Chapter Fifty-Five: Mr. Devil
It was one of those rare, slow afternoons in the mansion, where the sunlight felt thick and lazy. I was sitting cross-legged on the plush rug in the living room, my back against the couch, my hair still damp and tangled from a shower. I'd been staring out the window, lost in thought, when I felt him approach.
Taehyun didn't say anything. He just settled on the couch behind me, his presence a warm, solid weight at my back. I felt his fingers gently gather my wet hair, separating the strands with a patience I'd never mastered.
"Ow," I mumbled half-heartedly as he hit a snag.
"Hold still," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You're always this dramatic."
"You've clearly never touched a hairbrush before in your life, have you?" I grumbled, leaning my head back slightly into his hands.
"I'm an artist, not a hairdresser," he said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice.
"You're a criminal with surprisingly soft hands," I muttered under my breath.
He didn't reply, just let out a soft, amused breath. His fingers were methodical, weaving sections together with a focus usually reserved for business mergers or, I imagined, dismantling rivals. He was just finishing the final twist of the braid, securing it with a hair tie he'd produced from his pocket, when the door to the lounge burst open.
Junho, Minho, and Jinwoo walked in, mid-conversation. They stopped dead.
Three pairs of eyes locked onto the scene: Kim Taehyun, the man whispered about in underworld circles as "The Reaper," sitting on a couch, carefully braiding his wife's hair.
The silence was profound for exactly two seconds.
Then Jinwoo erupted. He clutched the doorframe, his face a mask of theatrical horror and delight. "OH. MY. GOD," he shrieked, voice echoing. "IS THIS A HALLUCINATION? AM I DREAMING? IS THE DEVIL GIVING A MAKEOVER?"
Junho made a choking sound, doubling over as if punched. "I need a priest. Someone call an exorcist. My brother's been body-snatched by a Pinterest husband."
Even Minho, the king of stoic silence, blinked slowly. He looked from Taehyun's concentrated expression to the neat braid, and said in his flat, deadpan tone, "The devil braids hair now. The apocalypse is officially here."
Taehyun didn't even pause. He gave the end of the braid a final, gentle tug and smoothed it over my shoulder. Then he glanced at his brothers, his expression utterly unimpressed. "Get out," he said calmly, "before I decide to practice my braiding skills on your tongues."
Later That Night: Minho's Quiet Warning
I found Minho alone on the west balcony long after midnight. The city below was a carpet of scattered lights. He stood with his hood up, hands in his pockets, a silent silhouette against the night. He didn't turn as I stepped out, but I knew he'd heard me.
"Can't sleep?" I asked, leaning against the cold stone railing a few feet away.
"Can't think with all the noise," he replied, his voice barely above the breeze. He wasn't talking about sound.
I hesitated, then took a seat on the wide railing, tucking my feet beneath me. The stone was cold through my sweatpants. "You don't like me," I stated. It wasn't an accusation, just a fact.
"I don't like puzzles with missing pieces sitting in my brother's house," he said, finally turning his head just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark and unreadable. "I don't like strangers with no past."
I didn't argue. There was no point. Instead, I looked up at the few stars visible through the light pollution. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable with Minho. It was just… quiet.
After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice so soft I almost missed it. "But I've seen the way he looks at you."
I turned to him.
"I've never seen that in his eyes," Minho continued, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "Not when we closed our biggest deal. Not even when our world was literally on fire. It's… new."
My throat felt tight. "Do you think I'm dangerous?" The question slipped out, raw and honest.
He finally looked at me fully. "I think you're lost. And confused. But in our world, confusion can be a more fatal weapon than a bullet."
I swallowed, the night air suddenly feeling colder.
"If you want the truth," Minho said, pushing off the railing to leave, "stop running from the wrong people. And start learning to trust the right one."
"Like you?" I asked, a hint of challenge in my voice.
A ghost of something—not a smile, but an acknowledgment—flickered across his face. "Like him." He paused at the doorway, his final words dropping into the dark like stones. "He'd let the world burn before he let a spark touch you. That kind of love… it's rare. Don't throw it away just because you're scared of getting burned."
And then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the house.
Jinwoo's (Surprisingly Wise) Advice
The next afternoon, I found Jinwoo in the koi pond garden. He was crouched by the water's edge, speaking earnestly to a large, orange fish.
"…and you think she's falling for him? Don't blink once for yes, twice for no," he was saying seriously.
I couldn't help it; a laugh escaped me. "You are genuinely insane."
He glanced up, his usual dazzling smile in place. "Not insane, little criminal bride. Enlightened. There's a difference." He patted the space on the stone bench beside him. "Come. Sit. You look like you're carrying the weight of his entire gun collection on your shoulders."
I sat with a sigh, watching the fish dart under lily pads. "Why does everyone here think I'm either a spy or a bomb waiting to go off?"
Jinwoo tossed a pebble into the water, watching the ripples. "Because you're too quiet to be harmless, darling. In our line of work, silence is either wisdom or a weapon. And you don't seem wise enough yet for it to be the former."
I raised an eyebrow. "So you think I'm a weapon?"
"No," he said, and for once, all the playful theatrics fell away from his face. He looked older. Tired. "I think you're terrified. Scared of how deep you're feeling. Petrified of the power you already hold over a man who has never been powerless a day in his life."
His words hit me with a startling accuracy. I just stared at him.
He offered a small, real smile. "Let me give you some advice no one gave me when I was busy ruining my own chance at something real." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you ever find someone who holds your broken pieces with hands that are just as bloody, and they don't even flinch… don't you dare run from them. You stay. And you heal with them."
My eyes stung unexpectedly. I looked away, blinking hard. "You joke about everything," I whispered.
Jinwoo's smile turned wistful. "Sweetheart, if I didn't joke about everything, I'd have drowned in it all a long time ago."
●The Ceremony
The university's annual awards ceremony was a big deal. Suits, dresses, flashing cameras, important guests. A world of normalcy that felt like a lifetime away.
It was the first time I'd worn heels in months. The dress was simple but elegant—black, long-sleeved, falling to my ankles. I'd left my hair down, sleek and straight, applied a touch of eyeliner, and kept my lips a neutral pink.
My best friend, Sara, had whistled low when she saw me. "Damn, Babe. The man who kidnapped you into marriage might just actually fall in love with you for real."
I'd rolled my eyes, adjusting my clutch. "He hasn't even seen this dress. And he won't be there. Faculty events aren't really his scene."
She'd snorted, looping her arm through mine as we walked across the manicured campus lawns. "Please. If he catches one glimpse of you looking like this? The ground will shake."
We were laughing as we entered the grand hall. It was packed. Professors in academic regalia, students dressed to impress, the Dean holding court near the stage. The air buzzed with chatter and the clinking of glasses.
I'd barely taken two steps inside when he appeared in front of me—Lee Minjae. Tall, handsome, captain of the rowing team, the kind of guy everyone on campus knew. We'd shared a few group project meetings, exchanged polite hellos. That was it.
He grinned, a confident, flashy smile, and before I could react, he raised his voice. "Hey, everyone! Can I have your attention for a second?"
Oh, no. A cold dread started to pool in my stomach. Sara's grip on my arm tightened like a vice.
"I just want to confess something," Minjae announced, his voice carrying in the sudden lull. "To the most stunning, intriguing, and hard-to-get woman at this university!"
He turned to me, producing a bouquet of roses from behind his back like a bad magician. A few people gasped. Phones were lifted, filming.
"I don't know what spell you cast," he said, loud enough for the growing circle of onlookers to hear, "but I can't get you out of my head.… will you go out with me?"
My face burned. Sara looked like she was watching a train wreck in slow motion. I took a step back. "I'm not interested. Please, stop this—"
He laughed, a charming, dismissive sound, and took a step closer. "Why not? Just one date. I promise I'll make you forget all about whoever's occupying your thoughts."
He leaned in, as if to whisper something conspiratorial, and that's when the air in the room changed.
It didn't get colder. It got still. A pressure drop.
A hand shot out, shoving Minjae back by the shoulder with such force that he stumbled, crashed into a row of empty chairs, and went down in a clatter of metal and limbs. Gasps and shouts erupted.
Taehyun stood between us.
He was dressed in a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit, but he looked nothing like a professor. He looked like fury made human. His eyes were black ice, his jaw a hard line. He didn't yell. His voice, when it came, was quiet, clean, and cut through the chaos like a scalpel.
"Touch her again," he said, looking down at the bewildered, sprawled-out Minjae, "and you'll leave this university in a body bag."
The room froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. Minjae stared up, all color drained from his face.
Taehyun didn't spare him another glance. He turned and stepped in front of me, his body a solid wall between me and the staring crowd. His hand settled possessively on my waist, pulling me slightly behind him.
"She's taken," he announced, his voice now loud enough to carry to the very back of the hall.
A wave of whispers crashed through the room.
"Taken?"
"By who?!"
"Did he just say…?"
He swept his gaze over the stunned faces, a king claiming his territory in the middle of a civilized world. Then his eyes found mine, held them. There was no apology there. No softness. Just a fierce, unbreakable certainty.
"By me."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The Dean, a stern man in his sixties, broke through the crowd, his face flushed with a mixture of shock and outrage. "Professor Kim! What is the meaning of this… this spectacle?"
Taehyun's arm stayed around me, an unyielding band. "We're married," he said, the words simple and devastating.
The Dean's eyes bulged. "You… you married a student? Without disclosure? Without board approval?" His voice rose. "Do you have any conception of the scandal? The ethical breach?"
The room began to spin slightly. The stares felt like physical blows.
The Dean turned his furious gaze on me. "Is this true?"
All I could manage was a tiny, stiff nod.
He dragged a hand over his face. "Unbelievable. My office. Both of you. First thing tomorrow morning." He shot a last, disgusted look at Taehyun. "Your career, your reputation… consider them on the line."
He stormed away, leaving a wake of buzzing gossip.
●Backstage Confrontation
The second we were through the side door, behind the heavy stage curtains and away from the hundreds of eyes, I exploded. I shoved his chest, hard. "What the hell was that?!" My voice was a strained whisper-shout. "Why would you do that? In front of everyone?!"
He didn't answer, just stood there, his chest rising and falling steadily under my palms.
"You exposed everything! You just threw away your job! Your entire life here! What if they fire you? What if I get expelled because of this? Why?!"
Suddenly, my back hit the cool concrete wall. His arms came up, caging me in, palms flat against the wall on either side of my head. He leaned in, his face inches from mine, and the raw emotion in his eyes stole my breath.
"You want the truth?" he breathed, his voice rough, stripped bare. "Because seeing another man look at you like that—like he had any right—made me want to tear this whole building down with my bare hands."
I froze, pinned by his gaze.
He leaned closer still, until his forehead rested gently against mine. His next words were a low, fervent vow in the dark, cramped space. "I've kept it quiet. I've given you space. I've let you walk ahead of me like I'm just a ghost in your story. But I can't do it anymore. I won't."