069

Y/N

Hihihi… hihihi… hahhaha!

Lucas squeals—tiny legs wobbling as he takes uneven steps across the soft green grass. Just learned to walk on his own, and now he’s unstoppable—stumbling forward, arms flailing like a baby penguin, then catching balance and charging again.

"Slow down, baby," i lower myself onto the wooden swing. The seat creaks under me—the ropes groan with my weight. I kick gently—just a slow sway—bare feet brushing through dewy greens beneath.

"Mamah... ma… bafly! Bafly!" He points at the fluttering butterflies—one yellow, one white—dancing just out of reach—he stumbles again, before catching himself with giggles.

"Careful. Baby—"

But he stumbles after them—one hand stretched out—giggling every time he almost catches one but fall on his padded diaper with a soft plop, then immediately pushing up again to chase more.

Adorable chaos.

My Bare feet sways onto cool grass. Morning dew glistens under sunlight that somehow made its way through the clouds—for once, not raining.

Butterflies flit above him—he tries to jump but stumbles into a roll instead—and pops back up laughing like falling is part of the game.

My heart squeezes.So light.So alive.Nothing like this villa inside.

Then at the sideways—my vision catching them: black shadows dressed in suits—still as statues under the trees surrounding us on all sides. Guards posts disguised as gardeners. One near the fountain barely moves his eyes—but they’re locked on me. On Lucas.

Of course.His order.Always watching.Always waiting—to report back what we say? What we do?

To see if I run? If I cry? If Lucas calls another word besides “bafly”?

I pull my sweater tighter around my arms—even in sun—I’m cold .

And yet...Lucas keeps running after those butterflies—

But behind him—

Silent. Motionless statues carved from shadow.

His guards.Four of them near him.Dressed in black.Eyes sharp. Hands near holsters.

Two more weeks... and everything will change…the unborn baby will be here.

Breathing this same poisoned air.

Crying in this gilded hell.My hands brush over the bump—it feels so heavy now, my back hurts constantly.

Across the garden—the main gate.Black iron, sharp spikes.Always closed.Locked from the outside? Or just for me?My ultimate goal—My freedom.walk through it with both my children in arms and never look back.

but now it seems a thousand miles away.

"Mama..ma!" I turn—and there’s Lucas, squatting on grassy tips, pudgy fingers wrapped around a fluttering butterfly—bright blue wings struggling in his grip —a wide smile on his face as the butterfly curled in his hands, wings trembling.How did he even catch that?

He grins at me—proud as if he’s won a battle—

"Baby… release the fly. Let it go..."

"No" He pouts instantly—a dramatic scowl forming—one eyebrow twitching like him. That stubborn tilt of chin. My chest aches.

"Baby—"

"No…" he shakes his head fast "Miiiine."

"Lucas." Firm now—"Don’t put it in your mouth!"

His little face twists—he lifts it toward lips like testing boundaries—

"No." I warn—and he freezes.

For one long second—he glares at me with eyes too old for such a small face…

Then slowly… reluctantly… opens his fingers.

The butterfly hesitates—slowly—it flicks its wings once, twice—

And then—Up.

Its wings slicing clean through sunlight—a blur of color rising higher, higher until it's swallowed by breeze above treetops…

Lucas watches it go. Tiny mouth parted. Silent now.Just staring at where freedom vanished into blue nothingness...

And so do I.

He starts playing again.

Attention flits to more flowers—to a pile of wood chips near garden beds—to a few shiny pebbles. He picks them up—examined them with small fingers.

I lean back on the swing.Slowly—I sway. Just a gentle rock. The ropes creak.My body heavy—aching with every passing day closer to birth.

Warm breeze brushes my neck.Lucas makes a little castle of sticks, chips and pebbles. He's so focused—tiny brow furrowed, tongue out just a little bit.

It's adorable.

And they’re watching.

His men.Always here amd there.Dressed in black suits even in summer heat—sunglasses hiding eyes that never blink for long.

Not aggressive.Not close.But present.

Two near the rose hedges.Four by the garden archway.others leaning against the villa’s outer wall—earpiece in, silent communication with him?

They don’t move unless Lucas stumbles near the stone path, or when he's too close to the iron gates.

Then they shift—subtle but sharp—an adjustment of stance—a step forward just enough to redirect him back toward center lawn…toward safety…toward prison…Do they report it all back?

Every laugh?Every “ma-ma”?Even this moment—me sitting here breathing under open sky yet feeling more trapped than ever?

I glance at them—one catches my stare through mirrored lenses—he doesn't look away fast enough.

A shiver runs down my spine, Nothing here is private.

Not even motherhood.

I close my eyes.

"Mrs.Jeon—" Layla’s voice low, trembling  "…I- I couldn’t reach them again."

I freeze—the world tilts.

"Wh‐ what do you mean?"

She sighs—the kind of sigh that knows to destroy someone."Mrs. Jeon…" Her fingers twist around her apron, eyes downcast. "After boss burned down their hides… one by one… they aren't getting spots anymore— Nowhere in this city."

Silence.

My throat closes up.

"W-hat—" my voice cracks—"What are you saying— All of them? Every safe houses?"

She nods slowly. "I sent several texts… but nothing comes back."

Nothing.No replies.No signs.Not even silence—they’re just... gone.

They were my last line.Now there's nowhere left to run.

Not for me.Not for Lucas.

That bastard didn’t just lock the gates…He burned every escape route behind us and called it love.

And now?

I breathe his air, walk his land, sleep in his shadow— He erased all roads leading away from him.

Tears roll down—slow, quiet— Just a silent river tracks down my cheeks.

The gate in distance… so far… so untouchable—feels like a dream.Like a memory of what was or what could be—

It used to feel like a challenge.Now it feels like a joke.

Why?

Why did my life twist into this?

Why did everything slip?

Why did everything have to be so hard?

I didn’t ask for power. For wealth. For any of this gilded hell.

I just wanted freedom without fear.

But everything…Everything I reach for—

Slips.Gone.

My family? silenced.

Freedom? A memory dressed in butterfly wings I can no longer catch.

Safety? Just another word until he twists his hands around me in dark.

And me?

still breathing.A breeze stirs—the swing creaks faintly—I lift my face to the sky,

Sunlight burns behind tears.

"Mama…"

A soft tug on my dress—I glance down Lucas stands beside, chubby arms stretched up, wide eyes fixed on me.

"What, baby?"

He lifts his tiny finger at my face.

What is he pointing at? I reach up and touch my cheek—Wet.

Tears.

I quickly wipe them away and smile weakly at him—"Nothing… just go play, baby."

But he doesn't move. Shakes his head hard—"Mama.…"

Steps closer. Insistent.

"Im…I’m ok." I force a smile.

He doesn't look convinced."Mama—MA!" He steps closer, tugs my nightgown with sticky fingers and lifts his arms in a wordless plea: Carry me.

I scoop him up—his legs wrap around me instantly, face nuzzles in my neck, thumbs brush where those tears fell—

"Mama…" softer now

I kiss his forehead—"It's okay... Mama's fine."

I kiss his temple Again— "My baby."

My baby?

My throat clogs.

Yes– My baby.Not his. Not Jeon’s.

Mine.

Because I fed him through nights.I soothed his every dream with hummed lullabies while thunder rolled outside…

Mine.He is mine.

I glance down—the wide, innocent eyes staring—two bunny teeth peeking.

Too familiar.

A mirror of him.

My stomach twists—No. No—he’s not his.

He can’t be.

Lucas is mine, I kiss his soft hair— "You’re my baby… You aren’t Jeon’s. Not a part of him."  He giggles—then snuggles deeper in my neck.Even the words leave my mouth, they tremble.

Because the truth?

He has his nose.His stubborn gaze.That same quiet intensity behind those big, knowing eyes…

But no—I clutch him tighter—he's mine because I carried him in silence.Fed him with my pain.Held him through nightmares no one else saw.

That makes him mine.

A beat.

Warm breath on my shoulder.Small fists clutch at my gown, body lulling with each slow swing.

"You're mine" I murmur in his hair"You’re my baby" — "You aren’t his, You’re mine."

Silence stretches between us in lullaby, broken only by his soft breaths and the creaking of the swing beneath.

Tiny sighs escaping as his body goes slack.

Slowly… heavier…

He droops into sleep on my shoulder—head lolling gently with each soft sway beneath us. Back and forth… slow… rhythmic…

I don’t move.

The swing sways gently—creaking softly—rhythm like a heartbeat.

Air is calm.Peaceful.Birds chirp somewhere beyond the garden walls…

Silence stretches again…Long…Heavy…

And in the distance—

The main gate remains locked under watchful eyes.Barred iron standing tall, surrounded by shadows dressed in black—their rifles still.

And im?

Far, far away from freedom— yet so close it hurts to look at.

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