#cursed lovers

The cathedral is breathtaking. The moment you step inside, it feels less like entering a building and more like stepping into something coming right out of your dreams. Towering stained-glass windows stretch high above, each one a masterpiece of color and light. Works of glass artistry surround you on every side, their intricate designs telling quiet stories in fragments of crimson, deep sapphire, and royal violet. When you glance around at the guests filling the pews, their faces, some are familiar, some famous, and some beloved, seem almost framed by the glowing panels behind them, as if they too are part of the cathedral’s living portrait. Sunlight pours through the glass in soft, radiant streams, spilling across the stone floor in pools of red, dark purple, and deep blue. The colors drift across your dress and the polished aisles like watercolor, moving gently whenever the light shifts. Above it all, crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, each delicate strand catching the light and scattering it into a thousand pieces of light. They shimmer in a way that reminds you strangely of a crystal ball, something mystical and luminous, as though the future itself is being reflected in those tiny glints of light.

From the high arches of the ceiling, long streamers cascade downward like elegant vines. They sway softly in the faintest movement of air, their silky fabric catching the light in a way that makes them appear almost weightless. Their color matches your dress perfectly, as though the entire cathedral had been dressed for this moment alone. The faint scent of rose lingers in the air, sweet and delicate, weaving together with the low, swelling music of the orchestra behind you. Violins hum softly, cellos rise and fall in gentle waves, and the melody floats through the cathedral like a whispered promise.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve imagined a day like this. Not in the vague way children imagine their futures, but that it's actually been a guarantee since you were little. You knew somewhere along the line you would get married to the man of your dreams. You imagined the soft rustle of silk as you walk, the golden light pouring through tall cathedral windows. You thought about it so much you almost knew the hush of the crowd waiting with held breath, as though the entire world understands that something precious is about to begin. Even as a little girl, you believed in this moment with unwavering certainty. This is the day you’re supposed to get your happily ever after.

Except you won't.

In no way shape or form was this the fairytale you had imagined. You didn’t even know what to call this. Every little bit of it feels wrong in a way that makes your chest tighten with quiet frustration. The light spilling through the cathedral windows is warm and golden, perfectly arranged to look like sunlight pouring through ancient glass. But you know it isn’t real. It’s positioned lighting, carefully designed to imitate something genuine. Yes, it's beautiful, and convincing, but it's also fake. Fake. Fake. Fake. The streamers hanging high above are delicate and expensive, drifting softly in the air whenever someone moves beneath them. Silk, only the finest, the kind people brag about in planning meetings and glossy magazines. But silk was never what you would have chosen. Satin drapes better. It falls heavier, more gracefully, catching light in deeper folds instead of floating away like something that was never meant to stay. You remember thinking that once, long ago, when someone asked what kind of wedding you imagined. You would have chosen satin. The orchestra behind you swells into another sweeping melody, their instruments filling the cathedral with flawless sound. They’re world-renowned, every musician carefully selected, their presence alone meant to make the moment feel grand. And still, the music irritates you. Because it’s all wrong. Every song is safe. Familiar. The kind of melody played at a thousand weddings before this one, selected because it’s universally agreeable and impossible to dislike. It was chosen by your mother because it’s the same playlist played at her wedding. But the orchestra doesn’t know that. They play perfectly, their notes rising into the high arches of the cathedral as if this moment belongs to them more than it ever belonged to you.

Your steps echo faintly against the stone floor as you move forward, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the hall. The cathedral is magnificent, towering pillars carved with delicate patterns, walls covered in murals that scholars travel across oceans to study. Stories from history, and stories from literature. Stories that people label “beautiful”. But as your eyes drift across them, irritation settles deeper into your chest. Because these stories aren’t happy ones. They’re tragedies dressed in elegance. Lovers separated by duty. Devotion twisted into sacrifice. Grand romances that end not with joy, but with quiet resignation. Like how people say Romeo and Juliet is romantic, but at the end of the day their love still killed them. It's all simple heartbreak, carefully preserved in paint and gold leaf.

The entire place feels like a warning. Each step forward makes that feeling stronger, like you’re walking deeper into a story that has already been written for you. One you never asked to be part of.

You know the windows are fake. You noticed the moment you arrived, the way the light never shifts quite right, the way the colors look too perfect to belong to real sunlight. Artificial beauty, built to convince people they’re witnessing something timeless. Still, as you walk, you can’t shake the strange feeling of being watched. There, along the wall between towering arches, hangs a portrait that most people probably pass without noticing. A woman painted in soft, fading tones, her posture elegant, her expression composed in that careful way portraits demand. Consuelo Vanderbilt. On the day of her wedding in 1895, the ceremony was magnificent. Society crowded in to watch, newspapers praised the union, and the bride herself looked every inch the fairytale duchess the world expected. But behind her veil, Consuelo was crying. She had been in love with another man, and the life she wanted had quietly slipped away the moment she stepped onto the aisle. The marriage that followed produced heirs and titles and glittering appearances, but not happiness. Years later it would finally be undone, the union annulled after decades of quiet misery, leaving behind a story that looked like a fairytale from the outside and felt nothing like one from within.

At the end of the long aisle stands your future husband.

Bang Chan. He cuts a striking figure even from this distance, tall, composed, the dark fall of his hair perfectly styled as though not a single strand has ever dared disobey him. His eyes, sharp and restless, sweep towards you as you get closer and closer. They have always reminded people of a wolf’s: alert, intelligent, watchful. His hands move absently over the front of his vest, smoothing the fabric again and again, a quiet attempt to rid his palms of sweat. The gesture is ever so small, but it only draws attention to the strength in his arms, the way the fabric of his shirt shifts as he moves, the controlled breath rising and falling beneath it. Anyone watching would see perfection. And truly, he is the kind of man people dream about. Strong without needing to prove it. Intelligent in a way that makes people trust him almost immediately. Kind, too, painfully kind sometimes, the sort of man who remembers small details and offers gentle smiles that make strangers feel safe.

A man people fall in love with easily. A man people would envy you for marrying. Yet as you get closer your stomach drops to your feet rolling behind you as you keep moving forward and forward. Because you don’t love him, and he doesn’t love you. No matter what, this date isn’t something that will be remembered kindly in your memories. It feels like you're being shoved into a role you didn’t agree to, and the worst part is you can’t even be mad at him because he didn’t arrange it.

You step forward slowly, your hands wrapped tightly around the bouquet in front of you. If anyone in the crowd were looking closely, they might notice how stiff you seem. How your shoulders barely move. How every step lands with a dull, careful thump against the cathedral floor, as though you’re forcing your body forward rather than walking willingly. With every step, something inside you seems to give way. A dream. A plan. A future you once imagined for yourself. It's all crushed quietly beneath your feet. Maybe things wouldn’t feel so suffocating if you were being forced to marry someone ordin ary. Literally anyone else. Someone whose name wouldn’t swallow you whole.

Except Bang Chan is famous, painfully, overwhelmingly famous. The kind of famous that reshapes rooms when he walks into them. He can fill stadiums and headlines and conversations between strangers. He’s made billions from records, music videos, and the company he manages with relentless precision. People call him brilliant. Visionary. A man who built an empire with his own hands. From the outside, it looks like he is living his dream every single day. And because he shines so brightly, everyone around him fades. From this day on, you will never simply be Y/N L/N again. You will be introduced differently. Spoken about differently. Seen differently. People will look at you and see his wife before they see you. Some won’t even bother learning your name. Others will try, only to forget it moments later, replacing it with the title that now defines you. Interviews will mention you briefly. Articles will reduce you to a supporting role in a life that was never yours to begin with. And the worst part? Some will even assume everything you accomplished before today somehow belongs to him too. That your achievements were stepping stones leading neatly toward his shadow. Every single accomplishment you have ever made in your life will be chalked up to the man your chained to for the rest of your life.

A shaky breath escapes you before you can stop it, the sound thin with suppressed rage and something far more fragile underneath. Sadness. Because there is nothing you can do. Not here. Not now. There isn’t a single action you could take at this moment that wouldn’t destroy everything around you. If you stop walking, you become ungrateful. Cruel. A scandal. If you speak up, the world will twist your words until you sound heartless. So you keep walking, slowly getting closer and closer to the man waiting patiently at the end of the aisle. He won't ever mean to, but he's about to take everything from you. Life can be unbearably cruel like that.

You reach the stand, and the pope stands between you, holding the Bible carefully in his hands. His lips move, forming words that are meant to carry weight and meaning, but all you hear is a distant, muffled buzz, like a broken radio that refuses to cooperate. The sound presses against your skull, relentless, and all you can do is stand there and let it wash over you, knowing there is nothing to be done. A ray of sunlight cuts across your vision as you try to look at Bang Chan, searching for something, anything, that might feel like comfort. His eyes are steady, wolf-like, unreadable, and you aren’t sure he would offer solace even if he wanted to. The brightness stings, forcing you to squint, and your gaze wanders elsewhere in the room, trying to grasp something familiar in the overwhelming ceremony.

Your eyes fall on the tables. The people seated there are watching, waiting for something to happen, but you can’t bring yourself to meet their gaze. Instead, you fixate on the flowers arranged before them. Your favorite. Roses.

Except… They're all Dead roses.

You can’t tell if you want to laugh, wild, bitter, unhinged at the sheer irony of it all, or collapse into yourself, curling tight into a ball so small that the world might forget you even exist. The thought of crying feels heavier, somehow inevitable, and deep down you know it will win in the end. But it won’t matter. Not after today. No one will notice the tears. No one will remember the quiet fire that once burned inside you, the dreams you carried so fiercely. From this moment on, you will vanish beneath a name that isn’t truly yours, beneath a life chosen for you, beneath a man whose fame will eclipse everything you were ever meant to be.

None of it matters. “May this union be one of steadfast devotion and quiet understanding.”

None of this matters at all. “May you walk beside one another with patience, with grace, and with the strength to honor the promises made here today.”

None of it will make a difference “Though love may grow in ways unseen, may duty guide your steps, and may respect be the foundation upon which your lives together are built.”

None of your achievements will ever be yours. “For even when the heart is uncertain, the vows spoken before the world remain.”

Nothing about you matters.

You. Don’t. Matter.

It’s now the first week after your wedding, and you can count on one hand the number of words exchanged with Bang Chan outside the safe, hollow phrases of married life: “Good morning.” “How was work?” “The weather looks nice.” Every other conversation feels like a void you’re both too polite, or too distant, to fill. The mansion you now call home doesn’t help. It’s easily the largest building you’ve ever set foot in, yet it feels colder and emptier than any place you’ve known. Room after room stretches endlessly, silent, bare, and waiting for something, anything, to give it life. But what can you put in these spaces when half of your belongings are still delayed in shipping? Your wardrobe is incomplete, your furniture scattered, and the walls echo in emptiness as though mocking your presence. It’s more a hotel than a home.

Furniture sits in neat clusters as though waiting for someone to use it, but the emptiness of the walls and the silence of the floors remind you that no one ever really does. In some rooms windows rise from floor to ceiling, flooding the rooms with sunlight that feels harsh and uninviting rather than comforting. Drapes of heavy velvet hang untouched, the kind that should frame moments of laughter or comfort, yet they only emphasize the stillness. Even the staircase, sweeping and grand, feels more like an exhibit than a way to get from one floor to another, every step echoing too loudly in the cavernous halls. There are corners that are so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat in them, and rooms so vast they could host a hundred people without feeling crowded. Yet, despite all the wealth and opulence, the mansion has no soul. It doesn’t belong to anyone, and now, neither do you.

You sit staring at the clock in the living room, not that you spend much time there, it’s just a place with a clock now. The hands move faithfully, marking the hours and minutes, but there’s no heartbeat in the room, no laughter, no warmth, no life. It is a perfectly polished reminder that even in a home that should be yours, you are still a stranger. Nothing here feels alive. Not the rooms. Not the furniture. Not even you.

It’s 11:02 p.m., and Bang Chan still isn’t home. The last few nights he had been arriving around 7:30 sharp, like clockwork. The front doors would open, quiet footsteps crossing the marble foyer, and he would expect dinner to already be set neatly on the table, plates warm, silverware placed just right. And you there too, standing by the door like some picture-perfect welcome. You scoff quietly to yourself at the memory.

At the wedding, his friend Hwang Hyunjin had leaned over with an easy shrug and told you, “Just, y’know… Bang Chan likes a classic wife.” You can still hear the casual way he said it. “Sit there and look pretty. Maybe greet him at the door when he comes home from work. Be ready to give him a massage here and there.” As if he were giving helpful advice. As if it were the most normal thing in the world. You know he was just trying to help the marriage, he was aware it was something you both weren't a huge fan of so he was probably just trying to give you advice to make Chan like you more. But you're not a frickin trad wife.

Who does he think he is?

You are not a decoration to be placed neatly inside his mansion. You are not some trophy he gets to keep polished and smiling beside him. You had a life before this, things to do, people to meet, work that mattered. You had responsibilities that were yours and yours alone. Or at least you did. You had to quit your job the day after you married him. The memory still stings in a dull, irritated way, like a bruise you keep accidentally pressing. Officially it had been about privacy, about avoiding “unnecessary media attention.” About making things easier for everyone involved. In reality, it just meant your life completely stopped. And the truth is, wandering around this enormous mansion all day with nothing to do would drive anyone insane. So despite your pride, despite the irritation that crawls under your skin every time you think about Hyunjin’s stupid advice, you find yourself doing exactly what he described. Dinner gets made, and the table gets set. You listen for the sound of the front doors opening. The worst part is that the routine gives the day shape. Without it, the hours inside this house would blur together into one endless stretch of silence and marble floors. But tonight the house remains still.

The clock ticks somewhere in the distance. 11:03. He's always on time. That’s why it feels strange that he’s late.

By now Bang Chan should have been home hours ago, stepping through the tall front doors with that quietness of his. You would have been able to hear his footsteps in the foyer, the faint rustle of his jacket, maybe even a short polite exchange about dinner. Instead, the mansion remains silent. You can’t even say you’re worried. As terrible as it sounds, the honest thought creeps in anyway: if something had happened to him, most of your current problems would disappear overnight. The marriage. The expectations. The suffocating role waiting for you every evening at the front door.

But that thought doesn’t bring relief. Mostly… you’re just bored. Like embarrassingly bored. Avoiding conversation with him had somehow become your main source of entertainment. Watching the clock, waiting for him to arrive, wondering if tonight would be another awkward dinner filled with stiff small talk, it had at least given the evening some kind of event to look forward to. Now even that is gone.

With nothing else to do, you end up stretched out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. The hardwood beneath your fingertips is cool and smooth as you idly drag your fingers across it, tracing invisible patterns in the grain. Outside, the night is clear.Starlight slips through the tall windows, faint and silver, casting strange shifting shadows across the ceiling above you. The shapes twist and stretch as clouds drift slowly past, turning into something almost alive.

One of them looks like a bird with crooked wings. Another looks like a deer, missing its antlers. Every single one of them seems trapped. It makes you angry.

You start giving them names just to keep your mind at bay. It’s easier than thinking too much. Because when you think too much, your mind drifts somewhere else. It takes you back home. Back to the people you left behind. Callie appears in your memory first, as she always does when you let your thoughts wander too far. Sandy hair that never quite stayed where she put it, bright blue eyes that always seemed to sparkle when she laughed. She had this terrible habit of caring too much about everyone around her. The kind of empathy that made even small problems feel devastating.

She cried at movies, and she cried when animals got hurt, and she once cried because a stranger on the train looked lonely. You chuckle slightly because it seems in every memory you have with her she's crying. But gosh you miss her tears. Maybe that’s why you didn’t tell her you were leaving.

The thought settles heavy in your chest. God. You didn’t tell your best friend you were leaving the country. You didn’t warn her. Didn’t say goodbye. You just disappeared, cut off contact completely, like the entire life you had before this wedding was something you could neatly fold away and store in a box. Your hand stills against the floor as the realization sinks in deeper. What did you do?

You groan softly, the sound swallowed by the cavernous room as small tears prick at the corners of your eyes. The image of Callie won’t leave your mind now that it’s there. You can almost see her, pacing somewhere back home with that frantic energy she always had when she was worried. Blonde braids tied up messily, her blue eyes now oh so red and watery. She would absolutely be the type to wander the streets looking for you, phone clutched in her hand, calling again and again even after the line goes straight to voicemail. Just in case. Because Callie never gave up on people.

Your throat tightens painfully. You want to go back. Back to those late nights sitting on her bedroom floor, when everything in life felt huge and overwhelming and she would just wrap her arms around you without asking questions. She’d cry with you, even if she didn’t fully understand why you were crying in the first place. You want that again. You want to tell her how much you miss her. How painfully boring this massive, stupid mansion is. How the silence here feels like it’s swallowing you whole. You want to be with the one person who actually understands you.

And yet you aren't allowed to even look at her contact picture.

Somewhere in the house, the old beams shift slightly as a gust of wind pushes against the massive walls. The building creaks, a low, quiet sound that blends into the endless silence. Outside, a car pulls into the long driveway. The faint glow of headlights passes briefly across the tall windows, and the little starlight creatures dancing across your ceiling slowly fade away enraptured in darkness. But your mind doesn’t register it. Your world has shrunk to the tightness in your chest.

Your throat closes suddenly, panic rising in a sharp wave before it loosens just enough for you to gasp in a breath that turns into a harsh cough. The air feels thin, like your lungs have forgotten how to work properly. Your nails dig into your palms without mercy. You didn't notice the car pulling up, and now you don't register the pain coming from your palm. You aren't sure if you did, you would care. Maybe you deserve it. Your thoughts spiral darker with every passing second, searching desperately for some version of the future where things improve, where this suffocating life somehow transforms into something you can survive. But every path you imagine seems to twist the same way. The only way for things to change… is for something to break first. Worse. Worse. Worse again. A tear slips down the side of your face before you can stop it. You wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand, almost angrily. You haven’t cried yet. You've been too scared to start because you know once you do you won't be able to stop.

A quiet cough comes from the corner of the living room. You jolt upright immediately, heart leaping into your throat as you scramble to your feet. Your hands brush quickly over the back of your clothes, dusting away anything that might have clung to them from the floor. You didn't even hear Bang Chan come home from work. Or well… your husband come home from work.

He’s standing a few steps away, one hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck while his teeth catch briefly on his bottom lip. His eyes flicker downward almost immediately, like he’s suddenly fascinated by the polished floor beneath his shoes. It’s like painfully awkward. And you’re fairly sure he can see it, the faint redness in your eyes, the way your face still feels warm from almost crying. The last thing you want right now is for him to ask about it. But he doesn’t, and you’re not about to be the one to bring it up.

“Your home!” you say quickly, the words coming out a little too bright. Your gaze drops toward the floor as well, mirroring him without meaning to. “I didn’t hear you come in from the front door.”

“It’s alright,” he says softly. “I’m sure you must’ve been busy with something.” Busy. The word lands in your chest like a stone. For a moment you just stare at the floorboards, jaw tightening as frustration curls slowly in your stomach. Is he serious? Busy!? You haven’t had anything to do in this enormous house except wander through empty rooms and rot inside your own thoughts. Hell, sure you're busy. Busy pretending the silence doesn’t make you feel like you’re slowly disappearing.

When the rules for this arranged marriage were set, you hadn’t been given a say in any of it. Not one decision had been yours to make. As far as you know, it had all been decided by him and the people surrounding him, contracts signed, expectations laid out neatly like items on a checklist. He needed someone from another wealthy family. And you happened to be someone that fit that box. He set the rules. He knows you had to quit your job. He knows you cut off contact with your coworkers. Your friends. Your life. You have nothing left outside these walls. So what exactly does he think you’ve been busy with?

“Not really.” The words slip out before you can soften them.

“Oh.” Bang Chan mumbles, the quiet sound falling awkwardly into the large room. For a moment neither of you moves. A small part of you feels bad when you see the way his shoulders shift slightly, because he certainly wasn't expecting that. But another part of you, that isn't that small, feels something else entirely. It's a feeling called Pride. Because for the first time since this entire arrangement began, you actually said something real. It wasn’t much, yet it's the only real thing you've gotten since you got that damn contract.

And somehow that tiny crack in the silence feels… good. A little more can’t hurt, right? Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as you search for the courage to keep going. Your heart beats a little faster now, the words building behind your teeth before you can second-guess them. You just need to say something. Literally Anything.

“Maybe if you took the time to talk to me more,” you say, your voice quieter now but still firm, “you would know that.”

Bang Chan steps into his office and shuts the door a little harder than he means to. The sound echoes through the room as he runs a hand through his hair, veins standing out faintly along his neck. His jaw tightens as the events from last night replay in his head again, and again, and again. It’s pissing him off. The night had already been difficult before that moment ever happened. For weeks now he’d been waking up with the same hollow feeling sitting heavy in his stomach, like something was wrong but he couldn’t quite reach it. It followed him everywhere, closer than his own shadow. When he woke up in the morning. When he drove to work. When he tried to fall asleep at night in a bed that suddenly felt too big. Darkness clung to every step. Sometimes he caught himself wanting to say something about it, to someone, anyone, but every time the thought surfaced, another voice followed close behind. It was always his mother’s. She was never rude, she just had so many expectations. She was getting older now, the years catching up to her more visibly every time he visited. And with that came all the wishes she had for him, the quiet hopes she never stopped carrying.

Stability. Respectability. A family.

Life had never been easy for her when he was younger. He had been a nightmare of a kid back then, always getting into fights, always pushing back against anything that tried to box him in. Teachers called constantly. Principals knew his name too well. She had fought hard to keep him on the right path. And for a while, he tried. He really did! He went to school so he could study law. Chan sat through lectures and internships and long nights staring at contracts he didn’t care about. He told himself it was the right thing to do. But every time he walked into a courtroom or opened another legal textbook, there was a quiet, irritating truth perched in the back of his mind. He loved music too much, And eventually, he chose it.

He built something from it. SKZ co is something he will never, ever regret. It's how he met his closest friends, and was able to pursue every dream of his. It was something the entire world seemed to admire. Yet somehow, standing in the middle of it all now, inside a massive office overlooking a city that practically moved to the rhythm of his name, He still felt empty. Bang Chan exhales slowly, leaning his hands against the edge of his desk as the tension in his shoulders refuses to loosen. He had been lucky, and trust him, he knows that better than anyone. His mother could have shut it all down the moment he said he wanted music instead of law. She could have forced him to stay in school, pushed him into a career that looked respectable on paper and stable in the eyes of everyone watching. But she didn’t. In fact she supported him through the long nights and terrible early recordings, through the risk of pouring everything into something that might have collapsed at any moment. When the company was barely holding itself together and every investor looked uncertain, she had still believed in him. He couldn't have asked for a better mom.

If she hadn’t… none of this would exist, and his life would look completely different. The least he could do in return, the absolute least, was give her one thing she had always wanted. Marrying someone wealthy enough to maintain the family’s standing solved everything neatly. It tied together the expectations of both families, kept the image clean, and reassured his mother that the future she worried about was secure. That was all he had to do.

So why does it feel like he can’t breathe?

His fingers tighten slightly against the desk as the contradiction creeps back into his thoughts like it always does. Because the entire world he built… stands on the exact opposite belief. Everything his company represents revolves around one simple message: follow your own calling. Be different. Be fearless. Build your life around what you love instead of what people expect from you. It’s the foundation of everything he tells the artists under him. Everything he tells the fans. Actually, everything he tells the world.

Yet every morning he wakes up in a marriage that contradicts every word of it. His mother’s wishes pull him one direction, heavy with gratitude and loyalty he can never repay. But the moment he remembers he’s married to someone he doesn’t love, the weight presses against his chest again. Two ideals, constantly colliding. His jaw tightens as the question slips into his mind again, the same one that’s been haunting him since the wedding. Is it all worth it?

Bang Chan wants to scream, and cry until he can't think. The feeling claws its way up his chest so suddenly that for a moment he has to grip the edge of his desk just to steady himself. He wants to yell at someone, anyone, about how unfair all of this feels. How strange it is that a man who built an entire empire around freedom and passion somehow ended up trapped inside a life he never truly chose. In some twisted way, it feels like every path has already been decided for him. The guilt never stops. It gnaws at him quietly every second of the day, working its way deeper into his thoughts. Because how is he supposed to say it out loud? How does he sit across from the woman who sacrificed so much for him and admit that the one thing she asked for in return might be the one thing he can’t give? His mother isn’t cruel. That’s what makes it the absolute worst.

Chan exhales shakily and sinks down into the leather chair behind his desk, the soft creak of it filling the silent office. His palms slide up to cover his eyes as he leans forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees.

Don’t cry. The words repeat in his head like a command.

Don’t cry. He presses his hands harder against his face, willing the pressure in his chest to settle.

Don’t.

Cry.

Because crying would mean admitting the thought that’s been haunting him for weeks now. Maybe he’s failing. He’s the eldest son. The one who was supposed to set the example. The leader of the biggest music company in the world, a man people look up to, rely on, admire. And yet somehow he still can’t manage the one thing his parents wanted most. The weight of it all makes his shoulders sag as he stares down at the polished office floor between his shoes. For a brief, dangerous moment, he imagines the floor simply opening up beneath him, swallowing him whole, pulling him somewhere quiet and soft where the expectations and pressure finally disappear. A place where he could just rest. Where he wouldn’t have to keep fighting the same battle in his mind every day. The thought of drifting into sleep, real sleep, the kind without responsibilities waiting on the other side, suddenly sounds almost peaceful.

He drags a shaky breath through his teeth, trying to pull himself together. He’s a man, for goodness’ sake. He shouldn’t be the one sitting here falling apart. If anything, he’s the one who won in this situation. That thought hits him like a slap, because it’s true, isn’t it? Out of the two of you, he kept everything. Yet mainly he kept the freedom to choose his own life, and build it to become something he wants. You can't even do that. At least… that’s what you made painfully clear last night.

Your voice rings in his head again, sharp and quiet at the same time, the words cutting deeper the more he replays them. The way you stood there looking exhausted and angry all at once. Everything that night had simply just been falling apart. Before he can stop it, a broken sob slips out of his chest, the sound rough and unfamiliar in the quiet office. He bends forward in his chair, elbows on his knees again as his hands press harder against his face. The thoughts keep spiraling. What would his coworkers think if they saw him right now?

If they opened the door and saw him like this, they’d see the truth immediately. They would see that the man everyone respects so much feels like a fraud. In truth, Bang Chan feels like a pathetic excuse for a man most days. It doesn’t matter how much success surrounds him, how many achievements people attach to his name. No matter how hard he tries, the same thought always creeps back in eventually. He should be grateful. He knows he should be. But something inside him refuses to settle, refuses to be satisfied with the life he’s built, and that makes the guilt even worse. Because what kind of person has everything they ever dreamed of and still feels like something is wrong?

A fucking selfish one.

And the worst part is that even when he tried to fix something, tried to do the one thing his family asked of him, it only created another mess. Another person caught in the middle of it. You didn’t choose this. You didn’t walk into the marriage thinking it was some fair trade. Your parents arranged it just as much as his family did, pushing you into a life you didn’t want with a man you barely knew. You made that painfully clear last night too.

But then another thought slams into him just as hard. What the hell? It’s not like he asked for this either. Bang Chan straightens suddenly in his chair, his hands dropping away from his face as frustration surges through him again. His chest heaves as he tries to breathe through it, but the anger keeps building, mixing messily with everything else already boiling in his head. If he had truly been allowed to choose everything in his life, really choose, this wouldn’t be the situation he was in. It wouldn’t be you sitting in his house, It would be her. Bitterly he imagines the two of you swapped places. His jaw tightens as the image forms in his mind too easily. She would have noticed something was wrong last night immediately. She always did. One glance and she’d start asking questions until he finally cracked and told her everything he was feeling. Maybe she’d even be calling him right now. In the short time he knew her, she had felt more like his wife than the reality he’s living in now. How is he supposed to love someone he barely knows?

Your words from last night come crashing back into his mind again. The coldness, and the frustration. The way you barely even looked at him when he walked through the door. How was he supposed to love you when you can’t even be polite when he comes home from work? Tears are still streaming down his face, heavier now, falling faster than he can wipe them away. His hands curl into fists, mimicking a bitten apple.

There are too many emotions fighting inside his head at once. Each one is pulling at him, trying to take control completely, until the pressure in his chest feels almost unbearable.

He needs to suck up the pain and deal with it. He needs to be a man. He wishes he could just do the right thing. He doesn't know what the right thing is. He wishes you could be like the girl of his dreams. He wishes you could be like Florence.

Bang Chan’s hands shake as he grabs the side of his desk. Angrily, his fingers clamp down so tightly the wood creaks faintly beneath the pressure. The muscles in his forearms strain, knuckles whitening until they almost look like snow against the dark edge of the desk. For a moment, all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat. Thump, Thud, Thump. His gaze drops. There, hanging from the sharp corner of the desk, is a single tear that must have fallen from his face without him noticing. It clings stubbornly to the polished surface, trembling slightly before it falls. In that tiny drop of water, he can see a distorted reflection of himself. He's red-faced, with eyes swollen and stained. His shoulders shake in a way that makes him look far smaller than the man the world believes him to be. He gulps, trying desperately to swallow past the thick lump lodged in his throat. Slowly, almost without realizing it, he lifts one side of the desk. The heavy piece of furniture tilts under the sudden force, one leg scraping harshly across the floor.

The movement freezes him. His eyes drop to his own hands.

What is he doing? The thought cuts through the storm in his head. He’s not like this. He’s not aggressive. He's not his father.

The desk hangs there for another second, suspended in the quiet office. Then, just as slowly, the tension drains from his arms. His fingers loosen, and the desk lowers back onto the floor with a dull, controlled thud. Chan steps back immediately, as if the piece of furniture itself burned him. For a long moment he just stands there, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. It's gonna be a long night. His phone buzzes, and Chan's eyes light up because he knows that ringtone. His tongue pokes his cheek, debating what to do. He wants to pick up and say hi, tell her he misses her, that he's sorry he got married. He wants to just say hello even briefly to Florence. But it would break the contract you both signed when you got married.

Still… one call can't hurt. Can it?

It’s now week six of living in the same house as Bang Chan. A month and a half of sleeping beside a man whose favorite color you don’t even know. A month and a half of waking up each morning and wondering exactly where your life went wrong. The thought doesn’t sting as sharply as it did in the beginning, but it still lingers in the back of your mind like an old bruise almost gone, always tender. Still… something has changed since that first week. Your thoughts aren’t quite as frantic anymore. The silence of the mansion doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing you whole every second of the day. Maybe it’s because you’ve simply gotten used to it. Or maybe it’s because of something Bang Chan said one evening after dinner.

You remember it clearly. “You should probably pick up a hobby or something to do in your free time.” At the time he’d said it casually, like he was offering harmless advice. Maybe he imagined you taking up painting, or learning an instrument, or gardening in the absurdly large yard behind the mansion. You don’t think he meant drinking. But when your house is stocked with enough expensive wine to supply a small restaurant for a year… well. Why not? A soft sigh escapes your lips, followed by a small hiccup that surprises even you. You giggle quietly to yourself, the sound loose and airy as you sway a little where you’re sitting on the couch. Your phone glows brightly in your hands as you lazily scroll through whatever pops up on your screen, the words and pictures blurring together in a pleasant, hazy way.

Your cheeks feel warm. Your head feels lighter than it has in weeks. For once, the silence of the mansion doesn’t feel so heavy. It just feels… fuzzy.

You scroll lazily through your phone, half-focused as the screen fills with the usual chaos of celebrity drama. It could be a scandal, or a break up. As long as there was another carefully crafted apology posted in neat black text over a white background. Rich people’s lives crumble in front of millions. You watch it all unfold like it’s a television show, reading the comments underneath with quiet amusement. Some people mock them mercilessly, tearing apart every mistake like vultures circling something already dead.

Others beg to live their lives. “I wish I had their problems.”, “Imagine being that rich and still complaining.” You snort softly at one of them, taking another sip of wine as the warmth spreads through your chest.

If only they knew.

Your thumb keeps moving down the screen until something stops it. A post. You normally avoid anything that includes Bang Chan. It’s not exactly hatred, nothing that dramatic, but looking at him for longer than necessary always brings back the uncomfortable reminder that he’s technically your husband. So you usually just scroll past. But this one…this one is different. The picture was clearly taken from far away, probably by paparazzi. The lighting is dim, the focus slightly blurry, but it’s recent. Very recent. Your wine glass pauses halfway to your mouth. Slowly, you lower it onto the table with a quiet clink. Both of your hands wrap around your phone now, fingers tightening instinctively as you lean closer to the screen, and the pleasant haze from the wine evaporates instantly. Your eyes sharpen.

Because in the picture, Bang Chan isn’t alone. There’s actually a woman with him. You can't stop your eyes from locking onto her instantly. Dark red hair falls down her back in soft waves, catching the glow of the streetlights in the photo. Even through the grainy zoom of a paparazzi lens, it’s obvious she’s beautiful. Tall. Perfect posture. The kind of effortless elegance magazines love to print on their covers. But that’s not the part that makes your chest tighten. It’s the way she’s touching him. Her hand rests gently against his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye as he cries. It's like she knows him. They almost look like a couple. Your stomach drops. Your thumb moves before your brain can stop it. There's so many photos. More pictures appear as you scroll, the internet feeding them to you endlessly. Different angles. Different nights. Sometimes they’re standing close together, talking quietly. Sometimes they’re walking side by side. In one picture they’re pressed close enough that it looks like they’re almost… snuggling.

Your mind feels like it’s floating somewhere outside your body as you keep scrolling. You weren’t in love with him. You know that. But somehow… you also never imagined him as the type to cheat. Your fingers tighten around your phone as another image loads. It shouldn’t hurt this much. And yet with every new photo, something ugly and heavy twists deeper in your chest. Your thoughts start running in directions you hate, directions you can’t seem to stop.What does she have that you don’t? Is she kinder? Maybe Prettier? More interesting? You’ve had six weeks. Six entire weeks to try and get him to like you even a little bit. To make the awkward dinners easier. To maybe, just maybe, build something that resembled affection. Instead he’s out there with someone else, in front of cameras. Like he didn’t even care if you found out!

The articles under the photos are worse. You start reading them even though every line makes your chest ache more.

Fans speculate about Chan’s mysterious companion…

Is this the woman who finally stole his heart?

Sources say the two have been seen together multiple times…

Your vision starts to blur. You don’t even notice when the first tear slips down your cheek, or the second. By the time you realize what’s happening, you’re sitting at the dining table with your phone clutched in your hands, shoulders shaking as quiet sobs spill out of you. You stare down at the screen through watery eyes, your chest aching with a question you never expected to care about. Why doesn’t Chan love you? Why does it hurt this much that he cheated?

The front door clicks shut behind him with a quiet thud. At first, Bang Chan doesn’t notice anything unusual. The mansion is dim like it always is at night, the lights low and the rooms stretching out in long, silent hallways. His jacket hangs heavy over his arm as he steps inside, loosening the collar of his shirt. But he hears a small hic, which causes him to slowly turn over to you. You’re sitting on the floor near the dining table, knees pulled tightly to your chest. Your arms wrap around them like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your head is bowed, lips pressed so hard together they’ve gone pale.

For a moment he just freezes. “Y/N?” he says. The worry hits his face immediately, brows pulling together as he walks closer. Even from across the room he can tell something is wrong. Your shoulders are stiff, your breathing uneven, and there’s something in the way you’re staring at the floor that makes his stomach twist. “Y/N,” he repeats, softer this time. He sets his jacket down without even realizing he’s done it. “What’s wrong?” His voice comes out gentler than either of you probably expect.

But the images on your phone burn fresh in your mind, the way that woman touched his face, the way he looked at her like she mattered. Like she was someone worth comforting. You know better than to fall for softness that isn’t meant for you. Of course he doesn’t care. No one does. Not your parents, who signed the papers and shipped you into this marriage like it was a business deal. Not the friends you had to abandon without explanation. Not the man standing a few feet away from you now, who still treats you like a stranger wandering through his house.

But the images on your phone burn fresh in your mind, the way that woman touched his face, the way he looked at her like she mattered. Like she was someone worth comforting. You know better than to fall for softness that isn’t meant for you. Of course he doesn’t care. No one does. Not your parents, who signed the papers and shipped you into this marriage like it was a business deal. Not the friends you had to abandon without explanation. Not the man standing a few feet away from you now, who still treats you like a stranger wandering through his house.

Your fingers tighten against your knees. He only sees you as the woman living under his roof.

You turn to him, hair wild from tugging at it in frustration, strands sticking out in every direction. Your eyes are red, slightly bloodshot, cheeks damp from the tears you’ve tried to hold back. The sight of you seems to register immediately on his face, his brows knitting together in concern, shock, disbelief, and maybe a flicker of something else you can’t quite read. You laugh bitterly, a short, sharp sound that carries more pain than humor. “What’s wrong?” you say, voice trembling but cutting through the quiet like a knife. You step forward, letting your hands drop the phone in front of him with a thud. “You’re what’s wrong! What the hell is this, Chan?!”

His eyes follow the motion, then flick down at your phone. The image of him with her, hand on her cheek, the look in his eyes as tender as it is intimate, stares back at him from the screen. His usual composure falters, and for the first time, worry overtakes his expression. His lips part, no words forming immediately, as he slowly takes in the undeniable proof. And it hurts. God, it hurts even more to see it confirmed. Every single picture you’d stumbled across, every glimpse of him with someone else, all true. He really is cheating. He really is with her. And he hasn’t even tried to know you, to love you, or even like you. “Y/N… gosh, no…” he begins, voice low and hurried, but it’s too late. You cut him off, your voice sharp now, trembling with anger and betrayal.

“No! Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t you dare try to explain this. You, how long were you planning on hiding this from me? Did you even care enough to pretend?!” Your chest heaves with every word. The betrayal stings so deeply you can barely think straight, and yet every word you spit is the truth. Your hands clench at your sides as you stare at him, daring him to meet your gaze. “For once, just admit you did it!”

Your voice cracks not gently in the slightest. Each step shakes with the tension coiled in your body. Your hands rise to your mouth, biting at your nails until the skin beneath them blisters, raw and stinging like a bitten orange. You whip around to face him fully, eyes blazing. Chan, who usually carries himself like the center of control, looks suddenly small under the weight of your anger and hurt. Every ounce of restraint you’d kept in check for six long weeks is pouring out now. “Say something real to my face!” you yell, voice trembling but relentless. “I’m tired of living like everything’s fine when it’s not!”

A bitter laugh escapes you, low and dry, scraping at the air between you. “You. Cheated. On. Me.” Each word comes out sharp, punctuated by the sway of your head from side to side, like a metronome marking your heartbreak. Chan flinches, eyes darting away. His fingers reach up automatically, pushing back the dark strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. His lips part, but no words come. You can see the conflict and shame in his expression, but it’s not enough to heal the rage and betrayal scorching through you. For once, nothing in the world could make the silence between your shouts feel safe.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” Bang Chan whispers, voice low and strained, trying desperately to keep his composure. “I went over to her to say a final goodbye.” The words shatter your heart into a million numbing pieces.

“Final goodbye!?” Your voice cracks, eyes widening in disbelief as your fists clench so tightly your nails dig into your palms. “Oh, so you get that privilege and I don’t?!” Chan flinches under the force of your anger, but something else appears in his eyes, pain, regret, guilt, and it cuts you even deeper. “You… you get to go say goodbye to the love of your life, huh?” you spit, pointing angrily toward the door like it somehow holds the weight of everything he’s just done. His mouth opens, then closes, and he shifts slightly on his feet, unsure of how to respond. “What about everyone I left back home?” you continue, voice shaking with every word. “What about my coworkers? My family? My friends?!”

Each question presses down like a weight in the air between you. He swallows, shuffling on the floor where he stands, unable to meet your gaze fully. The mansion suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in around the two of you as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

In a sudden burst of frustration, Bang Chan finally raises his voice. “Well, I’m sorry you miss them!” His pauses letting out an angry breath. “How many times are you going to bring that up? I hear it almost every single day I come home from work!” He straightens, shoulders rigid, rolling his eyes as if your very existence is an irritation he can’t stand. “You aren’t the only person who lost people when we got married!” His voice grows harsher, rising with every word. “I’m stuck with you of all people to keep me company, when I could have had Florence! You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to wake up beside someone I barely know while the one I actually-”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, fists clenching at his sides. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, the anger and guilt fighting against each other so visibly it makes your stomach turn. The words hit like fire, and instead of breaking you, they ignite something sharper inside. You shake your head, fists still clenched at your sides, heart hammering with a mix of anger and disbelief. Not the worst option, you think bitterly. You’re not stupid, you know you’re not the worst choice. You shouldn’t be. “I come home hoping maybe we can have a nice conversation,” he continues, voice dripping with frustration, “but nowadays you’re drunk all the time! I mean, look at you right now, you can’t even stand up properly because you drink so much!”

You straighten your back, forcing yourself to meet his eyes despite the burn behind them. The tears haven’t fully stopped, and as you swipe at the remnants, you smudge whatever makeup you’d tried to salvage. It doesn’t matter. “Really, Chan?” you spit, voice low and dangerous, a bitter laugh rolling out afterward. “You think this is about me drinking?!” Your gaze pierces him, unflinching. “You think I’m the problem? I’m not stupid, okay? I know I’m not the only one who lost things when we got married. But I, I’m not the worst option, Chan!” Your chest rises and falls faster now, hands trembling at your sides. The anger and hurt coiled inside you spill over, unrestrained.

“You, you have the audacity to blame me for drinking when you, ” Your voice shakes as the words choke in your throat, “you, you’re the one who… you’re the one who doesn’t even try to care about me!” For a moment, the mansion is silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the tension that fills the space between you. Chan’s face shifts, something between guilt, shock, and defensiveness, but you can’t stop now. Not when your chest feels like it might tear itself open from holding it in for six long weeks.

“So excuse me that I’m not your perfect, dumb, husband-serving wife!” you scream, voice breaking on the last words. “I have goals and dreams too! And you’re the one person that’s stopping me from doing any of them! I feel like a prisoner in this house! Nothing ever, EVER, goes the way I want it to!” You stomp your feet hard against the wooden floor, each thud echoing like a warning. “It’s not like you’ve tried getting to know me!” you shout, fingers trembling as you point at him.

“It’s not like you’ve tried getting to know me either!” he fires back, pride sharpening his words like knives. The air between you crackles with tension. Both of you are too proud to admit the smallest fraction of fault, and every word you throw at each other only digs the trench deeper. No matter how much you yell, you know it won’t get better. You can’t calm down. You won’t calm down, not while the hurt and betrayal burn this hot in your chest. You stomp closer, pointing directly at his face, about to unleash the next blow of words, when,

everything comes crashing down. Literally.

The chandelier above, loosened from years of neglect and the weight of the mansion’s constant shifting, groans before plummeting toward the floor. Crystal and metal fall in slow motion, scattering shards and dust as the room fills with the deafening crash! You barely have time to scream before both of you dive in opposite directions, instinct taking over. The world tilts, glass shattering around you, and for a terrifying moment, nothing else exists but the raw, immediate terror of survival.

Your hands scrape against the floor, nails tearing into the wood as you huddle down, eyes wide with shock, heart hammering. Chan’s next to you, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes darting between you and the wreckage, breath ragged.

Silence fills the air.

And then eventually, in a whisper, barely above the sound of your own ragged breathing, you ask, “Why don’t you love me?” The words hang in the air, delicate and jagged all at once. They tremble out of your mouth like shattered crystal, sharper even than the pieces littering the floor around you. The room is silent. Not the kind of silence that comforts, but the kind that presses down, heavy and suffocating. You collapse fully to the ground, knees tucked to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself as if to hold together what’s left of your dignity. Bang Chan freezes just a few feet away, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. How are you supposed to respond to a question like that? He stares at you, waiting for an answer he can’t give. Waiting for a truth that neither of you can yet speak. The mansion around you groans, the shards of glass glittering like cruel stars on the floor. Two people, trapped by pride, expectation, and circumstance, standing, or rather, sitting, amid the ruins of everything they never asked for.

You are in some shape and form, real and fake. A bird in a cage, and a deer missing a leg. The love of his life and the woman he hates most.

You are both a tethered and a tragedy.

Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter will hopefully be out soon, but it'll still take a while 😅🩷

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This curse was more than physical; it was a chain around his soul. Every heartbeat of the living nearby throbbed against him, a song of life he could never join. Every warmth he felt made his skin ache, a reminder that the very impulse to reach out, to connect, could unravel existence itself. He had learned, grudgingly, that detachment was survival. That longing was a liability. That the world beyond these halls was not his to hold.

Theo’s shadow stretched along the walls of the corridor, long and thin, a pale reflection of his form that seemed almost ashamed of itself. He hated the way it lingered, hated that it existed at all. Every movement he made was a negotiation with himself, with the deadly impulse coiled beneath his skin. He hated his own existence — the fact that his body and mind had been crafted to desire, to reach, to love, and yet every instinct to connect carried a weight too heavy to bear.

He despised the hands that had made him, the arrogant architects of flesh and bone who had called themselves gods. They had carved him with beauty, instilled in him intelligence and strength, grace and awareness, and then, with a single flourish of their cruelty, left him with a curse that no amount of caution could undo.