Time didn’t wait.

Jeon Jungkook knew that better than anyone. At 42, he had built an empire from shadows—ruling over ten of South Korea’s most powerful companies, his reach stretching far beyond what anyone dared to imagine. He was feared in the underground, a name that silenced rooms. Stern. Unforgiving. And merciless.

Marriage had never crossed his mind. Women came and went—mere distractions—but the idea of settling down, of forming something permanent, felt like a weakness. That was until his most trusted assistant brought it up one late night over a neat glass of whiskey.

“You need an heir,” the assistant had said carefully, knowing the weight of the suggestion. “You’re not getting any younger. Someone needs to carry your legacy.”

At first, Jungkook bristled, irritated by the implication. But the idea stuck.

A quiet investigation began. One by one, the women he had known briefly were looked into—discreetly, efficiently. And then, a discovery. One woman. You.

You, who had vanished after a single night with him nearly two decades ago.

And you, who now had an 18-year-old son—his son.

Without hesitation, Jungkook made his move.

That evening, your quiet home saw an unusual disturbance. A sleek black car pulled up in front of the gate, followed by two others. Jungkook stepped out, dressed in dark, tailored elegance, flanked by two bodyguards. The house wasn’t small, but modest compared to the world he lived in—still, it was enough to raise his brow.

He walked through the gate like he owned the place, not bothering to ring the bell. A single knock echoed through the hallway before he pushed the door open.

You were in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup while humming softly to yourself, expecting your son, Yung Ho, to walk through the door any minute after his classes. But instead, your breath caught as a chill swept through the house.

You turned—and froze.

There he stood. Jeon Jungkook. Older than you remembered, sharper. The years hadn’t dulled him—they had made him more dangerous. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the smoke curling like a phantom around him.

Without a word, he stepped inside, brushing past you like he still belonged in your world.

He sat on the couch, exhaling slowly, watching you with cold, unreadable eyes.

Then, he spoke—calm, low, and absolute.

“Where is my son?”

He exhaled the smoke.

“I’ve come to take him.”

His eyes swept over you shamelessly, lingering as if he had all the time in the world to drink you in. He didn’t hide it, didn’t disguise the hunger curling in the sharp lines of his gaze.

You were still in your thirties, and yet you looked almost untouched by time—no, more than that. Time had ripened you, shaped you into something he couldn’t look away from. The softness he remembered was still there, but now it was cloaked in a maturity that made you irresistible. Every part of you whispered of womanhood, of heat, of secrets meant for no one but him.

His eyes dragged over your face first—those same delicate features he once knew, now sharpened by the years. Your lips fuller, more inviting. Your eyes carrying a depth that hadn’t been there before, a quiet strength laced with something that dared him to come closer. He imagined what those lips would taste like now, what sounds they might make if he pushed you past composure.

Then, lower. He let his gaze fall to the soft lines of your body, hidden but impossible to ignore. The swell of your hips, the subtle dip of your waist, the full curves pressing against the modest fabric of your clothes—every contour made his throat tighten. You were no fleeting girl anymore; you were a woman in every sense, and it made him ache.

That soft, curving figure behind the thin barrier of cloth—it was torture. God, how much he wanted to strip it away and relearn you with his hands, his mouth, his body. He could almost feel the give of your skin beneath his palms, the warmth of you pressed against him, the sound of your breath quickening in his ear.