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There were reasons why you couldn't give up your business after marrying Jungkook. They were simple and yet valid. You had no faith in the world. You didn't believe the marriage would really last, despite the love you felt for this man. You always felt it, that tinge of unease lurking around your neck like the hands of a grim reaper sent to take away the only thing of value that life had given you. It was maddening. A feeling of impending doom. It drove you to the brink of madness in the three years you spent with the man you wanted to keep by your side at all costs. And you knew you had to keep him in the dark — lulled into hypnosis. Oblivious.
You could have closed the store if it had been a hair salon, a café, or even a grocery store. You would have given up the business, sold your shares to your partners, and said goodbye. But you didn't have a coffee shop, a hair salon, or a grocery store. You made meth and sold it to retailers who sold it in dimly lit alleys and loud nightclubs. It was a different matter in size and weight. Different terms and conditions. Because while a normal business can be ended by selling your shares, a business like yours is only ended by bloodshed.
Not your blood. No. That wasn't in the contract. Although there was no tangible draft or signature, for that matter. It would be your beloved's blood. And you only had one. Well, only one who wasn't involved in any way, shape, or form in this so-called business.
It was maddening. Really. The fact that Jungkook got involved in your shit and allowed himself to be soiled by the filth that surrounded you in a way that ensured he would never be clean again. Fuck this twisted fate, and fuck his stubbornness. You wished you could beat some sense into his thick skull. Make him pray for his sister every Sunday and bury the memory of her in his heart, not his mind. You wished that after all these years, he would be blessed with the ease of grief and choose to live for himself instead of living for the revenge that consumed him. But after careful consideration, you came to one conclusion: the man had lost his little sister. His blood. And although you didn't know what it was like to have a family bond with someone cemented by blood, you were sensible enough to form a rough picture of what that meant in your mind.
But even though you made an effort to understand, it was still infuriating to see how far he went with his grief and hatred when you snuck into his office at an ungodly hour while he was sleeping and searched through the drawers of his office until you found the broken half of the credit card that contained only two syllables: Hyung.
The gasp that left your lips would have been almost audible if your palm hadn't shot up to cover it. The fire spread quickly, and you were sure your skin would soon be scorched. For a moment there, you felt dizzy. You could feel your skin sizzling from the heat, which was still considerably tamed but not so much. You dropped into your husband's office chair, lungs heaving and heart pounding. You had no idea what to do with this piece of junk. You couldn't steal it, because he'd already seen it, and the way it was kept in the locked drawer you'd opened with the code that was nothing but your wedding date, he was already connecting the dots and figuring out all the information an incomplete name could give him.
