Chapter One Hundred Forty-Seven: The Wife Who Refused to Be a Secret
The mansion was empty.
Not the cold emptiness of abandonment, but the hollow quiet of a house whose heart had walked out the front door. Taehyun had left an hour ago, his lips pressing a distracted kiss to my forehead, his hand lingering on my cheek for just a moment before he disappeared into the grey morning.
"Meeting," he'd said. "Japanese clients. Important."
"More important than me?"
"Nothing is more important than you." Another kiss. Quicker this time. "I'll be home before dinner."
Liar.
I'd watched him go from the window, his black car sliding through the iron gates, swallowed by the city beyond. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still heavy, the clouds low and bruised, pressing down on the mansion like a weight.
I was bored.
Not the gentle boredom of a lazy afternoon, but the sharp, restless boredom of a woman who had spent too long being protected and not enough time being curious.
I'd never seen his office.
The thought came sudden and sharp, cutting through the haze of my aimless pacing. I'd never seen his office. Never seen where he spent his days, never met his colleagues, never laid eyes on the desk where he signed contracts and made calls and built the empire that kept me safe.
What if he had a female secretary?
The image materialized unbidden—a beautiful woman, sleek and polished, her hair perfect, her smile knowing. She'd lean over his desk, brush his shoulder, laugh at his jokes. She'd know his coffee order, the way he took his whiskey, the sound of his footsteps in the hallway.
She'd know him in ways I couldn't remember.
I stopped pacing.
My reflection stared back at me from the window—pale, hollow-eyed, wearing his shirt again. The brown one. The one that smelled like him.
Not today.
I turned from the window and walked to the closet.
---
The dress was dark brown, the color of earth and autumn leaves, falling in soft waves to my ankles. The neckline was modest, but the fabric clung to my curves in a way that made me look like I belonged in a different life. A bolder life. A life where I wasn't afraid of my own shadow.
I added a belt—thin, gold, catching the light—and slipped my feet into a pair of low heels that clicked against the marble floor like a warning.
Makeup next.
I didn't know what I was doing. My hands moved on instinct, reaching for products I didn't remember buying, applying them with a familiarity that felt like memory. Foundation. Concealer. A sweep of bronzer across my cheekbones. Mascara that made my lashes look impossibly long, and a lipstick the color of crushed berries.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
A stranger stared back.
Beautiful.
Determined.
Terrified.
I dabbed perfume behind my ears—a soft, floral scent I couldn't name—and walked out the door.
---
Mrs. Han was in the kitchen.
I could hear her humming, the soft clink of dishes, the occasional mutter in Korean I couldn't understand. The hallway was empty, the guards stationed at their posts outside, the mansion's attention focused elsewhere.
I slipped through the side door.
The gravel was cold beneath my heels, the morning air sharp in my lungs. The car was in the garage—the black one, the one Taehyun used when he didn't want to be followed. I didn't have the keys.
I didn't need them.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The voice came from behind me, sharp and suspicious.
I turned.
Junho stood on the path, his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. He was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair still wet from the shower, his bare feet pale against the grey stones.
"To my husband," I said.
"Like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to seduce someone."
"I'm about to see his office."
"His office?"
"His office. Where he works. With his colleagues. And his—" I paused, frowning. "—assistants."
Junho's eyebrows rose. "Assistants?"
"Female assistants."
"Ah." A slow smile spread across his face. "So this is a jealousy mission."
"This is a wife mission."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He laughed.
I crossed my arms.
"Take me to his office."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because he'll kill me."
"I won't tell him."
"He'll know."
"How?"
"Because he knows everything." Junho stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You're wearing perfume. And makeup. And a dress that makes you look like you're about to ruin someone's life."
"I'm not going to ruin anyone's life."
"You're going to ruin someone's day."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
"Junho."
"Noona."
"Take me to his office."
"I can't."
"Please?"
"I can't."
"Pwease?"
The word came out small, pathetic, my lower lip pushing out in a pout I knew was manipulative and didn't care.
Junho stared at me.
"I'm immune to pouting," he said.
"You're not."
"I'm very immune."
"You're the least immune person I know."
"I've built up a tolerance."
"You've built up a weakness."
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation.
"Fine," he said. "But you can't tell hyung I drove you."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Swear on something sacred."
"I swear on your banana milk."
His eyes widened. "You know about the banana milk?"
"You told me about the banana milk."
"I told you?"
"In the hospital. When I didn't remember anything."
"Oh." He looked away, his jaw tightening. "You remember that?"
"I remember you." I touched his arm. "I remember your laugh. Your chaos. The way you called me noona even when I was being impossible."
"You're always impossible."
"You love it."
He looked at me.
His eyes were bright.
"Fine," he said again. "Let's go."
---
The car was warm.
Junho drove too fast, weaving through traffic with a confidence that made my stomach clench. His hands were steady on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road, his profile sharp in the grey morning light.
"Who is she?" I asked.
"Who?"
"His assistant. Is she beautiful?"
Junho glanced at me. "You're doing surveillance."
"I'm gathering information."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He laughed.
"His assistant is a man."
"Oh."
"His name is Kang Dae. He's fifty-three. He's been with hyung for fifteen years. He's married. He has three children. He collects stamps."
"Stamps?"
"Stamps." Junho shrugged. "He's very boring. Very efficient. Very loyal."
"Oh."
"Disappointed?"
"No."
"You're disappointed."
"I'm not disappointed."
"Your face is disappointed."
"My face is contemplative."
"Your face is jealous of a fifty-three-year-old stamp collector."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're absolutely jealous."
"I'm territorial."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He laughed again.
I looked out the window.
The city blurred past—buildings and bridges and streets I didn't recognize. The sky was clearing, patches of blue breaking through the grey, and somewhere in the distance, I could see the river, grey and glistening.
"Junho?"
"Yeah?"
"Does anyone know he's married?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"What do you mean?"
"In his office. His colleagues. His clients." I looked at him. "Does anyone know about me?"
"I don't know." His voice was careful. "He doesn't talk about his personal life. He never has."
"But he has my photo? On his desk? On his phone?"
"I don't know." He glanced at me. "Why does it matter?"
"Because I want to be seen." The words came out soft, almost a whisper. "I want to be known. Even if I don't remember who I am, I want other people to know that I exist."
"You exist."
"To him."
"To all of us."
"To everyone else?"
He didn't answer.
The car pulled into a parking garage.
---
The building was a tower of glass and steel, rising into the grey sky like a monument to ambition. The lobby was vast, marble floors gleaming under soft lights, a reception desk manned by a woman with perfect hair and a practiced smile.
"Mr. Kim's office?" Junho asked.
"Tenth floor." The woman's eyes flicked to me, curious. "Do you have an appointment?"
"She's his wife," Junho said.
The woman's smile flickered. "Of course. I'll let security know."
We walked to the elevator.
The doors slid closed.
"Did you see her face?" Junho asked.
"Yes."
"She didn't know."
"She didn't know."
"Maybe no one knows."
"Maybe."
The elevator rose.
---
The tenth floor was quiet.
Carpeted hallways, soft lighting, the distant hum of computers and hushed conversation. Junho led me past offices and conference rooms, past cubicles and break rooms, past a receptionist who looked up with wide eyes and said nothing.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Meeting with Japanese clients. Seventh floor."
"Then where are we going?"
"To his office. You can wait there."
"Why can't I go to the meeting?"
"Because it's private."
"He's my husband."
"He's also a businessman."
I scowled.
Junho stopped before a door. It was heavy, dark wood, a small plaque beside it that read "Kim Taehyun, Chairman."
"Here," he said. "I'll wait outside."
"You're not coming in?"
"I value my life."
He opened the door.
---
The office was vast.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, the grey sky pressing against the glass like a held breath. A desk dominated the room—polished wood, neatly organized, a laptop closed in the center. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and small sculptures I didn't recognize. A seating area in the corner, leather chairs arranged around a low table.
I walked to the desk.
My fingers trailed across the surface—smooth, cool, impersonal. A pen. A notepad. A small clock.
And a photo.
I picked it up.
It was me.
I was laughing, my head tilted back, my hair catching the light. I was wearing a dress I didn't remember—soft blue, flowing, the kind of dress you wore on a summer afternoon. Behind me, the Eiffel Tower sparkled.
Paris.
The memory flickered, just out of reach.
"Ma'am?"
I turned.
A man stood in the doorway—middle-aged, neatly dressed, a kind smile on his lined face.
"Yes?"
"I'm Kang Dae. Mr. Kim's assistant." He stepped into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "I apologize for the intrusion. Junho said you were here, and I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed."
"Thank you."
"Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Water?"
"No, thank you."
He nodded, turning to leave.
"Mr. Kang?"
He paused.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Does anyone know I exist?"
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"In this building. In his life. Does anyone know he's married?"
His expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or understanding.
"Everyone knows," he said.
"They do?"
"Your photo is on his desk. His phone. His laptop background." He smiled. "He doesn't talk about you, no. He's a private man. But everyone knows."
"How?"
"Because he looks at your photo when he thinks no one is watching." His voice was soft. "Because he smiles when he says your name. Because he leaves early on Fridays and never takes business calls on Sundays."
"Sundays?"
"That's your day." He tilted his head. "You didn't know?"
I shook my head.
"Sundays are for you," he said. "No meetings. No calls. No business. Just you."
I pressed my hand to my chest.
"He never told me."
"He wouldn't." The assistant smiled. "He's not good with words. But he's very good with actions."
I looked down at the photo.
At my smile.
At the Eiffel Tower sparkling behind me.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded.
And left.