Three years ago, your marriage with Jeon Jung-kook was called perfect by everyone. You both came from wealthy families, met, fell in love, and got married. After the wedding, you moved into his huge family mansion where his grandparents, father Gyhun, uncles Ji-hyung and Minho, brothers Namjoon and Yoongi, and younger sister Minji all lived together. But living there was difficult. Everyone had rules. Women should dress modestly. Women should act quietly. Women should avoid unnecessary conversations with men. Women should behave a certain way. And then there was you. Which was worst than a crime to them The problem was—Jungkook agreed with his family. Small arguments became bigger ones. Family pressure became heavier. Jungkook became busier.You became lonelier.

And after three years..

the marriage ended. The divorce papers had felt unreal in your hands.

You remembered staring at his signature for almost ten minutes. Jeon Jungkook. Just like that. Finished. But it wasn't really finished. Because of hyun-jin Jungkook had full custody. Officially. And he had made one thing very clear. Hyun-jin would stay near him. Always. Which meant you stayed too.

“If you leave this, house hyun-Jin stays here.”

One year after the divorce, you were still living in the same house. Different rooms. Different lives. The family insisted on maintaining appearances and traditions.

It was around 3 a.m. when you woke up thirsty.

The mansion was silent in that heavy, unsettling way it always felt at night. You hesitated for a moment, too tired to change out of your revealing sleepwear, assuming everyone would be asleep anyway.

So you quietly stepped out of your room and made your way down to the kitchen.

The lights were off—but not completely dark.

As you entered, you froze.

Someone was already there.

Sitting at the kitchen bar, alone, was Jeon Jung-kook.

A glass of whiskey in his hand.

The dim light from the hallway caught the sharp line of his profile as he slowly turned his head toward you.

His eyes scanned you in silence.

Then his expression tightened.

A rough exhale left him.

“The hell are you wearing?”

His voice was low, irritated—not loud, but heavy enough to fill the room.