Chapter Twenty-Two: Loyalty in Poison
The wind had changed.
It was there in Detective Choi's eyes the next day, no longer the weary, cautious grey of wet pavement but the sharp, assessing glint of flint struck against steel. The rooftop café felt more like a cage now, the string lights overhead buzzing with a nervous energy that matched the tension coiling in my gut.
He didn't wait for the steam to stop curling from my cup. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that carried further than a shout in the quiet space between us.
"You know, in my line of work, you hear things," he began, his gaze fixed on me, unblinking. "Whispers about men like your husband. Not the public accolades, the business deals. The other things. The quiet disappearances. The associates who vanish after a disagreement. The way money moves through shell companies that lead back to… less savory shores. Naples. Palermo. The kind of wealth that doesn't come from boardrooms, but from shadows."
Each word was a pebble dropped into the still pond of my composure, ripples of cold dread spreading outward. My fingers tightened around the mug, the ceramic groaning in protest. I could feel the heat, but it couldn't penetrate the sudden chill in my veins.
"Stop." The word cut through his narrative, sharper than I intended. "I didn't hire you for gossip or ghost stories. I hired you for facts. Evidence. Names and dates. If you don't have those, don't feed me poison and call it truth."
A faint, knowing smile touched his lips—a predator pleased to see its prey startle. "You're loyal," he observed, the word itself a subtle weapon. "Even when every instinct must be screaming at you to run. Fascinating."
I stood, the chair legs scraping a discordant shriek against the concrete. "Find the truth, Detective. That is the transaction. And if you attempt to manipulate me with insinuations instead…" I let my voice go cold, flat, channeling a sliver of the ice I'd learned from my husband. "I will consider our contract void, and you will find I am not without resources to express my displeasure."
He tilted his head, the amused caution back in his eyes. "I will find the truth," he conceded, his tone almost soothing. "But let's not pretend, Mrs. Kim, that you are a naive bride surprised by the scent of sulfur. You know what he is. A monster, certainly. But one who has draped himself in the finest velvet, just for you."
The casual blasphemy—against the man who was my jailer, my tormentor, my inexplicable sanctuary—ignited a fury so pure it burned away the fear. "I don't need your psychological profile," I spat. "I need a timeline. I need medical records from three years ago. I need to know who I was before the accident. Save your character assessments for someone who pays you for them."
He laughed then, a low, dry sound that held no warmth. It seemed to crawl over the rusted railings and sink into my skin. "You really don't see it, do you?" He leaned forward, his shadow falling across the table like a threat. "You hate him. You are, rightly, terrified of him. And yet, you defend him. That isn't just fear, Mrs. Kim. That's loyalty. The kind of profound, twisted bond a man like him specializes in forging."
The accusation hit its mark with devastating accuracy. It wasn't the loyalty that shamed me—it was the exposure of it. He had seen the invisible tether I refused to acknowledge, the one that pulled taut between fury and a terrifying dependence.
I didn't grace him with a reply. Turning on my heel, I walked away, my heels striking the metal stairs with a definitive, angry rhythm that echoed in the hollow stairwell. Clang. Clang. Clang. A retreat that felt like a surrender.
The city air outside was thick with impending rain. I walked without direction, Choi's words a toxic swarm in my mind. Monster wrapped in velvet. Twisted bond. They were not untrue. That was the hell of it. They were mirrors held up to the contradiction I lived every day.
I reached a quiet corner, leaning against the cold, rough brick of a building, and finally let the shudder run through me. The storm inside was worse than any the sky could brew. He was right. About the loyalty. It was there, a rotten root deep in the rubble of my life, refusing to be dug out. It wasn't love. It was something more primal, more terrifying. A recognition. A belonging to the chaos, because the chaos had become home.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket, a violent little tremor against my thigh. I pulled it out, rain spotting the screen.
A message from Taehyun.
The rain is coming. Where are you?
Simple. Direct. No demands. Yet it was a leash, nonetheless. I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the screen. The detective's voice hissed in my memory. Twisted bond.
I typed a single word.
Out.
The reply was immediate.
Come home.
Not a question. A statement. An expectation. And the terrible, shameful part of me? It wanted to obey. Not out of fear, but out of a weary, bone-deep craving for the singular, oppressive peace that existed only within his orbit.
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♡ Homecoming in the Rain
The heavens opened just as the mansion gates swung shut behind me. By the time I stumbled to the grand front door, I was a drowned creature, my hair a dark rope down my back, my coat a heavy, sodden weight. I dripped onto the pristine marble of the foyer, a piece of the storm tracked into his perfect, sterile world.
The sound that drew me was not the usual silence. It was the soft, syncopated rhythm of a knife against a cutting board, the gentle bubble of something simmering, and a low, familiar voice grumbling in Korean.
I followed the warmth and the scent—garlic, ginger, something rich and savory—to the kitchen doorway.
The scene inside was a surreal diorama of domesticity.
Taehyun stood at the stove, the sleeves of his simple brown linen shirt rolled to his elbows, revealing the corded strength of his forearms. A faint sheen of steam or sweat glistened at his temples. He was stirring a large pot, his brow furrowed in concentration that seemed absurdly out of place.
And there, perched on a stool at the island like a benign gargoyle, was Mrs. Han. In her seventies, with a face like a wise apple and eyes that missed nothing, she was the only person in the household who spoke to him not as a kingpin, but as a stubborn nephew.
"I told you, just a pinch more gochugaru. Not the whole jar, you heathen," she chided, not even looking up from the vegetables she was casually shredding.
"It needs depth," he argued, his voice holding a thread of exasperation I'd never heard directed at anyone but me.
"It needs balance, not an assault. You cook like you conduct business—with overwhelming force." She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. "No wonder you almost burned the kitchen down last time."
"That was one time," he muttered, and in that moment, he wasn't Kim Taehyun, shadow king of three countries. He was just a man being scolded by his grandmother.
Then he looked up and saw me.
Everything in him stilled. The spoon hovered over the pot. The casual debate with Mrs. Han vanished from his eyes, replaced by an intensity that swept over me like a physical wave. "You."
In two strides he was across the room. He didn't ask. His hands were on my shoulders, then framing my face, brushing the soaked, tangled hair back. His touch was urgent, searching. "You're ice," he breathed, his thumbs stroking over my chilled cheeks.
I stood there, water pooling at my feet, trembling from cold and the sheer, disorienting whiplash of the last hour. From the detective's poisonous insinuations to this—this fierce, focused care.
Mrs. Han materialized beside him with a thick, soft towel. "Let the girl breathe, Taehyun-ah. And get her out of those wet things before she catches her death." She draped the towel over my head, blotting gently. "Stubborn, the both of you. Walking in a downpour without a proper coat."
I was maneuvered to a chair at the kitchen table. A bowl of the fragrant soup was placed in front of me, steam rising in a comforting plume. Taehyun pulled a chair so close our knees almost touched. He didn't eat. He watched me, his gaze a tangible weight.
"Why didn't you call?" he asked, his voice low, stripped of its usual commanding edge. It was just a question, layered with a concern that felt dangerously genuine.
I opened my mouth, but no sound emerged. The confrontation with Choi, the terror of his implications, the confusion of my own loyalty—it was a logjam in my throat.
Mrs. Han clucked softly, setting a cup of honeyed tea beside the soup bowl. "She's in shock, can't you see? Leave the interrogation for later. Let her warm up."
He ignored her, his eyes never leaving mine. One of his hands left his lap and covered my own where it lay, cold and limp, on the table. His skin was so warm it was almost painful. "You can tell me," he said, his voice dropping to that private register that seemed to exist only for us. "Whatever it is. Whoever it is. I'm here."
The simple promise, in the warmth of the kitchen, with the scent of his cooking filling the air and the sound of rain lashing the windows, was my undoing. The last of my defensive walls, eroded by the storm and the detective's words, crumbled into the foundation of that inexplicable loyalty.
A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path through the chill on my cheek. It was followed by another. I didn't sob. I just sat there, trembling, letting the silent tears fall, while the man who was supposed to be my monster held my hand and waited.
Mrs. Han sighed a sigh of ages. "Ah, aigoo. Look at this. The great storm outside, and the bigger one right here in my kitchen." She patted my shoulder once, a gesture of startling kindness. "Eat, child. He might be a brute in the boardroom, but he makes a decent gamjatang when supervised."
Taehyun's lips quirked, almost a smile, but his eyes remained serious, fixed on me. He used the corner of the towel to gently blot my tears. "She's right," he murmured. "Eat. Then we'll talk."
I looked from the steaming bowl to his face, from the concern etched there to the warm, rough hand enveloping mine. The detective's words echoed, but they were faint now, drowned out by the rain and the profound, unsettling peace of this moment.
Monster wrapped in velvet.
Perhaps. But in this rain-soaked kitchen, the velvet felt real, and the monster's hands were the only thing keeping me from shattering. The twisted bond wasn't just his creation. I was clinging to it just as tightly.
I picked up the spoon. The soup was perfect. And for the first time, I didn't question the poison that might be hidden within the care. I simply accepted the warmth, and the terrifying truth that came with it.
I was home.