Chapter Forty-Eight: A Gaze of Longing
♡ Silk, Stares, & Strange Familiarity
I didn't understand the need to wage economic warfare against the city's boutiques for a single evening.
"One dress," I hissed, trailing behind Taehyun as he handed another glossy bag to the silent, long-suffering assistant. "One is a complete concept. It's all anyone needs."
He didn't glance back. "You'll try them all. One you'll wear. The rest will wait in your closet for their turn."
"My closet is staging a rebellion. It's full."
"Then I'll build it a larger prison." He said it so casually, as if discussing an extension on a garden shed.
I stopped in the middle of the hushed, perfumed aisle. "Do you possess a single molecule of self-awareness?"
He just kept walking, a king surveying his plunder, leaving me to fume in his wake.
By the time we reached the shoe salon, I'd surrendered to the absurdity. The saleswoman presented a parade of lethal-looking stilettos with reverence. Taehyun settled onto a velvet sofa, claiming it like a throne, and gestured for me to sit.
I glared but obeyed, letting her slide a sparkling, spindly heel onto my foot.
"Walk."
"I'm not a show pony."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a dark amusement in his eyes. "No. You're my wife. Walk."
The distinction, delivered in that low, possessive tone, short-circuited my retort. I stood, wobbling slightly on the architectural hazard, and took a few stiff steps.
We were debating the merits of midnight satin versus ivory lace—a debate where his opinion was the only one with legal force—when a familiar voice cut through the boutique's murmur.
"Taehyun?"
We turned.
Park Jihan stood there, surprise giving way to a warm smile. And beside him, his wife.
I'd only seen her from a distance before. Up close, she was ethereal. A quiet, graceful beauty that seemed to hold its own light. But her eyes… they were deep pools of a calm so profound it felt like sorrow. They held an ocean of something unspoken.
Taehyun went utterly still. Not the controlled stillness of power, but a frozen, brittle tension. His shoulders locked, his jaw a hard line.
Jihan noticed, his own smile turning careful. But his wife… her gaze went to Taehyun first. A flicker of something ancient and complicated passed between them—not romance, but a shared history heavy with ghosts.
Then she looked at me.
It wasn't a polite glance. It was a searching, almost desperate look, as if my face were a page from a book she'd lost long ago.
I drew a breath, forcing a smile to bridge the sudden, strange chasm. "Hi, I'm—"
"I know," she whispered, her voice catching on the second word, a tiny fracture in her composure.
Jihan's hand came to rest on the small of her back, a gentle anchor. "My wife is a little shy," he offered, his apology meant for me, but his eyes were on her.
"It's lovely to finally meet you properly," I said, pushing through the awkwardness. "I'm Taehyun's wife. His… slightly exasperated plus-one."
Jihan chuckled, a genuine, warm sound. Taehyun remained silent, a statue of watchful intensity. His wife didn't laugh. She just kept looking at me, her gaze tracing my features with a melancholy curiosity that made my skin prickle.
We exchanged a few more stilted pleasantries. I made a weak joke. Jihan played along. Taehyun watched her. She watched me.
As we parted, her hand brushed mine when she moved to adjust her purse strap.
She flinched.
It was a full-body recoil, subtle but unmistakable. Her eyes flew to mine, wide with a shock that seemed to vibrate through her. Not disgust. More like recognition—a painful, electric jolt.
Jihan's arm was around her shoulders in an instant, pulling her close. "We'll see you both at the wedding," he said, his voice calm, but his grip on her was firm.
Taehyun gave a stiff, single nod.
As they walked away, she glanced back once. Just once.
Her expression wasn't jealousy. It wasn't hostility.
It was pure, unadulterated longing. And beneath it, a grief so deep it seemed to dim the lights.
I stood clutching an armful of dresses, feeling like an intruder in my own life. I leaned closer to Taehyun, my voice a hushed whisper. "Was that… just me? That felt…"
He didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the empty space where they'd vanished. His expression wasn't one of love or nostalgia.
It was fear.
---
♡ The Home Runway
Later, back in the oppressive opulence of the mansion, I was mentally calculating the black-market value of my internal organs to offset today's spending.
Taehyun, however, was in a disturbingly buoyant mood. He dumped the armada of shopping bags onto a divan and clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Try them."
I blinked. "Try… what?"
"The dresses. All of them." He sank into an armchair, stretching his legs out with an air of indulgent expectation. "A private viewing. I'll critique."
I stared at him. "You have lost your mind."
"It was a casualty of war. The dress. Now."
Muttering curses under my breath, I retreated to the bedroom with the first gown.
Dress One: A severe, off-shoulder black sheath.
I stepped out, feeling like a minimalist mourner.
He didn't blink. "Nine."
"That's it? Just a number?"
"It's an efficient rating. Next."
Dress Two: Emerald silk with a treacherous slit.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Eight point five."
"Why the deduction?"
"The slit invites unworthy eyes. Next."
Dress Three: Royal blue mermaid, back plunging to a dangerous depth.
He studied it. "Nine point two. Turn."
I turned, feeling the weight of his gaze on my bare skin. "Satisfied?"
"Not yet. Next."
Dress Four: Simple, elegant champagne satin.
He was silent for a beat. "…Nine point seven."
"You're making these up."
"I'm a connoisseur."
Dress Five: The white one. It wasn't a wedding dress, but it held a whisper of one. Flowing, soft, innocently beautiful. I hesitated at the threshold before walking out.
He went completely still.
All the lazy arrogance drained from his posture. He didn't speak. Didn't smirk. Just stared, his dark eyes drinking me in with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
Finally, he exhaled, a soft, ragged sound. "Ten."
My heart did a foolish, traitorous flip. "So? Which one?"
"The white."
I gaped at him. "The white? You made me try on five dresses just to pick the last one I put on?"
"I needed confirmation."
"Confirmation of what?!"
"That the white was superior." He said it with infuriating logic. "Also, the wedding dress code is white."
The world tilted. "The… dress code?"
He nodded, a faint, maddening smile touching his lips. "It's a traditional point of respect. White or ivory for guests."
I saw red. "After an hour of playing dress-up! After the heels, the scrutiny, the numbers… you're only now mentioning a dress code?!"
"Forty-three minutes," he corrected, utterly unrepentant. "And you're adorable when you're flustered."
I snatched a velvet cushion and hurled it at his head.
He caught it one-handed, his smirk widening. "You can throw the shoes, too. You're still wearing the white."
"I hate you."
"Wear the green, then. See what happens."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a prophecy." He stood, his amusement fading into something more serious. "You'll wear the white. Because I've already sent the others to storage."
I stormed back into the bedroom, yelling over my shoulder, "I'm burning it!"
His laughter, dark and rich, followed me. "Try. I've fireproofed the closet."
---
♡ A Warning in White
The night of the wedding, I stood before the full-length mirror, a final check. The makeup was soft, dewy, meant to look effortless. The white dress fell in perfect, graceful lines, both modest and devastating. My hair was a cascade of loose waves. The heels were instruments of torture disguised as fashion.
I took a steadying breath. "Taehyun! We need to leave."
His footsteps were a slow, measured approach. The door opened as he was mid-sentence. "The car is ready in five min—"
He stopped.
The words died. His entire body locked.
His jaw clenched first, a hard line of tension. Then his eyes, dark and hungry, began a slow, scorching journey from the tips of my shoes up the length of the dress, over the curve of my hips, the dip of the neckline, finally settling on my face. He looked… furious. And awed.
I raised a brow, my nerves strung tight. "Well? Do I pass inspection?"
He didn't answer. He took a step forward. Then another. Closing the distance with a predator's silent grace until the heat of him was all I could feel, until the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and storm—wrapped around me.
"Taehyun," I breathed, a warning.
"That," he said, his voice a low, visceral rasp, "is not a dress. That's a declaration of war."
I frowned. "What are you—"
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his whisper a promise and a threat. "You walk into that room wearing this, and every man there will forget there's another bride. They'll only see you. And I will have to remind them, one by one, that you belong to me."
My pulse thundered in my ears. "It's just fabric."
"It's you," he growled, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "It's you wrapped in innocence, looking like every dream I never dared to have."
I tried to sidestep him, my voice trembling. "We're going to be late."
His hand shot out, catching my waist, pulling me flush against him. "Let them wait."
Then he kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't a goodbye kiss. It was a claiming. A branding. His mouth was demanding, his hands sliding up my spine, one tangling in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. I pushed against his chest, a muffled protest.
"My lipstick…!"
"Was in my way," he muttered against my lips, not breaking contact.
He kissed me until the world dissolved into heat and his taste, until my protests turned into shaky breaths, until I was clinging to his shoulders for balance. When he finally pulled back, my lipstick was thoroughly, irrevocably ruined, smeared across his mouth as well as mine.
I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, glaring. "You're impossible."
He looked at my swollen mouth, his eyes dark with possessive satisfaction. "Now you look properly mine. Reapply if you dare."
I pointed a trembling finger at him. "You are insane."
He smirked, reaching to brush my hair back over my shoulder, his fingers lingering on my exposed neck. "Good. Keep your hair like this. I want them to see where my lips have been."
"We are late."
"Then hurry," he said, calm as a deep, dangerous lake, his gaze still locked on the mark he'd left on my skin.
I stomped to the vanity, my reflection showing a thoroughly kissed, furious woman in a virginal white gown. Behind me, reflected in the glass, he stood with his hands in his pockets, watching me, a king satisfied with the chaos he'd wrought, ready to escort his greatest treasure into a den of wolves.