Chapter One Hundred Forty-Five: The Devil at 30,000 Feet
The private jet was a cocoon of cream leather and soft lighting, the kind of luxury that felt obscene and necessary all at once. I'd spent the first hour curled against Taehyun's side, watching the clouds drift past the window, the world shrinking beneath us until Paris was just a memory and Korea was still a promise.
But now—
Now I was bored.
"Tete."
He didn't look up from his laptop. His fingers moved across the keyboard in sharp, efficient strokes, the glow of the screen casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones.
"Tete."
Still nothing.
"Tete."
A grunt. A pause. His eyes flicked to me for the briefest moment before returning to the screen.
"I'm working."
"You're always working."
"I'm a businessman."
"You're my husband first."
His fingers paused. Just for a moment. Then resumed their rapid dance across the keys.
"Angel—"
"You're ignoring me." I shifted, turning to face him, my legs folding beneath me on the plush leather seat. "On our private plane. Which you chartered. For us. Together."
"I chartered it so we could get home faster."
"You chartered it so you could work in peace."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"That's not—"
"It's exactly what you did."
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation, the sigh of a man who had spent the better part of a year learning that his wife was impossible and loving her anyway.
"What do you want, Angel?"
"I want to talk."
"About what?"
I hesitated.
The question had been nagging at me since Namhyun's apartment, since the breakfast table, since the moment I'd seen the way Taehyun's jaw tightened when his former professor touched my hair. Not anger—jealousy. The sharp, possessive kind that made his eyes go dark and his hands clench at his sides.
"I heard something," I said.
His fingers paused.
"What?"
"About Namhyun."
His jaw tightened. "What about him?"
"That he was my crush."
Silence.
The kind of silence that wasn't empty—that was full of tension and jealousy and the sharp, dangerous edge of a man who didn't like being reminded that his wife had existed before him.
"Tete?"
"Who told you that?"
"Seojun. Maybe. I don't remember." I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Is it true? Was he my crush?"
He set down his laptop.
It was a deliberate movement, slow and controlled, like he was trying not to break something. His eyes fixed on mine, dark and unreadable.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I'm curious." I tilted my head, studying his face—the tight set of his jaw, the muscle ticking beneath his eye. "He's handsome. Wise. Kind. I can see the appeal."
"Angel."
"I have great taste, apparently." I smiled—innocent, wide-eyed, the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. "I must have been very smart, to choose such an attractive man to crush on."
"Angel."
"He's got that whole 'gentle professor' thing going on. Very academic. Very distinguished. Very—"
His mouth was on mine.
Hard. Demanding. A claiming.
His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back, and he kissed me like he was trying to erase every thought of Namhyun from my mind. I gasped against his lips, my fingers fisting in his shirt, and he deepened the kiss, pressing me back against the leather seat.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Say his name again," he growled.
"Nam—"
He kissed me again.
Longer this time. Deeper.
"Say it."
"Nam—"
Another kiss.
"N—"
Another.
I laughed—breathless, dizzy, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
"You're jealous," I said.
"I'm not jealous."
"You're absolutely jealous."
"I'm territorial. There's a difference."
"Namhyun."
"Angel."
"Namhyun."
"Angel."
"Namhyun, Namhyun, Nam—"
He kissed me.
I smiled against his lips.
He pulled back, his eyes dark, his chest heaving.
"You're impossible," he said.
"You love it."
"I love you."
He kissed me again.
Softer this time. Slower. A promise.
When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to mine.
"I hate him," he said.
"You don't hate him."
"I hate him."
"You're jealous of him."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I cupped his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing his cheeks. "And it's adorable."
"I'm not adorable."
"You're absolutely adorable."
"I'm the head of a criminal empire."
"You're a marshmallow."
"Angel."
"A very scary marshmallow."
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation.
"Fine," he said. "I'm jealous."
"I know."
"He's handsome."
"He is."
"He's wise."
"He is."
"He's kind."
"He is."
His jaw tightened. "Why are you agreeing with me?"
"Because it's true." I pressed a kiss to his cheek. "He's handsome. He's wise. He's kind. And I don't remember anything about him."
"Angel—"
"I don't remember having a crush on him." I pulled back, looking into his eyes. "I don't remember the lectures or the arguments or the way he looked at me. I don't remember anything before you."
His expression softened.
"You're the only one I remember, Tete." I pressed my palm to his chest. "Your heartbeat. Your hands. The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
"Angel."
"You're the only one I want to remember."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
"Good," he said.
"Good?"
"Good." He pulled me into his arms, settling me against his chest. "Now stop talking about Namhyun."
"Nam—"
"Angel."
"Nam—"
"Angel."
"Fine." I smiled, curling against him. "I'll stop."
"Thank you."
"For now."
He sighed.
I laughed.
The plane carried us home.
---
The mansion was chaos.
The moment the car pulled through the iron gates, they were there—Junho, Minho, Jinwoo, Mrs. Han, a dozen guards I didn't recognize, all of them crowding the grand entrance like I was a war hero returning from the front lines.
"NOONA!"
Junho reached me first.
His arms wrapped around me, lifting me off the ground, spinning me in a circle. I squeaked, my hands gripping his shoulders, my laughter bright and surprised.
"Junho—"
"You're back! You're finally back!"
"Put me down—"
"I missed you so much!"
"Junho!"
He set me down, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes bright with tears. He was crying—actually crying, the tears streaming down his cheeks, his nose red, his lips trembling.
"Don't ever do that again," he said.
"Do what?"
"Leave. Run away. Disappear." He pulled me into another hug, crushing me against his chest. "I can't—we can't—"
"Junho."
"You're family." His voice cracked. "You're our family."
I hugged him back.
The tears came then—hot and silent, sliding down my cheeks, soaking into his shirt. I didn't know why I was crying. Relief, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or the overwhelming weight of being loved by people I didn't remember choosing.
Minho was next.
He didn't hug me. He never hugged. But he stood before me, his dark eyes searching my face, his expression unreadable.
"You look tired."
"I am tired."
"Your hair is a mess."
"Thank you."
"You need to eat."
"I know."
"You scared us."
I blinked.
He stepped forward.
His arms wrapped around me—awkward, hesitant, the hug of someone who didn't know how to hug but was trying anyway. I stood frozen for a moment, my heart pounding, my breath caught.
Then I hugged him back.
"Welcome home," he said.
"Thank you."
He released me.
Stepped back.
"Don't do it again."
"I'll try."
He nodded.
And walked away.
---
Jinwoo was waiting by the door, a bouquet of flowers in his hands—roses, red and white, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. His smile was bright, but his eyes were red.
"For you," he said, holding them out. "To welcome you home."
"Thank you."
"They're from the garden. The ones you planted."
I looked down at the flowers.
I didn't remember planting them. Didn't remember the garden or the soil or the careful way I must have arranged the stems. But the roses were beautiful—soft and fragrant, their petals velvety against my fingers.
"They're lovely," I said.
"They're yours."
He pulled me into a hug—brief, warm, his hand gentle on my back.
"We missed you," he said.
"I missed you too."
"You don't remember us."
"No."
"But you missed us anyway."
"Yes."
He laughed—soft, surprised.
"That's very you."
"Is it?"
"Yes." He pulled back, his eyes bright. "Stubborn. Impossible. Incapable of not loving people, even when you don't remember them."
"Jinwoo—"
"Welcome home."
He walked away before I could respond.
---
Mrs. Han was the last.
She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her expression stern. But her eyes—her eyes were wet.
"You're too thin," she said.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're pale. Your eyes are hollow. And you're wearing his shirt." She gestured at Taehyun, who was standing behind me, his hand on my back. "Again."
"It's comfortable."
"It's indecent."
"It's mine now."
She sighed.
The sound was heavy, resigned, the sigh of a woman who had spent decades managing impossible men and had simply added me to the list.
"Come," she said. "I made soup."
"I'm not hungry."
"You'll eat."
"Mrs. Han—"
"You'll eat, and you'll rest, and you'll let me take care of you." She stepped forward, her hand brushing my cheek. "You're home now. You're safe. You don't have to be strong anymore."
The tears came again.
I didn't try to stop them.
Mrs. Han pulled me into her arms—warm and solid and smelling of garlic and herbs and something that felt like home.
"There, there," she said, patting my back. "You're home."
"I don't remember—"
"It doesn't matter." Her voice was firm. "You're here. That's all that matters."
I cried.
She held me.
And Taehyun watched from the doorway, his hand still on my back, his eyes soft with love and relief and the quiet, aching gratitude of a man who had almost lost everything and somehow found it again.
---