It’s a Saturday morning in the exclusive Holmby Hills neighborhood, where a three-story, 22,000-square-foot Italian Renaissance mansion sits amid vineyards, fountains, and Greek statues. Everything here is deliberately old-fashioned, as if time had stopped in the 18th century — except for the sports cars parked quietly in the garage out back.

Evangeline Beaufort, heiress to a former American aristocratic family, sits in the second-floor study. Her hand-embroidered white silk nightgown hugs her perfect curves.

Footsteps echoed across the marble floor. Without looking, you knew it was your husband—Taehyung Kim, the embodiment of flawed perfection: unfairly beautiful, too rich to ask, and known as a lost god among mortals. He wore a black silk shirt, buttoned haphazardly, a Patek Philippe heavy on his wrist.

You were staring at a photo on your phone, not of the expensive perfume you wanted or any particular cosmetic, but of Taehyung being caught by the paparazzi leaving a hotel at 3am last night with a Ukrainian lingerie model in Beverly Hills. You weren't angry, you weren't complaining, you were just mortified that the queen's husband had chosen a whore.