065

Y/N

Sigh.

Soft.

The silk beneath me—the warmth of the duvet—

I rub my eyes—shift slightly, the silk sheets cool against my bare back. The duvet is warm—too warm—I don’t move. Lucas is curled beside me, tiny fingers fisted near his mouth, breathing slow, deep.

Two weeks now.

Every night I tuck him into his crib and morning—he’s here unnaturally.

Crawled? Dragged himself? No… someone brought him.

I don’t ask.Layla doesn’t mention it.I glance down.

My nipple peeks from the loose neckline of my nightgown—leaking again. A faint trail of milk glistens on my skin, down my sides—wet circles everywhere. And it catches the morning light—

Milk on Lucas’s lips too.

Looks like he crawl over here and nurse in his sleep. I sigh—reach out—stroke his soft little cheeks.

All it's not coincidence.

It’s Him.

—creeping into this room every night like a ghost who refuses to stay dead.

I’ve heard him. The soft creak of the floorboard near the door—the pause, holding breath—the slow, careful steps across the carpet.

I don’t move. Just pretend to sleep.

But my eyes? They stay slit just enough—to see shadows shift.

And in the morning—there’s Lucas beside me again. Not in his crib. Here. On my chest sometimes. Warm milk on his lips like he nursed all night.

And beside us the other pillow—is warm. Sheets? Ruffled, twisted down—as if someone lay there for hours…watching us breathe.

Watching me sleep. Watching me cry in silence at 3 AM. He sees it all—and says nothing.

What does he want?

I don't know but I can guess. He just wants me to kneel—and to say those words—those hateful words.

I'd rather die.

After that night—with the gun, with my "no"—he stopped asking for love out loud…

But this?

This is worse than demands, threats or bullets fired at walls—he shows up every damn night…like regret dressed in skin and silence…laid beside me.

Part of me wants to scream—to grab scissors from drawer and slice through that face, cut all the limbs while he sleeps—

But what good would it do?

He’d still come back.Because he thinks suffering on both ends means we're even. The pain can balance love?

Lucas sighs—a tiny sound—and nuzzles closer into my warmth, little fingers clutching my gown, I stroke his hair softly, he sighs and nuzzles again.Milk leaks from his lips—soft little pout like he's asking for more.

Slowly I push myself up—Ughh—low back aching, clutching the bump—and brace myself against the headboard.

Again.

Roses. Roses.Roses everywhere.

Room.

Full of red roses.

In bundles, in vases, in every corner—drenched in red roses.

From floor to ceiling—massive bouquets stacked like offerings, petals scattered across the floor. They hang from the rafters in blood-red garlands, dripping down the black walls like something diseased.

Dark walls. Red roses.Like the whole room bleeds.

I hate red roses. I hate the color.All looks like a damn crime scene—it makes me nauseous.But i can’t escape it.

The black walls make it worse—like a gothic shrine built for sin and obsession.

The cracked mirror—the one he shattered weeks ago with bullet—is replaced now. Bigger. Polished silver frame glinting coldly under dim light—and there I am: hair tangled, nightgown slipped off one shoulder, wet patches on fabric…surrounded by flowers that smell too sweet…too heavy…the theatrical madness like some damn painting.

Not a person. A thing. An object for him.

I grit my teeth.

Does he really think this is love?That dumping thousands of fucking roses in a room will make me forget his gun at my head? The way he forced himself on me? The nights i cried while sleeping?

My fists clench.

He thinks this bullshit will make me fall in line?Room with flowers every damn night while I sleep—will erase everything he has done.

This...this garbage performance will make me accept him?

"Never"

With a sharp kick—I send a massive bouquet across the floor. Roses scatter. Petals burst into dust at impact—

Another swip—the vase shatters near Lucas’s sleeping form—but he doesn’t wake. Not even thunder could wake him as he’s used to chaos before birth…

Sigh.

A beat.

"Bloody bastard"

I pick Lucas up‐—clutch him tighter.

He wants worship?

Then let him kneel in these broken petals and learn what real pain feels like.

Silence.

"Mama…ma...ummm"Lucas' head tilts. He's stirring. eyes fluttering open sleepily.I rock him gently, rubbing his back firm circles—he whines, clutching me…

"Shh…sh…bub…"

Squirming against my chest—tiny fists rubbing his eyes like he’s fighting off the world. I pat his back gently."Shh…shh…"

Slowly rise from the bed—legs wobbling slightly under weight—the bump round , heavy for delivery—i cradle him close and step over the scattered petals. It crushes under my barefoot.

Fuck.

With each step feel lighter—from this suffocating room of silent confessions and forced romance.

I kick another bouquet aside—petals fly like ash.Fucking roses.Fucking him.

"Bloody bastard"kick a few aside, clearing path.And walk to the balcony.

The door creaks open.Cold morning breeze hits my skin—goosebumps ripple across arms and shoulders—but it's clean. Real. Not tainted with perfume or guilt or madness.

Birds chirp above in trees beyond the villa walls—as if nature herself mocks how trapped i am here.

I lower onto the couch—worn silk clinging to my damp skin, and Lucas nuzzles, half-awake but not ready to face daylight yet.

Gently—I slip one strap down— nipple peeks out, already leaking—press it against his still-pouty lips.  He nuzzles, hungry mouth opening, tongue flicking out and latches— sighing without opening his eyes fully.

I lean back.

He Suckles deep. Hard.Tiny mouth pulling life outta me like he always done—eyes fluttering shut like it’s the most comfortable place he's ever been.

Small hand curls against my skin—not pushing away as if saying: "You're safe because you’re mine."

And maybe...for these quiet moments...

I am.

But then—

A single red rose rests at the edge of the balcony railing.

Freshly placed.

No thorns.

No note.

Just there.

And everyone knows who put it there.

I kick it off railings.

And pat the little bum gently—still warm from sleep— he stops nursing, unlatching with a soft pop. Cheeks rosy, full, content. He nuzzles like a kitten.

I shift, adjust his weight—his little legs wrapped around me, He has grown. So fast.And damn heavy now. With this 8-month bump—and this growing boy always clinging, needing—carrying him feels like walking uphill every single day.

My back protests. Feet throb. But I don’t put him down—unless he wants to go.

"Big boy" I whisper in his hair, patting his bum gently. "Too big for Mama’s arms…"

He whines slightly—like he understands—and hugs tighter, latches again—tiny fingers dig into my nightgown as if someone will take him away.

"Lucas leave it....you're a big boy now," I whisper— but he don't.

He's not that tiny baby anymore.

He wobbles on unsteady legs and wants to walk. Takes three shaky steps before toppling into floor or my arms. Giggles every time like falling is the best joke in the world.

Outside—the rose garden glimmers under morning fog.Endless red.Impossible not to see it from here—the balcony still holds that fresh bloom from earlier—I shift slowly, adjusting him across my lap—the bump tenses as it pushes against the fabric, hard as stone some mornings—but Lucas just hums and pats my swollen belly like it's another toy to explore.

"Ba–by tister" he mumbles sometimes in broken words.Not more than that.But enough.Enough to my eyes sting— he says it without knowing how much hope lies inside those small syllables.

I rest my head back against the cushions—close eyes—breeze playing through tangled hair—

"Boss—try again."

A loud voice from below.

I lean down a bit—and freeze.

There—on the lawn—

Jeon?

In full white golf outfit?

Crisp white pants. A tucked-in polo. Sunglasses even though it’s overcast.

"What in the world..."

His men armed—lined up like an audience—in their black suits.Some arms crossed, some trying to hide smirks behind stone faces.

Golf bat in hand, stand near a makeshift golf field.

He stands in center—bat in hand—A bright yellow ball sitting down, completely untouched….Swing.Trying to hit the tiny ball on lawn.

Takes another swing—misses. The ball stays where it is.

Another strike. Still no movement.

I almost laugh. Is he really this bad?

He's struggling to hit the ball and failing over and over again—his swings almost look childish. Like a goddamn comedy.

I’ve never seen this before.

He grips the bat like it's a weapon—one hand too high, elbow wrong—he stands stiffly, back barely bending as he swings—

Swing!

THWACK!

Misses completely.The ball remains perfectly still—as if bored of his existence.

"Again" one of his men says—voice flat—"Boss—bend your knees this time."

"I am bending!" he snaps— tries again with what looks more like a bow than an athletic stance—

Another swing!

THWACK-SCRAPE!

This time he hits the ground so hard beside the ball that the bat bounces out his hands and spins in the air before landing with a sad clank.

Silence.

The men don’t move.Don’t blink.But I see it—the twitch at their temples trying not to laugh.

He straightens up slowly, adjusts sunglasses that are now crooked.

"Boss—not like that."Jisun strides forward—calm, professional—steps behind Jeon. "Boss—Let me show you."

He hold Jeon’s arms—

Instantly. A hard shove."Don't touch me."

Jisun stumbles but catches himself, and nods fast — Doesn't flinch. Doesn't argue. Just moves to the side and demonstrates the stance with his own body like a silent instructor: knees bent, back straight, grip steady.

Jeon watches.Then tries.Again.And again.

Swings wild.Misses every time.Ground takes more damage than the ball does.

His men stand stiff—but sweat glistens on their brows from holding laughter too long.

After at least ten brutal attempts—and three accidental swings over his men—he finally connects!

THWACK!

The ball rockets upward—a perfect arc through gray morning sky—

WHOOSH

SMACK!

Right into Wooshik’s nose.

A sharp "NNGH?!" —glasses fly off—nerdy collapses on green grass with a loud groan.

Silence.

I burst out laughing. Loud.

Every head snaps toward balcony—including his. I shut my mouth quickly.

His jaw hangs open—staring me.Loud groans from wooshik in behind- but he doesn't turn.

I gulp.

Silence stretches. He doesn’t blink .Stares up from below...

A beat passes.

I pull Lucas close and rise, without looking once—I turn and walk inside…

Closing the glass door behind us.Sigh.I press my forehead gently against cool glass...

Outside he still staring.His men scramble around fallen Wooshik below…

A beat.

I turn.

There—Layla stands near the doorway, arms folded, soft smile playing on her lips. The red roses? Most of them are gone. Scattered. Thrown out? Burned? I don’t ask.

I unlatch Lucas— pull the strap up, covering myself in one smooth motion.

Slowly, I lower him in his crib.

He fusses—try to sit up—I unbutton his onesie one-handed, fingers working fast despite my belly slowing me down.

"Mrs. Jeon?"

"Hm?" I hum—not really interested in conversation right now.

She steps inside quietly—"Boss is learning that… for you."

My fingers freeze on the last button.

I swallow- "Why? Am I a golf club captain now or something?"

She bursts into laughter——"Oh no no! Not like that!" She pauses. "Maybe… to impress you."

I glance at her  "Don't say shits, Layla," 

She shakes her head fast "No no Mrs. Jeon... im not."  I lift Lucas up—Then she looks directly at me—"You know how boss’s been acting these past two weeks."

Not a question.A statement.Heavy as stone.

And just like that—

The air shifts.

The morning breeze fades.The chirping birds feel distant.

I sigh—pat Lucas gently—his little chest rising and falling, fingers curling around my thumb.

I keep rocking.He’s half-asleep again, eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings.

I don’t look at Layla.Don’t nod.Don’t respond.

Just stand there—swaying slightly—with him curled against me

And she keeps talking anyway—

“you know how he left the first bouquet right after you told him to leave—” her voice quiet but insistent. “Not angry. Not violent. Just… came back the next night with roses stacked to the ceiling.”

My arms tighten around Lucas.

like she’s reading from a list written—

"Two weeks ago… he tore down the old west wing. Had them rebuild it into another nursery. Not just any nursery, Mrs. Jeon—" her eyes glint "A music room for the next baby with tiny piano keys and soundproof walls so they can play anytime…"

I stay silent.

"...And every night? He comes here—not just to bring little master to your bed—but to fold his clothes, before you wake up…"

—I don’t respond.

"...The roses? Those weren’t orders from any florist chain—he sent men himself at 3 AM through three prefectures because only one garden grows that shade of red… matched your  lip color when you were angry."

I close my eyes briefly.Hate how my chest tightens.

"He sleeps in his office—in full suit—even when we tell him the bed is made."A pause."And those golf swings today? At 6 AM? First time ever holding a bat… cause you like countryside life in Hokkaido …so he starts it. Even if he looks like disaster."

My jaw clenches.

A beat—

“You think he doesn't feel it?” Her voice  low. “The rejection?— The no that still echoes in this house?”

I glance at her finally—

“Good” I whisper "Let him feel it."

Let him rot in it.

She takes a step closer—"He doesn't know how to love right... but Ma'am—he's trying so hard to stop being a monster and start being....something else."

Sigh.I turn around— "Layla."

"Yes?"

"Stop making him sound human."

"But, Mrs. Jeon—"

"Oh shut up, Layla, I don't want to hear all this"

Her head ducks fast—mouth shutting tight.

Lucas stirs in my arms—tiny face scrunching at the sound of my voice—but doesn’t cry.

Silence.

And for a second… room feels heavy again. Not with roses or demands or gunshots—but with guilt.

I close my eyes.

Maybe i shouldn’t have snapped at her like that- when she helped so much with the Scorpions.

I exhale "Layla—I… I’m... sorry."

Her head snaps up— "What? No! No no no!— Mrs. Jeon—you shouldn't be sorry for anything!"

She steps forward—"You’ve never asked for this life." "You’ve never wanted this—But you carry it all anyway…"

A beat.

Silence hangs between us—not broken by words this time—but full of things we both know.

Sigh.

I pass Lucas into her arms—warm, squirming, fussing like he knows he’s being handed off.

Layla bounces him gently—shifting his weight with practiced ease—and turns toward the bathing room—he tugs her hair, whimpering— try to reach back toward me…

"Layla."

She stops—turns. "Yes, Mrs. Jeon?"

I gulp—clutch the edge of my nightgown. "Is… is there any news from them?"

Her eyes flicker.Just for a second.Mouth slightly part—Then she slowly shakes her head.

My stomach tightens—not just the baby but dread curling deep in gut.

Im Eight months. Almost the end. When I'd—

“Mrs. Jeon…”

I look up—she stands there with crying Lucas in arms—

"B-boss—" she swallows hard "Today… he hoisted a party."

Again.

"A party—Party for what?"

"Its—" Her throat bobs— "Its ...Your and Boss’s anniversary."

A sharp chill runs down my spine.

Anniversary.

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