Read this note before reading the chapter

First of all votes and comments target. 20+ votes and comments

Now read this .

This message is for the ones who think silent support is enough.

I see everything.

I see the votes. I see my book getting added to reading lists. I see the numbers move every single day. But do you know what I don’t see?

You.

No follows. No comments. No reactions. Nothing.

More 100+ readers are reading this book yet it's hard to achieve this small target.

It honestly makes me wonder — what exactly is the problem? Is my book repellent? Does my account disappear after you finish reading? Or do I just not deserve the same energy you so easily give to the thousand other authors you follow?

Because that’s what confuses me the most.

You can follow 1000 authors without hesitation. You can comment paragraphs on their chapters. You can hype them up publicly. But when it comes to my book, suddenly it’s too hard? Suddenly one follow button becomes heavy?

And don’t think I don’t notice.

New readers — yes, I’m talking to you. You vote. You add my book. You clearly enjoy it enough to keep reading. So what stops you from following? What stops you from leaving even one line of encouragement?

Does my book exist only for your entertainment and then vanish from your memory?

And this isn’t just for new readers. Old readers too — voting is not enough anymore. A story is not a vending machine where you press a button, get your chapter, and leave without a word.

Writers are human. We notice silence.

Is it really that hard to say: “I loved this chapter.” “I hate this character.” “This scene hurt.” Anything?

You have no problem doing it for other authors. So why the hesitation here?

From now on, I’m done pretending it doesn’t bother me.

I don’t care if you’re new or old.

If I continue seeing zero engagement from your side, I will start blocking. Simple.

I’m not here to entertain ghosts.

I’ve had enough of feeling invisible on my own book.

Match the energy, or don’t stay.

Eight years later

Eight years had passed, and the world had quietly rearranged itself.

The wedding venue stood grand and flawless under a pale blue sky—a luxurious hotel ballroom in Seoul, decorated in soft ivory and gold. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen stars. White lilies and roses lined the aisle in tall glass stands, their scent blending with the faint fragrance of polished wood and expensive perfume. Golden drapes framed the stage where vows would soon be exchanged. A long red carpet ran through the center, dividing rows of neatly arranged chairs tied with silk ribbons.

It was elegant.

It was powerful.

It was exactly the kind of wedding that reflected status.

ballroom had been transformed into a breathtaking Christian wedding hall with a subtle Korean elegance woven into every detail. The ceiling was high and arched, painted in soft ivory with gold leaf detailing. Massive crystal chandeliers shimmered above, reflecting light like falling diamonds. Long white drapes cascaded from the ceiling beams, wrapped with golden ribbons that caught the light with every slight movement of air.

At the end of the aisle stood a tall white floral arch shaped like a cathedral window, decorated with imported white roses, orchids, and baby’s breath. Behind it, a large golden cross stood illuminated softly, glowing but not overwhelming. The aisle itself was layered in a thick white carpet, bordered by tall crystal stands filled with fresh lilies and candles encased in glass cylinders.

A live orchestra played gentle instrumental hymns mixed with classical music. The sound floated across the hall, refined and controlled.

Outside, luxury cars lined the driveway—black Bentleys, Rolls Royces, imported German sedans. Security personnel stood discreetly at every entrance. Politicians, CEOs, judges, and well-known media personalities had arrived from across the country.

Because this was not just a wedding.

This was the wedding of Jeon Jungkook.

And the Jeon family was not ordinary.

Near the entrance stood Mrs. Jeon, dressed in an elegant champagne-colored gown instead of traditional hanbok, her hair styled neatly in a low bun adorned with a diamond pin. She moved with quiet grace, greeting each guest with a soft smile and composed warmth.

“Thank you for coming,”

 she said gently, bowing her head slightly to an elderly businessman and his wife. 

“Your presence honors our family.”

Her voice was calm, refined. There was something naturally sweet about her manner. She listened when people spoke. She remembered names. She asked about their health and their children.

Beside her stood Mr. Jeon, tall and commanding in a black tailored tuxedo with a satin lapel. His shoulders were broad, his posture rigid. He did not bow deeply. He offered firm handshakes and confident nods.

“Welcome,” he said to a well-known politician. 

“I trust your flight was comfortable.”

“It was, Mr. Jeon. Congratulations. Your son’s marriage is the talk of the country.”

A faint, proud smile curved Mr. Jeon’s lips. 

“As it should be.”

His tone carried pride—almost ownership.

Guests moved inside slowly, murmuring among themselves.

“Have you seen the decorations?” 

one woman whispered to her friend as she adjusted her pearl necklace. 

“This must have cost millions.”

“Only the Jeon family can arrange something like this without blinking,” 

the other replied.

Another man leaned toward his colleague near the champagne counter. 

“.Jeon Jungkook finally agreed to marry. I never thought I’d see this day.”

His colleague chuckled softly.

 “He avoided marriage like it was a disease.  ”

A younger businessman added quietly, 

“He avoids everything that ties him down.”

Across the hall, a group of corporate executives stood in conversation.

“He built that expansion deal in Singapore in three months,” one of them said. 

“Three. Months.”

“And fired two senior directors without hesitation when they delayed it,” another added.

“He’s brilliant,” the first man said. “But ruthless.”

“Cold,” someone corrected. 

“That’s the word. Cold.”

They all nodded slightly.

“Like his father,” one whispered.

“Worse,” came the quiet reply.

“ He is worse than his father 

Mrs. Jeon walked slowly across the hall, scanning every detail. She adjusted a flower arrangement slightly to the left.

“It must be perfect,” she murmured.

Mr. Jeon approached her, hands behind his back.

“It already is,” he said calmly.

She looked at him. “This wedding is not only about beauty. It’s about stability.”

He gave a faint smile.

 ‘You finally have what you wanted.”

Her eyes moved toward the entrance again, watching more guests arrive.

“I wanted my son to stand beside someone who would not drag him into chaos, who would take care of him love him and always stand beside him ” 

she replied quietly.

Mr. Jeon did not argue. He simply nodded.

A group of distant relatives approached them.

“Mrs. Jeon,” one elderly woman said kindly, 

“you must be relieved. A mother’s heart is always worried until her son marries.”

Mrs. Jeon smiled softly. “Yes. Today, I feel… at peace.”

But her fingers tightened slightly around her clutch purse.

The atmosphere inside the ballroom felt grand yet restrained. Everything was controlled—every movement, every word. Even the happiness felt organized.

Near the stage, the bride’s father approached Mr. Jeon and bowed respectfully.

“Thank you for accepting our daughter into your family,” he said sincerely.

Mr. Jeon returned the bow. “ We are happy to have daughter like her.  My wife choice is always best .. We are joining families today. Let us support each other well.”

Mrs. Jeon added gently, “Your daughter will be treated with dignity. She will be loved by everyone”

The bride’s mother lowered her head gratefully. “That is all we wish for.”

For a brief moment, there was silence between them—a silent agreement of expectations.

The music shifted slightly, signaling the approaching start of the ceremony.

Guests began taking their seats. The soft rustle of silk and fabric filled the air. Cameras were positioned. The chandeliers shimmered brighter as lights were adjusted.

Mrs. Jeon moved toward the front row, her steps steady.

She had waited years for this day. Years believing marriage would anchor her son. Would calm him. Would redirect the darkness that once followed him like a shadow.

Mr. Jeon sat beside her, confident and composed.

Near the stage, three familiar figures stood together with their wives—Max, Eiden, and Lucas.

Max adjusted his cufflinks, scanning the hall with an amused expression. 

“This is insane,” he muttered.

Eiden smirked. 

“He always said marriage was a trap. He didn't want to marry anyone”

Lucas shook his head slightly. 

“I still don’t believe it.”

Their wives stood beside them, equally dressed in elegant gowns, holding glasses of champagne.

Max’s wife raised an eyebrow.

 “You three sound shocked.”

“We are,” Max said bluntly. 

“You don’t understand. Jungkook used to walk out of dates midway his mother set him with different women in all these years “

Eiden laughed quietly.

 “Not walk out. Disappear. He once left through a restaurant’s back door because the girl started talking about ‘future plans.’”

Lucas added, 

“In college, girls would always ready to throw themselves at him .   They would do anything Just spent some time with him but Jungkook never spent any glances at them. He was like stone for him only one person matterd “

His wife blinked. “Then how did this happen?”

The three men exchanged a glance.

“That,” Max said slowly,

 “is something we’re still trying to figure out.  He never said anything to us . Not after that  incident . He immersed himself in work ,built empires . His life always surrounded by work and only work. He clearly said that he doesn't want to marry anyone “

They fell silent for a moment as the orchestra shifted to another soft melody.

Lucas took a sip of his drink. 

“Remember third year? When Professor Min  tried to pair him with that exchange student for a business project?”

Eiden burst into a quiet laugh. 

“He requested to work alone instead. Said he worked faster without ‘unnecessary variables.’”

Max shook his head. “He was always like that. Focused. Sharp. No distractions.”

“Feared,” Lucas added softly.

One of their wives leaned closer. “Feared? In college?”

Max’s smile thinned slightly. “He didn’t tolerate disrespect.”

Eiden’s eyes shifted briefly around the hall, as if instinctively checking who might be listening.

Lucas spoke more carefully. 

“Let’s just say… people learned quickly not to cross him.”

There was a small silence.

Then one of the wives, curious and unaware of the weight of certain names, asked lightly, 

“Was there ever a girl? Before this?”

The air changed.

Max’s jaw tightened slightly.

Eiden looked at Lucas.

Lucas inhaled quietly.

“Well…” one wife continued, 

“Surely someone managed to catch his attention?”

Max cleared his throat. “There were… phases.”

Eiden’s voice dropped lower. 

“And some names are better left in the past.”

One of the women opened her mouth as if to say something else—something that hovered dangerously close to a familiar name.

But Lucas interrupted gently, his tone firm. 

“Let’s not go there.”

His wife looked confused. “Why?”

Max forced a small smile. 

“Because even on his wedding day, that name carries consequences.”

Eiden added softly, 

“And none of us are interested in experiencing those consequences.”

They all understood.

The name Iris lingered in unspoken silence before dissolving completely.

Across the hall, guests continued admiring the décor.

“This cross is imported Italian marble,” someone pointed out.

“And the floral arch—those are Ecuadorian roses,” another responded.

The lighting was adjusted again, casting a golden glow across the white aisle. It felt sacred but grand. Soft but powerful.

Mrs. Jeon moved gracefully between tables, her smile never fading.

“You must try the dessert selection later,” she told a group of women warmly. “My son personally approved the menu.”

Her eyes softened briefly at the mention of him.

She believed this marriage was stability.

Healing.

A final step into adulthood.

Behind her, Mr. Jeon spoke confidently to a group of investors.

“Jungkook will take over the international division fully next year,” he announced. “Marriage will not slow him down.”

One investor smiled knowingly. “If anything, it may sharpen him.”

Mr. Jeon’s lips curved with satisfaction. “My son does not dull.”

There was pride in every syllable.

At the back of the hall, two younger guests whispered quietly.

“Have you seen him up close?” one asked.

“Yes. Once. At a corporate gala.”

“And?”

“He doesn’t smile.”

“That’s intimidating.”

“It’s not just that,” the second girl said softly.

 “It’s his eyes. Like he’s always calculating.”

Near the altar, Max looked toward the closed doors that would soon open for the ceremony.

“You think he’s happy?” his wife asked gently.

Max didn’t answer immediately.

“Jungkook doesn’t show happiness,” he said finally. “He shows control.”

Eiden nodded slowly. “And control is his comfort zone.”

Lucas added quietly, 

“If he’s standing at that altar today, it’s because he decided it benefits him.”

The orchestra volume rose slightly, signaling that the ceremony would begin soon.

Guests started taking their seats, whispers fading into polite silence.

Max leaned toward Eiden and Lucas one last time.

“ Jungkook from past would laugh if he saw this.”

Eiden smirked faintly. 

“College Jungkook said he would never kneel for anyone.”

Lucas exhaled slowly. “And yet here we are.”

On the opposite side of the grand ballroom—far from the cluster of politicians and billionaires—stood the Lee family.

They did not carry the same effortless authority as the Jeons. Their posture was more careful, their smiles slightly more practiced, their hands occasionally fidgeting with sleeves and cuffs as if reminding themselves to remain composed.

Sung-Jae Lee, the bride’s father, stood near the aisle entrance greeting guests with respectful bows that were just a little deeper than necessary. He wore a well-fitted but simple black tuxedo, tailored carefully but without the bold confidence of designer labels. His  hair was combed neatly back, and his eyes carried both pride and nervous restraint.

Beside him stood his wife, Amelia Lee. Her presence added a soft contrast to the Korean elegance of the hall. Her features were distinctly British—fair skin, light brown hair styled into a graceful twist, blue-gray eyes that revealed emotion easily no matter how much she tried to hide it. She wore a soft lavender evening gown, modest yet refined, with a delicate silver necklace resting against her collarbone.

Their younger son, Noah, stood slightly behind them at first, adjusting the sleeves of his suit jacket. He looked younger than the environment demanded, though he tried hard to appear mature. His hair was styled carefully, and his posture mimicked confidence even when his fingers betrayed slight restlessness.

Guests approached them in small groups.

“Mr. Lee, congratulations,”

 a colleague from the company said politely, bowing his head. 

“Your daughter is marrying into an exceptional family.”

Sung-Jae returned the bow quickly. “Thank you. We are grateful for everyone’s blessings.”

His voice was humble, careful not to sound proud in a room where pride belonged elsewhere.

Amelia smiled warmly. “We hope she will do well,” she added gently.

After the guests moved on, Amelia’s smile faded just slightly. She leaned closer to her husband, lowering her voice.

“Jae,” she murmured, “look at this place.”

He glanced around—the chandeliers, the imported flowers, the endless line of influential guests.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Do you really think we belong here?”

Her words were not bitter. They were worried.

Sung-Jae’s expression softened. 

“Amelia…”

“I mean it,” she continued softly, eyes scanning the hall. 

“These people… they are powerful. Wealthy. Influential. And we are… we are just us.”

He took a slow breath. “We are her parents.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said quickly, her British accent becoming slightly more noticeable when she was emotional.

 “I am proud of her. You know I am. But sometimes I wonder if we are making a mistake.”

He looked at her fully now.

“What mistake?”

“Marrying her into a family like this,” she whispered. “A family where every move is watched “

“Jae,” she continued in a low voice,

 “we raised her in a small house where the loudest thing was her singing off-key in the shower. We are simple people. We eat together at the same dining table every evening. We argue loudly and forgive loudly. Look at this place.” 

She gestured subtly toward the ballroom. 

“Everything here is quiet. Controlled. Perfect.”

“She will adjust,” he said calmly.

Amelia let out a soft breath. 

“That’s the thing. She has never been controlled.”

A faint smile touched Sung-Jae’s lips despite himself.

“She talks without thinking,” Amelia went on, her tone filled with affection and worry at once. 

“When she’s nervous, she fills the silence with stories that go nowhere. She laughs at the wrong time. She blurts out questions people are too polite to ask.”

He chuckled softly. “That is her charm.”

“It is,” Amelia agreed quickly. “But what if they don’t see it that way?”

Her eyes drifted toward the front row where Mrs. Jeon sat gracefully, greeting distinguished guests with elegance.

 “What if they think she is childish?”

Sung-Jae folded his hands behind his back.

 “Mrs. Jeon adores her. ”

“I know,” Amelia replied. 

“She has always been kind to her. I have seen the way she looks at her. Like she sees something pure.”

She paused, then added quietly, 

“But kindness from a mother does not guarantee gentleness from a husband.”

The name did not need to be spoken.

Jungkook.

Amelia lowered her voice further. “I have heard things.”

“So have I,” Sung-Jae admitted.

“They say he is brilliant. That he turned failing branches of the company into profit within months. That he works until dawn and expects others to do the same.”

“That is true.”

“They say he does not forgive mistakes.”

Sung-Jae hesitated slightly. “He values discipline.”

Amelia looked at him pointedly.

 “Our daughter once forgot to submit a university assignment because she was busy helping a stray kitten.”

He sighed quietly.

“She acts first,” Amelia continued softly. 

“And only afterward does she realize what she has done. She is impulsive. Emotional. When she is happy, she is louder than fireworks. When she is upset, she cries like the world has ended.”

A memory flickered across her face.

“She once tried to dye her own hair bright red without telling us,” Amelia said, shaking her head faintly. “It turned orange. She locked herself in her room for two days.”

Sung-Jae smiled gently. “She was seventeen.”

“She is still the same,” Amelia insisted softly. 

“She pretends to be brave. She argues stubbornly when she thinks she is right. And when someone scolds her, she stands tall for exactly five minutes… and then comes back later, teary-eyed, saying she didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Her voice wavered slightly. “She has the softest heart.”

Sung-Jae looked at his wife carefully. “And that is not weakness.”

“It can be,” Amelia whispered. “In a world like this.”

She glanced again at the influential guests seated in neat rows.

 “These people live in a world of strategy. Calculations. Reputation. Power. She still believes in apologies and hugs.”

He gently took her hand.

“She is a little foolish, dump , stupid”

Amelia corrected gently.

 “In the most beautiful way.”

He could not argue with that.

“She believes everyone deserves another chance,” Amelia continued. 

“Even when they do not. She defends people who hurt her. She forgives too quickly.”

Sung-Jae’s expression softened. “She sees good where others see danger.”

“And that is what frightens me,” Amelia said quietly.

Before the silence could grow heavy, Noah stepped closer, hands in his pockets, pretending not to have overheard everything.

“You two look like you’re planning a rescue mission,” he said lightly.

Amelia gave him a look. “We are discussing your sister.”

“Oh, then definitely a rescue mission,” he replied.

Sung-Jae gave him a mild warning glance.

Noah sighed dramatically. “Okay, okay. I’m joking.”

He glanced around at the grand hall and let out a low whistle.

 “Still can’t believe she’s marrying into this.”

Amelia studied her son. “You’re not worried?”

He hesitated.

“A little,” he admitted. “But mostly I’m surprised.”

“Surprised?” Sung-Jae repeated.

“Yeah. She used to say she’d marry someone who lets her talk for hours about random things. Someone who laughs at her bad jokes. Someone soft.”

He scratched the back of his neck.

“And now she’s marrying the most intimidating man in the country.”

Amelia’s lips pressed together.

“But maybe that’s good,” Noah continued thoughtfully. 

“She’s like… a storm of feelings. Maybe she needs someone solid.”

“Solid or cold?” Amelia asked quietly.

Noah didn’t answer immediately.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. 

“But I do know this—if he ever makes her cry too much, I don’t care how powerful he is.”

His jaw tightened briefly before he relaxed again.

“She drives me crazy,” he added quickly, trying to lighten the mood.

 “She borrows my things without asking. She leaves snacks in my room and forgets them. She screams when she sees spiders and then pretends she wasn’t scared.”

A small smile tugged at Amelia’s lips.

“She once blamed me for her broken phone,” Noah continued. “Even though she dropped it herself.”

“That is because you teased her,” Amelia pointed out.

“Exactly,” Noah said dramatically. “She cannot handle teasing. She gets angry so fast.”

He paused, then added softly, “But she also forgives fast.”

Sung-Jae nodded slowly. “She loves deeply.”

Noah looked toward the closed bridal preparation room for a moment.

“She pretends to be strong,” he said quietly. “But she gets hurt easily.”

Amelia felt her chest tighten.

“She will learn,” Sung-Jae said gently.

“I hope so,” Amelia replied.

A group of guests approached again, and the Lees immediately composed themselves.

“Mr. Lee, congratulations,” a distant relative said warmly. “Your daughter is very fortunate.”

Sung-Jae bowed respectfully. “We are grateful.”

Noah straightened his posture and greeted them politely. His voice carried more confidence now.

“Yes, thank you for coming,” he said with a small proud smile. 

“It’s an important day for our family.”

His university friends later joined him near the refreshment table.

“Noah,” one of them whispered excitedly, “you’re basically connected to half the country now.”

He tried to suppress his grin. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not,” his friend insisted. “ Your sister literally marrying Jeon Jungkook bro. He is Ace of buisness “

.

“Yeah,” he said casually. “That’s my brother-in-law.”

He said it lightly, but the pride slipped through.

His friend laughed. “You better not forget us when you become important.”

Noah smirked. “I was always important.”

Behind him, Amelia watched with mixed emotion—pride in her son, fear for her daughter, gratitude for the moment, anxiety for the future.

She leaned closer to Sung-Jae one last time.

“She is still the little girl who cried when her goldfish died,” she whispered.

“And she is also the girl who stood up to her teacher when she thought something was unfair,” he replied gently.

Amelia exhaled slowly.

“She is stubborn.”

“Yes.”

“She is emotional.”

“Yes.”

“She is innocent.”

“Yes.”

He squeezed her hand lightly.

“And she is loved.”

The orchestra music grew louder, signaling that the ceremony was moments away.

Amelia closed her eyes briefly.

“My soft, loud, impossible, beautiful girl,” she whispered under her breath.

In a ballroom filled with wealth and influence, the Lee family stood close together—not powerful, not intimidating—but bound by something stronger than status.

Love.

And hope that it would be enough.

The changing room was vast, designed with the same careful luxury that defined the Jeon name. White marble floors reflected the warm golden lights fixed along the edges of the ceiling. A long mirror stretched from one wall to another, flawless and unforgiving, capturing every angle without distortion. The air carried the faint scent of expensive cologne and polished leather.

In the center of that controlled elegance stood Jungkook.

He was almost fully dressed. The black suit molded perfectly to his tall frame, sharp and structured, tailored to precision. The fabric was rich, the stitching invisible, the cut deliberate. Every detail spoke of wealth, of dominance, of status that could not be questioned.

He adjusted his cufflinks slowly, movements calm and measured. There was no visible rush, no nervous shifting, no restless energy. On the outside, he appeared composed — the image of a man stepping into yet another calculated decision.

But marriage had never been part of his calculations.

For years, his life had moved according to his own design. He had built his reputation as cold, ruthless, and untouchable. In the corporate world, he was known for dismantling competitors without hesitation. Employees trembled at the sound of his approaching footsteps. Meetings fell silent when he entered. His presence alone commanded obedience.

He did not compromise.

He did not bend.

He certainly did not marry for sentiment.

Yet here he was, dressed as a groom.

His reflection in the mirror showed a man carved from control. His dark eyes were steady, almost empty of emotion. The sharp line of his jaw revealed tension, but it was subtle — the kind only someone studying him carefully would notice.

The bride waiting beyond those walls did not belong to his world.

She was the daughter of a mid-level employee in his father’s company — a man who had spent decades working quietly under the Jeon name. Reliable. Ordinary. Replaceable.

Her father’s position in the company had never been significant enough to be remembered beyond staff records. He was a salaried man who bowed in corridors and addressed superiors with careful respect. A man who knew his place in the hierarchy.

That hierarchy was everything to Jungkook.

Status defined power. Power defined worth.

And in his mind, worth could not be fabricated.

The memory of the first meeting with her family surfaced with uncomfortable clarity.

They had entered the Jeon mansion like visitors stepping into a museum. Their eyes had wandered too openly. Their reactions had been too expressive. The difference in worlds had been visible from the moment they crossed the threshold.

Her father had tried to maintain composure, sitting stiffly, hands resting on his knees, speaking cautiously. His tone had carried both pride and inferiority at once — proud of his daughter’s sudden elevation, yet aware of the distance between their families.

Her mother had been louder than the room required. Emotional, visibly overwhelmed, grateful in a way that felt excessive. She had smiled too often, laughed too quickly, and filled silences that should have been left untouched.

The younger brother had explored the mansion with poorly disguised curiosity, staring at art pieces, chandeliers, and sculptures as though he had stepped into a different universe.

They were not refined.

They were not trained for rooms where conversations were whispered and reputations were built in silence.

They were noise in a world that thrived on quiet dominance.

And then there was her.

She had not bowed low enough. She had not lowered her eyes long enough. There had been something unsettling about the way she stood — not intimidated, not dazzled, not humbled.

It had irritated him.

Her clothes had lacked the polish expected at such a meeting. Her posture had not reflected elite upbringing. There was no practiced elegance in her gestures. She spoke when she wished to. She reacted without calculation.

She was unpredictable.

Chaos wrapped in human form.

The marriage itself had not been his choice.

His mother had orchestrated it carefully, strategically — though not for business reasons. There had been no merger at stake, no political alliance to secure, no financial benefit to calculate. The decision had been rooted in something far more personal.

She had approached as a mother who had waited long enough. Her request had not been presented as a negotiation. It had been layered with vulnerability, with reminders of sacrifice, with subtle references to time passing.

Jungkook had resisted at first.

Marriage, to him, represented entanglement. Weakness. Distraction.

He had built himself into a man who did not rely on anyone emotionally. Attachments created leverage. Leverage created vulnerability. Vulnerability led to downfall.

His mother understood him well enough to know direct force would fail. Instead, she had used something far stronger than authority — her own emotional weight.

Her happiness had been placed quietly at the center of the decision. Her aging had been mentioned gently but deliberately. Her desire to see him settled had been repeated not as a demand but as a wish.

In the end, his  resolve crumbled he had to. Oblige 

He had signed business deals with less hesitation than the moment he consented to this marriage.

Now, standing before the mirror, the consequences of that decision felt tangible.

He straightened his jacket, smoothing invisible creases.

The difference between their families was not small.

It was vast.

He had grown up surrounded by diplomats, executives, heirs to generational wealth. He understood which wine accompanied which dish before he turned eighteen. He had been taught which handshake signaled dominance and which smile signaled strategy. His education had been curated, his environment controlled, his exposure global.

She had grown up in an ordinary household.

Her father worked fixed hours. Her mother managed a simple domestic life. Their conversations were likely loud, emotional, unfiltered. Their celebrations simple. Their arguments open.

He could already imagine future gatherings.

Would her mother speak too loudly or too softly  at formal dinners?

Would her father shrink uncomfortably among CEOs?

Would her brother behave carelessly in spaces where one misstep could cost reputation?

The weight of merging those worlds pressed silently against his composure.

His reflection did not change.

But his eyes hardened further.

He did not know how he would share a home with someone so fundamentally different. Their values did not align. Their lifestyles did not intersect. Their social circles would never blend naturally.

Marriage required adaptation.

He was not a man who adapted.

He commanded.

He expected alignment.

He did not reshape himself for anyone.

The idea of spending years beside someone he considered beneath his world felt suffocating. The gap in status alone was enough to create tension. Respect, in his mind, was inseparable from equality. And equality, here, did not exist.

Still, the wedding hall waited.

Guests filled the grand ballroom — politicians, business magnates, social elites — all present to witness the union. To them, it would appear strategic. Powerful. Impressive.

The man in the mirror no longer showed even a trace of internal conflict. Only authority remained.

Whether the marriage would survive did not concern him in that moment. In his mind, there were only two possible outcomes: either she would eventually retreat, overwhelmed by a world too harsh for her, or he would create a distance so vast that coexistence became nothing more than formality.

Jungkook was still standing in front of the mirror when the memory dissolved like smoke.

Flashback 

The door hadn’t even fully shut before Jungkook’s control snapped.

His jealousy wasn’t subtle anymore. It was sharp. Visible. Dangerous.

He pushed Iris against the wall harder this time, her back hitting it with a soft thud. His hand slid down to her thigh, gripping firmly, fingers pressing into skin like he needed to feel her react.

“You like making me jealous?” he muttered, voice rougher now. “You like watching me lose my fucking mind?”

Her breath stuttered, but her eyes only grew darker.

“Maybe,” she whispered.

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into hers again, deeper, hungrier. Not just claiming — devouring. His hand slid higher, squeezing her hip, then lower again in a possessive grip that made her gasp into his mouth.

“You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?” Jungkook growled against her lips. “Like he wanted to touch you.”

His hand moved deliberately over her body, not gentle — firm, demanding, reminding.

“But he doesn’t get to,” he continued, voice dropping lower. “Because this body? It’s mine.”

Iris arched against him at that, not weak — matching him. Her hands tugged at his belt, impatient now.

“Then stop talking,” she shot back, biting his lip hard enough to make him inhale sharply. “And prove it.”

That challenge lit something feral inside him.

He walked her backward until she hit the bed again, but this time he didn’t stumble with her — he guided her down, hovering over her with pure dominance in his eyes.

His shirt was gone. Hers followed. Skin met skin and the heat between them doubled instantly.

Jungkook’s hands moved over her chest, rougher now, squeezing firmly as she gasped his name. He leaned down, mouth dragging over her skin, biting, sucking — leaving marks that felt like ownership.

“You don’t get to laugh like that for anyone else,” he said between kisses, voice strained with need. “You hear me?”

She grabbed his hair, pulling his face back up. “Then fuck me like I’m yours.”

The words snapped something in him.

His hips rolled against hers, slow at first, then harder — a clear promise of what was coming. The friction made her curse under her breath, her nails digging into his back.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I’m yours,” she breathed, eyes blazing. “Only yours.”

He kissed her again — filthy, open-mouthed, messy. Their tongues tangled aggressively, breaths breaking between heated swears and low groans.

His movements became more deliberate, more forceful. Every thrust of his hips against her was calculated — not rushed, but powerful. He wanted her to feel every inch of his desire, every ounce of his jealousy turning into something raw and physical.

“Look at you,” he muttered darkly. “So fucking perfect under me.”

She wasn’t quiet. She never was. Every reaction, every sharp inhale, every curse that slipped from her lips only fueled him more.

Her hands roamed down his body, gripping him firmly, guiding him closer with no hesitation. She wasn’t shy. She wasn’t soft.

They were equal in this chaos.

The bed shifted with the intensity of their movements. His pace grew harder, deeper — controlled but wild. Not losing himself, but choosing to unleash it.

“You drive me insane,” he admitted roughly against her mouth. “You make me want to ruin you.”

She smirked, breathless. “Then do it.”

His forehead pressed against hers, hips still moving, slower now but heavier — every thrust deliberate, possessive.

“I don’t share,” he repeated, voice hoarse. “And I don’t lose.”

She wrapped her legs around him tighter.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because neither do I.”

The air between them was still thick when she shifted beneath him.

Jungkook thought the storm had passed.

He was wrong.

Iris pushed against his chest suddenly, flipping their positions with unexpected strength. He landed on his back, breath knocked from him for half a second — just enough for her to climb over him and straddle his hips.

His eyes darkened instantly.

“Oh?” he muttered, voice low, impressed and heated. “You think you’re in control now?”

She didn’t answer with words.

She leaned down slowly, her hair falling around them like a curtain, her fingers dragging deliberately down his chest — nails grazing skin just enough to leave heat behind. He inhaled sharply as her touch moved lower, slower, teasing the waistband of his pants.

“You get jealous,” she said softly, but there was nothing gentle in her expression. “You growl and curse and act like you own me.”

Her hips rolled once against him — slow, intentional — making his jaw tighten.

“But you forget something.”

She leaned closer, lips brushing his ear.

“I own you too.”

That hit deeper than any curse.

His hands gripped her thighs instinctively, fingers pressing into flesh, but he didn’t flip her back over. He let her move. Let her set the pace.

For now.

She sat up slightly, grinding against him again, slower this time — making him feel it. Making him wait. His head tipped back against the pillow, a low, restrained sound escaping his throat despite himself.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

She smiled at that.

“You like that?” she asked, mock-innocent. Then her tone dropped. “You like when I make you lose control?”

His eyes snapped back to hers.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warned.

She leaned forward, dragging her lips down his chest, not fully kissing — just brushing, teasing, testing how far she could push him. Her hands roamed lower, bold, unashamed.

He was hard beneath her touch. Tense. Waiting.

“You don’t get crazy?” she whispered against his skin. “Look at you.”

His fingers tangled in her hair suddenly, pulling her back up so their faces were inches apart.

“You think I won’t flip this?” he said darkly. “You think I won’t remind you exactly who breaks first?”

Instead of backing down, she rolled her hips harder against him, a deliberate grind that pulled a rough groan from his throat.

“Then do it,” she challenged.

That was it.

In one swift motion, he grabbed her hips and reversed them again, pinning her beneath him. The mattress dipped with the force of it. His hands pinned her wrists above her head this time — not cruel, but firm enough to remind her he could overpower her if he chose.

His mouth found hers again, deeper, dirtier. His hips pressed against her with unmistakable intent, slow at first — then harder.

“You want to own me?” he murmured against her lips. “Then keep up.”

She arched beneath him instead of struggling, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Don’t hold back,” she breathed.

That permission destroyed the last thread of restraint.

His thrusts became stronger, more deliberate, his mouth trailing down her neck again, teeth grazing skin just enough to make her gasp sharply. Her nails raked down his back in response, and he hissed at the sting — loving it.

The room filled with sharp breaths, quiet curses, the sound of skin meeting skin in heated rhythm.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, voice strained but powerful. “You make me want to ruin you.”

She lifted her head, biting his shoulder in retaliation.

“Then ruin me,” she shot back.

They weren’t soft. They weren’t careful.

They were fire and gasoline — every thrust, every grind, every heated word escalating the storm instead of calming it.

And when his pace finally slowed, not from exhaustion but from control returning, he lowered his forehead to hers again, breathing hard.

“You’re mine,” he said — not jealous now.

Certain.

She brushed her lips against his, smirking faintly despite the heat between them.

“And you’re still mine.”

The changing room returned around him — silent, polished, suffocatingly elegant.

His jaw was tight.

His eyes darker than before.

For a moment, he remained completely still, as if trying to lock the memory away again. The reflection staring back at him was once again the groom — not the man who had once lost control in jealousy, not the man who had whispered confessions in the dark.

Just Jungkook Jeon.

Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable.

And then—

Something hit the side of his shoulder.

A polished black dress shoe.

It dropped onto the marble floor with a sharp sound, breaking the silence.

Jungkook’s head turned slowly, irritation flashing in his eyes.

Leaning casually against the doorway was Park Jimin.

Unlike Jungkook, Jimin looked entirely at ease. His suit was slightly less severe, his tie loosened just enough to make him look charming rather than rigid. His hair was styled effortlessly, his expression bright with amusement.

If Jungkook looked like power carved in stone, Jimin looked like warmth dressed in silk.

“Daydreaming before your execution?” 

Jimin asked lightly, pushing himself off the doorframe.

Jungkook bent down, picked up the shoe without hurry, and placed it back on the bench.

“Throw that again,” he said calmly,

 “and I’ll make sure you limp for a month.”

Jimin grinned wider instead of being intimidated.

 “Ah. There he is. I was worried marriage already softened you.”

Their personalities had always clashed on paper.

Jungkook was sharp edges and silence. Strategic, controlled, merciless when necessary. He calculated every move in business and in life. He didn’t forgive easily. Didn’t trust easily.

Jimin, on the other hand, was light where Jungkook was dark. Charming without trying. Flirty without effort. He could talk his way out of almost anything. He knew how to enjoy parties, how to laugh loudly without caring who listened, how to make even rivals lower their guard.

He enjoyed life.

Jungkook dominated it.

No one quite understood how they had become friends.

Not even Jungkook himself.

They had met years ago through the industry — high-profile events, overlapping networks, unavoidable introductions. At first, Jungkook had barely tolerated him. Jimin talked too much. Smiled too easily. Touched shoulders casually when laughing.

All things Jungkook disliked.

Yet somehow, over time, Jimin had stayed.

He was one of the few people who didn’t fear Jungkook. One of the few who spoke to him normally. Who teased him. Who didn’t treat him like a weapon ready to strike.

And strangely, Jungkook had allowed it.

Allowed him close.

Allowed him to remain.

Jimin walked further into the room now, adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror beside Jungkook.

“You know,” he said casually, 

“everyone is waiting. Politicians, CEOs, your father’s terrifying board members. And the groom is standing here looking like he’s about to attend a funeral.”

Jungkook adjusted his watch strap without reacting.

“They can wait.”

Jimin glanced at him sideways. “She can’t.”

There was a flicker in Jungkook’s eyes — brief, controlled.

Jimin noticed. Of course he did.

A slow smirk curved his lips.

“So it’s real,” he continued. “Jeon Jungkook. Married. Officially tied down.”

Silence.

Jimin leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically.

 “No more late-night freedom. No more walking away whenever you feel like it. You’ll have to report home.”

Jungkook’s gaze shifted toward him, cold and unimpressed.

“Report?”

Jimin nodded enthusiastically

. “Oh yes. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Why are you late?’ ‘Who was that woman at the event?’ You’ll become like the rest of them.”

“The rest of who?”

“Wife’s pets,” Jimin said brightly.

Jungkook let out a slow breath through his nose.

“You talk too much.”

“And you don’t talk enough. Balance.”

Jimin moved behind him, straightening the back of Jungkook’s jacket. He brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder.

“Honestly,” Jimin continued,

 “I never thought I’d see this day. You — the man who doesn’t bend — agreeing to marriage.”

“It’s a burden,” Jungkook replied flatly.

Jimin raised a brow. “Is it?”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

Instead, he focused on fastening his cuff properly, movements precise.

Jimin watched him for a moment longer, amusement softening slightly into something more thoughtful.

“You know,” he said more quietly, “I saw her.”

Jungkook’s hand paused for half a second before continuing.

“She’s beautiful,” Jimin admitted openly. “No doubt about that.”

Jungkook remained expressionless.

“But…” Jimin tilted his head. “Not your usual taste.”

Jungkook finally looked at him.

Jimin shrugged. “She looks delicate. Soft. Like she doesn’t belong in your storm.”

A muscle tightened in Jungkook’s jaw.

Jimin caught that too.

“Oh,” he teased gently, “did I hit something?”

“Finish what you’re saying,” Jungkook said calmly.

Jimin chuckled. “Relax. I’m just saying — she looks like someone who laughs easily. Someone who doesn’t know how brutal your world can be.”

He stepped back, folding his arms.

“Try not to break her.”

The words hung in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes darkened slightly.

“I don’t break what’s not mine,” he replied evenly.

Jimin blinked once.

Then grinned slowly. “Ah. So who's she if not yours.”

Silence answered him.

But it was enough.

Jimin walked around him, studying him like an art critic observing a rare piece.

“You look tense,” he noted. “Nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Jungkook straightened his tie one final time, smoothing the front of his suit.

“I don’t get nervous.”

Jimin leaned closer again, lowering his voice mischievously. 

“You know, after tonight, you can’t just disappear whenever you want. There’s someone who’ll expect you beside her.”

“That changes nothing.”

Jimin laughed softly. “It changes everything.”

The room felt smaller suddenly.

Jungkook slipped his hands into his pockets briefly before removing them again, as if restraining the urge to do something — anything — other than stand still.

Jimin noticed the restless energy beneath the calm exterior.

“You care,” Jimin said simply.

“I don’t.”

“Sure.”

Jimin adjusted his own jacket now, preparing to leave.

“But listen,” he added casually, “if you mess this up because of your pride, I’ll personally make your life miserable.”

Jungkook gave him a cold look. “You’re not capable.”

Jimin smiled sweetly. “Watch me.”

A knock sounded at the door again — firmer this time.

“It’s time,” a staff member announced from outside.

Jimin moved toward the door, then paused.

He looked back once more.

“Try smiling at least once,” he suggested. “You’re getting married, not signing a war treaty.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Jimin opened the door, light from the hallway spilling into the room.

As he stepped out, he added one last teasing remark over his shoulder.

“And Jungkook?”

A pause.

“If she really is delicate… be careful with that intensity of yours.”

The door closed softly behind him.

Silence returned.

Jungkook stood alone again.

His reflection stared back — composed, powerful, unreadable.

But beneath the cold exterior, something restless moved.

Not fear.

Not doubt.

Something more complicated.

He picked up the discarded shoe, slipped it on properly this time, and took one final look at himself.

T

he ruthless man everyone knew.

The groom no one expected.

Then he turned and walked toward the door.

Toward the waiting crowd.

Toward the woman who, whether he admitted it or not, was about to change the balance of his carefully controlled world.

_____________________________________

The changing room returned around him — silent, polished, suffocatingly elegant.

His jaw was tight.

His eyes darker than before.

For a moment, he remained comple