Jensoo OneShot/MultiShot

Try Again

The wedding had been beautiful at least, that’s what everyone said. A perfect union between two empires, a grand celebration of love that didn’t exist, and two brides who looked flawless on camera.

Jisoo remembered the silk of her dress clinging to her skin, the warmth of flashbulbs exploding across her vision, and the way Jennie held her hand as if she were holding a stranger’s. There had been no tremble, no tenderness only the kind of poised grace expected from someone who had been raised to marry for legacy, not for love.

From the moment she first saw Jennie sharp-eyed and breathtaking in soft pink silk at the engagement dinner Jisoo had fallen. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t quiet. It was devastatingly immediate, like gravity.

But love had no place in this arrangement.

Jennie Kim was elegance wrapped in frost. Every word she spoke was measured, every smile calculated. She never touched Jisoo unless there were eyes watching. She never stayed in the room longer than necessary. In public, they were the perfect wives. Behind closed doors, they were ghosts to each other.

Jisoo tried. God, she tried. She woke early to make coffee. She waited up late into the night, listening for the sound of keys turning in the lock. Sometimes Jennie came home. Sometimes she didn’t. But she never came to Jisoo. Not really.

And Jisoo never asked where she’d been. She wasn’t sure which truth would hurt more, the lie or the answer.

The silence between them stretched wider with each passing day, until it was no longer silence but a chasm. And Jisoo stood at the edge of it, screaming into a void that never echoed back.

So when Jennie casually said, “Come to Rosé’s birthday with me,” one late afternoon, her voice absent as her eyes stayed glued to her phone, Jisoo froze.

She hadn’t expected it. Jennie didn’t usually invite her anywhere unless it was for appearances. But maybe, maybe this was something else. Maybe this was Jennie trying. Maybe this was a door, slightly ajar.

“Okay,” Jisoo had replied, quiet and careful, hope blooming like a bruise in her chest.

The venue was breathtaking filled with warm golden light, laughter echoing off crystal chandeliers, the air perfumed with champagne and expensive secrets. People swirled past her in waves of silk and cologne, but Jisoo stood still, wine glass in hand, watching Jennie float through the crowd like she belonged to everyone but her.

Jennie was radiant, untouchable, laughing with her friends in a way Jisoo had never seen at home. Her walls were down here. But none of that softness was meant for Jisoo.

Someone approached Jennie and nodded toward her. “And who’s that?”

Jisoo turned slightly, waiting.

Jennie didn’t hesitate. She smiled politely and said, “Oh, her? She’s my cousin.”

The word hit Jisoo like a slap.

Not her wife. Cousin. As if six months of marriage of sharing a home, of pretending to be something meant absolutely nothing.

Jisoo couldn’t move. Her grip on the wine glass tightened, and she forced herself to blink, to breathe. Her throat was tight. Her eyes burned.

She turned away, trying to steady herself, when the room shifted again this time, crueler.

Across the dance floor, Jennie stood with a man. Tall. Charming. Familiar. Jennie’s smile was different with him, softer and playful. And before Jisoo could tear her gaze away, she saw it.

Jennie leaned in. Her hand rested on his chest. And she kissed him.

Slowly.

Without shame.