored, "I don't even know where he's buried. And honestly, what would you even do by seeing his grave?" You shrugged. "He could be dumped somewhere no one would recognize him. No name. No identity. Just another forgotten body."
Something snapped.
Jungkook slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours. His voice, when he spoke, was low but sharp enough to cut.
"Careful, Y/N," he said coldly. "You talk so easily about graves and forgotten bodies, almost like you're proud of it." He stepped forward just a little. "But remember this- your cruelty doesn't come from strength. It comes from the fact that you've never known what it's like to beg for someone you love."
Your smirk faltered for half a second.
"You mock my mother," he continued, voice tightening, "because it makes you feel powerful. But all I see is someone so empty inside that humiliating others is the only way you feel alive." Before you could respond. Heavy footsteps echoed.
The room fell silent as a tall figure walked in, surrounded by armed men. Black suits. Guns visible. Control radiating from every step.
Chairman Kang Seojun. Your father.
He stood at the head of the room like he owned the air everyone was breathing, hands clasped loosely behind his back, posture effortless, expression unreadable. The low chandelier light caught the silver in his cufflinks as he adjusted them with slow precision. Then his eyes found Jungkook.
And Jungkook's mother. He stopped.
A pause, deliberate. Calculated. Then he smiled. It wasn't warm. It wasn't cruel either. It was worse. It was polite. Controlled. Utterly merciless.
"Well," Kang Seojun said smoothly, his voice gliding across the marble floors like silk over steel, "this is getting emotional." The word emotional sounded almost like an insult.
You exhaled loudly from your place near the staircase, crossing your arms. "Finally," you muttered under your breath. "I was getting tired. They're being way too dramatic." Your father didn't spare you a glance.
He stepped forward instead, his polished shoes echoing with quiet authority, and stopped in front of Jungkook's mother. The guards behind him shifted slightly, guns resting loosely in their hands but never far from ready.
"Mrs. Jeon," Seojun said, his tone softening into something dangerously gentle, "you wish to see your husband one last time?" Her lips trembled.
She nodded immediately, tears spilling over as though she had been holding them back for hours. "Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I just... I need to know where he is. I need to see where he's buried."
Jungkook's jaw tightened beside her. His hand hovered protectively near her back, his entire body coiled like a spring. Seojun studied her for a long moment.
He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing her grief on an invisible scale. The silence stretched.
"I'll allow it." The words fell casually, like he had just granted someone permission to open a window. Jungkook's breath hitched. His mother let out a broken sob of relief, nearly collapsing if Jungkook hadn't steadied her.
"You may see where he rests," Seojun continued calmly. "But I'll be accompanying you."
Jungkook's head snapped up. "Why-"
"And," Seojun added smoothly, cutting him off as if he were nothing more than background noise, "there is another matter we must discuss." The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Seojun turned his gaze slowly toward Jungkook. Measured. Assessing.
"We will be becoming family." The words didn't register at first. They just hung there. Heavy. Then they detonated.
"What?" Jungkook's voice cracked with disbelief. "What are you talking about?" Seojun's eyes flickered toward you briefly calm, proud, possessive before returning to Jungkook.
"I want you as my son-in-law," he said plainly. "You will marry my daughter." Silence crashed into the room like a physical force. Even the guards shifted slightly.
Jungkook stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "That's insane," Jungkook shouted, fury ripping through his composure. "You think you can just decide that? I'd rather die than-"
Click.
The metallic sound sliced through the air. Then another. And another. Guns were raised in perfect synchronization black barrels gleaming under the chandelier light. All of them pointed at Jungkook. And at his mother.
Her sharp gasp shattered whatever was left of his anger. Her fingers clutched his sleeve, trembling violently, nails digging into his skin. Her body pressed against his side, seeking protection he couldn't give.
Jungkook froze.
The room felt suffocating.
Seojun stepped closer, slow and unhurried, until he stood only inches away. He leaned slightly toward Jungkook, lowering his voice to something almost kind. "Refuse," he said softly, as if offering advice instead of a threat, "and I'll make sure your mother doesn't live to see the morning." The words were quiet. Gentle. Absolute. Jungkook's vision blurred.
His chest rose and fell too fast. His hands trembled not from fear for himself, but for the woman shaking beside him. "...Stop," he whispered, barely audible.
Seojun's expression didn't change. "Agree," he continued calmly, "and she lives. She sees her husband's grave. She goes home safely." A beat.
"Refuse," he repeated, "and I will bury her beside him." The silence that followed was suffocating. Jungkook swallowed hard. His pride. His rage. His hatred. All of it meant nothing compared to the woman clinging to him.
His shoulders slumped. "...Fine," he said hoarsely, the word scraping out of him like broken glass. "I'll marry her." The guns did not lower immediately.
Seojun studied his face, making sure. Making sure it hurt. Then. He smiled. Slow. Satisfied.
"Good," he said, straightening his jacket. "This will make our bond stronger. Healthier." The guards lowered their weapons in unison. The tension didn't leave the room. It only changed shape. For the first time since the conversation began, you looked directly at Jungkook.
His chest was still rising unevenly. His hand still shielded his mother. His eyes. His eyes were burning. Hatred. Pure and undiluted. Directed at you.
Your lips curved upward slowly. A victorious smirk. You tilted your head slightly, meeting his glare without flinching and in that moment, something silent and dangerous passed between you. This marriage wouldn't be built on love. It wouldn't be built on trust. It would be built on revenge and war and neither of you planned to lose.
------
Jungkook and his mother were finally brought to the place where his father had been buried. It wasn't a proper graveyard. Just a stretch of abandoned land, cold and lifeless, surrounded by tall trees that blocked out the sky. The air smelled of damp soil and decay, and the silence felt unnatural, like even the earth was holding its breath.
They weren't alone. Kang Seojun's men stood scattered around them, dressed in black, eyes sharp and alert, hands never straying far from their weapons. They didn't speak. They didn't move much. They simply watched.
Always watching.
Jungkook had grown used to it by now, the constant presence, the invisible chains wrapped around his wrists. From the moment Seojun decided he was useful, Jungkook had stopped being a person. He was property. A pawn.
He never had space to breathe. Never had the freedom to choose. And now, he was being forced into marriage with you. The thought made his stomach churn.
He looked down at the mound of freshly turned soil in front of them. There was no headstone. No name carved into stone. No date. No proof that a man had ever existed there.
Just dirt.
This was all that remained of Jeon Hyun-woo a man who once ruled through fear, now reduced to a nameless grave hidden from the world. Jungkook's mother froze. Then she collapsed to her knees. A broken sob tore from her chest as her fingers dug into the soil, nails scraping against dirt as if she could reach him pull him back ask him why.
"Why..." she cried weakly. "Why did it have to end like this...?"
Jungkook dropped down instantly, wrapping his arms around her trembling body. She shook violently against him, grief finally spilling out after being held back for so long.
"I wanted to see you one last time," she sobbed. "Just once... even after everything..."
Jungkook's jaw tightened, his throat burning. He stared at the grave at the emptiness. "You did this," he whispered bitterly, voice shaking with restrained rage. "You ruined her life. You ruined mine."
His grip on his mother tightened as anger surged through him. "Even in death," he continued, eyes dark, "you're still controlling us. Still hurting us."
His mother clutched his coat, crying into his chest, and for the first time, Jungkook felt truly powerless. He had survived violence. He had endured fear. But watching his mother break in front of a nameless grave? That destroyed something inside him.
He lifted his gaze slowly, only to meet the cold, unmoving figures of Seojun's men standing at a distance. Watching. Waiting. Making sure he didn't forget who owned his fate now. Jungkook bowed his head, resting his forehead against his mother's hair, closing his eyes tightly.
------
Jungkook sat in the leather chair behind the large mahogany desk, eyes fixed on the paperwork in front of him but his mind was nowhere near the words on the page. This office once belonged to his father. The walls had witnessed commands barked in fury, deals sealed with blood, lives ruined without remorse.
Now, it belonged to Jungkook. And yet, he had never felt more powerless. The title was his. The authority looked like his. But every decision made within these walls still carried another man's shadow.
Kang Seojun.
First, his life had been dictated by his father. Every breath controlled by fear. Now, that control had merely changed hands. And as if that wasn't enough. He was engaged to you. Legally bound. Officially announced. The blood of Kang Seojun, his enemy was now his fiancée. The word itself made his jaw clench in disgust. Husband was a title he couldn't even bear to imagine.
One week. That was all the time left before the wedding.
He had thought of countless ways to end it escape routes, disappearances, resistance. But every path led to the same ending. Death. His. Or worse his mother's.
So he worked. He buried himself in files, contracts, meetings anything to keep his mind from collapsing under the weight of what his life had become.
Until. Knock.
Before he could even respond, the door opened. You walked in anyway. Of course you did.
Jungkook's eyes darkened immediately, irritation flashing across his face as your presence filled the room like poison. You wore a black crop top, a jacket draped lazily over your shoulders, and a mini skirt that showed far too much confidence for his liking.
And the perfume. Strong. Fruity. Overpowering. He hated it.
Your heels clicked against the marble floor with deliberate slowness, every step announcing your arrival as if the room belonged to you.
"Hello there, fiancé," you said, lips curling into that infuriating smirk matte lipstick perfect, expression smug. Jungkook didn't return the greeting.
"Why are you here?" he asked coldly, eyes lifting to meet yours.
You shrugged. "My dad said we need to go shopping."
He didn't even blink. "For what."
"Wedding shopping."
Silence.
"I'm not coming," he said flatly. "You can go alone." He turned back to his files, dismissing you as if you were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Your smile widened. You walked closer too close, until you were standing right in front of his desk. Jungkook could feel your presence now, suffocating, deliberate.
"You're coming," you said lightly.
"No," he replied without looking up. You leaned forward, placing your hands on the desk, voice dropping just enough to make his skin crawl.
"Say that again." He finally looked up, eyes sharp. "I said no."
You straightened slowly, then laughed soft, amused, dangerous.
"You really don't learn, do you?" you said. "Do you want me to remind you why you don't get to say no anymore?" Jungkook's jaw tightened.
You tilted your head. "I could call my father right now," you continued sweetly. "Tell him you're being difficult." Your eyes flickered dark. "And you know how he deals with difficult people." His fists clenched beneath the desk.
"Or," you added casually, "I could tell him you're planning something. Running, maybe." You smiled. "He'd start with your mother this time. Just to be safe."
The room went still. Jungkook froze. Slowly, he stood up, towering over you, but for the first time, his height meant nothing.
"...Don't," he said quietly. You met his glare without flinching. "Then behave." Seconds passed.
"...Fine," he said through clenched teeth. "I'll go." Your lips curved into a victorious smile.
"Good," you said, grabbing your bag and turning toward the door. "I'll be waiting. Don't make me come drag you myself." As you walked out, heels echoing down the hallway, Jungkook slammed his hand against the desk hard. His reflection stared back at him from the glass wall. Trapped. Humiliated. Owned.
And you? You were enjoying every second of it.
-----
Jungkook stood stiffly beside you in the boutique's private wedding suite, the air heavy with satin and whispered praise. Elegant gowns hung like ghosts around the room ivory, cream, pale gold each one too serious, too heavy, too boring.
You listened to the sales lady drone on about lace patterns and silk finishes, but your mind was elsewhere. You barely hid your boredom, eyes glazing over the pale fabrics.
These dresses weren't your style. They felt like someone else's fairy tale; not yours.
You'd already tried on a few, the kind Jungkook wouldn't protest. He'd barely said anything each time, offering polite nods more out of obligation than interest. You played up the disappointment for effect pouting, lowering your lashes, making that tiny theatrical frown that always drew attention.
The attendant in the room couldn't help but comment. Oh, how adorable, she sighed, your fiancé is so quiet.
If only they knew who really held power here.
Jungkook tried, as always, to be courteous. He smiled, even though every smile was edged with something like pain. You relished that the way he forced kindness, how it made him vulnerable.
He caught your gaze as you slipped into the next gown and disappeared into the trial room.
He watched the soft curtain part, then close, shielding you briefly from the world. For a moment, his thoughts drifted to a different kind of wedding. One with love, with choice, with something clean and bright instead of this suffocating shadow.
He wished, just for a second, that it could be dreamy. Kind. Real.
Then the curtain opened.
You emerged in a gown that was supposed to be plain—ivory satin clinging to your curves, a slit that made the hem whisper. You hated admitting it, but the sight stopped him for a heartbeat. Mesmerized, forced to drink in the shape of you the way the fabric traced your silhouette, how the light caught the soft sheen.
You saw him freeze. A smirk crept across your face, slow, satisfied. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.
You turned to the attendant. "I'll take this one," you declared, sharp, confident. They smiled wildly, fluttering around you with praise and compliments, as if they'd been waiting for your decision all day.
Jungkook felt the air thin around him. He wanted to hate it. He wanted to correct them say it wasn't his wedding night wish but the words died in his throat. He couldn't admit she looked incredible. He couldn't swallow the truth that his heart stumbled, even though he hated it.
Then you called out, voice ringing, a playful lilt that echoed through the boutique.
"I want to try some undergarments. Come with me."
He stiffened. You didn't wait for him to refuse. Your gaze alone loaded, sharp, commanding was enough to make him move. He followed, because refusing would mean something worse than humiliation.
As he stepped into the adjoining fitting room area, a few of the workers glanced up, whispered, chuckled. Subtle, but unmistakable. They saw the famous couple, saw the scene unfolding. Even if it was a private suite, these were people real eyes, real judgment.
You disappeared behind the curtain again. Seconds passed.
Then. "Jungkook," you called softly from inside. "Come here." He froze. The sales associates glanced at him, smirks hidden behind professionalism. One of them muffled a laugh. He swallowed hard and stepped forward, pushing the curtain aside just enough to enter.
The space was small. Too small. You stood there in a lace garment, soft pastel, delicate and deliberate. Not vulgar just intimate enough to feel like a violation. The mirror reflected both of you, trapping him in the image.
His jaw clenched instantly.
"What are you doing?" he demanded in a low voice.
You tilted your head innocently. "I wanted your opinion." You stepped closer. Not touching. Never touching. But close enough to suffocate.
"Do you think this would be nice," you asked softly, "for our wedding night?" His control snapped.
"Stop," he said sharply, reaching out and gripping your shoulder. Not rough restrained, desperate. "You're crossing the line." Your eyes flickered with satisfaction.
You leaned in just enough to make his breath hitch. "You're angry," you murmured. "But your body doesn't look like it agrees." He shoved your hand away when you lifted it toward his jaw.
"You don't get to do this," he hissed. "You don't get to humiliate me."
You smiled slowly. "Humiliate you?" Your fingers brushed his collar barely there. "I'm just reminding you what you already are." He grabbed your wrist midair and dropped it.
"You'll never be that woman for me," he said, voice shaking with fury. "Not now. Not ever." Something dark passed through your eyes. You leaned back, unbothered.
"Get dressed," he added harshly. "We're leaving." For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you smiled again soft, poisonous. "Still giving orders?" you whispered. "How cute." You turned away, drawing the curtain closed.
As the fabric fell between you, Jungkook stood frozen, pulse roaring in his ears. Outside, he could hear the faint murmurs of the staff. He knew what they were thinking. He felt exposed. Small. Owned.
And behind the curtain. You smiled wider than ever.
------
It was the night before the wedding. Jungkook still didn't understand how time had betrayed him so cruelly. One moment, he had been fighting thinking, planning, resisting. The next, he was standing at the edge of something permanent, something he never wanted.
This marriage felt wrong in his bones. He didn't want you. He didn't want this life. And more than anything he was terrified of being tied forever to someone he despised.
So he came to you. Maybe, just maybe you'd listen. Maybe you'd stop this. Maybe you'd say no.
He would give your father everything else. His loyalty. His power. His silence. He would be Kang Seojun's puppet without resistance. Just not this. That's how he found himself standing inside your house late at night, when the halls were quiet and your father was nowhere around.
You appeared in front of him wearing a silk nightgown, fabric catching the light, expression unreadable for a brief second. Then you smirked.
"Couldn't wait till our wedding?" you asked lightly. "Seeing you here is... surprising."
"Y/N," Jungkook said, voice tight. "I need to talk to you."
You studied his face for a moment before turning away. "Wine?" you asked casually, already reaching for the bottle. You poured two glasses, unhurried, the sound of liquid filling crystal painfully loud in the silence. You pushed one toward him.
He didn't touch it.
"Please," he said again, quieter now. "I really need to talk."
You lifted your glass and took a slow sip. "Go ahead." Jungkook swallowed hard.
"I want to cancel the wedding," he said. "And I need your help. Please." For a moment, the room was silent. Then you laughed. Not loud. Not messy. Just a soft, amused sound, like you'd heard the funniest joke of your life.
"You must be kidding," you said, smirk widening.
"I'm serious," he said desperately. "This will ruin both our lives." You tilted your head. "I don't care about your life, Jungkook." Your voice sharpened. "It's almost cute how you think begging will work on me."
You stepped closer, eyes cold. "And marry you? I want to marry you. Why would I back out now when I'm getting exactly what I want?" His chest tightened.
"You don't want me," he snapped. "You're doing this because of your father. I'll do anything he asks, anything. I've spent my whole life as my father's puppet. I can be under your father now too." You chuckled again, slower this time.
"Oh, Jungkook," you said softly, almost pitying. "Do you really think my father doesn't already own you?" That was it. Something in him broke.
"You're disgusting," he said, anger finally overpowering fear. "You enjoy this- don't you? Watching me beg. Watching my life fall apart." You stepped closer instead of backing away.
"Yes," you said simply. "I do." His hands curled into fists.
"You think this marriage will give you control?" he continued, voice rising. "Fine. Take it. But listen to me carefully." He grabbed the wine glass you had poured for him and shoved it aside, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge.
"This marriage will make your life hell." Your smile didn't falter.
"You'll regret tying yourself to me," he said through clenched teeth. "You think I'm weak now? You think this version of me will last?" He leaned closer, eyes burning.
"I will hate you openly. I will never love you. And every day you spend with me, you'll remember that you chose this." Silence stretched between you. You met his rage with a calm, cruel smile.
"I can live with that," you said. "Can you?" That was the final blow.
Jungkook stepped back, shaking his head.
"This is war then," he said quietly. He turned and walked out without another word, the door closing behind him with a heavy finality. Left alone, you stared at the untouched wine glass.
And smiled. Because tomorrow. He would belong to you. And hatred, you knew, could be just as binding as love.
------
Jungkook stood at the altar, spine rigid, breath shallow. His eyes didn't move at first. Then he saw you. You were walking beside your father, steps steady, expression unreadable. Calm. Composed. Like this was a celebration instead of a sentence.
And then, his chest tightened.
His mother. She sat several rows away, surrounded by guards as if she were a criminal instead of a grieving woman. Men he didn't recognize stood too close, watching her every movement. She looked small. Trapped.
Helpless. Hatred burned through him. This wasn't a wedding. It was a public execution of choice.
The hall was filled, faces he barely knew, men from his father's old business circle, rivals pretending to be allies, strangers invited only to witness his submission. Laughter murmured softly. Glasses clinked. Power was being celebrated.
You reached him. You stood beside him, close enough that he could feel your presence, but he didn't look at you. He didn't offer his hand to help you step up.
You didn't need it. You didn't want it.
The priest began speaking, his voice echoing hollowly through the space. Words about union. Devotion. Eternity.
Jungkook repeated the vows mechanically, his voice empty, each promise tasting like ash on his tongue. None of it meant anything. Love. Loyalty. Honor.
Lies dressed in silk.
When it was your turn, you spoke clearly confident, steady as if you were claiming something you'd always wanted.
"I do."
The words hit him harder than he expected.
Then the priest smiled. "You may now kiss the bride."
Silence fell. Slowly, you turned your head toward Jungkook, lips curving into that familiar smirk, the one that haunted him. Challenged him. Owned him. He clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. Then he leaned forward.
The kiss was nothing like love. It was rough. Harsh. Full of rage. His hand came up instinctively, gripping your jaw not gentle, not tender. Just control. Just fury. His lips crashed against yours, all resentment and bitterness pouring into that single moment.
You didn't pull away. You kissed him back just as aggressively, matching his force, teeth grazing, breath heavy. The kiss wasn't meant to be beautiful, it was meant to be seen.
A spectacle. Gasps rippled quietly through the crowd.
When he finally pulled back, breathing hard, your smirk was still there slow, victorious, untouched.
God, he hated you.
Hated the way you stood so calmly beside him. Hated the way the world applauded. Hated that this was now permanent. As applause filled the hall, Jungkook stared straight ahead, jaw tight, heart burning with one single vow:
-------
The heavy oak door of the master suite clicks shut behind you, sealing out the noise of a reception neither of you wanted to attend. Jungkook is already at the window, his back a rigid line of tailored silk and pure resentment.
"Get out," he says, his voice like dry ice. "There are a dozen guest rooms in this wing. Pick one and stay there. I don't want you in my space."
You let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound grating against his nerves. You reach for the hidden zipper at your side. "And miss out on my wedding night? After all the trouble our families went to? That seems ungrateful, Jungkook."
"I am not joking. Get dressed, somewhere else and leave."
"I'm the wife you signed for," you retort, your fingers deftly sliding the silk down. "Which means I have every right to be exactly where I am."
The heavy fabric of the designer gown pools at your feet with a soft shushing sound, leaving you in nothing but the white lace you'd picked out weeks ago. You remember the look on his face when you'd dared him to come into the dressing room at the boutique, the way his eyes had darkened even as he told you to cover up.
You hear his breath hitch as he finally turns around, intended to scold you, only to find his words dying in his throat. His gaze lands on the lace, the same set from the store, delicate and daringly sheer.
"You're a brat," he growls, though he doesn't look away.
"And you're a husband who is failing his duties," you mock, stepping over the ruins of your dress. You walk toward him, the carpet plush beneath your bare feet, until you're close enough to smell the expensive bourbon on his breath. You reach out, your polished nails dragging lightly over the lapel of his tuxedo.
"We have a long night ahead of us," you whisper, watching his pulse jump in his neck. "We might as well enjoy the parts of this marriage that don't involve lawyers."
You lean in, your lips brushing his ear, your voice dropping to a sultry dare. "Or are you going to keep pretending you aren't dying to see if the rest of me matches the lace?"
The mockery in your eyes is the final spark. Jungkook's hand shoots out, his fingers locking around your wrist with a grip that isn't painful, but is undeniably absolute. The cold, distant heir is gone; in his place is a man who has been pushed too far by your father's contracts and your own relentless prodding.
"You want to talk about rights?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your skin. "You want to remind me that I'm 'yours'?"
He moves suddenly, catching you off balance. Before you can let out more than a gasped laugh, he has you backed against the edge of the high mattress. With a firm shove against your shoulders, he forces you down into the silk pillows. He looms over you, casting a long, dark shadow that finally eclipses the room's dim light.
"You and your father spent days putting me in a cage," he says, his knees pinning your thighs as he crawls over you, his tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor. "But you forgot one thing, sweetheart. You're in the cage with me now."
-----
He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner arm in a way that makes your toes curl. The "place" he's showing you is exactly where you wanted to be beneath him, feeling the full weight of his repressed fury turning into something much more primal.
"You wanted to show off that lace in the store? You wanted to dare me to look?" His free hand traces the line of your throat, his touch heavy and possessive. "Now you're going to stay still and let me see exactly what I bought."
You let out a shaky breath, your chest heaving against the lace, a smirk still playing on your lips despite the way your heart is hammering. "Is this you taking charge, Jungkook? It took you long enough."
His eyes flash a dangerous, hungry gold. "This is me making sure you never mock me again. By the time I'm done, you won't have the breath left to say my name, let alone a joke."
He leans down, his mouth inches from yours, his heat radiating through the thin barrier of your lingerie. He isn't asking anymore. He's taking back the territory your family stole, inch by agonizingly slow inch, completely unaware that every "command" he gives is a wish you've been waiting for him to grant.
"You think this is a game?" he snarls, his hand moving from your throat to grip your chin, forcing you to look directly into the storm in his eyes. "You think you can buy a man and expect him to play nice?"
He doesn't wait for your retort. He lunges, his mouth crashing against yours not with a romantic sweep, but with a bruising, desperate hunger that tastes of salt and suppressed rage. It's a collision, a battle for air, and you meet him stroke for stroke, your fingers digging into his shoulders, drawing him closer even as he tries to overpower you.
He tears his mouth away, breathing hard, his eyes scanning your face for a sign of fear. All he finds is your pupils blown wide with a dark, shimmering heat.
"You're staying right there," he commands, his voice a low, jagged rasp.
He grabs the delicate lace of the bodice the one you'd stood in the dressing room and smirked at him through the mirror in and with a sudden, violent jerk, he rends the fabric. The sound of tearing silk is loud in the quiet room, a sharp punctuation to his intent. He isn't interested in being careful with you. He wants to strip away the finery and the titles until there is nothing left but the raw, electric friction between his skin and yours.
Jungkook's patience snaps like the lace he's already ruined. He doesn't ask; he takes. He grabs your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin with a bruising pressure and yanks you to the edge of the mattress until your legs are draped over his shoulders.
The cold air of the room hits your skin for only a second before he replaces it with his own staggering heat. When he enters you, it's not a gentle transition it's a sharp, blunt force that steals the air from your lungs. Your head hits the pillows, a choked gasp escaping you as your body stretches to accommodate him.
He doesn't give you a second to adjust. He sets a pace that is punishing and relentless, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythmic, heavy thud. He's looking for a break in your composure a plea for him to slow down, a sign that he's finally found the limit of your arrogance.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a jagged rasp. He reaches up, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair to tilt your head back, forcing your eyes to meet his. His pupils are blown wide, a dark, shimmering ring of gold around the edges. "Tell me you feel this. Tell me you're not in charge anymore."
You can barely find your voice. Every thrust is a jolting reminder of his strength, a raw, friction-filled heat that sends white sparks behind your eyelids. Your nails rake down his back, carving angry red lines into his skin, matching the marks his hands are leaving on your hips. You aren't just taking it, you're absorbing the impact, your body arching to meet every heavy strike as if you were made to be broken by him.
"I... feel... everything," you gasp, your breath hitching in a broken, breathless laugh. You're shaking, your muscles coiling tight, but you still find the strength to smirk through the haze of pleasure. "Is that... all you've got, Jungkook?"
That's the final straw. A low, guttural growl vibrates in his chest a sound more animal than man. He loses the last shred of his "gentlemanly" restraint. He catches your wrists, pinning them against the headboard with a single hand, and redoubles his efforts.
The room is filled with the frantic, wet sound of skin hitting skin and the jagged rhythm of your combined breathing.
-------
You woke slowly, the room still dim, the air heavy with the aftermath of the night. Beside you, Jungkook slept peaceful, unaware, his face softer than you’d ever seen it. No anger. No tension. Just quiet, vulnerable rest.
Your lips curved into a faint smirk. Fragments of the night replayed in your mind heated words spoken in bitterness, touches filled more with anger than tenderness, emotions tangled with desire and resentment. You remembered the way he had lost control, the way his restraint had cracked.
You enjoyed that. You didn’t care that it only made him hate you more. Hate, after all, was still a form of attachment.
Carefully, you slipped out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. The mirror greeted you with a reflection that made your jaw tighten, faint marks along your skin, evidence of a night neither of you would ever name as love.
You stared at them for a long moment. Not hurt. Not regret.
Ownership.
You showered, letting the water wash away the lingering warmth, then dressed slowly, deliberately composed once more. Downstairs, the house was quiet. You spotted Jungkook’s mother seated by the window, a teacup cradled gently in her hands. She looked tired. Worn down by too many things left unsaid.
As you walked past, you let out a soft, pained whimper.
Your step faltered, just enough.
She looked up instantly. “Are you alright?” she asked, concern flickering across her face.
You forced a weak smile. “How could I be?” you said softly. “Your son was… very rough last night.”
You paused, then added quietly, “I can barely walk. And look at these…”
Her expression shifted confusion, discomfort, worry mixing together. She knew Jungkook hadn’t wanted this marriage. But hearing this made her chest ache in a different way.
“I-” she started, then stopped, unsure what to say.
You sighed, lowering yourself onto the couch. “His way of showing affection is… different, Mother,” you said gently, almost apologetically. The word mother landed perfectly.
You leaned back, closing your eyes as if exhausted. “Could you make something for me?” you asked softly. “I’m so tired. And hungry.” She hesitated, then nodded slowly, setting her cup aside. As she walked toward the kitchen, guilt flickering behind her eyes, you opened yours again.
And smiled. Because this. This was control.
And you wielded it effortlessly.
------
It had been a week since Jungkook last spoke to you. Not a single word. Not a glance longer than necessary. Not even an argument. He kept his distance deliberately. Silence was the only control he still had left, and he guarded it fiercely. The farther he stayed from you, the safer his mind felt.
But you never allowed peace.
The very first morning after the wedding night had been proof enough. His mother had approached him carefully, voice hesitant, eyes full of concern.
“Maybe… you should try,” she had said softly. “She’s your wife now. Maybe you’ll grow to like her.” That alone had made his blood boil.
Like her?
He was painfully, brutally clear about one thing. He felt nothing for you except hate. And yet, somehow, you had twisted the narrative so perfectly. The way you spoke. The way you acted. The fragile act you put on in front of his mother. It was as if you had wrapped her around your finger in days.
Or worse threatened her.
He wouldn’t put it past you. Because while he was being dragged around like Kang Seojun’s obedient pawn signing papers, attending meetings, suffocating under control you were home. Alone with his mother. Untouched. Unwatched. And that scared him more than he liked to admit.
Still, not everything had been stripped from him.
Seojun, in one rare moment of calculated generosity, had left a few things under Jungkook’s name. Legal boundaries. Private assets. Space that even you couldn’t fully invade. That illusion of freedom was what kept Jungkook sane. Until the night he came home late.
The house was loud. Too loud. Music echoed through the halls, laughter spilling recklessly, the sharp scent of alcohol and smoke lingering in the air. Jungkook stopped just inside the doorway, jaw tightening as his eyes swept over the scene.
Your friends. Men and women sprawled across the living room like they owned the place. Expensive clothes. Careless laughter. Glasses clinking. Cigarettes burning between fingers that had never known consequence.
Rich brats. And there you were, sitting among them, legs crossed, wine glass in hand, laughing freely. Like this was your house. Like this was your world. One of the men noticed him first.
“Well, look who finally showed up,” he said, grinning. A woman beside him giggled. “Come on, Jungkook. Join us. Don’t be so stiff.”
Jungkook didn’t move. “No,” he said coldly. “I’m not interested.”
The room fell quiet just a little.
“Oh?” another voice chimed in. “Did married life make you boring already?” Laughter followed. Jungkook exhaled slowly.
He stepped forward, eyes sharp, voice calm but lethal. “Interesting,” he said. “You talk a lot for people who live off their fathers’ money and call it success.” The laughter died instantly.
He turned to the man who had spoken first. “Tell me, do you always need alcohol to feel important? Or is that just tonight?” Faces stiffened. Smiles vanished. Then his gaze flicked to you.
“And you,” he said flatly. “Is this what you do all day? Throw parties in a house you didn’t earn, with people who wouldn’t survive a single day without privilege protecting them?” Your smile froze.
One of your friends scoffed. “Watch your mouth-”
“Or what?” Jungkook cut in sharply. “You’ll cry to her father?” Silence. Jungkook straightened, voice low and unforgiving.
“Get out,” he said. “All of you.” The tension snapped.
You stood up abruptly, anger flashing across your face. “That’s enough,” you snapped. “This is my house too.” He turned to you slowly.
“No,” he said. “This is the only thing in my life that isn’t yours. Don’t confuse that.” Your hands clenched at your sides. The room felt too small. Too tight. Your friends gathered their things quickly, muttering under their breath, eyes darting between the two of you. One by one, they left doors slamming, heels clicking, laughter gone.
When the house finally fell silent. You faced him, fury burning in your eyes. “You humiliated them,” you said sharply. Jungkook stepped closer, gaze unflinching.
“You humiliate yourself,” he replied. “I just said it out loud.” That did it.
Silence crashed into the house like a loaded gun.
You didn’t turn to face him immediately. Your chest rose and fell sharply, fingers trembling as you set the glass down on the table with more force than necessary. The faint smell of smoke still clung to the air, but the laughter was gone stripped away, just like your composure.
Jungkook stood a few feet behind you, unmoving. Watching.
“You had no right,” you said finally, voice tight, too controlled. “No right to speak to them like that.” He let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Your friends?” he asked. “If that’s what you call leeches with designer clothes.”
You spun around then, eyes blazing. “Watch your mouth.” He stepped closer instantly.
“You don’t get to tell me what to watch,” he snapped. “Not in my house. Not after what you just pulled.”
My house.
The words hit you like a slap. “Oh?” you scoffed bitterly. “So now it’s yours? Funny. Because everything you have this house, your name, your so-called freedom exists because of my father.”
Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “Don’t,” he warned quietly.
You smiled sharp, cruel. “Don’t what? Say the truth?” you continued. “You act like a victim, Jungkook, but you benefit from the same power you pretend to hate.” He moved so fast you barely had time to react.
He was right in front of you now towering, eyes dark, voice dangerously low. “I hate you,” he said. “For what you take. For how easily you breathe in spaces I suffocate in.” Your heart thudded, but you didn’t step back.
“You hate me?” you laughed hollowly. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he shot back. “I know you manipulated my mother. I know you play helpless when it suits you and ruthless when no one’s watching.” Your expression flickered, just for a second. Then hardened.
“Careful,” you said. “Accusations like that can cost you.”
“There it is,” Jungkook sneered. “The threat. You can’t help it, can you?” You stepped closer now, invading his space.
“Do you know what it’s like,” you said quietly, venom seeping into every word, “to be handed to a man who looks at you like you’re the enemy from the moment the vows are said?” His eyes flashed.
“You weren’t handed to me,” he snapped. “You chose this.” You laughed again, this time it cracked.
“Choice?” you repeated. “You think I had a choice?” Silence. Thick. Heavy. Your voice dropped.
“This marriage was a deal,” you said. “Just like everything else in your life. The only difference is you hate me for surviving it.”
Jungkook stared at you, breathing hard. “Don’t rewrite this,” he said. “You enjoy this power. The control. Watching people bend.”
“And you enjoy pretending you’re better,” you fired back. “As if you don’t use the little freedom you have like a weapon.”
His hand curled into a fist at his side.
“You brought strangers into this house,” he said through clenched teeth. “You drank. You smoked. You laughed like this place belongs to you.” You looked him straight in the eye.
“It does,” you said. “By marriage.” Something in him snapped.
“You don’t get my respect just because a document says you’re my wife,” he growled. “You want space in my life? Earn it.”
“And you,” you shot back, eyes burning, “don’t get to humiliate me in front of others and walk away like a hero.”
“I wasn’t humiliating you,” he said coldly. “I was exposing you.” The words cut deeper than you expected. Your voice trembled now, anger giving way to something darker.
“You think you’ve cornered me?” you whispered. “You think I won’t strike back?” Jungkook leaned down slightly, eyes locked onto yours.
“I’m counting on it,” he said. “Because at least then you’ll stop pretending.” For a moment, neither of you moved.
Finally, Jungkook straightened. “Stay out of my way,” he said. “And keep your friends out of my house.” You swallowed, pride screaming.
“Or what?” you challenged.
He paused at the doorway, not turning back. “Or I stop being polite.” The door to his room closed behind him slow, deliberate.
Leaving you alone. Furious. And already planning your next move.
------
Jungkook hadn’t been home in days, at least not in spirit. The office had swallowed him whole, spreadsheets and signatures blurring until midnight became routine. Work was the only place where he could breathe without seeing you, without hearing your voice coil around his name like a threat.
That night, exhaustion clung to his bones as he stepped into the house he no longer recognized as home.
The lights in the hallway were dim. Too quiet. Too careless. He was halfway up the stairs when laughter reached him soft, careless, feminine. Your laughter.
His steps slowed.
The bedroom door was slightly open. And then he saw it.
You on his bed. Your hair undone, lips flushed, dressed in nothing but delicate undergarments that did not belong to him anymore. A man beneath you, shirt discarded, hands still on your waist as if he had every right to touch what Jungkook had been forced to claim.
For a moment, Jungkook couldn’t breathe.
Something ugly snapped inside his chest.
“Y/N.”
His voice cut through the room like glass.
You turned slowly, unbothered, almost amused. The man froze beneath you, eyes wide, already sensing disaster. Jungkook stepped inside, every movement controlled, terrifyingly calm. When you shifted to get off the bed, he was suddenly there his hand wrapping around your wrist, grip iron-tight.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His eyes burned, fury simmering just beneath restraint.
You tilted your head, rolling your eyes as if he were interrupting something trivial. “What does it look like?”
His jaw clenched. “You brought someone else into my house,” he spat, voice thick with disgust. “The house where my mother lives.”
You laughed softly. Mocking. “Just because I married you doesn’t mean my life stopped, Jungkook. I won’t give up my fun because you decided to play husband when it suits you.” That did it.
He yanked you closer, fingers tightening around your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. His touch was rough not desire, but rage. “I don’t give a damn who you sleep with,” he said coldly. “You can ruin yourself however you want—outside this house.” His voice dropped, lethal. “But you don’t disrespect my home.”
Then he turned sharply, eyes locking onto the man still scrambling to dress himself.
“Get out.” The man didn’t argue. He muttered something under his breath fear, insult, Jungkook couldn’t tell and fled the room without looking back.
The bedroom door clicks shut, a sound that feels like a gavel striking. Jungkook doesn’t move from the threshold at first. He just stands there, his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the dim light of the hallway, eyes raking over you with a clinical, biting coldness.
You’re standing by the foot of the bed, stripped down to nothing but black lace that feels like a target on your skin. You want to look defiant, but under his gaze, you feel like a specimen pinned to a board.
"Look at you," he says, his voice a low, jagged rasp. He walks toward you, his pace slow and predatory. "Standing there like a common street girl, hoping I’ll be distracted by what’s under that lace. You really are that desperate for attention, aren't you?"
"I don't need your attention, Jungkook," you bite back, though your voice wavers. "I just needed a man who knew how to use his hands."
He stops inches from you. He’s so close you can feel the radiating heat of his anger. He doesn't touch you yet. Instead, he just stares at the way your chest heaves, his eyes tracking the frantic pulse in your throat.
"A man?" he scoffs, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. "You brought a boy into my house because you couldn't handle the fact that I won't even look at you. You’re pathetic. A spoiled, little brat who thinks her body is a currency I’d actually want to spend."
His hand suddenly shoots out, fingers tangling brutally in your hair to tilt your head back. He forces you to look at him to see the genuine disdain swimming in his dark irises.
"You want to be used?" he growls, his face inches from yours. "Fine. But don't think for a second this is about you. This is about reminding you exactly where you sit in this hierarchy. You’re nothing but a contract I signed, and tonight, I’m going to make sure you remember who owns the ink."
He shoves you back onto the mattress. The impact jars you, but before you can scramble away, he’s over you, his heavy weight pinning your wrists above your head.
"You hate me," you gasp, your eyes stinging with a mix of fury and a sudden, treacherous heat pooling in your lower belly.
"I loathe you," he corrects, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to make you moan. "And I hate the way your body reacts to me even more. Look at you... shaking. You’re disgusting. You claim to hate me, yet you’re practically melting under my hands."
He releases your wrists only to slide his hand down, his palm flat against your stomach, pressing down with a demeaning force.
"Tell me," he commands, his eyes locked on yours. "Tell me how much you want the man you hate to ruin you. Beg me to finish what that pathetic boy started. Say it, or I walk out that door and leave you to rot in this bed alone."
Your pride is screaming, but your body is a traitor. The raw, unfiltered hatred in his touch is doing things to you that tenderness never could. You hate him God, you hate him but as he stares down at you with total, crushing authority, you feel your resistance snapping like glass
------
The sound echoed through the room sharp, final, unforgiving. Your head snapped to the side as your father’s hand connected with your cheek. For a second, the world tilted. Your heel slid against the marble floor, but you forced yourself to steady, fingers curling at your side as heat bloomed across your skin.
Shame followed immediately.
You didn’t look up. You couldn’t.
“I sent you there for a purpose,” he snarled, voice low but lethal. “And you’re whoring around, bringing men into his house like some careless fool.” Your jaw clenched as you pressed your palm to your cheek. It stung, burned but you welcomed the pain. It grounded you. Reminded you where you stood.
So Jungkook told him. Of course he did.
Your father had never truly cared about your affairs. Men had always been replaceable to him. What he cared about was control and you were losing it.
“You don’t even have to be a good wife,” he continued coldly. “But you do have to gain his trust.” His words were calm now, measured. Dangerous.
“To men like him,” your father went on, pacing slowly in front of you, “women are tools. Weaknesses. Comfort. Leverage.” He stopped. “And Jungkook is nothing but a wounded animal clinging to his mother.” Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress.
“Get close to him,” he said. “Make him believe you. Make him soften. I need to know everything his thoughts, his fears, his moves.” You finally lifted your eyes, meeting his gaze. There was no warmth there. Only calculation.
“His father left more behind than Jungkook knows,” your father continued. “Properties. Shares. Loyal men.” His lips curved faintly. “Men who would die for that name.”
A pause.
“I need to reach them before Jungkook does.” Your chest tightened.
“If he realizes what he owns,” your father said quietly, “he won’t sit still. And neither will his mother.” Silence swallowed the room.
“And you,” he turned back to you sharply, “are failing me.” Your breath shook but only once.
“I know,” you said finally, voice low, controlled. “I made a mistake.” His eyes narrowed, studying you like a piece on a chessboard.
“I’ll be careful,” you continued, lifting your chin despite the sting on your cheek. “I’ll work on it.” You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “I won’t let him slip away again.”
A long moment passed. Then your father reached out, gripping your chin hard, forcing your face up. His thumb brushed cruelly over the reddening skin.
“You don’t get many chances,” he said. “Don’t forget who owns this game.” He released you abruptly. As you stood there cheek burning, pride bruised, fury simmering you already knew one thing. This wasn’t just about Jungkook anymore.
It was about survival.
------
Your father had never believed you would amount to anything useful. To him, you were a liability, an expendable piece. If you failed, he would simply tighten his grip elsewhere. And today, that elsewhere was Jeon Jungkook.
The office smelled of polished wood and expensive leather. Jungkook sat behind the desk that once belonged to his father, shoulders tense, jaw locked. Outside the glass walls, Kang Seojun’s men stood like statues armed, watching, reminding him exactly who owned the ground beneath his feet.
Seojun sat comfortably across from him, legs crossed, sipping coffee like he was visiting an old friend. Too comfortable.
“It’s been a few months already,” Seojun said casually, eyes roaming the room. “You and my daughter should start planning for an heir.” Jungkook’s fingers curled slowly against the armrest.
“No,” he replied flatly. “I don’t want a child.” Seojun hummed, amused, setting the cup down with deliberate care.
“And,” Jungkook continued, his voice tightening, “your daughter isn’t even loyal to this marriage.” For a brief second just one Seojun’s eyes sharpened. Then he chuckled.
“This generation,” he said lightly, waving a hand, “affairs are common. You know how arranged marriages work. Trust isn’t built overnight.”
Jungkook leaned forward, anger simmering beneath his calm. “I said no.”
Seojun studied him for a moment, as if reassessing a strategy. “Sometimes,” Seojun said slowly, “a child makes things… easier.”
Jungkook scoffed. “You think bringing a child into this mess will fix anything?”
“I think,” Seojun replied smoothly, “that it gives people a reason to behave.” Silence stretched.
Jungkook stood up abruptly. “I won’t do this. Not now. Not ever.”
Seojun didn’t move. Instead, he smiled. A smile that never reached his eyes. “Jeon Jungkook,” he said softly, “you remind me so much of your father.” Jungkook froze.
“He was stubborn too,” Seojun continued, voice almost fond. “Always thought saying no meant he had a choice.” Jungkook’s chest tightened. “Don’t talk about my father.”
“Oh?” Seojun tilted his head. “Then let’s talk about your mother.” The air shifted. Seojun leaned forward just slightly, lowering his voice.
“She’s getting older,” he said. “Stress isn’t good for her heart. Doctors are expensive. Safety is fragile.” He tapped the table once. “Accidents happen.”
Jungkook’s breath hitched. “You wouldn’t-” His voice cracked despite himself.
“I wouldn’t want to,” Seojun interrupted calmly. “Which is why I’m here, talking to you like family.”
Family.
The word tasted like poison. “A child,” Seojun continued, “would make your home warmer. Happier. Imagine your mother holding her grandchild.” His lips curved faintly. “Wouldn’t that give her something to smile about?”
Jungkook’s fists trembled at his sides. “You’re using her,” he whispered.
Seojun shrugged. “I’m protecting what matters.”
Outside, one of the guards shifted, hand brushing against his weapon subtle, intentional.
Seojun stood, adjusting his coat. “Think about it,” he said gently. “An heir keeps everyone safe. Including your mother.”
He paused at the door, glancing back. “And Jungkook?” His voice dropped, razor-sharp. “Refusing won’t stop what’s coming. It’ll only decide who gets hurt first.”
The door closed behind him. Jungkook remained standing in the center of the office, breathing hard, surrounded by silence that felt louder than any gunshot. For the first time since inheriting his father’s name, one truth settled deep in his chest.
-------
The heavy oak door doesn't just open; it slams against the stone wall, a violent announcement of his arrival. You don’t even flinch. You’ve been sitting on the edge of the sprawling velvet bed, still dressed in the silk robes as usual.
He stands in the threshold, chest heaving, his jaw set so tight you can hear the faint grind of his teeth. This isn't a husband coming to his wife; it’s a predator forced into a cage with a rival.
"Is this what you wanted?" he sneers, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. He stalks toward you, ripping his necktie off with a jerk of his hand. "Did you whisper in the old man's ear? Tell him you needed a leash to keep me in your bed?"
You stand up to meet him, refusing to let him look down on you. You're not the victim of this arrangement you're the casualty, just like him.
"Don't flatter yourself," you spit back, your eyes flashing with a cold fire. "I’d rather spend my night in a cell than under you. This is his legacy, not my desire. I want his 'heir' as little as I want your touch."
He’s in your space now, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him an aggressive, suffocating warmth. He grabs your chin, his grip firm and uncompromising, forcing you to look at the raw disdain in his gaze.
"Liars run in your blood," he growls. His eyes drop to your lips, then back to yours, his thumb brushing your jawline with a bruising pressure. "But if I have to give him what he wants, I’m going to make sure you remember exactly who is ruining you."
"You look so smug," he snarls, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he forces you back against the heavy headboard. "Knowing your father finally found a way to chain me to this family. Is this your little victory, being used like a vessel?"
You don't shrink back. You arch your back, meeting his glare with a jagged, mocking smile that hides the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. "A vessel? Please. You’re the one performing on command like a trained dog. My father whistles, and you crawl into my bed because you’re too much of a coward to lose your inheritance."
He laughs, a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver of pure electricity down your spine. "I’m not crawling, sweetheart. I’m taking. If I have to put a brat in you to keep my empire, I’m going to make sure it’s the most miserable thing you’ve ever felt."
------
"Look at you," he sneers, his eyes dark with a hunger that looks exactly like hate. "Acting like you're above this. Like you aren’t wet and waiting for the very thing you claim to despise."
He doesn’t ease in. There is no gentleness, no preparation. He drives into you with a singular, brutal purpose, a blunt force that makes your back arch and a jagged gasp rip from your throat. It’s raw. It’s the sound of skin slapping against skin in a rhythm that feels more like a march than a dance. He’s filling you completely, a physical invasion that mirrors the way he’s taken over your life.
"Is this what your father wanted?" he grunts, his voice a gravelly wreck as he thrusts again, deeper, bottoming out against your womb. "To have me breed his daughter like a prize mare? Tell me, does it feel like a legacy yet?"
You wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in, refusing to let him see you break. "It feels... like a chore," you choke out, your voice trembling despite your bravado. "Is this the best you can do? No wonder my father had to force you. You’re nothing but a tool."
Jungkook snarls, his face contorting as he loses the last of his grip on his temper. He begins to move with a frantic, punishing speed, each hit a thunderclap of sensation that blurs the line between pain and pleasure.
"A tool?" he repeats, his teeth grazing your jaw. "Then I'll be the one that breaks you. I’m going to put so many of my heirs in you that you’ll forget what it feels like to be empty. You’ll carry my mark every time you look in the mirror."
He shifts his weight, pinning your shoulders down with his forearms so he can loom over you like a shadow. The rhythm changes from a steady march to a frantic, jagged assault. Each thrust is a blunt-force trauma, a heavy, bottoming-out sensation that makes the headboard crack against the wall.
It’s too much. It’s the sharp, stinging friction of skin on skin, the feeling of being stretched to your absolute limit. Every time he drives into you, a jagged gasp is punched out of your lungs. It hurts a sharp, radiating heat but that pain is wrapped in a thick, suffocating layer of electricity.
The room is filled with the wet, rhythmic slap of his hips against yours and the harsh, ugly sound of his breathing.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice dropping into a guttural, jagged register. He grabs your hair, pulling your head back until your neck is arched at a precarious angle. "You think you’re so strong? You think you can just take this and stay the same?"
You claw at his biceps, your nails drawing thin red lines in the sweat-slicked muscle. "Is that... all you have?" you wheeze, a defiant, broken laugh catching in your throat. "You’re pathetic. You’re trying to break me, but you’re just... filling a hole. Like the dog you are."
He snarls, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He hitches your legs higher, draping them over his shoulders to open you up completely, exposing you to the full, punishing weight of his resentment.
"Then I'll be the dog that tears you apart," he spits, his pace turning feral. He’s no longer just moving; he’s colliding with you, over and over, his body a weapon designed to dismantle yours.
The pain is there, the bruising pressure on your hips, the raw ache between your thighs.
"You’re crying," he mocks, his voice a low, jagged rasp that vibrates against your skin. "Is it because it finally sank in? That your father married you to the man who despises you most?"
He doesn't slow down. If anything, the sight of your vulnerability makes him go harder, his movements turning into a blur of raw, punishing friction. Jungkook wants you to feel every bit of his disdain. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging you flush against him with a jolt that makes your teeth rattle. There is no rhythm here, only a frantic, heavy assault that bottoming out against you with a bruising finality.
The pain is sharp a stinging, constant reminder of the friction but it’s tangled up in a white-hot spark of pleasure that feels like a betrayal of your own soul. Your body is singing a song your mind refuses to acknowledge.
"I... hate you," you moan, the words losing their edge as your climax begins to coil, tight and violent, in your gut. "I hate how you... move."
"Good," he growls, his own body trembling as he nears the edge of his restraint. He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck, not in a kiss, but a claim. "Hate me while I give you exactly what your father asked for. Hate me while I ruin the very idea of anyone else ever touching you."
He’s relentless, his pace becoming feral as he watches you come apart beneath him. He wants to see you break. He wants to be the reason you lose your mind, even if it’s through a haze of tears and loathing.
He leans down, his mouth hovering just an inch from your ear, his voice a jagged, gravelly wreck that makes your skin crawl even as your body shudders with the aftershocks of the climax he forced out of you.
"There," he rasps, his breath hot and insulting against your damp skin. "The heir your greedy father asked for. I’ve filled you to the brim with exactly what he wanted my rot, my name, and every drop of this filth I have for you."
He gives one final, cruel press of his hips, ensuring you feel the heavy, pulsing reality of what he’s left behind inside you.
"Don't bother cleaning yourself up yet," he sneers, his eyes tracking a fresh tear as it disappears into your hairline. "I want you to lay there and feel me dripping out of you. I want you to remember the weight of me every time you try to stand up. You’re nothing but a gold-plated jar for my seed now. Hope the legacy was worth the price of your soul."
He finally pulls back, the wet sound of his departure echoing in the quiet room like a slap. He doesn't look back as he reaches for his clothes, leaving you shivering and marked on the cold silk.
-------
Jungkook buried himself in work the way a man drowned on purpose page after page, meeting after meeting, numbers blurring until his eyes burned. Weeks had passed since that night, yet his body refused to forget what his mind tried so hard to erase.
He hated that. He hated how every time you walked past him at night, wrapped in those silk robes like you owned the house, his gaze lingered a second too long. How his jaw tightened. How his pulse betrayed him.
It wasn’t desire, he told himself. It was habit. Anger. A mistake repeated too many times.
That night when his father-in-law demanded an heir it was necessity. The nights before? Rage. Control. A cruel reminder of where you stood. And yet. His body didn’t agree with his reasons.
The phone rang. He almost ignored it. "Jungkook,” his mother’s voice came through, breathless and bright in a way he hadn’t heard in years. “Y/N… she’s pregnant.”
The words hit him harder than any threat Kang Seojun had ever made. Pregnant. His hand tightened around the phone. His first thought was irrational, unwanted. So it worked. The thought disgusted him.
He shut it down immediately and focused on the tremble in his mother’s voice the joy, the relief, the hope.
“Oh, my son,” she continued, laughing softly, “I’ll finally hear little footsteps in this house again. A child… your child.”
For the first time in months, something warm slipped past the walls around his chest.
When he came home that evening, the house felt different. Lighter. His mother moved around the living room with an energy he hadn’t seen since his childhood, already talking about names, about toys, about how the baby would run through the halls.
“This house needed life again,” she said happily. “God finally listened.” Jungkook watched her quietly, something twisting painfully in his chest.
Then you walked in. Calm. Composed. That infuriating expression already on your lips. “Well,” you said lightly, glancing at him, “guess congratulations are in order.”
His eyes narrowed. Later, when his mother stepped away to take a call, you leaned closer voice low, sharp, poisonous.
“Took long enough, don’t you think?” you murmured. “I was starting to wonder if your body even functioned properly." Jungkook turned slowly, glare lethal.
“Careful,” he muttered. “There might be something wrong with you instead.”
You smiled sweetly. “Oh? Funny. It only took one night.”
His jaw clenched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then don’t disappoint me again,” you shot back softly.
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What about childhood bestfriend's new boyfriend like mc is really meek and introverted. And the said bestfriends boyfriend shows alot of interest in her which is very weird to her but she's kind of a coward so she doesn't confront him about it and later she finds out that he only became her friends boyfriend to come close to mc or smth
I would devour it if you choose to write it❤️
Oh this is sick. Calculated, patient, and invasive. Exactly the kind of yandere concept that hurts in the best way
Do you think I’d just abandon it like that? 😭 I am writing, I just don’t like to rush things. I’d rather disappear for a bit and come back with something that actually makes you feel something than post it too quickly and regret it. Trust the process
