#infidelity.

You stood in front of the hotel room door, nervously wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. You knew this day would have to come eventually. The day you’d have to face him.

In your mind, you’d played out a thousand scenarios of how your conversation would go. 

Your first meeting after all this time.

Did you want this?

Absolutely not.

Did you feel like you owed it to him?

No.

But somewhere deep inside your wounded, shattered heart, one of its broken pieces whispered that it was the right thing to do. After all, you had a daughter together. And if not for yourself, if not for him, then at least for her, you should see him.

Even if it was just this one last time.

You pressed the doorbell.

“Here goes nothing…”

🖤🖤🖤

You were slowly starting to feel like yourself again.  

For the most part.

You had mama’s Min to thank for that. She'd taken care of you during your recovery, making sure you had everything you needed. She helped you find a good pediatrician for your daughter and a gynecologist for yourself. You had never lived in Daegu, so you didn’t know your way around like she did.

The two of you existed in what could almost be called perfect harmony.

With one exception.

You both seemed determined to ignore the elephant in the room.

The better you felt, the more aware you became that it was only a matter of time before you’d have to talk about what had happened and, more importantly, about what should come next.

You had blocked Yoongi on every possible platform and channel, completely cutting off any way for him to reach you.

But you knew Yoongi wasn’t stupid. You knew it wouldn’t take him long to put two and two together to realize who was helping you and where you were.

After mama’s Min spoke to her son for the first time, Yoongi didn’t call her again for a long while. You could see the anticipation on her face every time her phone rang, and the quiet disappointment that followed when his name didn’t appear on the screen.

How did you know so easily that she was disappointed it wasn’t him?

Because that same feeling, the sting of waiting, the ache of disappointment, had been your constant companion for the last forty weeks of your pregnancy.

Yoongi’s behavior was nothing like the man you once knew.

He wasn’t the same person you had fallen in love with. He wasn’t the Yoongi who used to show up outside your office when it rained, just to drive you home so you wouldn't get soaked .

He wasn’t the Yoongi who would quietly fix broken things in your old apartment without ever being asked.

The Yoongi you now acted as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. Resetting him to factory settings. Turning a loving, attentive partner into a cold-hearted bastard.

So when you saw the disappointment on Mrs. Min’s face, you said nothing.

Because really what could you possibly say?

Your relationship with her had its unspoken rules. She comforted and cared for you, and you let her.

Not the other way around.

But that unspoken arrangement was starting to crack.

You’d been wondering for weeks why she never asked about what had happened.

Why you ran away from the hospital.

Why you turned to her for help.

Why Yoongi wasn’t there with you in the first place.

Could she have known what her son had been doing behind your back?

Maybe.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t have helped you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Still, one quiet afternoon after the baby had fallen asleep and the apartment was spotless, leaving Mrs. Min with nothing to tidy or fuss over, you decided it was finally time to face it. To tell her the truth.

You had just made tea for the both of you and brought it into the living room. It felt like the right moment.

Better now than never.

You poured the tea into the cups and sat beside her on the couch. You didn’t know how to start, how to find the right words. So you decided to just rip off the band-aid and say it straight.

And that’s exactly what you did.

“Eomeonim… Yoongi cheated on me.”

The moment the words left your lips, your chest tightened, and your eyes burned. You drew in three unsteady breaths before finally daring to look up at the woman who was almost, but never truly, your mother-in-law.

Mrs. Min held her teacup midair, as though she’d momentarily forgotten what she was about to do. Her eyes closed. When she finally opened them and met your gaze, there it was, the same quiet, piercing look Yoongi often gave you when he was lost in thought.

“I know.”

Her words echoed in your head.

Just a simple I know and everything it carried.

Silence fell. Emptiness.

Only the pounding in your ears and the uneven beat of your heart.

It felt like being betrayed all over again. You knew she could have known so why did it still shock you? Why did it still hurt this much?

Was it because all those suppressed emotions were resurfacing and making themselves known?

"D-did you know?"

Mama Min set the tea down on the table. Her movements were deliberately slow, as if she were gathering her thoughts.

"You used to come over for dinner alone. You practically never showed up together anymore. When I was over, I saw how he treated you, how absent he was. At first, I thought maybe he was stressed, like a father-to-be. Yoongi always had the tendency to overthink things. So one day…" you noticed her hands tightening around her mug.

"One day, I visited him at the studio. I came over unannounced, and I caught them there."

She didn't say anything more. She just grabbed your hand. 

Neither of you said anything more. You drank the rest of your tea in silence.

It was a difficult conversation, but a necessary one so you were glad you let it out. And once again, you were grateful she was by your side. 

But slowly, something shifted in the air.

You caught her talking about Yoongi in a completely different tone.

At first, they were subtle hints, dropped in passing, supposedly addressed to your daughter, but in reality you knew that the recipient of these words was you.

You heard her say:

"You look so much like Daddy. Would you like to meet him?"

or

"Daddy would definitely sing you lullabies. Would you like to hear a lullaby written by Daddy?"

And there were conversations, too.

Conversations not between you and Mama Min, but between her and her husband.

She usually had those conversations at night, when she thought you were asleep.

Or when she thought you couldn’t hear. The walls weren’t thick enough to muffle her quiet words as she spoke about how overwhelmed she felt by it all. How she wanted to help, but didn’t want to interfere. How she thought you two should meet, and that Yoongi should see the little one.

You knew her anger toward her son wouldn’t last forever. You couldn’t count on that.

You couldn’t count on anyone to feel the same way about Yoongi as you did, least of all his own mother.

You weren’t that naive.

You knew it was only a matter of time before the dust began to settle.

And still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something you didn’t know.

It all started with Yoongi’s dad calling his wife.

One night, on your way to the bathroom, you heard Mrs. Min talking to her husband through the door of your room.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but one sentence stopped you in your tracks.

"...But she looks just like Yoongi! Yebo, what are you talking about!?" Your heart skipped a beat when you heard those words.

Does Yoongi’s dad suspect your daughter isn't Yoongi's?

In fact, when you think about it, Mr.Min has only come to the apartment twice since you gave birth less than two months ago. You thought he wanted to give you space, that he didn't want to get involved.

But you noticed a strange coldness radiating from him. This man was always so kind to you, so effusive and so warm. He accepted you into the family faster than his wife.

That's why, when you first greeted him at the door, he merely nodded at you and didn't say a word. 

You felt something was wrong.

Throughout his entire visit, he wasn't as warm with you as he had been in the past. In fact, he didn't even speak to you. You even had the feeling that he was angry with you.

Only when he took your daughter in his arms did a wide smile immediately appear on his stern face.

Although, even when you watched them from the side, you noticed that Mr. Min was looking very closely at the little one. You felt as if he was examining her with a magnifying glass. Looking carefully at every little detail of her small face.

You felt his father was on the other side - Yoongi’s side. Worse still, you had the feeling that the more he talked to his wife, the more you felt that mama Min was starting to distance herself from you.

You had a really bad feeling that something strange was happening behind your back.

So when mama Min brought up the topic of meeting with Yoongi, you knew it was time to make a decision.

You were rocking the baby to sleep while Mrs. Min washed the dishes. She didn’t have to; there was a perfectly good dishwasher right beside her but it seemed she needed something to keep her hands busy while she talked to you.

“You know, I talked to Yoongi.”

Hearing his name, you felt every muscle in your body tense. You couldn’t see her face, but from the tone of her voice, you could tell the subject was as heavy for her as it was for you.

You didn’t respond, and Mrs. Min took your silence as permission to go on.

“I’m not defending him  don’t think I don’t know what he did was wrong. But I do think it’s time for you to stop hiding and talk to him. You both need to speak to each other like adults. You have a daughter together, after all.”

You looked down at the small bundle in your arms. At her tiny mouth that looked exactly like her father’s, at her button nose, at those soft, chubby cheeks.

You exhaled slowly.

Mrs. Min was right.

Deep down, you knew she was right. Maybe you had overreacted that day in the hospital, running away, cutting him off completely, pretending that silence could somehow protect you from the pain.

You had suffered deeply then. It broke you that you’d gone through almost your entire pregnancy alone, feeling abandoned and unseen. Yoongi’s absence at the hospital had been the final blow. It was Jimin who had helped you through everything, who had stayed by your side until the very end.

In some small, bitter way, you knew you had acted out of spite. You wanted him to hurt, to feel even a fraction of what you’d felt. To show him that he couldn’t shatter you and walk away untouched… even if, in truth, you were the one left in pieces.

Your heart had been ripped apart. And now, as you looked at your sleeping daughter, you weren’t sure anymore if your pride outweighed everything that had happened.

But Mama Min was right.

You didn’t owe him anything.

You owed her. Your daughter. 

"Eomeonim..." you began slowly, composing every word you wanted to say. You knew you had to weigh your words carefully. You didn't want to offend the woman who had helped you so much. After all, Yoongi was her son. Whether she was angry with him or not didn't matter. Because in the end, you knew she would forgive him sooner or later.

If she hadn't already forgiven him.

"...I don't know if I can handle it, if I'm strong enough."

You didn't want to show weakness; you wanted to be as strong as the woman standing before you. But you weren't her. You've always been very emotional. And you were afraid that this emotionality might cloud your judgment once again.

Mama Min turned toward you, set the dishcloth on the counter, and, after wiping her hands on her apron, walked over to the couch. She sat down beside you and gently ran her hand over your hair, the way someone might comfort a child.

For once, the gesture didn’t feel patronizing. It didn’t bother you at all.

You needed the warmth, the closeness, the simple proof that someone still cared. After so many months of silence and indifference, that small act of kindness nearly undid you.

"I know, honey, and I know you're scared, but you both need to talk. You need to resolve this situation for this little princess. She'll definitely want to meet her dad, and she'll want him in her life. Just try, y/n. I know this conversation won't be easy. I know he hurt you. But this isn't just about you anymore. Okay?"

You looked into her eyes, the same eyes Yoongi had inherited. Mama Min might be intimidating, confident, and sometimes sharp-tongued, but you knew she was a kind woman with a heart forged from many life experiences.

You agreed, for her and your daughter's sake.

Mama Min promised to take care of the little one while you talked.

Now you were nervously pressing the button that summoned the elevator. You were supposed to meet Yoongi in his hotel room. You didn't want to meet him in your rented apartment.

You didn't want to reveal your location. Even if you suspected he knew where you were.

As the elevator ascended, your stomach twisted tighter with each passing floor, your heartbeat drumming unevenly in your chest. You wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to stay composed. But when the soft chime announced your arrival, calm was the last thing you felt.

The hallway was quiet, too quiet. Only two doors stood at opposite ends, and it didn’t take long to find the one you were looking for.

PH 770.

You stopped in front of it, your fingers trembling slightly as you pressed the doorbell.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the lock clicked, and the door opened. You expected to see Yoongi but it wasn't him standing there.

Instead, you were met with Jimin’s warm, familiar smile, his eyes softening the tension that had been gripping your chest.

“Y/N, you’ve made it! I’m so happy to see you! You look good. How have you been?”

Jimin didn’t let you get a word in. He wrapped you in his arms and hugged you tightly as if he hadn’t seen you in a year.

There was always something comforting about the way Park Jimin hugged you. Everyone loved Jimin, his kind heart, his warm, easygoing nature and you were no exception.

He had been there for you during the final weeks of your pregnancy, back when Yoongi would vanish for days, nights. Jimin had been the one to comfort you, he bought the most beautiful clothes for your daughter.

“For our little princess,” he’d said, handing you yet another meticulously wrapped designer outfit.

“Jiminaa, she might wear it once, if at all! She already has so many clothes! I swear she has more than I do” You scolded him lightly, though the paper bags with Dior emblazoned on them betrayed your inability to refuse.

Sometimes Tae would come along with Jimin, sometimes Jungkook. Jin had apologized, saying he didn’t want to get involved. Hobi tried, but you could tell it was hard for him, so you reassured him that you wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t visit. You understood.

Namjoon, though… you hadn’t seen him even once.

So when Jimin finally released you from the hug, still smiling warmly, you were caught off guard to see Namjoon standing behind him.

He looked… unsure. Awkward, even. For someone usually so articulate, it was surprising to see him struggling for words. It was as difficult for him as it was for you.

“Y/N,” he said, your name soft, hesitant.

You froze, unsure what to expect or how to react, your gaze locked on his. And yet, it was Namjoon who made the first move, breaking the silence between you.

“Oh fuck it, come here!”It definitely wasn’t as comforting as Jimin’s hug, but it wasn’t the worst either.

When Jimin hugged you, it was like floating on a cloud of warmth and happiness, as if the world had softened around you.

Namjoon’s hug, on the other hand, felt heavy, like someone was pressing down on your chest. It felt like someone was crushing your insides and testing the strength of your bones.

“Joonie, I appreciate your hug, but you're suffocating me…” You barely managed to get the words out, your nose buried deep in Namjoon's chest.

“Oh God! Sorry, my bad!” You felt the oxygen rush back into your lungs as you pulled apart.

The moment was fleeting, because the moment Namjoon released you from his embrace, your gaze fell on the figure sitting in the armchair at the back of the room.

You felt a sudden knot in your stomach as his cold gaze pierced you.

Jimin, sensing your sudden change of mood, grabbed your hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb.

"It'll be alright, don't worry. We're here to help" you heard a voice beside you. But the emotions boiling inside you muffled the sounds of Jimin's voice so effectively that you couldn't hear his words.

You were now standing in the hallway of the room, staring directly into the icy gaze of the man you loved more than anything else.

Yoongi was dressed in his favorite dark navy pants and a fitted black shirt elegant, composed, calculated. It caught you off guard.

He wasn’t usually like this. At home, or when he met with friends, Yoongi lived in his comfort zone: soft sweatpants, loose T-shirts, hoodies that smelled faintly of his cologne.

But the man standing before you now wasn’t that Yoongi. This one had dressed to impress or maybe to remind you of the power he once held over you.

Either way, you could tell it was intentional. Every button, every fold, every quiet ounce of control in the way he carried himself.

All of it was deliberate.

He wanted to intimidate you.

You felt someone pulling you by the hand into the room. You were completely oblivious to what was happening to you.

"Hyung..." If you had been still alert, you would have heard the scolding tone in Jimin's voice as he uttered those words. Or you would have noticed Yoongi swallowing nervously beneath his facade of indifference. But you didn't notice any of it; you were busy trying to keep your remaining nerves in check.

Jimin guided you gently to the couch, and now there was an oak designer coffee table separating you from Yoongi, a table that suddenly felt more like a wall.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Every time your eyes drifted in his direction, your chest tightened painfully. The man sitting across from you was the same one you had once loved with every piece of your heart, the same man with whom you had a daughter.

But now, when you looked at him, all you could see were the memories that hurt: the silence, the betrayal, the nights you cried alone while he was nowhere to be found.

Each breath you took felt heavier, and for a moment, you wished you could just disappear before your heart broke all over again.

A gentle hand began to rub your back. Jimin’s, steady and comforting. But before he could say anything, Yoongi’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold enough to slice through your composure.

“You’re doing a great job, Y/N. Acting like I’m the villain in this story. Bravo. You should get an Oscar for this performance.”

You froze. Slowly, you lifted your head, confusion clouding your features as your eyes met his.

What was he talking about?

His words made no sense to you.

“Yoongi…” Namjoon began carefully, but you didn’t even hear him.

Your own voice came out small, trembling, barely audible in the heavy silence that followed.

“What are you talking about?”

Yoongi let out a low, humorless laugh, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together in front of his mouth. 

He looked at you, examining you as if you were a curious animal he was seeing for the first time and didn't know what to do with you. His movements were calm, deliberate, almost too controlled.

When he finally spoke, his voice was cold, stripped of warmth, stripped of the tenderness you once knew.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pain.

It was distance.

And that, somehow, hurt the most.

“Are you going to keep pretending and putting on this whole show? Seriously? After all this time?”

You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. His words didn’t add up, none of it did. Your eyes searched his face desperately, trying to find some trace of the man you used to know, some hint that this was all a terrible misunderstanding.

But Yoongi only leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a cruel, mocking grin.

“You really want me to say it out loud, don’t you?” His voice dripped with venomous calm. “You should be grateful I even agreed to meet you. If it weren’t for my mother… if it weren’t for Jimin and Namjoon, you’d never have seen me again.”

The words struck you like a slap sharp, stunning, humiliating.

For a few seconds, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then, slowly, the numbness gave way to something hotter, darker. Rage burned through your veins, steady and consuming, like magma tearing through everything in its path.

“What did you just say?” Your voice trembled, but your anger made it stronger. “That I’m lucky you wanted to meet me?!”

Your whole body was shaking now. He had the audacity to say something like that after everything he’d done.

After the pain.

After the betrayal.

After what he’d done to your daughter.

How he’d shattered your life… and still had the nerve to act like you were the one who owed him.

“You fucked that bitch Lee Sung-kyung, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be grateful?!”

“Y/n-ssi…”

You didn’t even realize when you’d gotten to your feet one moment you were trembling in your chair, the next you were standing over him, glaring down with fire in your eyes. Jimin’s hand caught yours, his grip tight, as if he genuinely feared you might leap across the room and claw Yoongi’s face.

You jerked your hand free and took a step forward. Something in that movement must have triggered him, because Yoongi rose from his chair too slow, deliberate, his expression unreadable.

Now you were face to face.

“Whoa, whoa calm down, guys. Let’s just talk this through,” Namjoon tried to intervene, but neither of you was listening. His voice barely registered you were both too far gone, locked in your own storm, deaf to everything and everyone around you.

The tension between you was thick, electric, coiling in the air like a storm about to break. You locked eyes, neither willing to back down, hurling silent challenges that spoke louder than any words.

You could see the faint flush creeping up his neck, the muscle in his jaw tightening. His eyes  sharp, merciless. There was no trace of the man you had loved. Only the cold, simmering fury of someone who looked at you like an enemy.

“You have the nerve to call me out after what you did to me?”

Yoongi’s voice was low, seething, the kind that made the air feel heavier. You could see how furious he was. Every word gritted through clenched teeth, every breath a visible effort to keep control. The calm, composed Yoongi you once knew was gone, replaced by the same wild anger burning through your own veins.

“What I did to you?! What have I possibly done, Yoongi, what?!” you spat, your voice breaking with rage. “What have I done to you besides giving you the child you claimed you wanted so desperately? The same child you abandoned the day you found out I was pregnant!”

You hadn’t even realized how close you’d gotten until your noses were almost touching, your breath mingling in heated fury.

“Guys, please,” Namjoon’s voice broke through, gentle but tense. “Take a breath. You need to listen to each other, not tear each other apart.”

You had to give him credit he was doing his best. But this wasn’t a situation that could be fixed with calm words. Not anymore.

“Hyung, take a deep breath and calmly tell y/n what the doctor told you.”

Huh?

Doctor?

You looked at Jimin, confused.

What's going on here? You came to resolve the custody situation for your daughter, and now you're being accused of who knows what. Now Jimin's mentioning a doctor? What kind of circus is this?

Yoongi tore his gaze from you for a moment, looked at Jimin, then at Namjoon, who handed him a white folder.

"Here, read this." Yoongi tossed the folder on the table in front of you, not even bothering to hand it to you.

You looked at the slightly open folder and then at Namjoon who slightly nodded towards the document.

Slowly, you bent down, as you picked it up. Your eyes caught the bold letters at the top:

Seoul Reproductive & Andrology Clinic.

The name of the doctor blurred in your vision as you read the next line:

Diagnosis: irreversible male infertility due to obstructive azoospermia.

Your throat closed.

The words didn't make sense at first. They couldn't.

Yoongi's breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as if every breath hurt. 

“Now tell me again,” he said hoarsely, “who cheated on who first Y/N.”

The paper shook in your hands, your mind struggling to process the truth and the realization that you had both been bleeding from different wounds all along.

Was that the reason he’d started pulling away even before you got pregnant?

In an instant, flashes of all those nights came rushing back. The quiet evenings when you’d tried to initiate intimacy, full of soft hope and excitement, believing maybe tonight would be the night a little miracle finally happened.

But he’d been reluctant.

Yoongi had started to pull away even before you conceived. Somewhere along the way, you noticed the spark in him had faded. The warmth, the tenderness, the eagerness that once came so naturally.

You’d read on forums that this sometimes happened to couples trying for a baby. That sex could start to feel like a chore rather than something born out of love. So you’d done everything you could to keep that from happening. You’d worn the lingerie he liked, touched him the way he always responded to, and tried to keep things light, playful. You didn’t want to be the woman with a fertility app in one hand and a timer in the other, announcing, “It’s ovulation day, let’s go!”

He’d withdrawn into himself, shut down emotionally. But you never once imagined that infertility could be the reason for his silence. You’d assumed it was about work, the endless projects hanging over him like a storm cloud.

So you did what you always did when Yoongi was having one of his darker days. 

You gave him space. 

You didn’t push, didn’t pry. You just stayed close enough so he’d know you were there, like always.

But never ever did it cross your mind that it could have anything to do with Yoongi being infertile.

Except… that wasn’t true, was it? Because if it were, your daughter wouldn’t even exist.

“Yoongi… this must be some kind of mistake,” you managed to whisper, staring at the paper in disbelief.

Yoongi saw the shock on your face, and a glint of triumph flickered in his eyes  as if your confusion had just confirmed his suspicions.

A bitter, mocking laugh escaped his lips. You looked at him, then at Namjoon and Jimin, desperate to see some trace of understanding in their faces, some sign that this was just a cruel joke.

“So? What do you have to say for yourself now?” Yoongi’s voice was laced with venom. “I repeat my question. Who betrayed who first, Y/N? You really thought you could hide it from me? You’re just like the rest of them looking for an easy life and a gullible man to give it to you. But your little plan didn’t quite work out, did it? You couldn’t get pregnant with me, but you managed with someone else. What did you think would happen huh? You probably thought; No you hoped  that bastard was mine. That’s why you clung to that lie for so long, isn’t it?”

You had to sit down.

His words were echoing inside your skull, pounding with every heartbeat, each one cutting deeper than the last.

Bastard. 

His cruel words about your daughter hurt you more than his suggestion that you might have cheated on him.

Now it all started to make sense. 

Mr. Min’s coldness, the strange tension between his parents, those whispered conversations late at night.

You glanced at Namjoon again, but this time he avoided your eyes. Then at Jimin. His expression - soft, apologetic.

In that moment, everything became crystal clear.

No one believed you.

They all thought you were a cheater.

With trembling hands, you placed the sheet of paper on the oak coffee table and looked up at Yoongi this time without anger.

A strange calm washed over you. 

Suddenly, you understood everything.

“So you cheated on me out of revenge?” Your voice was quiet but steady. “Because you thought our daughter was the result of my alleged affair?”

Yoongi scoffed, his laugh sharp and bitter.

“Your daughter is the result of your affair, Y/N. I came here to set things straight, because I don’t want my mother dragged into your childish games anymore. She knows. I sent her the same document I showed you. Why do you think she pushed you to meet me today? She knew you needed to stop deluding yourself. We won't keep helping you. I came here to tell you that, and to tell you to disappear from my life for good. Your things are already packed in boxes. Send my agent the address where you want them delivered. And I don’t want you contacting me or my family ever again. Is that clear?”

His cold, detached tone sliced through you like a knife. The pounding in your ears wouldn’t stop. Thoughts collided and screamed in your head:

That’s not true!

She’s yours!

I never betrayed you!

You wanted to say it out loud, to beg him to listen to give you a chance to explain. But then you remembered the one thing that silenced you completely.

Yoongi had slept with Sung-kyung out of spite. Instead of talking to you, instead of facing the problem together, he’d made the decision for both of you and destroyed everything in the process.

Pride took over you.

“So according to you, our daughter is proof that I cheated on you?” you asked anyway, though you already knew the answer.

“Your daughter,” he corrected coldly. 

“And not just that. I saw the pictures, the late dinners, the meetings with some man. It all added up. Sung-kyung confirmed it one night when she came to see me. She told me you’d confessed to her that you’d fallen in love with another man and betrayed me. That pregnancy… that child… is just proof she was right.”

You started to laugh.The absurdity of it all, his accusations, his claims about your supposed infidelity, it was so far-fetched, so utterly ridiculous, it almost felt surreal. And the fact that he mentioned Sung-kyung had told him? 

That was the final touch of irony.

“I don’t believe this is happening” you said aloud, laughing in disbelief. You knew you probably looked unhinged at that moment, but you didn’t care. They’d already judged you without even bothering to hear your side of the story.

You stood up from the couch, your pulse racing. You looked at all three of them.

“You three know better than anyone else in this room, how easily photos can be manipulated, how situations can be twisted and overinterpreted. Yes, I went to dinners. But they were strictly professional, and I was never alone. Yet you never bothered to ask me, did you? You preferred to believe some jealous bitch who’s been into you for years and befriended me just to be close to you.”

Your voice cracked slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“And our daughter? You think she’s proof of my infidelity?” You scoffed at this ridiculous accusation.

“Tell me, Yoongi did it ever cross your mind, even for a second, that maybe, just maybe, she’s yours? That I could’ve been telling the truth? That you could’ve talked to me about what was going on with you? We could’ve gone to a doctor, done more tests. But instead, you chose to react the way you did?”

You looked at him then really looked at him and for a fleeting second, the fury that burned in you tangled with something raw and painful. His expression faltered, the confidence in his eyes flickering under the weight of your words. You could see the conflict there, the hesitation he was trying so hard to hide behind that cold mask.

Your throat tightened. 

He just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes dark and unreadable and that silence between you hurt more than any insult he could have thrown your way.

“Yeah, just as I thought”

You drew in a shaky breath, your chest constricting, your heart splintering into dust with every word that left your lips.

“I get it. You’ve been used before by women, by people who only ever wanted something from you. I know trust doesn’t come easy for you. But I thought…” your voice cracked under the weight of everything you’d held back.

“ …I thought that after almost six years, I meant something to you. That I wasn’t just another person trying to grab a piece of Min Yoongi.”

For a heartbeat, the room fell utterly silent, the kind of silence that screams louder than any argument, heavy with all the things neither of you dared to say.

“Fine,” you finally said, your tone turning sharp. “We’ll disappear from your life. No problem. I have no intention of staying with someone who doesn’t respect me. I refuse to share any space with a cheater or with someone who’s just shown me who he really is and where I snad in your life.”

You saw something flicker in Yoongi’s eyes then pain, maybe? But he hid it quickly behind that cold, practiced indifference.

“Jimin. Namjoon.” You turned to them, your voice breaking but steady enough to sting. “I’m disappointed in you. I really thought at least one of you had the courage to tell me to my face what you thought of me. Especially you, Jimin. You were there with me in the last months of my pregnancy. Didn’t you think I deserved to know?”

Jimin opened his mouth, guilt flooding his expression, but you raised your hand to silence him,you weren’t finished yet.

“Save it. I don't want to hear it anymore” You said. 

“I’ll ask your mother for one last thing, Yoongi. Because I owe her that much… and because I respect her.”

Your voice was steady, but the tremor beneath it betrayed the storm inside you. “I’ll ask her to run a DNA test on my daughter to prove to you who’s right. I won’t be involved, so you can’t accuse me of faking the results. But when the results come back, and you finally learn the truth…”

You paused, meeting his eyes. Eyes that once made you feel safe, but now felt like shards of ice. With all the strength and defiance you had left, you said:

“Don’t look for us. Don’t try to contact us. From this moment on, we don’t exist to you.”

Those were the last words you left him with before you turned and walked out of the room.

Only in the elevator did your composure shatter. Silent sobs breaking free as tears streamed down your face, the pain finally spilling out.

When you closed the door to that hotel room, you promised yourself that you closed the door on your old life too.

Somewhere deep inside, a small, fragile part of you still wished he would say he was sorry. That he’d look at you with the same honesty he once had and admit he was wrong. If he did, if he showed even a flicker of remorse, you knew you’d let him back in. You’d go to therapy, work through the pain, rebuild what was broken. You wanted that, not just for yourself, but for your daughter. For the family you once dreamed of.

But standing there, staring into the hollow version of the man you’d loved, you finally understood something: love wasn’t enough anymore. Apologies couldn’t erase the nights you cried alone, the betrayal that cut through you, the months he let you carry everything on your own while he chose pride over truth.

You realized that forgiving him would mean teaching your daughter that it’s okay to accept half-love. That it’s okay to let someone destroy you, as long as they say sorry afterward. And that, you couldn’t do.

So even if a piece of your heart still longed for him, the rest of you, the wiser part knew this was the end. Because loving him had already cost you too much.

If he didn’t want anything to do with you, if he didn’t have the decency to ask, to listen, to believe if he had to betray you with her because he’d convinced himself you had done the same, then you wouldn’t be the better person this time.

You would disappear. You would start over, somewhere far away, where his shadow couldn’t reach you.

And maybe, just maybe one day, you and your daughter would find happiness again.

Part III

a/n 2: I don't quite know how to write the way you write in the US. I know that in America, if there's a pause in dialogue, it appears like this -. However, here we write with dots … It's a bit of a struggle for me, but I decided I'd write simply, the way I'm taught. I didn't study English, so I don't want to make any major mistakes. I hope you'll forgive me :)

Tag list:

It started so quietly, you almost mistook it for love.

After the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, Nanami became relentless in his insistence: you would not fight anymore. You would not step into another battlefield, not as long as he was alive.

He told you it was for your sake. For your daughter’s. For the family you had built together.

At first, it consumed you like a fever. His devotion burned through your defenses—the way he clutched your body against his chest when pain shot through your fractured spine, his fingers trembling as they swept hair from your sweat-slick forehead.

When you couldn't stand, he carried you with such desperate strength that his muscles strained beneath his shirt. He pressed the baby into the hollow of your arms, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered, "Focus on her. I'll take care of everything else," and you drowned in the raw need in his voice, mistaking possession for love.

But what began as protection curdled into confinement.

The dishes towered like a monument to neglect, stacking higher by the hour. The laundry felt like lead in your hands, a burdensome reminder that this monotonous domesticity was supposed to symbolize healing. Yet, the ghostly throb of once-broken bones lingered, a relentless echo of the cost you bore—or was it the cost he endured?

And when the house settled into a silence so profound it was suffocating, your thoughts inevitably turned to Kento.

Not the boy who once sat beside you in class, not even the man who anchored you through the storm of recovery, but the distant husband who now drifted home later with each passing night, who brushed your forehead with kisses that were mechanical, devoid of the passion that once ignited them. You despised yourself for the sharp awareness of this hollow change.

Your family had always despised him—your mother's lips thinning to a bloodless line whenever he entered a room, your father's gaze sliding past him as if he were made of smoke.

They labeled him negligent, a selfish soul unworthy of your love, their voices dropping to venomous whispers at family gatherings where they seated him at the far end of the table like an afterthought. Their exclusion of him was so cruel, it burned you with shame, the way they'd fall silent when his footsteps approached, how they'd scrutinize his threadbare cuffs and unpolished shoes.

"He'll never carry the weight of your happiness," your mother hissed once, her fingers digging into your wrist.

You had defiantly sworn they were mistaken, your spine rigid as temple steel. You chose his unwavering calm—his predictable routines, his measured voice, his steady hands—over the chaotic inferno of passion that had once consumed you, convinced that stability was an unbreakable fortress of stone and iron that would never crumble beneath your feet.

But stability rotted into emptiness faster than you could admit.

You remembered the sheer panic that flooded his eyes, wide and frantic, as the sickening snap of your spine echoed like a thunderclap in the silent room. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers twitching as though they were caught in an invisible tremor, while the healers, with their solemn faces and swift, practiced movements, hovered over your injured form.

During that brief, fragile season, his touch was a gentle caress, his fingers brushing against your skin with the tenderness of a spring breeze, and his soft-spoken words, whispered like a lullaby, wrapped around you like a comforting cloak. His tenderness felt like the warmth of true love, a soothing balm to your aching soul. You almost believed that you had finally fallen for him, that his presence was the steadfast anchor you had been seeking amid the turbulent seas of your life.

And then he asked for another child. While you were still struggling to take a step without wincing in agony. While your body defiantly resisted your every command.

You tried for him.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip as he lowered his weight onto you. The copper taste of blood filled your mouth. Your spine—still held together with metal and prayer—screamed in protest as he moved above you.

Each thrust sent lightning through your vertebrae. You pressed your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds escaping your throat. When your body finally betrayed you with a violent spasm, your hands flew up against his chest.

He rolled away without a word. In the half-light, his profile was stone—not angry, just hollow with that quiet disappointment that somehow hurt worse than rage. Your fingers reached for his retreating back even as your body curled protectively inward, two halves of you fighting a war neither could win.

"Go find another woman who can!" you had screamed, your voice cracking and raw with desperation, fury pouring out of you like a dam bursting, raging against the betrayal of your own broken body.

He didn't scream back. He never did.

He only moved to the couch with that deliberate slowness that made even his footsteps sound like judgment, each soft thud against the tatami mats punctuating your failure. The mattress creaked as your weight shifted into the hollow his body had left behind—a crater of cooling sheets that somehow felt more vast than the ocean between your hearts. In the darkness, you could hear him arranging the thin blanket over himself with precise, unhurried movements, as if even in rejection, he refused to be anything but methodical.

And yet—you always returned, dragged back by some twisted gravity. His apologies scraped like sandpaper across your raw wounds until you bled forgiveness. Life reset with the violent snap of a broken bone being forced back into place, and you both pretended not to hear the sound.

Until Shibuya.

He claimed he was mentoring Yuji and Ino, guiding them through their challenges. You wanted to believe him—needed to believe him—even as your throat tightened watching him slip in after midnight, the scent of unfamiliar air clinging to his clothes.

When he hummed while making breakfast, his eyes distant and lips curved in that private smile, you caught yourself wondering if it was relief to be home or anticipation of leaving again.

Your daughter's tiny fingers clutched at his sleeve as he hesitated in the doorway, suitcase in hand, and you hated yourself for the flicker of satisfaction you felt at her desperate attempt to anchor him—hated yourself more for hoping she would fail.

“Papa, stay home,” she whispered once, her eyes wide.

And he crouched, kissed her forehead, and said, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Yet you witnessed it—the fleeting glimmer in his eyes was not meant for her. It was a spark, brief but unmistakable, that danced across his gaze, a telltale sign of a different affection.

You told yourself you were paranoid. You told yourself you were cruel to doubt him.

Until the whispers came.

“Yes, honey. I’ll tell her today. I love you.”

You froze against the bathroom door, one hand still clutching your toothbrush, mint foam drying on your lips. His voice sliced through the wood—that same voice that had once promised to carry you when your spine was too broken to walk—now murmuring "I love you" to her.

Three words he hadn't said to you in years.

Three words that hollowed out your insides like a melon spoon, leaving nothing but the rind of you pressed against that door, listening to him plan your disposal with the casual tone he used when asking if you wanted takeout for dinner.

When he emerged, dressed neatly as ever, he looked at you without shame.

“I’ve met this girl. I’d like your permission to marry her. She’s young. Lost. I’d like to guide her.”

Your world didn't just shatter—it detonated, blasting shrapnel through your chest cavity until you couldn't breathe.

His face flickered before you in a grotesque slideshow: that half-smile when your daughter took her first steps, the gentle curve of his lips as he'd kissed your forehead after surgery, the quiet laugh when you'd burned dinner.

Each memory now radioactive, poisoning everything they touched.

And your daughter—God, your daughter—who pressed her small palms against cold glass every night until they left foggy prints, who whispered "Papa" to headlights that never turned into your driveway.

Every moment had been a performance, every touch a lie, every "I'll be home soon" a betrayal.

They weren't yours. They were never yours. They belonged to her, the faceless woman who held the only genuine piece of him you'd ever wanted.

The argument was an all-out war, not a mere disagreement.

You shouted until your voice gave out, pleaded with raw desperation, and demanded with an intense fury. Nanami just stood there, exuding a tiredness that seemed to mock your emotional eruption as if he had predicted it all along. When you stormed off to your parents' house, it wasn't his anger that followed you. It was the crushing burden of his infuriating silence.

Even then, your heart tore itself in two.

Shibuya devoured souls, crushed bodies, left nothing but blood-soaked pavement in its wake—and you knew this like you knew your own scars.

The betrayal burned white-hot in your chest, acid eating through bone, yet your fingers still trembled toward the door when reports flooded in. You stood paralyzed, throat raw, as memories of your vow crashed against visions of his broken body.

His face—the same face that whispered "I love you" to her—flashed before you, eyes emptying, skin cooling.

"Let him die," hissed the voice inside you.

But your feet moved anyway, carrying you back into that hellscape of twisted limbs and screams, your own promise shattering like glass beneath your feet. If he could destroy you with his lies, why couldn't you destroy yourself with the truth?

And when he recovered, you clawed at the wreckage of your marriage with bloodied fingernails, the jagged remnants of your once-shared life tearing at your skin as you desperately tried to salvage even the smallest splinters.

In the stark white hospital room, your daughter's tiny body trembled against his chest, her fragile voice whispering, "Don't leave again, Papa," a blade twisting deeper with each word.

You stood there, throat raw and burning, as you watched her small hands grip his shirt with the desperation of a sailor clinging to a life raft, while your own heart felt as though it was bleeding out inside your chest.

Later, in a dimly lit hospital corridor, you cornered him, eyes wide and wild with pain and anger, forcing him to swear on your daughter's life that he would never see that other woman again.

He met your gaze, his eyes unwavering, and promised with a voice as steady and precise as a surgeon's hand, delivering the vow with the same calm certainty that once led you to believe in fairy tales—before you learned that sometimes, monsters wear wedding rings.

All men are liars.

Five years later, the familiar tension returned. As you sat in the living room, your daughter sat at the kitchen table, her tiny fingers deftly twisting strands of her dolls' hair into intricate braids. The quiet hum of domesticity was interrupted by the sudden buzz of a phone vibrating in his jacket pocket, left carelessly on the couch. Your hand moved instinctively, picking up the phone before you even realized it.

The messages were there.

Plans. Affection. A wedding. With the same damn woman all those years ago.

You looked up and saw your daughter's eyes fixed on the bedroom door, her small body tensed like a spring, her homework abandoned mid-equation—the way a prisoner might watch for the executioner, with both dread and desperate hope. For a moment, your vision blurred red as you realized she'd been holding her breath for a ghost who saved his exhales for another woman's name.

The chilling realization struck you like a dagger to the heart: Nanami didn't stay out of love. It was your relentless grip, your refusal to release him, that bound him to your side. The truth was a merciless storm, battering you with the weight of your own desperate clutches.