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Chapter 16 - Chapter 16

Chapter 16

 

I ran.

 

The cold night air whipped against my face as I pushed my legs harder, faster. Sweat drenched my back, soaking through my shirt and jacket. Every breath burned.

 

I didn't stop.

 

Couldn't stop.

 

It was almost midnight.

 

I should've stayed at the hospital. Should've found a phone. Should've called her. Should've explained.

 

But I knew Yuna.

 

She didn't care for excuses.

 

And being late—not coming home—wasn't something she forgave.

 

By the time the penthouse building came into view, my steps faltered. My legs were trembling from the sprint, and a strange fog was building behind my eyes. I wiped at my forehead with my sleeve, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps.

 

As I rode the elevator up, the silence pressed into my ears. My heart pounded—not just from the run, but from fear.

 

A quiet kind of fear that sat deep in my gut.

 

When the elevator doors opened to the private floor, I stepped out slowly.

 

My hand trembled as I tapped in the passcode, missing a digit and cursing under my breath..

 

Click.

 

The door opened.

 

And then I saw it.

 

The apartment was dark.

 

But the moment I stepped inside, my foot crunched on something.

 

Glass.

 

My eyes adjusted gradually—and the scene before me tightened my throat.

 

Everything was broken.

 

The coffee table was flipped on its side. Two glasses had shattered against the far wall. One of the framed paintings that used to hang above the couch lay crumpled on the floor, the canvas slashed straight down the middle. The dining chairs were knocked over. Shards of ceramic and crystal glinted across the hardwood floor like scattered ice.

 

It looked like a war zone.

 

But none of that stopped me cold the way she did.

 

Yuna.

 

She stood near the center of the room.

 

Still. Silent. Perfectly composed.

 

Her arms were at her sides.

 

Her eyes, on me.

 

She said nothing.

 

Did nothing.

 

She just stood there, watching me enter—as if she had been waiting this entire time without moving an inch.

 

That scared me more than anything else.

 

I opened my mouth, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Yuna, I—"

 

She moved.

 

Before I could finish the sentence, she crossed the distance between us in a few sharp steps. There was no scream. No explosion of anger.

 

She grabbed the collar of my shirt and shoved me hard against the wall.

 

Somehow, throwing me around like this had become her addiction. I thought to myself.

 

My back slammed into the cold marble with a dull thud. The air rushed out of my lungs.

 

Her voice came low, flat, and terrifyingly calm.

 

"Don't speak."

 

I froze.

 

Her eyes never left mine. Even up close, her face remained composed—expressionless.

 

She wasn't yelling.

 

She didn't need to.

 

"I don't want to hear your excuses," she said quietly. "Not a single word."

 

Her hand released my shirt.

 

And then—

 

She raised her hand, paused briefly, and looked at my face.

 

"I don't want to ruin your pretty face," she murmured.

 

And instead, her fist slammed straight into my side.

 

I doubled over instantly, pain ripping through my torso. My knees buckled, but before I could fall, she caught me by the collar again—only to shove me upright and drive another hit into my ribs.

 

She wasn't just hitting to hurt.

 

She was precise.

 

Like someone who had practiced this a thousand times before.

 

She had.

 

Yuna had trained in martial arts since she was a child.

 

She didn't yell. She didn't throw things blindly.

 

She knew exactly where to hit and cause pain.

 

Another punch came to my side. My body twisted from the impact, and I collapsed to one knee, gasping.

 

"I waited," she said softly above me. "And you didn't come home."

 

"I—I got hit—" I choked out. "A car—my phone—"

 

She didn't even glance at me.

 

Another punch landed clean into my ribs.

 

I couldn't breathe.

 

I rolled onto my back, coughing, every inch of my body on fire.

 

She straightening her sleeve like nothing had happened.

 

Her face hovered above me.

 

That same terrifying stillness.

 

Her voice came again—soft. So quiet I almost didn't hear it.

 

"Why," she said slowly, "am I not allowed to kill you right now?"

 

The words sent a chill down my spine.

 

I opened my mouth to answer.

 

But I never got the chance.

 

The world tilted.

 

My ears rang.

 

A wave of dizziness rushed over me, blurring my vision into shapes and shadows.

 

My lips parted.

 

Then everything went black.

 

_________

 

I stared down at him.

 

His body was motionless—his face pale, lips slightly parted, eyes shut completely.

 

He didn't move.

 

My hand was still trembling, slightly curled from the punch I just threw. It wasn't meant to knock him out. I knew exactly how to control my strength—where to hit, how deep, how hard.

 

I wasn't careless. I never was.

 

So why…?

 

I knelt beside him slowly, brushing the back of my fingers against his cheek. His skin was clammy. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

 

"Haemin…" I whispered.

 

No response.

 

A strange chill ran through me.

 

No.

 

I placed my fingers gently on his neck, feeling for a pulse.

 

It was there. Steady, but faint.

 

I exhaled, but my chest tightened again.

 

He wasn't waking up.

 

I pressed the side of my face against his, listening—he was still breathing, but shallow. I shook him lightly, once, then again, but there was nothing.

 

No flicker. No stir.

 

My throat clenched.

 

I didn't… I didn't hit that hard. I know I didn't. I avoided his face on purpose. I didn't aim for anything fatal.

 

So why…?

 

A sharp pang of panic twisted in my gut.

 

My hands moved on their own.

 

I grabbed the nearest jacket on the floor and wrapped it around his upper body. Then I reached for my cap, letting my hair fall naturally beneath it and grabbed a face mask. A long beige coat followed.

 

Within minutes, I had him in the backseat of my own car and drove like a storm through the city. Every red light felt like a curse. Every turn tightened my grip on the wheel.

 

I didn't breathe again until we reached the emergency entrance.

 

When the nurses rushed over, I muttered just enough to get them to take him quickly—no names, no questions. My voice was low but firm.

 

It wasn't until I stepped into the hallway under the too-bright hospital lights that I noticed something strange.

 

The doctor glanced at me, brows knitting.

 

"…Wait, weren't you just here earlier?"

 

My heart skipped.

 

"What did you say?" I asked, my voice low through the face mask.

 

He checked the chart again. "The boy—he came in a few hours ago. Minor car accident. The woman who brought him looked about your height. I assumed it was you."

 

I stood frozen in place.

 

A few hours ago?

 

He blinked at me. "Oh. She had dark brown hair, I remember that much. You're blonde."

 

I said nothing.

 

My mouth had gone dry.

 

A few hours ago…

 

Haemin had already come to this hospital?

 

He had been in a car accident?

 

And I—

 

I didn't even give him the chance to explain.

 

My legs suddenly felt heavier. I shifted my stance to keep balance, but the pressure in my chest grew tight, like someone had slipped a cold hand around my throat and was slowly squeezing.

 

"I see…" I finally murmured.

 

"Anyway," he continued, glancing at the monitors. "We ran a quick scan just to be sure. No internal bleeding, no concussion. He's just exhausted. Probably a combination of stress, physical impact, and—" he paused, tilting his head toward me slightly, "—overexertion. His body's just giving out. He needs proper rest. He should wake up soon."

 

I nodded faintly, barely listening.

 

Stress. Physical impact.

 

He didn't see the bruises I left on his torso.

 

He didn't even question them.

 

If he had… well, I wouldn't have let it become an issue.

 

Doctors were easy to control when necessary. A single phone call to the hospital board was all it would take. No one would dare touch the Chairwoman of Nara Group anyway.

 

I sat quietly beside his bed, eyes fixed on the monitor beeping softly next to him. His breathing was stable. His face had color again. The doctor said he only needed rest.

 

That should've been enough to calm me.

 

But it wasn't.

 

I looked down at my hands, curled on my lap.

 

What have I done?

 

I didn't expect to hit him like that. I didn't plan to. I've gotten angry before, but this time… this time I completely lost it.

 

Was it really just because he didn't answer my call?

 

No. It was because he wasn't beside me. Because I didn't know where he was. Because I imagined things again. Things that weren't even true.

 

I let my thoughts spiral, and I let my anger take over. I hit him when he was already weak. I didn't even listen.

 

I glanced at my bag on the chair and took out my phone. My finger hovered over the screen. I opened the university contact list. It wouldn't take much. One call. One document. I could drop him out of university by tomorrow morning.

 

I'd offer him a position right away. Title doesn't matter. I'll give him a corner office if that's what it takes. I just want him close. Inside the same building. Within my reach.

 

I don't care anymore if it raises questions.

 

Let them find out he's my husband.

 

I'm done hiding it.

 

At least if he's with me, I won't lose my mind like this again. I won't wonder where he is or who he's with. I won't go crazy over a missed call. I'll see him every day.

 

But then I looked at him again—his face relaxed, eyes closed.

 

He'd agree if I told him. He'd say yes without complaining. But he wouldn't be happy. Not truly.

 

I've already hurt him tonight. If I force him into my world like this, without asking… I'll only make him upset.

 

I locked my phone and placed it back on the table. My fingers trembled a little as I brought them to my lap again.

 

I never thought I'd be this kind of person.

 

I never wanted to be this way with him.

 

I took a slow breath and lowered my head, my voice barely a whisper.

 

"…I'm the worst."

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