The penthouse has become a mausoleum of things I no longer have the right to touch.
I've moved my essentials into the guest room—the small, cold space at the end of the hall that we usually reserved for out-of-town colleagues or the rare night one of us worked too late to keep the other awake. It smells of dust and the expensive, floral air freshener the cleaning crew uses. It doesn't smell like him. It doesn't smell like us.
I spend three hours in the kitchen, my movements mechanical. My shoulder is a dull, throbbing weight, but I ignore it. I need to do something with my hands, or I'll use them to scream. I prepare Dakdoritang—the spicy braised chicken stew that Min-ho always said could cure a bad day at the Prosecutor's office. I don't use a recipe. My hands know the exact amount of gochugaru to add by the way the steam stings my nose.
"Dinner is ready," I say, standing at the entrance to the living room.
Min-ho is sitting on the sofa, bathed in the blue light of his laptop. He doesn't look up. He's scrolling through digital bank statements—our joint accounts, the ones he now views as a paper trail of my greed.
"I'm not hungry," he says, his voice flat.
"You haven't eaten since yesterday, Min-ho. Your brain needs glucose to heal. Please."
He finally looks up, and the coldness in his eyes makes me want to wrap my arms around myself. "Is that the 'shield' talking? Or the woman who's worried her meal ticket might pass out before she can get him to sign the settlement papers?"
"Just eat the stew," I say, my voice cracking. "Please. Just for ten minutes, can we not talk about settlements or spies?"
He sighs, a sound of profound annoyance, and stands up. He walks to the dining table with the posture of a man going to an execution. He sits, staring at the steaming bowl I place in front of him.
The silence is a living thing, stretching between us until it feels like the walls are closing in. I sit across from him, my own bowl untouched. I watch him. I watch the way his hand hovers over the spoon, the way his nostrils flare as the scent of the ginger and garlic hits him.
For a second, his expression softens. His eyes glaze over, and I hold my breath. Remember, Min-ho. Remember the rainy Tuesday we first made this together.
Then, he drops the spoon. It clatters against the ceramic with a sound like a gunshot.
"How much?" he asks.
I blink. "How much what?"
"How much did you expect to get?" He leans back, crossing his arms. "I looked up the marriage license. In this jurisdiction, with our lack of a pre-nuptial agreement, you're entitled to fifty percent of my assets. The apartment, the savings, the pension. It's a very tidy sum for a few years of playing dress-up."
"I didn't marry you for money, Min-ho. You were a junior prosecutor living in a studio apartment when we met. You didn't even have a car!"
"According to you," he sneers. "But maybe that was the point. An investment. Find a rising star, tie him down, and wait for the Park Group to offer a buyout for the 'Red File' he's holding. Is that where the money for the Paris trip really came from? Was it a down payment on my betrayal?"
"I am so tired," I whisper, dropping my head into my good hand. "I am so, so tired of defending a life I actually lived. I'm tired of being called a liar by the person I'd take a bullet for."
"Then stop," he says, his voice dripping with a new, cruel venom. "Stop the act. The 'exhausted wife' routine is getting old, Hana. If you're so tired, why don't you just take what you want and leave? Is it because you haven't found the file yet? Is that why you're still hovering? You need me to remember the location so you can hand it over to Chairman Park and retire in Switzerland?"
"Is that what you really think of me?" I look up at him, my eyes burning. "That I'm a gold-digger? That I'm a mercenary who traded her soul for a penthouse view?"
"I think you're a professional," he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like a slur. "I think you saw a man with a target on his back and realized it was the ultimate opportunity. You played the 'bodyguard' to get close, and the 'wife' to stay there. You've been living a double life for five years, and now that the amnesia has stripped away your cover, you're scrambling."
"You used to tell me that my eyes were the only place you found peace," I say, my voice trembling. "You used to say that when the world was full of criminals and liars, I was the only thing that was real."
"Then I was a fool," Min-ho snaps. He pushes the bowl of stew away, the red oil splashing onto the white tablecloth like blood. "I was a man who let his guard down for a pretty face and a few well-timed lies. But that man is gone. He died at the pier."
"He's not dead," I say, standing up. "He's just hiding. And I'm going to stay right here until he comes back."
"No, you aren't." Min-ho stands too, his chair screeching against the floor. "I want you out, Hana. I don't care about the legalities. I don't care about the fifty percent. Take the car. Take the jewelry. Just get out of my sight. Your presence is making me physically ill."
"I can't leave you," I say, the tears finally falling. "The janitor... the phone... the Chief. Min-ho, they are setting you up! If I leave, you're a sitting duck! They don't want you to remember because the truth will destroy them!"
"The only thing being destroyed here is my sanity!" he roars. He reaches into his pocket, his face contorted in a mask of pure loathing. "You want to talk about 'love'? You want to talk about 'us'?"
He pulls out a small, blue velvet jewelry box. I recognize it instantly. It's the box from the safe in the bedroom. The one that held the diamond necklace he gave me for my birthday last year.
"You forgot this in the master bedroom," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I checked the appraisal. It's worth more than my annual salary. Tell me, Hana... how does a 'Protection Officer' afford a stone this size? Or was this a 'bonus' from the Chairman for keeping me distracted?"
"You bought that for me!" I sob. "You saved for a year! You said you wanted me to have something that shone as bright as I did!"
"A likely story," he sneers. He looks at the box, then back at me. "I don't want it in my house. I don't want anything that reminds me of how much of a mark I was."
He doesn't just hand it to me. He draws his arm back and throws it.
The box flies through the air, hitting me square in the chest before bouncing off my injured shoulder. A spike of white-hot pain flares through me, and I gasp, clutching my arm. The box hits the floor, popping open. The diamond spills out onto the rug, sparkling mockingly under the chandelier.
"There," Min-ho says, his voice cold and final. "Take your blood money and leave me alone. If I see you in this house tomorrow morning, I'm calling the police to have you trespassed. I'd rather face the Park Group alone than spend another night with a woman who sold my life for a necklace."
He turns his back on me and walks toward his office, slamming the door so hard the wedding portrait in the hallway rattles on its hook.
I sink to my knees on the dining room floor. The smell of the spicy stew is overwhelming now, a reminder of a man who no longer exists. I look at the diamond lying in the carpet. It looks cold. It looks like a piece of ice.
I pick it up, my fingers trembling. My shoulder is screaming, and my heart feels like it's been put through a shredder. I look at the closed door of the office.
If he hates me this much when I'm trying to save him, what will he do when he realizes the necklace wasn't bought with his salary at all?
As I stare at the stone, a terrifying thought crosses my mind—a question that makes the room feel ten degrees colder.
Why did Min-ho tell me he saved for a year to buy this, when the serial number on the back of the setting matches the private inventory of the Park Group's confiscated assets from five years ago?