Chapter One Hundred Forty-Nine: The Spectacle of Love
The office door swung open.
I didn't hear the click. Didn't hear the footsteps in the hallway or the murmured voices of assistants pretending not to stare. All I felt was the warmth of him—his arms around me, his coat draped over my shoulders, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
"Tete."
"Hmm."
"Carry me."
His hand stilled on my back. "What?"
"Carry me out of here." I tilted my head back, looking up at him through heavy lashes. "I'm sleepy. Tired. Emotional."
"Angel—"
"You're the reason I'm emotional." My voice wobbled, deliberately pathetic. "You wrote a diary. About loving me in every universe. My heart can't handle it."
"Angel—"
"Carry me."
He stared at me.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark. But beneath the tension, beneath the exasperation, I saw it—the softness, the surrender, the quiet, aching love he couldn't hide even if he tried.
"Fine," he said.
"Fine?"
"Fine." He shifted, one arm sliding beneath my knees, the other around my back. "But you have to hold the diary."
"I'm holding the diary."
"Hold it tighter."
"I'm holding it very tightly."
He stood.
The world tilted—just for a moment—and then I was pressed against his chest, cradled in his arms like something precious. The diary was tucked between us, the worn leather warm against my skin.
"Now walk," I said.
"Angel—"
"Walk, Tete. Let them see."
He walked.
---
The hallway was a blur.
I kept my face pressed to his chest, breathing him in, feeling the steady thump of his heart against my cheek. But I heard them—the whispers, the sharp intakes of breath, the soft scuffle of people stepping aside.
"Is that—"
"The chairman—"
"Who is she—"
"She's his wife—"
His grip tightened.
I smiled against his shirt.
"Tete."
"Hmm."
"You're ruining your reputation."
"I don't care."
"Everyone is watching."
"Let them watch."
"You're very brave."
"I'm very in love."
I pressed a kiss to his chest.
---
The elevator doors opened.
I didn't look up. Didn't need to. I could feel the weight of their stares—the receptionist, the security guards, the men in suits who stood frozen in the lobby, their eyes wide, their mouths open.
Kim Taehyun. The devil. The monster. The man who made empires tremble.
Carrying his wife.
Like a bride over the threshold.
"Tete."
"Hmm."
"Junho was right."
"About what?"
"Your reputation. It's crumbling."
"Let it crumble."
"You're very dramatic."
"You're very heavy."
I gasped, swatting his chest. "I'm not heavy!"
"You're a little heavy."
"I'm perfect."
"You're perfect." He kissed my forehead. "And heavy."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He laughed.
The elevator doors closed behind us.
---
The lobby was worse.
More people. More stares. More whispers that cut through the air like knives dropped on marble. I kept my face hidden, my nose pressed to his neck, but I saw them through my lashes—the receptionist with her perfect hair, the security guards with their stoic faces, the cluster of businessmen who had stopped mid-conversation to watch.
And Junho.
Junho was standing by the entrance, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of horror and grudging admiration.
"Hyung." His voice was sharp, cutting through the whispers. "What are you doing?"
"Carrying my wife."
"In front of everyone?"
"Everyone is watching."
"That's the problem."
"I don't care."
"Your reputation—"
"Burned." Taehyun walked past him, his strides long and unhurried. "The moment I met her."
"But—"
"Junho." His voice was calm, final. "Open the door."
Junho opened the door.
---
The car was waiting.
Junho scrambled for the handle, yanking it open with a force that made the frame shudder. Taehyun bent, sliding me onto the back seat, his arms lingering around me for a moment before he stepped back.
"Minho," he said. "You're driving."
Minho appeared from nowhere, his expression unreadable. "Where to?"
"Home."
"I thought we had meetings—"
"Cancel them."
"Taehyun —"
"Cancel them, Minho."
Minho looked at me.
I looked at him.
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation.
"Fine," he said. "But you're explaining this to Mother."
"Mother will understand."
"Mother will frame it."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
Minho walked to the driver's side.
Junho climbed into the passenger seat.
Taehyun slid in beside me.
---
The car pulled away from the curb.
The city blurred past the windows—buildings and bridges and streets I didn't recognize. I was curled against Taehyun's side, his arm around my shoulders, the diary still clutched to my chest.
"You're very clingy today," Junho said from the front seat.
"I'm emotionally compromised."
"You read his diary."
"His private diary."
"That was an invasion of privacy."
"I'm his wife."
"That doesn't give you the right."
"It gives me every right."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
Junho sighed.
It was a sound I was beginning to recognize—the sigh of a man who had spent his whole life surrounded by impossible people and had simply added me to the list.
"I can't believe you carried her through the lobby," he said, turning to look at Taehyun. "In front of everyone."
"I can't believe you watched."
"I couldn't look away."
"That's concerning."
"That's admiration."
Minho turned a corner.
The car glided through the streets, smooth and quiet.
The city gave way to trees.
The buildings thinned, replaced by wide avenues and green spaces, parks and gardens and the distant glint of the river. I pressed my face to the window, watching the world rush past.
"Beautiful," I murmured.
"The city?" Taehyun asked.
"Everything."
Minho glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "You're very philosophical today."
"I'm very tired."
"You read his diary."
"His private diary."
"That's two hours ago."
"I'm still recovering."
"You're very dramatic."
"I'm very in love."
Minho sighed.
Junho laughed.
---
The park appeared suddenly.
A blur of green and gold, trees heavy with late-summer leaves, paths winding through fields of wildflowers. Children played on the grass, their laughter bright and distant. A couple walked hand in hand, their heads bent together, their steps slow and unhurried.
And then—
I saw her.
The woman.
She was sitting on a blanket beneath a sprawling oak tree, her hand resting on her round belly, her face tilted toward the sun. Beside her, a man—tall, broad-shouldered, his arm draped casually over her shoulders. And between them, a boy.
Chubby cheeks.
Dark curls.
I pressed closer to the window, straining to see.
Taehyun's hand tightened on my shoulder.
"Angel."
"The woman—I saw her—"
"Angel."
"Tete, I saw her—"
"Angel."
I blinked.
The car had passed the park.
The trees were gone. The green was gone. The woman, the man, the boy—all of them were gone.
"Turn around," I said.
"What?"
"Turn around. I need to—"
"Angel." Taehyun's voice was soft, steady. "There's no one there."
"I saw her."
"You're tired."
"I'm not tired."
"You're emotional."
"I'm not—"
"You read my diary. You cried. You fell asleep on my office couch." He cupped my face, turning me to look at him. "You're exhausted, Angel. Your mind is playing tricks on you."
"I saw her."
"You saw a ghost."
"Tete—"
"Close your eyes."
"Tete."
"Close your eyes, Angel."
I closed my eyes.
The darkness was warm. Safe.
"Breathe," he said.
I breathed.
"Again."
I breathed again.
"Good," he said. "Now rest."
"I'm not tired."
"You're always tired."
"I'm always dramatic."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He laughed.
I smiled.
The car carried us home.
---
I opened my eyes.
The park was gone. The city was gone. The road stretched before us, grey and empty, lined with trees that blurred into a soft green haze.
"Tete."
"Hmm."
"I saw her."
"I know."
"The woman. The one I always see."
"I know."
"You think I'm hallucinating."
"I think you're exhausted."
"I'm not—"
"You're exhausted, Angel."
I pressed my palm to my chest.
The ache was still there. The same ache I always felt when I saw her—the hollow, familiar ache that told me I knew her, that I'd always known her, that somewhere in the locked room of my mind, her face was waiting.
"I'm not crazy," I whispered.
"I know."
"I'm not."
"I know." He pulled me closer. "You're not crazy, Angel. You're tired. You're healing. You're remembering."
"Remembering?"
"The mind is a strange thing." His voice was soft, thoughtful. "It hides what it can't handle. And when it's ready—when you're ready—it lets those memories come back."
"Like ghosts."
"Like ghosts."
"I'm haunted."
"I know." He pressed a kiss to my hair. "But you're not alone."
I turned my face to his chest.
Breathed him in.
"Tete?"
"Hmm."
"I love you."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"I do." His hand slid to the back of my head, cradling me close. "I love you too. In this universe. In every universe. I love you the most."
"Flatterer."
"Husband."
I smiled.
The car carried us home.
The back seat was warm.
Taehyun's arm was around me, his hand tracing slow circles on my shoulder. The diary was still clutched to my chest, the worn leather soft against my skin.
Junho was talking—something about banana milk and the fridge and a conspiracy involving Jinwoo—but I wasn't listening. Couldn't listen. My mind was still in the park, still with the woman.
The words echoed in my chest.
I closed my eyes.
"Angel." Taehyun's voice was soft. "You're thinking too loud."
"I'm not thinking."
"You're remembering."
"I'm trying not to."
"Why?"
"Because it hurts."
"What hurts?"
"Not knowing." I pressed my hand to my chest. "Knowing I should know her. That I did know her. That she was important."
"Angel."
"She was important, Tete. I can feel it."
"I know."
"Why won't you tell me?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That when you remember, you'll hate me."
"I could never hate you."
"You don't remember."
"I remember this." I pressed my palm to his heart. "I remember your heartbeat. The way it feels when I'm scared. The way it steadies me."
"Angel."
"I remember you, Tete. Even when I don't remember anything else."
He kissed my forehead.
Soft. Lingering.
"Sleep," he said.
"I'm not tired."
"You're exhausted."
"I'm—"
"Sleep, Angel."
I closed my eyes.
---