Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four: Confession of love
Later, when the brothers had gone and the room was quiet again, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Taehyun was in the chair beside me, his eyes closed, his hand still wrapped around mine. He looked exhausted—the kind of exhausted that came from too many sleepless nights and too much worry.
"Taehyun."
His eyes opened immediately. "What's wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?"
"I'm fine." I bit my lip. "I want to take a shower."
He blinked. "Okay. I'll call a nurse to help you."
"No." I sat up, wincing as the movement pulled at my shoulder. "I want you to help me."
He went very still.
"Angel—"
"I'm feeling gross." I looked down at my hands, at the hospital gown, at the bandages still wrapped around my shoulder. "I've been in this bed for days. I can't remember the last time I washed my hair. I just—" I swallowed. "I want to feel clean."
"You can't shower with your wound—"
"It's not raw anymore." I lifted my gaze to his. "The doctor said it was healing well. I think I can manage, with help."
He was silent for a long moment.
"I'll call a nurse," he said finally.
"No."
"Angel—"
"You said we're married." My voice was softer now, uncertain. "If we're really married, then why are you—" I looked away. "Why are you hesitating?"
He stood.
I watched him pace to the window, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders tense. The afternoon light caught his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
"Because I'm trying to be good," he said finally.
"Good?"
"Good." He turned to face me, his eyes dark and unreadable. "I'm trying to respect your boundaries. To give you space. To not—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "To not take advantage of the fact that you don't remember."
"Take advantage?"
"You don't know me." His voice was rough. "You don't remember the life we shared. The promises we made. The nights I held you while you slept. To you, I'm a stranger. A handsome stranger, apparently, but still a stranger." He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I won't—I can't—be the one to cross that line. Not when you don't remember choosing me."
I stared at him.
"You're really not going to help me shower?"
His lips twitched. "I'm really not."
"Even though I'm your wife?"
"Especially because you're my wife." He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "When you remember—when you choose me again—I'll help you with anything you need. But until then, I'll call a nurse."
I pouted.
It was childish. I knew it was childish. But I couldn't help it.
"You're impossible," I said.
"So I've been told."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
He was right. I didn't.
I watched him walk to the door, watched him pause with his hand on the handle.
"I'll send someone in," he said quietly. "A female nurse. She'll help you shower and change your bandages."
"Fine."
"And Angel?"
"What?"
He looked back at me, his eyes soft. "I'm glad you're awake. I'm glad you're here. And I'm glad—" His voice cracked. "I'm glad you still think I'm handsome."
He left before I could respond.
And I sat alone in my hospital bed, my chest aching, my heart racing, and wondered how I could miss someone so much when I couldn't even remember meeting him.
___
I didn't wait for the nurse.
The moment Taehyun left, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the pull in my shoulder, the throb in my head, the quiet voice that whispered maybe this was a bad idea. I didn't like depending on anyone. I didn't like asking for help. And I definitely didn't like being treated like I was made of glass.
The bathroom was cold.
White tiles. Fluorescent lights. A mirror that showed me a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, wrapped in bandages and a hospital gown that gaped at the back. I looked away. I didn't want to see her. Didn't want to see the woman who couldn't remember her own name, who had begged a married man to marry her, who had thrown a tantrum like a child because he wouldn't hold her hand.
I turned on the shower.
The water was hot—too hot—but I didn't adjust it. I wanted to feel something. Anything. The heat seared my skin, turned it red, made me gasp. But it was better than the cold. Better than the emptiness.
He is so unromantic.
The thought came out of nowhere, sharp and bitter. I braced my good hand against the tile, letting the water pound against my back.
It must be an arranged marriage. Maybe he is a nerdy man. Innocent type?
I scoffed, the sound swallowed by the steam.
Innocent. Right. A man who looked at me like that—like he was starving and I was the only meal in sight—was not innocent. He was something else. Something dangerous. Something I couldn't name.
I thought about him while I washed my hair one-handed, fumbling with the bottle, getting soap in my eyes. I thought about the way he'd said my name—Angel—like it was a prayer. The way he'd held my hand like he was afraid I'd disappear. The way he'd looked at me when I asked him to help me shower, like I'd asked him to commit a crime.
Coward.
The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
What kind of husband did that? What kind of husband left his wife to be bathed by strangers, to be touched by hands that didn't know her, to lie alone in a hospital bed while he stood on the other side of a closed door?
Maybe he doesn't want to see my broken body.
The thought crept in, insidious and cold. I looked down at myself—at the bandage on my shoulder, the bruises on my ribs, the scars I didn't remember earning. I was ugly. Broken. A collection of wounds held together by hospital tape and stubbornness.
Maybe he doesn't want to see me.
I pressed my forehead to the tile.
Maybe we're not that close. Maybe the marriage was a mistake. Maybe he's not in love with me at all.
The tears came then—hot and silent, mixing with the water, disappearing down the drain. I cried for the life I couldn't remember, for the husband who wouldn't touch me, for the woman in the mirror who looked at me like a stranger.
Who cares?
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
I should hate him.
I should hate him for lying. For pretending to be my doctor. For making me fall for him when I didn't even know his name.
I should thank God for my memory loss.
The thought was a shock of cold water in the steam. I blinked, my hand stilling on the soap.
It's better this way. I don't remember any past. Any hurtful memories. Maybe my life was worse than this. Maybe I was worse.
Maybe forgetting was a gift.
I turned off the water.
The bathroom was quiet now, the only sound the drip of water from the showerhead and my own ragged breathing. I reached for a towel, wrapping it around myself, my fingers clumsy and slow.
The door opened.
I spun around, my heart lurching into my throat.
He stood in the doorway.
Taehyun.
His white coat was gone. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it, and his eyes—his eyes were dark and wide and fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Why are you here?" My voice came out sharp, defensive. "Why didn't you knock?"
He didn't answer.
Just stood there, looking at me like he was seeing me for the first time.
I grabbed a towel from the rack, holding it up like a shield, covering the bandages, the bruises, the body I didn't want him to see.
"I don't need your help!" I snapped, my face burning. "Go away. Leave me alone. I hate you."
He stepped closer.
"You don't love me at all!"
The words came out broken, childish, the words of a woman who had been holding too much for too long. I was crying again—great, heaving sobs that shook my whole body—and I hated myself for it. Hated him for making me feel this way. Hated the world for taking my memories and leaving me with nothing but this ache.
He crossed the room in two strides.
His arms wrapped around me—not gentle, not careful, but fierce. Desperate. Like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
I tried to push him away. My fists beat against his chest—weak, useless, the kind of blows that didn't hurt but couldn't stop.
"Let me go—"
"No."
"I hate you—"
"I know."
"You're a coward!" The words tore from me, raw and ragged. "You know that? Just to know you—to understand you—I read so many books! But I can't understand you! I can't—"
My voice broke.
I collapsed against him, my face pressed to his chest, my fingers curling into his shirt. The towel slipped, forgotten. The bandages pulled. The tears kept coming.
"I read about love," I sobbed. "I read about marriage. I read about husbands and wives and promises and—and nothing makes sense. Nothing. You say you're my husband, but you won't touch me. You say you love me, but you leave me alone. I don't understand you, Fake Doctor Kim. I don't understand anything."
His arms tightened around me.
"I'm sorry." His voice was rough, broken. "I'm so sorry, Angel."
"Stop calling me that."
"I can't." He pressed his lips to my hair. "It's who you are. Who you've always been. My angel. My heart. My home."
I cried harder.
"I don't remember you," I whispered. "I don't remember anything. I don't know if you're lying. I don't know if any of this is real. I don't even know if I loved you before—if I chose you—or if this was all a mistake."
His hand came up, cupping the back of my head, holding me close.
"You chose me," he said. "Every time. Even when you shouldn't have. Even when I didn't deserve it. You chose me."
"Then why won't you choose me now?"
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were wet. His jaw was tight. His hands—cradling my face, wiping my tears—were trembling.
"Because I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection. I need you."
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then tell me." I grabbed his wrists, holding on. "Tell me what I'm asking. Tell me why you're so scared. Tell me the truth, Taehyun. All of it. I can't—I can't keep living in the dark like this. I can't keep guessing."
He closed his eyes.
For a long moment, he just stood there—his forehead pressed to mine, his breath warm on my lips, his hands still cradling my face.
"The truth," he said finally, "is that I love you more than I've ever loved anything. More than my empire. More than my own life. And I'm terrified—" His voice cracked. "I'm terrified that if I let myself hold you—if I let myself touch you—I won't be able to let go."
"Then don't."
"Angel—"
"Don't let go." I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my hand. "Stay. Please. I'm scared too. I don't remember anything. I don't know who I am. But I know—" I swallowed. "I know I feel safe with you. I know I feel seen. And I know—" My voice dropped to a whisper. "I know I want you to hold me."
He kissed me.
Not gently. Not carefully. But fiercely—desperately—like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning. His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but hold on.
When he finally pulled back, we were both gasping.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry for lying. I'm sorry for keeping my distance. I'm sorry for—"
"Stop apologizing." I touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "Just hold me. Please."
He lifted me—one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back—and carried me out of the bathroom. I was wrapped in him. In his warmth. In the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
He laid me on the bed, pulling the sheets around me, tucking them close.
"Stay," I whispered.
He lay down beside me.
His arm slid around my waist, pulling me against him. His lips pressed to my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not ever again."
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time since I'd woken up in this strange white room, I wasn't afraid.
I was home.