#2 in fanfiction🏅
𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗙𝗜𝗔 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗗 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘
'𝘼𝙨 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙨 𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙎𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣'
Kim Y/n was meant to be a leverage, an arranged bride offered to the Ko...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Silence suffocates jimin's penthouse as I step inside, the weight of my rage pressing against my chest like a loaded gun.
I barely made it through the drive from Nova without turning back around to confront them right then and there.
The surveillance footage still burns behind my eyes— him with her—the easy way he touched her, the fucking way she let him.
My hands clench at my sides, fingers itching for violence.
The image of her beneath me, writhing and gasping my name, the way she looks when she's mine—it all gets drowned out by the sight of Jimin's arm around her waist, his hand brushing her cheek.
It festers like poison, fueling the inferno inside me.
The penthouse is pristine, every surface polished to a cold, soulless gleam. It's fitting.
This place reflects him—my brother, with his stupid snake's grin.
I stride to the bar, pouring myself a drink with steady hands that betray the storm inside.
The whiskey burns as I take a slow sip, but it does nothing to extinguish the fire in my gut. The elevator doors slide open.
Jimin enters in, that lazy, knowing smirk on his lips, like he's been expecting me. Like he's already won. The fire inside me roars to life.
"Hello, little brother." he drawls, arrogance dripping from every syllable.
I turn just enough to look at him, my grip tightening around the glass in my hand.
"Why were you with her?" My voice is sharp, laced with the venom I barely restrain.
Jimin strolls to the bar, unfazed, and pours himself a drink.
"Why wouldn't I visit my sis-in-law?" He smirks, swirling his glass.
"She was all alone." My teeth grind together. "She had three guards. She was fine."
"I sent them away," he says smoothly, taking a sip. "Spent the day with her instead."
The words crack something inside me.
The thought of Y/n—my wife—alone with him shoves a knife into my gut.
My fingers flex around the glass, my breath steady, measured.
"She's a good friend to spend time with." he muses, taking another slow sip.
The whiskey in my hand nearly sloshes over the rim as my grip tightens.
In one swift movement, I throw back the rest of my drink, then slam the glass onto the bar before shoving him back. Hard.
His own whiskey sloshes, spilling over his fingers as he stumbles back a step, his smirk deepening.
