A week had passed since the night Jungkook had claimed her so thoroughly, since he'd slept inside her and woken her twice more before dawn to prove his possession again and again. The marks had faded from her hips, the tenderness in her body had subsided, but the memory remained—a constant pulse of awareness between them whenever he looked at her.

But he hadn't come home last night.

The text had been brief—"Meeting with hyungs. Don't wait up."—but when morning came and he still hadn't returned, when his side of the bed remained cold and untouched, Y/n felt the first stirrings of worry. The twins were fed, bathed, and settled with their nannies in the nursery, chubby hands grasping at colorful toys while she made the decision to go to him.

She dressed carefully—not the torn gown from that night, but something soft and flowing, a cream-colored dress that draped over her curves and caught the light against her skin. She'd learned to navigate Seoul in the years since he'd brought her here, learned the language enough to function, though she still thought in her native tongue when nervous.

HYBE's building loomed before her, glass and steel and impossible wealth. She checked in at reception, gave her name—Jeon Y/n, wife of Jungkook-ssi—and settled into a chair in the waiting area, crossing her legs, checking her phone, unaware of the picture she made in the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Minho had been a superstar for twenty years. Thirty-eight years old, with the kind of timeless beauty that had evolved from pretty boy to devastating man, he'd walked through the doors of HYBE for a collaboration meeting with the younger generation, expecting nothing more than professional courtesy and perhaps some interesting music.

He didn't expect her.

She was sitting near the reception desk, her profile illuminated by the sun, her skin rich and warm like honey poured over cream. She was curvy—soft thighs pressing against each other beneath her dress, hips that flared from a narrow waist, breasts that strained slightly against the fabric with each breath. But it was her smile that caught him, distracted and sweet as she looked at something on her phone, full lips curved in a way that made his chest tighten.

Beautiful, he thought, his steps slowing. Who is she?

She looked up as he approached, and he watched her eyes widen—dark, expressive eyes that traveled over his face with recognition and something like awe. She stood quickly, phone clattering to the chair, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Oh my God," she breathed, and her voice was soft, accented, utterly enchanting. "You're—you're really—"

"Choi Minho," he said, bowing slightly, unable to stop the smile that spread across his face. "And you are?"

She seemed to remember herself then, her cheeks flushing darker, her hands fluttering nervously. "I'm sorry, I'm just—I'm a big fan. Since I was young. You were my first crush, actually. In the industry, I mean."

The admission was so honest, so unguarded, that Minho felt something shift in his chest. She wasn't flirting strategically—she was genuine, her eyes shining with the kind of adoration he rarely saw anymore from people who knew him only as an image on a screen.

"What's your name?" he asked, stepping closer, drawn by her warmth, by the scent of vanilla and something floral that surrounded her.

"Y/n," she whispered, as if sharing a secret.

"Y/n," he repeated, tasting the syllables. "Beautiful name. For a beautiful woman."

She flushed deeper, and he saw her hesitate—saw her internal debate about propriety, about boundaries—and then she threw caution to the wind and stepped forward, her arms opening.

"Can I—would it be okay if I—"

He didn't let her finish. He pulled her into his arms, enveloping her, and felt something dangerous happen to his pulse. She was soft—impossibly soft, her body yielding against his, her head tucking beneath his chin, her hair silky against his jaw. She smelled like milk and honey and woman, and he felt his arms tighten instinctively, pulling her closer than was appropriate, closer than was safe.

"You're so soft," he murmured to himself against her hair, his hands spreading across her back, feeling the plushness of her, the warmth. "Like silk. Like something I could spend hours touching."

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with those wide, dark eyes, and he saw it—the pure innocence , the lingering admiration of the fangirl who had grown into a woman but still remembered being fifteen and watching him on a screen.

"How old are you?" he asked, his thumb brushing her cheek before he could stop himself.

"Thirty-five," she said, and he smiled—older than he'd thought, mature, perfect.

"I'm thirty-eight," he said. "Not too old for you, I think."

She just ignored his flirt ,being naive!!

He was leaning in, drawn by her lips, by the possibility of her, when the sound shattered the air.

The glass vase hit the wall three feet from where they stood, exploding into a thousand glittering shards that rained down on the marble floor. The crash echoed through the lobby, sharp and violent, sending receptionists scrambling and security guards reaching for their radios.

Y/n startled so hard she would have fallen if Minho hadn't caught her, his arms tightening around her waist in protective instinct. They both turned toward the source of the sound, toward the elevator bank where the projectile had originated.

Jungkook stood there, chest heaving, his face a mask of fury that transformed his beautiful features into something terrifying. He was wearing yesterday's clothes—rumpled black trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. Behind him, spilling out of the elevator, were six other men—his hyungs, their faces shifting from confusion to alarm as they took in the scene.

"Jungkook—" Y/n gasped, but he was already moving.

He crossed the space between them in long, predatory strides, his eyes fixed on Minho's hands where they rested on her waist. He didn't speak. He simply reached out, seized Y/n's arm with a grip that brooked no argument, and pulled her from Minho's embrace with enough force to make her stumble.

She crashed against his chest, and his arm wrapped around her waist like iron, his hand splaying possessively over her stomach, pulling her back against him so tightly she could feel every ridge of muscle, could feel the thundering of his heart, could feel the hard evidence of his rage pressing against her lower back.

"Get your hands off her," Minho said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, his own temper flaring at the rough treatment. "Now."

Jungkook laughed. It was not a pleasant sound—it was guttural, edged with madness, his eyes never leaving Minho's face even as his hand slid upward to cup Y/n's face. marking his territory with obscene clarity.

"Why would I do that?" Jungkook asked, his accent thickening his English, his voice vibrating with barely contained violence. "Why would I ever let go of what's mine?"

He lowered his head, his mouth finding the curve of Y/n's neck, and bit down—hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make her gasp, his eyes locked on Minho's in a challenge that was purely animal. When he pulled back, his lips glistening, he smiled—a terrible, triumphant smile.

"She's my wife," he said simply. "Lawfully wedded. Mother of my children. Mine in every way that matters."

The words hit Minho like physical blows. He staggered back slightly, his face draining of color, his eyes moving from Jungkook's possessive grip to Y/n's left hand where it pressed against Jungkook's arm—where a simple gold band caught the light, unmistakable, damning.

"Wife?" Minho repeated, the word cracking.

"Two years now," Jungkook purred, his hand sliding down to grip her hip, his fingers digging into the softness there with proprietary satisfaction. "Twins. A boy and a girl. Beautiful babies with her eyes." He pressed a kiss to Y/n's temple, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that carried perfectly in the shocked silence. "Tell him, baby. Tell him who you belong to."

Y/n was trembling, overwhelmed by the violence of Jungkook's jealousy, by the public scene, by the hardness of Minho's expression as realization crushed the hope that had sparked there moments ago. But she felt Jungkook's hand tighten, felt his breath hot against her ear, felt the tremor running through his body that wasn't entirely anger—it was fear. Fear of losing her. Fear that someone else might offer what he couldn't.

"You," she whispered, her voice carrying. "I belong to you, Jungkook. Only you."

Minho closed his eyes. When he opened them, something had died there—the spark of attraction, the possibility of connection, the foolish dream that had bloomed in the space of a five-minute conversation. He looked at Y/n—really looked at her—and saw what he should have seen immediately: the tiredness around her eyes that came from sleepless nights with infants, the slight widening of her hips that spoke of childbirth, the ring on her finger that he'd been too dazzled to notice.

"Jeon Jungkook," Minho said, his voice hollow, formal. "Congratulations on your marriage. Your wife is... lovely."

He bowed, the gesture automatic, professional, and when he straightened, he didn't look at Y/n again. Couldn't. He walked toward the conference rooms, his back straight, his shoulders rigid, and Jungkook watched him go with eyes that glittered with predatory satisfaction.

"Don't look at him," Jungkook commanded, his hand moving to grip her jaw, turning her face toward his. "Don't think about him. Don't remember his name."

He kissed her then, in front of everyone—his hyungs, the reception staff, the security guards still hovering uncertainly. Kissed her with brutal possession, his tongue forcing her mouth open, his hand tangled in her hair to hold her still. When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard, and his eyes were wild, the madness of jealousy still riding him hard.

"You're coming with me," he growled, his hand finding hers, his fingers interlacing with hers so tightly it hurt. "Now. And you're not leaving the house for a month. Maybe two."

"Jungkook, the twins—"

"Will be fine with the nannies." He pulled her toward the elevator, his hyungs scattering before his rage like birds before a storm. "You have more important things to do. Like reminding you who you married. Like fucking you until you forget anyone else exists."

The elevator doors closed on the sight of Minho standing at the end of the hallway, his hand pressed against the glass, watching them descend—watching the woman who had been, for five minutes, the possibility of something new, now disappearing into the depths of the building with her husband, her possessor, her obsession.

In the elevator, Jungkook pressed her against the wall, his body crowding hers, his mouth finding her neck again. "I saw you," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I saw you smile at him. Saw you hug him. Felt him looking at you like he wanted to take you from me."

"Never," she gasped, her hands finding his hair, pulling him closer. "Never, Jungkook. I'm yours. You know I'm yours."

"Not enough," he growled, the elevator stopping, the doors opening on the private garage. "Not nearly enough. I need to feel it. Need to feel you. Need to erase him from your skin."

He pulled her toward the car, his grip unrelenting, his need a palpable force that surrounded them both. Behind them, the building held the echo of shattered glass and broken hope, and ahead of them lay a night that would be measured not in hours, but in the number of times he could make her scream his name, the number of ways he could mark her, the depth of his obsession that knew no bounds and no mercy.

She was his.

And he would spend eternity proving it.