Chapter Five: Strings of Fire

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> “Play nice,” he whispered. “Or I’ll make you forget what mercy feels like.”


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You’re playing a role

But the lines are starting to blur.

A week into the fake engagement and already the world believes it. The ring, the photos, the headlines.

Jungkook Jeon, Mafia Prince, Finally Settles Down.

You laugh when you read it. It’s almost funny. If you weren’t living it.

He’s careful with you in public. Touches your waist just enough. Kisses your temple like a man in love. But behind closed doors?

He’s still the same monster.

Except worse.

Because now, he whispers soft lies to your skin before he bites it.

Because now, the cage isn’t made of gold bars—it’s made of silk sheets and secrets.

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Tonight, it’s another event. Another illusion.

You’re dressed in blood-red satin. He picked it out. Said it matched the color you looked best in—war.

 Said it matched the color you looked best in—war

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                       (Your Dress)
   

He takes your hand as you step out of the car.

“Smile,” he says through clenched teeth.

You smile. The crowd eats it up. You’re a queen now—crowned by the devil himself.

But behind the glamor, there’s chaos.

The Bratva are watching.

So are the families who want to see Jungkook fail.

So you play your part.

But when his hand drifts a little too low on your back… when his mouth brushes your jaw too long… when he whispers “Mine” into your ear like a threat—

You realize something terrifying.

You’re not just pretending anymore.

And worse—neither is he.

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Back home, the walls feel tighter. The mansion quieter.

You change into something soft. He’s already in your room, waiting like a nightmare you invited.

“I didn’t say you could leave my side tonight,” he says without looking up from the whiskey in his hand.

“I didn’t ask,” you fire back.

He walks to you. Slow. Calm. The air shifts.

“I’ve been patient.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Fine. I’ve been restrained.”

You back up as he stalks forward.

“But it’s getting harder,” he murmurs. “Harder not to rip this dress off and remind you who you belong to.”

“Fake fiancé,” you say. “That’s the deal.”

His eyes flash.

“Everything else is optional.”

He grabs your chin, forces you to look at him.

“But you’re forgetting, Y/N. I’m not the kind of man who settles for half.”

You stare at him.

Then slowly, defiantly—you unhook the ring and drop it into his palm.

His jaw ticks.

“You’d rather burn than play nice,” he whispers.

“Every time.”

He steps back. Doesn’t say a word.

Just leaves the room.

But you know this isn’t over.

He’s pulling strings now. Tightening them around your throat.

And soon—something is going to snap.

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