"I built walls to keep the past out, but with her, every brick crumbles. Loving her terrifies me... because what if I ruin her the way I was ruined?"

_______

From my office on the highest floor, I have a panoramic view of everything I own, everything I control. The buildings, the businesses, the people—they all move to the rhythm I set. This is my kingdom, built brick by brick, deal by deal. It's a fortress, a reminder that I don't need anyone, that I can't let anyone in.

My desk is cluttered with contracts and proposals, each one more profitable than the last. The world would call this success, but right now, all I feel is unease. My thoughts aren't on the deals. They're on her—my wife, Jeon Y/N.

It's been two weeks since she found the contract. Two weeks of icy stares, slammed doors, and nights spent in the guest bedroom. Two weeks since she screamed those words at me: "Don't you love me? Don't you fucking love me?"

Her voice—so desperate, so raw—rings in my ears, louder than I'd like to admit. It grates on my nerves, yes, but it also does something else. It claws at a part of me I've kept locked away, buried under layers of control and apathy.

Love.

I scoff under my breath, leaning back in my chair. Love has always been a weapon in my life, a tool used to manipulate and destroy. "Jungkookie, don't you love me?" My mother's sickly sweet voice creeps into my consciousness. Those words, so similar to Y/N's, have haunted me for years.

She'd ask me that every time she crawled into my bed late at night, every time she demanded more than a son should give. The memory makes my stomach churn, my fists clenching as I force the images back to the shadows where they belong.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the lingering disgust. It's irrational, I know, but I can't help feeling angry at Y/N for making these memories resurface. She doesn't know—she can't know—what those words do to me, how they rip open old wounds I've spent years stitching shut.

But still...

Her pain, her tears—they weren't just anger. They were something more, something deeper. And that scares the hell out of me. Because for a moment, I wanted to reach out. I wanted to wipe away her tears, to tell her—what? That I do care? That I like her more than I'm willing to admit?

No. That's weakness. And I can't afford weakness.

Arranged marriages are how things work in our world. It's not about love; it's about power, alliances, business. She'll get over it, eventually. She has to. The agreement with her father was clear: she wasn't supposed to know about the arrangement. It was supposed to make things easier for both of us. But now? It's a fucking mess.

Her little act of rebellion—running to the guest bedroom, shutting me out—it's childish. Every night, I find myself standing outside that door, debating whether to drag her back to our bed. I could. I could storm in, grab her by the wrist, and remind her who's in control. But what would that solve? It would only fuel her defiance.

No, she needs to come back willingly. She needs to understand that this isn't just about her, or me. This is bigger than both of us.

I glance at the clock. It's late, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. My thoughts keep circling back to her—to the way her voice cracked when she asked if I loved her, to the way her hands trembled when she threw the contract at me.

This isn't over. Not by a long shot.

A sharp knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.

"Come in," I say, my voice clipped, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside me.

The door creaks open, but I don't look up right away. 

"Jungkookie, my apple..." Her voice was soft, almost tender, as her fingers ran through my hair. I sat at my desk, hunched over my notebook, pretending to study. I gripped the pen in my hand so tightly that my knuckles turned white, but I didn't dare move.

"You know, baby, it's not wrong," she murmured, her voice a poisonous blend of sweetness and something darker. Her hand slid lower, fingers tightening in my hair, yanking just enough to make me wince. "I love you. You know that, right? And I'm not your real mother, so I can touch and love you however I want. Isn't that right?"

I stared at the notebook in front of me, the words blurring as tears filled my eyes. My throat burned, but I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe.

"Your own real mother abandoned you at that orphanage when you were just a baby," she continued, her tone dripping with false affection. "I took you in. I saved you. Nobody will love you like I do, Jungkookie. No one."

Her words dug into me like claws, her grip tightening painfully in my hair as if to remind me of her control. I sat frozen, silent, as tears slipped down my cheeks, soaking the page beneath me. I was eleven, powerless, and utterly alone.

"Sir, the board meeting is about to start," Mathew's voice cut through the fog of memories like a blade.

I blinked, snapping back to the present. Mathew, one of my most trusted advisors, stood at the door, his expression professional and composed.

"I'll be right there," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

I rose from my chair, straightened my tie, and made my way to the conference room. The large table was already surrounded by board members, their faces expectant as they prepared to discuss the latest merger. I took my seat at the head of the table, commanding the room with a presence I'd perfected over the years.

But even as they talked, my mind wandered back to Y/N. Her tear-streaked face, her trembling hands, her voice breaking as she screamed, "Don't you love me?"

I could have handled it better. I could have been less blunt, less cruel. But her words had hit something deep, something raw. For a moment, I wasn't her husband. I was that eleven-year-old boy again, sitting at a desk, his mother's hand where it didn't belong, whispering poison into his ear.

Y/N's pain mirrored my own in a way I hadn't expected, and it scared me. It made me lash out. Because if I let her in—if I let myself feel anything for her—what's stopping history from repeating itself? What's stopping me from becoming something I swore I'd never be?

I clenched my jaw, forcing my attention back to the meeting. I couldn't afford distractions. Not now. Not ever.

But even as the boardroom filled with talk of profits and strategies, one thought lingered in the back of my mind I need to fix this... but how can I, when I don't even know how to fix myself?