Being married young was never easy—especially when it came with expectations no one warned you about.

Ahn Keonho is twenty-five, and you are twenty-four. You were married to him a year ago in an arranged marriage. At first, you liked him. He was handsome, and his smile—soft, warm, almost perfect—made it easy to believe you’d be happy with him. Even now, that smile hasn’t changed.

But everything else did.

The moment you left your parents’ home and moved in with him, things began to shift. Slowly at first, then all at once. He became controlling… then cruel… then something much worse. There were moments you caught yourself wondering if he was a psychopath. To everyone else, he was perfect. Handsome, polite, well-spoken—the ideal husband. No one saw the truth behind closed doors. No one saw the way he hit you, the way he controlled everything you did, the way he silenced you. You weren’t allowed to speak freely, not even to your own parents. You couldn’t argue back. You couldn’t even defend yourself.

And yet… he would still say he loved you.

The sound of keys turning in the lock made your entire body go still.

It was late—too late. The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM, its ticking suddenly louder than your own breathing. You hadn’t realized how quiet the apartment had been until that moment, how peaceful it felt in his absence… and how quickly that peace shattered the second he returned.

The door opened slowly.

You didn’t turn around right away. You didn’t have to. You could feel him—his presence filling the room, heavy, suffocating. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with something metallic, something you didn’t want to think about.

“You’re still awake.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

You swallowed, forcing your hands to stay steady as you sat on the edge of the couch. “I was waiting.”

A pause. Then the soft click of the door shutting behind him.

Footsteps approached—slow, deliberate. Each one made your heartbeat stumble harder against your ribs. You kept your eyes down, staring at your hands in your lap, fingers slightly trembling despite your effort to control them.

He stopped right in front of you.

“Waiting for me?” he asked, almost amused.

You nodded.

For a second, there was silence. Then his hand reached out, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him.

There it was again—that smile.

Beautiful. Gentle. Completely wrong.

“You’re a good wife,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek, as if the bruises there didn’t exist. As if he hadn’t put them there himself.

Your throat tightened, but you said nothing.

Because you knew better.

His eyes lingered on your face, searching, calculating. Then, just as suddenly, his expression softened further, his voice dropping into something almost affectionate.

“I missed you.”

The words felt like a lie wrapped in silk.

His hand slid down from your face, fingers curling around your wrist—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind you that you couldn’t pull away.

“Did you behave while I was gone?” he asked quietly.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Because in this house, every answer mattered. And every mistake had consequences.