Standing in the shadowy vestibule just beyond the grand hall, I felt like a trapped animal, the breath strangled in my lungs. My chest rose and fell with a ragged rhythm as I tugged at the bodice of my dress, convinced that it had shrunk within the last few minutes. The intricate lace and embroidered fabric that once felt like a regal adornment now wrapped around me like a corset of thorns.

"Relax, Miso," Yoongi's voice cut through the fog of my panic, soft but firm, grounding. I looked up, my vision blurred, my hands trembling as they clutched the edges of my dress.

"My dress..." I whispered, my voice barely above a whimper. "I can't breathe. It's too tight."

"You're having a panic attack," Yoongi murmured, his tone calm as he stepped in front of me. He took my hands, his touch warm and steady, an anchor in the tempest raging inside me. "Breathe with me," he instructed, demonstrating slow, even breaths.

My breathing came in short, quick gasps at first, but I mirrored his steady rhythm, forcing myself to inhale and exhale, grounding myself with his presence. Eventually, the crushing weight around my chest eased, leaving a dull, gnawing ache.

"See? Just a panic attack." Yoongi offered me a small, reassuring smile, his eyes softening with a warmth that I hadn't seen in a long time.

"Thank you," I whispered, feeling a faint, fleeting comfort in his presence. Memories flickered through my mind-days when he had been my protector, my closest confidant. When we were children, after my grandmother passed, he was always the one to soothe me, his silent strength a balm to my young, grieving heart. I managed a shaky smile, gratitude flooding my chest. "Thank you, Yoongi. I... I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You look...handsome," I murmured, my eyes taking in his dark blue suit, tailored perfectly to his frame. It was rare to see him like this, polished, poised-a glimpse of the man who hid beneath his usual stoic armor.

"And you," he replied, his gaze sweeping over me with an intensity that made my heart clench, "look absolutely stunning." His eyes darkened, a storm brewing within them. "He doesn't deserve you," he added quietly, bitterness lacing his words.

I lowered my gaze, brushing off his statement with a faint shake of my head. "It's not about who deserves who, Yoongi. This marriage... It's a contract. An obligation." My voice wavered, and I could feel the prickling heat of tears welling in my eyes. "I just can't believe my father would do this." My hands tightened into fists, the diamond-studded ring on my finger a chilling reminder of my fate. "But it doesn't matter. This has to be done."

A flash of anger crossed Yoongi's face. "I don't have to like it," he spat out, his voice a low, venomous hiss.

Before I could respond, the door opened, and my father's imposing figure stepped into the room. His gaze settled on Yoongi with a steely glint. "Go take your seat, Yoongi," he commanded, his voice laced with a thinly veiled threat. "The wedding will begin soon."

Yoongi's jaw clenched, but he dipped his head respectfully before slipping through the door. My eyes followed him, a pang of loss gnawing at my insides as the door clicked shut behind him. With a resigned sigh, I turned to face my father.

"Father..." My voice wavered, barely a whisper. "I don't know if I can do this."

His expression hardened, and he stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "You can," he stated with an iron conviction. "And you will." There was no room for argument in his voice, no hint of compassion. Only duty, cold and unforgiving.

My hands clenched at my sides, helpless, defeated. He lifted my veil with a rare gentleness, his gaze softening just a fraction. "You look beautiful," he said quietly, almost tenderly. "Taehyung won't know what hit him."

I swallowed hard, muttering a faint, "Thank you, Father." But his praise felt hollow, empty-a rehearsed line from a well-worn script.

"Be a good wife, Miso," he instructed, his voice taking on a chilling tone. "Taehyung is powerful. When he takes his father's place, his word will be law. You will make me proud, and you will honor the Bratva." The weight of his words pressed down on me like a millstone, robbing me of my breath.

The music began-a haunting melody of strings and piano echoing through the hall. He lowered my veil, casting a thin, fragile shield over my face. "It's time," he said, his voice a solemn decree.

With one final nod, he gestured to the ushers, who pushed open the grand, intricately carved doors. The congregation rose to their feet, a sea of expectant faces, some familiar, others strangers from the Kim family. My legs moved, but I felt disconnected, like a marionette on invisible strings, pulled forward by forces I couldn't resist.

As we walked down the aisle, my gaze lifted, drawn to the end where Taehyung stood, a figure of dark elegance in his black suit. His presence loomed, commanding and inescapable. My father guided me forward, each step echoing in my ears like the tolling of a death knell. My gaze flitted to my bridesmaids, Mo-eum and Lily, their faces a blur as I fought to keep my composure.

White rose petals littered the aisle, their delicate forms crushed beneath my shoes-innocent casualties in a world of violence and control. The symbolism wasn't lost on me.

Finally, we reached the end, and Taehyung extended his hand, palm up, his dark eyes burning with an emotion I couldn't decipher. My father lifted my veil, his hands heavy with expectation, before placing my trembling hand in Taehyung's. His grip was warm, firm, grounding, and yet it felt like a shackle, binding me to him for eternity.

As the priest began his solemn recitation, my heart pounded with a frenetic beat, a prisoner thrashing against its cage. Each word of the priest's blessing reverberated through my mind, a litany of promises and obligations that felt foreign, suffocating. When he asked for our consent, Taehyung's deep, resonant "yes" filled the room, sealing my fate.

I followed suit, my voice steady, but inside, my heart screamed in protest.

The priest handed Taehyung my ring, a masterpiece of white gold encrusted with diamonds, glittering and beautiful-a symbol of love for most couples, but for me, a chain. His fingers brushed against mine as he slipped the ring onto my trembling hand, his grip unyielding.

The ring felt heavy, a silent declaration to the world. I was his. The golden cage had closed around me, and escape was a fantasy I could no longer afford. The bitter truth settled in: "Until death do us part" wasn't just a phrase. It was a binding sentence. In this world, divorce was an impossibility, and death was the only release.

As I slid the ring onto Taehyung's finger, my hands shook so violently that he had to steady them, his touch cold and commanding. The gleam in his eyes was one of triumph, possession-a reminder that I belonged to him now. Forever.

The priest's voice droned on, the ceremony blurring into a haze of vows and blessings, the promises of love twisted into a cruel parody of devotion. Finally, his voice cut through my daze: "You may kiss the bride."

I raised my head, meeting Taehyung's gaze, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His eyes held mine, dark and unreadable, and I felt the weight of his possession settle over me like a shroud. He bent down, bridging the space between us, his lips brushing against mine in a cold, perfunctory kiss. The message in his gaze was clear: You are mine.

The shiver that ran through me wasn't from his touch but from the realization that he was more than just my husband now. He was my jailer, my ruler, my captor. And maybe, just maybe, my destruction.

The applause erupted around us as Taehyung and I turned to face the guests, our hands joined in a death grip. We walked down the aisle together, past the clapping, calculating faces of both the Bratva and New York Familia. My father's eyes gleamed with pride, while the Kims watched with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

Outside, we were greeted by servers with champagne, their trays gleaming under the cathedral lights. Taehyung handed me a glass, his grip on my hand unrelenting. He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. "Let's go meet Nonno."

I forced a smile, my mask firmly in place as we faced the throngs of guests lining up to offer their congratulations. Each praise, each veiled comment, felt like a dagger, reminding me of my place, my role, my prison. I was no longer just Miso. I was Mrs. Kim Taehyung-a title that bound me in chains thicker than any iron.

With each step, each forced smile, the truth sank deeper: This marriage wasn't a union of souls. It was a transaction, a merger, a pact bound by blood and power.

And there was no escape.

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As the doors closed behind us, sealing away the cathedral's cold grandeur, I felt my heartbeat echoing in the silence of the dimly lit corridor. My fingers tightened around the thin stem of the champagne flute, but my grip was fragile, trembling slightly despite my efforts to appear composed. Beside me, Taehyung's hand rested on the small of my back, firm and commanding-a subtle reminder of his possessive claim, and perhaps, his warning.

His touch burned through the thin fabric of my dress, making my skin prickle with an unsettling awareness. I wanted to pull away, to create some distance between us, but I knew better. Taehyung was not a man you walked away from. He was the wolf who watched every step, every tremble, every glance. And in our world, showing weakness was akin to offering blood to a shark.

We were heading to the hall where his grandfather, Kim Daehyun, waited-the man who had carved the Kim empire from blood and grit, a figure so feared that even hardened men avoided his gaze. The legends surrounding him were chilling, tales of a ruthlessness that had paved the way for their family's power, his legacy a testament to the cruelty he wielded like a blade.

I stole a glance at Taehyung, but his face was impassive, carved in stone. The gleam of satisfaction in his eyes from earlier had dimmed, replaced by a wariness that I hadn't seen before. It was subtle, almost invisible, but it was there-a crack in his usually unbreakable facade. Was he... Pissed? The thought gave me an odd, hollow sense of dread.

"Don't look so tense," he murmured, his voice low as we rounded a corner. "You'll embarrass both of us."

I swallowed, forcing myself to loosen my grip on the champagne flute, though the effort felt like trying to hold water in cupped hands. "I'm not tense," I lied, lifting my chin, though I could feel the way my heart hammered against my ribcage, each beat a relentless reminder of my own fear.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, a mocking twist of his lips. "Of course you're not," he murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His hand pressed more firmly against my back, guiding me forward with a force that bordered on possessive. "Just remember, Miso, my grandfather... he doesn't appreciate weakness. So, whatever fear you're feeling now, bury it."

As we approached the entrance of the grand hall, the murmur of voices beyond the doors grew louder, a low hum of expectation and judgment. My mouth felt dry, my palms clammy against the smooth glass of the flute. I reminded myself to breathe, to wear the mask I had perfected over the years-the one that showed strength even when I felt none.

________________________

As the grand oak doors opened, the hum of conversations in the lavish hall came to a halt. Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a golden glow, reflecting off polished surfaces and expensive fabrics. The air was heavy with wealth and power, yet it felt suffocating-a gilded cage in which every word, every glance, held weight.

At the far end of the room sat Kim Daehyun, his presence as commanding as ever. The patriarch of the Kim family, he was the kind of man whose reputation preceded him-a legend of ruthlessness and precision. His high-backed chair, more a throne than a seat, was positioned deliberately to make those approaching him feel exposed, vulnerable. Yet tonight, his eyes gleamed with something softer as they landed on me.

"Miso," he greeted as we approached, his tone smoother than I expected. A faint, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "You look more radiant than the last time we met."

"Thank you, Mr Kim ," I replied, forcing a polite smile. Though his words sounded complimentary, there was an edge to them-a subtle reminder that he saw and remembered everything.

Daehyun's gaze flickered to Taehyung. "My grandson, as always, is fortunate beyond measure. But then," he added, leaning forward slightly, "so is the Kim family." His tone was deceptively casual, but the weight of his words was not lost on me. This was a reminder-not just to Taehyung, but to me as well-that my role in this family came with expectations.

"It's an honor to be part of it," I managed, my voice steady despite the unease coiling in my stomach.

Daehyun's sharp eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of approval crossing his face. "A diplomatic answer. You've been trained well, it seems."

Before I could respond, he turned his attention fully to me, his expression softening-not with warmth, but with calculated intent. "I must admit," he said, "when I first met you, I had my doubts. A Bratva daughter, brought into the fold of the Kim family? It's an unusual match. But..." He tilted his head, studying me like one would a rare artifact. "You've surprised me, Miso. You hold yourself with grace. A rare quality, especially in our world."

"Thank you," I said again, though this time the words felt heavier, as if they carried more than just politeness.

Taehyung, standing beside me, remained silent, though I felt the subtle shift in his posture. His hand on the small of my back was firm, grounding, yet there was a tension in him that hadn't been there before. Was it pride? Or something darker-an acknowledgment of the scrutiny his grandfather wielded like a weapon?

"Tell me," Daehyun continued, his tone almost conversational, though his gaze was anything but. "Do you find my grandson to your liking?"

The question caught me off guard, and I hesitated for a split second before answering. "Taehyung is... everything one could hope for in a partner."

The lie felt sour on my tongue, but I delivered it with practiced ease. Daehyun's expression remained inscrutable, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if in amusement.

"Good," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Because in this family, marriage is not just about partnership. It's about loyalty. Unity. And strength." His gaze bore into mine, as if searching for cracks in the mask I wore. "Weakness," he added, his tone chilling, "is a luxury none of us can afford."

I nodded, my throat tight. "I understand."

He leaned back in his chair, his expression easing, though the intensity of his presence did not wane. "I see potential in you, Miso," he said, almost as if granting me a boon. "You are sharp, poised. A worthy addition to this family. But remember..." His eyes flicked to Taehyung before returning to me, colder now. "The Kim name carries a weight. And with it, expectations. Fail to meet them..." He let the threat hang in the air, its unspoken conclusion more terrifying than any explicit warning.

Taehyung's jaw tightened, his grip on my back firming as he stepped slightly in front of me, as though shielding me. "That won't be an issue, Grandfather," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Miso and I will honor the family name."

Daehyun regarded his grandson for a long moment, the tension between them palpable. Finally, he gave a small nod. "See that you do."

The conversation shifted as Daehyun turned his attention to a guest approaching with congratulations, dismissing us without another word. But the weight of his presence lingered, a shadow that clung to us even as we moved through the room.

As we walked away, the noise of the crowd washed over us, but I felt isolated, my thoughts spinning. Taehyung's hand on my back was steady, guiding me, but I could feel the tension in him, a storm brewing beneath his composed exterior.

"That went well," I murmured, my voice barely audible over the din of the room.

Taehyung glanced at me, his expression unreadable. "He likes you," he said finally, though there was a bitterness in his tone. "For now."

I swallowed, the weight of his words settling in my chest like a stone.

"That wasn't the case last night, so what changed that in less than a day?"

"Kim Daehyun's thoughts are impossible to predict." He said in bitter voice.

"But what happens when that changes?" I said in stoic voice.

His gaze darkened, and his hand on my back tightened almost imperceptibly. "It won't," he said, his voice cold, determined. "I won't let it."

There was a finality to his words, a promise-or perhaps a warning-that sent a shiver down my spine.

And as we moved through the crowd, exchanging polite smiles and empty words, I couldn't shake the feeling that Daehyun's shadow loomed over us, a silent reminder of the expectations we could never escape.

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Author's Note:

Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope you enjoyed the unfolding tension and emotions between Miso and Taehyung. What do you think about their dynamic and the looming presence of Daehyun? I'd love to hear your thoughts-don't hold back!

If you're enjoying the story so far, don't forget to vote and share your feedback. Your support means the world and helps keep this journey alive. Until next time!

Love,
Lavendermiso!!