Ever since I first moved to New York nearly a decade ago, I had always dreamt of stepping inside the Velmont Regency Hotel. I envied those fortunate enough to walk through the gilded, golden doors of the five-star establishment. I used to imagine rubbing shoulders with the men and women attending glamorous galas, or being a fly on the wall as celebrities were photographed at exclusive, invite-only events. Everyone always appeared so refined, draped in the finest designer clothes and adorned with dazzling jewels.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd become one of them. Yet here I was, walking hand-in-hand with my husband through the grand entrance. My elegant, azure-blue, off-the-shoulder ball gown stood out in a sea of black dresses and tailored suits. I was relieved the fitted bodice concealed my tiny bump, which had just started showing two days ago.

Hoseok and I hadn't told anyone about the pregnancy—we were both still fuming over Irene's actions. When I flew home a few hours after getting the news, my husband was furious when I told him what the doctor said. For the first time since I returned to New York in July, I saw him transform into Big Jay. It terrified me. He stormed into his office, angrily stabbing at the keypad as he entered the code for his gun safe with such force I thought his finger might break through it, before pulling out one of the firearms inside. As much as I wanted to stand aside and let him end Red Velvet for good, I knew his rage would only get him killed, not her. Somehow, I managed to calm him down, and together while huddled in the small guest bathroom away from the cameras, we devised a plan for revenge.

But he didn't know my revenge would hopefully happen tonight.

"Wow," I murmured in awe as Hoseok led me into the ballroom. The air of opulence and sophistication took me by surprise. A soaring ceiling, adorned with intricate plasterwork and glimmering chandeliers, cast a warm and inviting glow over the room. Elegant columns framed the space, while the polished parquet floors reflected the shimmering lights above. Rich, luxurious hues of gold and cream accented the walls.

Beyond the space set aside for dancing, tables draped in crisp white linens and adorned with delicate centrepieces of fresh flowers were arranged in perfect symmetry, inviting guests to gather and celebrate. The soft hum of conversation blended with the gentle strains of a string quartet, creating an atmosphere that was both lively and enchanting—not what I expected from a room full of gangsters.

Big Jay glided through the room with effortless charm, a true social butterfly. His magnetic presence seemed to light up every corner he entered, drawing guests into his orbit with ease. What struck me most was his ability to connect with everyone, regardless of their status. One moment, he was deep in conversation with the head of a powerful gang from Staten Island, and the next, he was chatting just as comfortably with a low-level drug runner from Brooklyn. Big Jay didn't discriminate; his charm worked on everyone as he weaved through the crowd like he was the glue holding the room together.

Occasionally, I was introduced to someone new, and we would exchange polite pleasantries. However, for the most part, I took on the role of the supportive wife, standing by while my husband mingled and networked with others. It felt like my main responsibility was to provide silent support as he connected with different people. As time went on and he spoke with more people, I noticed he was shown the same respect as the other gang leaders he'd introduced me to. The plan of keeping him as the face of the Serpents had worked—no one was any the wiser that they were actually speaking to the ex-leader.

I spotted a few familiar faces—regular patrons from Copacabana—and silently thanked them for not addressing me as Lola. This wasn't the club, and tonight, I was far from the showgirl they knew me to be. Instead, I was simply Big Jay's wife, the woman quietly waiting beside her husband while observing the glittering crowd.

When Red Velvet sidled up and inserted herself into Big Jay's conversation with The Brotherhood members, it took everything in me to suppress the sneer threatening to curl my lips. Instead, I mustered the most judgemental look I could, openly scanning her from head to toe. My brow furrowed, and my lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line the moment I saw what she was wearing.

The 'dress' she was wearing—if you could even call the transparent shimmery crocheted slip that—didn't cover anything. She didn't even bother with nipple pasties or a thong, instead, shamelessly flaunting herself without a shred of decency.

"Nice 'dress,'" I said, fixing my gaze on her with an unwavering intensity. I wanted her to know I wasn't intimidated. "Aren't you cold?" My voice dripped with the same disapproval etched on my face.

As a stripper, I took pride in my body and would never dictate what anyone should or shouldn't wear. But Irene's choice was something else entirely. She had shamelessly ignored the dress code—both for the gala and the Velmont Regency—and was parading around practically naked as if it were completely acceptable. It was nothing short of outrageous; a blatant disregard for the decorum expected at such an event.

Irene threw her head back and laughed, but I saw through her flirtatious facade. She was rattled by my defiance, especially in front of the company we were in. If we were anywhere else, Red Velvet would have made sure I knew she was in charge—likely with some twisted 'choice' meant to keep me in line. But here, where everyone believed she was just Big Jay's underling, the power dynamic shifted; at this gala, she was beneath me in the ranks.

Big Jay's jaw tightened, a clear indication of his displeasure with Irene's attire. Her choice was making a mockery of the meticulous effort he'd put into planning the event. That 'dress' didn't just whisper a message to the other gang leaders; it screamed of a power struggle between the heads of the Serpents. If I hadn't known about the raid planned for tonight, I would have easily suspected that some gangs might try to exploit this power shift. The Brotherhood and the remnants of the Hell's Pirates—who were still trying to hold onto their influence after losing most of their territory—could see this as an opportunity to begin reclaiming their valued neighbourhoods.

"We will talk about this..." my husband sneered, pausing to gesture to the dress with his finger, "...monstrosity tomorrow." He turned to the leader of The Brotherhood and shook his head in disgust. "Guess this is my punishment for having a second-in-charge who is more interested in being a whore than a leader. Fucking ridiculous."

I could see him getting increasingly worked up, which was playing right into Red Velvet's hands. All night, I had kept my distance from the men Big Jay conversed with, only engaging when introduced or asked a question. But now, I could no longer bite my tongue.

"Honey, should I check if the manager has a spare uniform for Red Velvet? I wouldn't be able to live with myself if she caught a cold from all this air conditioning," I said, keeping my tone sweet and soft as if I genuinely wanted to help.

"I think that is a great idea, Sunshine. I love how you're always looking out for everyone's health and safety." Big Jay pressed his lips to mine in a kiss that lingered just a moment too long, then broke away with a soft smile. As I headed towards the bar to ask for the manager, I heard my husband ask, "Don't I have the sweetest wife?"

To the gangsters around us, he appeared to be the picture of a proud husband. But beneath that facade, I could see the satisfaction building within him as Red Velvet insisted she was perfectly fine and not cold at all. She was trying—and failing badly—to keep the upper hand.

This wasn't originally part of my revenge plan, but I had to admit that it felt damn good to throw Irene's insult back in her face. I'd lost track of how many times she'd called me a whore, slut, or hoe since the night Seokjin had joined Hoseok and me in bed. Both men had reassured me countless times that what we did didn't make me any of those things—and I knew that too—but every time she spat one of those insults, a small part of me was haunted by my mother's same accusations.

Requesting a staff uniform that Irene could wear made me feel both giddy and powerful. Watching her reaction when she was handed the ugly maid's outfit by the waitress was priceless—especially when she stomped her foot in protest like a spoiled child. But the real highlight of my petty victory came when Big Jay stepped in, telling Irene that under no circumstances was she allowed to leave his side for the rest of the night after she'd tried to slip out the back to escape her humiliation. If we hadn't been in a room full of people, I would have given my husband the best blow job of his life out of sheer gratitude for being able to watch her get knocked down a peg.

He'd unknowingly played right into my hands. After all, I needed her to be here when the raid happened.

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Throughout dinner, I struggled to focus on anything other than the waves of nausea that kept rising. It was so bad that it made it impossible to enjoy my meal. I'm certain that the sous-vide pork belly in front of me was exquisite, but the mere thought of taking more than a few bites turned my stomach. I managed to sample the caramelised pears and sweet potato purée that accompanied it, but even then, I barely ate. Between the morning sickness and the nerves of the raid, I was unsure if I could keep anything down.

The rich aroma of truffles and the heady scent of the red wine reduction on Hoseok's herb-crusted lamb rack was particularly overwhelming. Catching whiffs made my stomach churn with every breath. Each inhale felt like a battle to stave off the nausea, leaving me distracted and on edge.

My morning sickness had begun a couple of weeks ago, and while I usually cursed it for how miserable it made me feel, tonight I felt a flicker of gratitude. It would make excusing myself from the table easier—and more believable.

"Are you sure you don't want to try some, Sunshine?" my husband asked in a soft voice, almost lost amid the loud conversations around us. "I'm worried you haven't eaten enough."

I glanced at the piece of pork he hovered towards me on his fork, pretending to consider it. However, the moment I caught a whiff of whiskey from the man sitting next to me, a wave of nausea hit hard, making me gag involuntarily.

"I don't think I can keep anything down with all these smells," I whispered, leaning closer so only Hoseok could hear. "I'm going to get some fresh air. You stay. Enjoy yourself, and keep an eye on her. I don't trust her."

He nodded and I could tell he wanted to kiss me. But we'd learned the hard way that when my morning sickness was this intense, even the slightest smell of his food could trigger me. The two times he ended up wearing my vomit were enough for both of us to be cautious from then on.

I rose from the table, smoothing the fabric of my dress with a decisive motion. I didn't bother to excuse myself—after all, it was no one's business, and my status as Big Jay's wife granted me a level of authority in this setting. I strode purposefully toward the nearest door leading to the deck.

On the outside, I appeared calm and composed, but inside, I was a nervous wreck. My mind raced, replaying the instructions given to me by a certain Special Agent. I was silently praying I wouldn't be followed. I was so deep in my thoughts that I nearly missed the familiar set of eyes and the dimples hidden beneath the waiter's disguise.

As I stepped onto the balcony, the cool autumn breeze hit me, and I let out a sigh of relief that I carefully masked as a reaction to the sudden chill. Just knowing that Namjoon was here brought a sense of calm and peace that I'd missed since Hawaii.

Unsure if I was being followed, I took my time on the balcony. I made it seem like I was simply stepping out for a breath of fresh air. I leaned casually against the white brick ledge, letting my gaze drift over the night-time beauty that was Fifth Avenue. To my left, at a diagonal, the haunting glow of The Met's illuminated walls stood tall against the dark, exuding a quiet grandeur. Below, the soft clip-clop of hooves caught my attention as a couple, wrapped snugly in a light blanket, enjoyed a romantic horse-drawn carriage ride down the street.

The sound of dishes being cleared signalled it was time for me to go. Instead of retracing my steps through the same door, I slipped back in via the opposite end of the balcony, my pace quickening with purpose. I made it look like I was rushing to the bathroom, feigning the urgency of someone on the verge of being sick.

The moment I stepped inside, the act fell away when I saw the bathroom was empty. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and gave a sharp nod—everything was falling into place. My pulse quickened at the thought of being able to see Yoongi again.

As Jungkook had promised, the door on the far side was unlocked. With a glance over my shoulder, I slipped through it and into the dimly lit hallway beyond. The air felt thicker now, charged with tension.

I kicked off my heels and picked them up—I wasn't going to make the same mistake I'd done before by leaving my shoes behind. The cool tile underfoot reminded me how real this was becoming. Left turn. I moved faster. Each step I took was precise and silent. Right turn. My heart thumped louder in my chest, both from the exertion and worry. This was it—everything Jungkook had prepped me for was happening now.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I rushed down the hall, every nerve sparking with panic. I spotted the room—the one Jungkook had drilled into my memory. The wrought-iron eagle lamps loomed as he had said they would, their shadows clawing at the walls.

My breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, and my hand shook as I fumbled for the cold brass knob. With a quick, frantic glance over my shoulder, I twisted it and slipped inside.

The door clicked shut behind me with a jarring finality, the engaging lock echoing in the suffocating silence of the room. When I flicked on the light, the office enveloped me in an unsettling hush that made my skin crawl. I barely registered the opulent mahogany desk that I placed my shoes on as I rushed toward the towering bookshelf that dominated the wall.

"Tom's Midnight Garden. Philippa Pearce," I whispered, the name of the book and author became my desperate mantra that fuelled my search. My eyes darted across the endless rows of books, each spine a potential lifeline.

With each passing moment I spent searching, sweat trickled down my neck. My nausea had been replaced by a tight knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach.

"Tom's Midnight Garden... Philippa Pearce... please, please, please," I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper. I scanned the shelves with frantic urgency, my fingers trembling as they brushed against the spines. The titles blurred into a chaotic jumble, my mind racing with fear that I might not find it in time.

Seconds turned into what felt like hours. My chest tightened with every breath, my fingers becoming more desperate, my eyes flicking between the shelves, wondering how much longer I had before the gunshots from the impending raid began to ring out.

Doubt crept in, seeping into my thoughts. Had the Special Agent set me up? Was this all a trick?

My movements grew frantic. I resorted to yanking books off the shelf, searching for the one that wouldn't budge. My heart was in my throat so much that I thought I might be sick. Time was slipping away from me, the weight of failure pressing down. But then—just as I was ready to give up, to curse everything—I felt it.

With trembling hands, I tugged on the book. For a second, nothing happened. My heart stuttered. Then, the soft mechanical whir of gears came to life. Relief washed over me in a rush, and I exhaled a breath I didn't realise I had been holding. The bookcase shifted, revealing the hidden panic room beyond.

As I closed the door behind me and heard the pressure lock engage, I sank to my knees. I was finally safe.