Chapter Fifty-Six: Rumors Turn to Reality
The air on campus tasted different. Not like rain or cut grass, but like ozone before a storm—sharp, electric, charged with whispers.
I felt it the second my foot touched the quad pavement. A shift in the atmosphere, a sudden hush that rippled out from my epicenter. Conversations died mid-sentence, replaced by the low, buzzing hum of speculation. Heads turned. Phones were lifted, not to check the time, but to capture the spectacle.
Is that her?
The one married to Professor Kim?
No fucking way. To HIM?
She's a student. That's… that's illegal, isn't it?
Maybe not illegal, but it's fucking gross. He's like… a god. And she's… what? A library mouse.
I kept my eyes fixed on the path ahead, my knuckles white around the strap of my bag. Every glance felt like a physical touch—a hot, judgmental brand. I was a bug under a microscope, a strange new specimen in their tidy, gossip-fueled ecosystem. My usual uniform of baggy jeans and an oversized hoodie, meant to be invisible, now felt like a neon sign announcing: LOOK AT THE FRAUD. LOOK AT THE NOBODY WHO CAUGHT THE DEVIL.
The whispers weren't just behind me; they were in front, beside, curling around me like poisonous smoke.
He married that? That flat, introverted prick?
She doesn't even talk. Just hides under all that fabric.
He deserves a queen. A socialite. Someone with a spine and a pedigree. Not… that.
My chest tightened. I focused on breathing, on putting one foot in front of the other, on not crumbling under the weight of a hundred silent verdicts.
Then I reached the door of the lecture hall. The usual pre-class chatter cut off like a severed wire. Every head swiveled. Every eye—curious, hostile, fascinated—locked onto me.
And there he was. At the front of the room. A king holding court in a kingdom of chalk dust and theoretical economics.
Professor Kim Taehyun didn't look up as I entered. He was meticulously erasing the board, his movements efficient, his back a straight, unyielding line in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. The silence in the room was absolute, a vacuum waiting to be filled with scandal.
He finished, set the eraser down with a soft clack, and finally turned. His dark eyes swept the room, not with warmth, but with a cold, assessing authority that immediately strangled any lingering murmur. They passed over the sea of stunned faces without interest until they found mine, pinned in the back row.
For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, he just looked. No smile. No nod. Just a look that was a fortress, a boundary, a silent decree. Mine.
Then he turned to the board and began to write, his voice, cool and clear as shattering ice, breaking the silence. "Open your texts to chapter seven. Today we discuss hostile takeovers. The art of identifying a vulnerable asset… and acquiring it by any means necessary."
A few nervous titters were quickly swallowed by the heavy air. The lesson had begun, but the real subject hung in the room, untaught and understood by all: I see your whispers. I hear your judgments. They are irrelevant. She is not your concern. She is my acquisition. My asset. My wife.
---
♡ BOUNDARIES & WHISPERS
:: THE PUBLIC LINE ::
The next morning, an all-staff-and-student assembly was called with no explanation. The main auditorium was packed, buzzing with a nervous, anticipatory energy. Rumors flew—budget cuts, a scandal, a visiting dignitary.
Then he walked onto the stage.
Taehyun didn't approach the podium. He stood before it, hands in his pockets, surveying the crowd with the detached interest of a general reviewing troops. The murmurs died, replaced by a silence so thick you could choke on it.
"I'll keep this brief," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly without a microphone. It wasn't loud. It was final. "It has come to my attention that there is… discussion. Regarding my personal life."
A collective intake of breath. You could hear a pen drop.
"Let me simplify it for you." He took a single step forward, and the entire room seemed to lean back. "My wife is a student at this university. That is a fact. It is not a topic for debate in your classrooms, your cafeterias, or your pathetic little group chats."
His gaze swept the crowd, sharp enough to flay skin. "If you have a question about the legality or the ethics, you bring it to me. Directly. You look me in the eye and you ask. You do not whisper her name in hallways. You do not speculate about her character, her motives, or her worth. You do not look at her."
He paused, letting the threat settle, a slow-acting poison in the air.
"If anyone—student, professor, janitor—forgets this boundary," he continued, his voice dropping to a deadly calm, "you will not answer to the dean. You will not answer to the disciplinary board. You will answer to me. And I am not bound by their rules, their policies, or their sense of fair play. My methods of… correction… are somewhat more direct."
He finally looked away from the terrified crowd, his eyes finding me in the third row where I sat, rigid. His expression didn't soften, but something in his gaze shifted—a possessive, protective ferocity that was more terrifying than any threat.
"She is here to learn," he stated, as if pronouncing a law of nature. "Not to be your entertainment. Remember that. For your own sake."
With that, he turned and walked off the stage, leaving behind a room frozen in pure, unadulterated fear. He hadn't yelled. He hadn't made a scene. He had simply drawn a line in blood and dared anyone to cross it.
:: THE PRIVATE WHISPERS ::
That night, the mansion felt like a bunker after a siege. The quiet was a relief, but it buzzed with the aftershocks of the day. I found Taehyun in his study, not working, just staring into the fire, a glass of amber liquid held loosely in his hand.
"You didn't have to do that," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "You just painted a bigger target on my back. Now they're scared and jealous."
He didn't look at me. "Fear is a more effective deterrent than respect. And their jealousy is a petty flame. I can extinguish it whenever I choose."
"Why?" I pushed off the frame and walked closer. The firelight painted his sharp features in gold and shadow. "Why torch your entire reputation? Your career? For what? A marriage you called a 'necessary transaction'?"
Finally, he turned his head. His eyes were black pits, reflecting the fire. "Is that what you think this is? A transaction?"
"You said it was. A merger. A securing of assets. That's what you told my parents before you…" I couldn't finish. The memory of the cathedral, the blood, was still a fresh wound.
He set his glass down with a sharp click and stood. In two strides he was in front of me, crowding me against the bookshelf. The scent of him—spice, whiskey, and sheer danger—enveloped me.
"Let me tell you about transactions, little wife," he murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. His hand came up, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "A transaction implies a choice. A negotiation. There was no choice with you. The moment you scowled at me over a six-dollar latte, the deal was done. My soul signed the contract in blood, and I didn't even get to read the terms."
I tried to scoff, but it came out as a shaky breath. "Poetic. For a monster."
"I am a monster," he agreed, his other hand coming to rest on the shelf beside my head, caging me in. "A very precise, very possessive monster. And my most prized possession was being gossiped about by insignificant little gnats. So I cleared the air. Permanently."
"They'll say you've gone soft. That I've tamed you."
A dark, genuine smile touched his lips. It was the most terrifying expression I'd ever seen on him. "Let them. It will make it so much more satisfying when I remind them what 'soft' looks like from the inside of a body bag."
I shivered, but not from fear. From the raw, terrifying truth of it. He would burn the world to ash to keep a single whisper from hurting me.
"You're insane," I whispered.
He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "I'm in love," he corrected, the words a secret confession and a devastating threat. "It's much, much worse."
:: SARA'S STAND ::
The cafeteria the next day was a warzone. I'd hoped the assembly would have quelled things, but it had only driven the gossip underground, made it more vicious. I sat with Sara, pushing food around my tray, trying to ignore the clusters of girls at nearby tables who kept flicking glances our way, their whispers sharp and carrying.
"...thinks she's so special now…"
"...how did she even snag him? Must be some fucked-up bedroom trick…"
"...probably blackmail. He looks like he could have secrets."
"...ugly little thing, isn't she? All hidden in those sad clothes. He deserves better. A real woman."
Sara's fork clattered onto her tray. "Okay, that's it." Before I could grab her arm, she was on her feet, marching toward the table of three perfectly coiffed, sneering seniors.
"Got a problem?" Sara's voice was loud, clear, and dripping with venom.
The ringleader, Minji, looked up with feigned innocence. "Problem? We're just talking, Sara. Is that a crime now? Or is that reserved for marrying your professor?"
The girls around her snickered.
"Here's a newsflash, you judgmental harpies," Sara spat, planting her hands on their table. "You don't know a goddamn thing about her. Or him. You're just jealous because the only man who'll ever look twice at you is the one you pay to deliver your overpriced sushi."
Minji's face flushed. "How dare you! We're just saying he could do better than some mousy introvert who probably can't even hold a conversation."
"Better?" Sara laughed, a harsh, beautiful sound. "Honey, he has the best. He has someone who doesn't need a gallon of filler and a daddy's credit card to feel like a person. He has someone real. Something you wouldn't recognize if it bit you on your freshly-Botoxed forehead."
One of the other girls stood up. "You can't talk to us like that!"
"Watch me," Sara shot back, not backing down an inch. "The next time I hear one of you plastic-faced gargoyles so much as whisper her name, I won't just tell her terrifying husband—and believe me, I have his number—I will personally upload every embarrassing, filtered-to-hell photo from your private Instagram to the university forum. That spring break 'yacht party' that was really your uncle's dinghy? The world deserves to see it."
The color drained from their faces. Minji opened and closed her mouth like a fish.
Sara leaned in close, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "She's my best friend. He's the scariest man I've ever met, and he adores her. You are nothing to them. You are background noise. So shut the fuck up, and stay in your lane before you get erased from the picture entirely."
She straightened up, gave them a dazzling, vicious smile, and sauntered back to our table. The entire cafeteria section was silent, staring.
She sat down, picked up her fork, and took a bite. "God, the pasta here is shit," she said casually.
I stared at her, my eyes stinging. "Sara… you didn't have to…"
"Yes, I did," she said, meeting my gaze, all fierceness and love. "Nobody talks about my sister like that. Not even if her husband is a psycho who probably knows ten ways to hide a body." She shrugged. "Besides, it was fun. Their faces were priceless."
I reached over and squeezed her hand. In the gilded cage, amidst the monsters and the madness, her loyalty was a solid, unmovable truth. A different kind of protection.
Later, when I told Taehyun about it, he listened silently. When I finished, a slow, approving smile spread across his face.
"I like her," he said simply. "Remind me to double her allowance."
"She doesn't have an allowance."
"She does now," he stated. "Anyone who declares war on your behalf gets a lifetime pension. It's in the revised marital bylaws." He pulled me into his side, his voice dropping as he nuzzled my hair. "See? You're not just mine. You're under our protection. Mine and your little pitbull's. The rumors can turn into whatever the hell they want. The reality is, you're untouchable."
And in that moment, surrounded by the echoes of threats and the warmth of savage loyalty, I almost believed him. The rumors were a storm raging outside. But in the eye of that storm, held between a monster's devotion and a best friend's fury, I was, for the first time, perfectly safe.