Chapter Twenty-Three: A Lie Dressed in the Morning
The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the tall windows of the bedroom, painting everything in a soft, golden glow that pretended the world was gentle. I stood by the door, my bag—a simple, sturdy thing from my old life—clutched to my chest like a shield. The damp chill from yesterday's rain still clung to the air, seeping through my coat, a physical reminder of the vulnerability I carried everywhere now.
"I'll be late today," I said, the words aimed at the intricate pattern of the marble floor. My voice was a thin thread, barely audible.
Taehyun didn't look up immediately. He was at the small table by the window, a newspaper spread before him, a mug of black coffee steaming in his hand. The domesticity of it was a carefully constructed illusion, one I was learning to navigate. The steam curled, sinuous and alive, like the thoughts I was desperately trying to keep from him.
Finally, his gaze lifted. It wasn't sharp or assessing, just steady. A deep, calm pool I was afraid to drown in.
"Will you eat before you go?"
The question was deceptively simple. A test wrapped in concern.
"I'll grab something outside," I replied, too quickly, already turning the handle.
He didn't protest. Didn't question the haste. He simply stood, a fluid uncoiling of controlled power that made the spacious room feel suddenly intimate. He crossed the distance silently. "Hmm."
Then he was there, close enough that I caught the clean, crisp scent of his soap—sandalwood and something faintly citrus. He bent his head, and his lips brushed my forehead. The kiss was feather-light, a whisper of warmth against my skin. It wasn't possessive. It was… tender. A benediction.
"Be safe."
Two words. They lodged in my throat, a knot of guilt and a terrifying, unwanted bloom of warmth. He rarely spoke like that. His care was usually shown through actions—obsessive, overwhelming actions—not through soft-spoken wishes.
I fled, my heels a frantic, echoing tattoo on the grand staircase, each step a beat in the rhythm of my deceit.
---
The city was awake, noisy and indifferent. I wound my way to a small, anonymous café tucked under the shadow of an old stone bridge, the meeting place Choi had specified. My heart was a trapped bird against my ribs.
He was already there, a silhouette against the grimy window, trench coat collar turned up. His grey eyes scanned the street behind me with a professional, paranoid sweep.
"You weren't followed, right?" His voice was low, a blade slicing through the café's gentle hum of conversation.
"No," I said, sliding into the opposite seat, my bag a barrier on my lap. "Why would I be?"
He didn't dignify that with an answer, just slid a manila envelope across the scarred wooden table. "No driver's license under any variation of 'Aish' that matches your photo. But this…" He tapped the envelope. "Came up in a deeper search. A student ID. Italian university. Photo is a few years younger, but it's you. The name attached isn't 'Aish'. We need to go to the source. There's an administrator who might talk, for a price. We'll go together."
I nodded, my fingers cold as I reached for the envelope. "Okay. Let's do it."
I never saw the dark sedan parked three stories up, with a clear line of sight to the café's entrance. I never saw the man behind the tinted glass, phone to his ear, reporting in a quiet monotone. Watching. Always watching.
---
♡ Braids & Warning
That night, exhaustion was a lead weight in my bones. I sat on the edge of the vast bed, mechanically dragging a brush through my hair. The strands felt like straw, every pull a reminder of the day's tension, of the phantom face on the Italian ID card that was and wasn't me.
The door opened silently. I saw his reflection approach in the dark window before I felt him. He didn't speak. He simply took the brush from my limp hand, his fingers briefly grazing mine. He sat behind me on the bed, his body a solid, warm presence at my back.
His hands moved into my hair, separating the strands with a patience that felt infinite. He began to braid, his movements slow, deliberate, almost reverent. Each crossover of hair was precise, the tension perfect.
"You walked too much today," he murmured, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. It wasn't an accusation. It was an observation, laden with an unspoken knowledge that made my skin prickle.
"It was nothing," I whispered, watching our ghostly reflection in the window—the feared kingpin meticulously braiding his wife's hair.
The braid took shape, a neat, elegant rope down my back. He produced a silk ribbon from his pocket—deep emerald green—and tied it off with a careful bow.
"Angel," he said, his voice dropping, taking on a darker, more serious timber. He leaned closer, his breath a warm caress against the shell of my ear. "Don't trust anyone easily."
I stiffened. "What?"
"The world isn't as kind as you are," he continued, his lips almost touching my skin. "People wear masks. Sometimes, the most dangerous ones are those who offer a hand, claiming it's for your own good."
I turned my head slightly, trying to read his expression in the dim light. His face was all sharp angles and shadows, his eyes unreadable pools. "Why are you saying this?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my temple. The gesture was so at odds with the warning, it left me reeling. The scent of him—leather, cedar, and something uniquely, dangerously him—wrapped around me.
He stood then, leaving me with the braid and the cryptic words. I watched him move about the room, straightening a book, adjusting the curtain. The ease with which he blended terrifying control with these pockets of disarming gentleness was the most unsettling thing of all.
Don't trust anyone easily.
The words coiled in my mind, a serpent of doubt. Was it a general warning? Or did he know about Choi? Was he warning me against the detective… or was he, himself, the one I shouldn't trust?
---
♡ The Closet
The next day, he led me to a part of the bedroom I'd rarely approached—a set of double doors I'd assumed led to another sitting room. He pushed them open.
It was a walk-in closet the size of my old apartment. But it wasn't filled with the severe black suits and crisp shirts I associated with him. One side was his, immaculate and imposing. The other side…
The other side was for me.
It was a riot of softness and color. Shelves held neatly folded stacks of cashmere sweaters in creams and pale blues, soft linen trousers, flowing silk blouses. Racks held dresses—simple cotton sundresses, elegant midi gowns in jewel tones, a few delicate lacy things that made my face heat. There were shelves for shoes, drawers I knew without looking would be filled with lingerie, all tags removed, all in my size.
Not the stiff, formal clothes of a mafia wife. These were the clothes of the girl I might have been—the one who loved psychology books and scowled at expensive coffee. Baggy shirts perfect for curling up in. Soft t-shirts. Skirts that would swirl around my legs.
"This… this is too much," I breathed, overwhelmed. The sheer scale of it, the silent observation it implied—he had noticed everything, down to the way I liked my sleeves too long.
"It's nothing," he said, his voice gruff. He began transferring the few items from my old, worn suitcase—the last relics of my past life—into the empty drawers. His movements were efficient, but there was a peculiar care in the way he smoothed a wrinkled shirt before placing it. He was making space for me. Not just in his closet, but in his world. Carving out a physical place for my presence in the heart of his domain.
My treacherous heart skipped a beat, then settled into a heavy, aching rhythm. Standing there, surrounded by these beautiful, empty clothes, with him performing this strangely domestic task, I felt a surge of something that terrified me more than his anger ever could.
I felt safe.
My body, tense for so long, unconsciously relaxed, leaning slightly toward the warmth of his presence. My breath evened out. In this opulent, gilded cage, with this dangerous, complicated man meticulously folding my underwear, my body molded itself to the familiarity of his closeness, betraying my mind's every scream of caution.
It was the most potent poison of all: the feeling of home, administered by the hand of the man who might have destroyed my original one.
---
♡ Threads of Warning
Sleep that night was a shallow, troubled sea. I clutched the emerald ribbon of the braid, the silken texture a tangible link to his warning.
And then, the dream.
Sunlight, real and warm, not like the liar's light of morning. Grass under my bare feet. The sound of laughter, bright and familiar. Her laughter.
She was there, in a simple dress, her hair a messy halo around a face I loved more than anything, a face just on the edge of my memory's grasp. Her smile was the sun itself.
"Come here," she said, her voice like wind chimes. She patted the ground beside her.
I sat, and her hands, capable and gentle, moved into my hair. She began to braid, her touch imbued with a love so profound it was a physical ache in my dreaming chest.
"Be careful," she murmured, her voice shifting, the laughter fading.
"Careful about what?"
Her fingers stilled for a moment, holding the half-finished braid. When she spoke again, her voice was low, urgent. "Not everyone you trust will be kind."
A chill cut through the dream-sunshine. "Who? What do you mean?"
She shook her head, a sad, knowing gesture, and resumed braiding. "I can't tell you who… but you're leaning on someone you shouldn't. Someone who will hurt you if you let them in too far." Her eyes met mine in the dream, full of a love so deep it was painful, and a warning that was crystal clear. "Even if it feels right… even if it looks like safety… be careful who you let braid your life together."
"Is it… him?" I whispered, the dream-tears hot in my throat.
She didn't nod or shake her head. She just looked at me, her gaze sorrowful and unwavering. "You'll know when the danger comes. And when it does… trust yourself first."
Her image began to fade, the sunshine dissolving into the dark of the bedroom. I woke with a gasp, clutching the blanket, the ghost of her touch still on my hair.
The braid Taehyun had made rested against my back. The closet full of beautiful lies stood in the next room. The detective's envelope sat hidden in my bag.
Two warnings. One from a monster who housed me, one from a ghost who loved me.
Who am I trusting?
The question hung in the dark, unanswered.
And who will break me first?