Twisted Devotion | taekook

chapter. 2

Taehyung’s voice echoed through the expansive penthouse, but the only response was silence.

"Jungkook?" He called again, his voice carrying the faint edge of concern. “I’m home."

Nothing.

His brows knitted together as unease slowly crept in. It was strange—Jungkook never went to bed this early. He usually stayed in the living room, waiting for Taehyung, often curled up with a book or watching some mindless show. Even if Jungkook had gone out with his friends, he would have told him—or at least left a note.

Taehyung tossed his coat onto the bronze tree by the door, the fabric hitting the stand with a hollow thud, and loosened his tie. The penthouse felt empty, cold in a way that the polished marble floors and sleek furnishings couldn’t explain. There was an unsettling quiet that nagged at the back of his mind, a feeling he couldn't quite shake off. He tried to brush it away, attributing it to the exhaustion from his meetings—emergency after emergency, investors panicking over the stocks. Still, that gnawing sensation of something being wrong lingered, refusing to be ignored.

He reached for his phone out of habit, only to remember it had died during the chaos of the day.

Dammit.

“Jungkook!” Taehyung called again, this time louder, more insistent. “Where are you, amor?”

No answer.

The silence felt heavier now. He crossed the living room with hurried steps, heading for the staircase that led to the second floor. The house was a monument to luxury—twelve thousand square feet spread across two floors, complete with a private elevator entrance, high ceilings, and breathtaking views of Seoul’s skyline. Forty million dollars had bought them this slice of heaven, but Taehyung barely noticed any of it tonight. The grandeur of their home seemed to mock him with its emptiness, the vast space amplifying his sense of dread.

His heart started to pound as he reached the master suite, hoping—praying—that he’d find Jungkook there, maybe asleep, or just lost in a book. But the room was empty. The bed, meticulously made, hadn’t been touched. The sitting area was just as untouched, like a still-life portrait devoid of life.

Then, his gaze caught on something that made his blood run cold.

By the closet, sitting quietly, almost too inconspicuously, was a suitcase. Not just any suitcase—the one Jungkook always took for short trips. The sight of it was like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind from Taehyung’s lungs.

Why was the suitcase out?

His heart dropped as realization struck him with brutal clarity. DC. Anniversary. Six p.m.

Anniversary. Their tenth anniversary.

The word hit him like a freight train. His heart pounded in his chest, faster and faster, the weight of what he had forgotten crashing down on him.

He had promised Jungkook. He had sworn up and down that he wouldn’t forget.

Fuck.

His throat tightened as he rushed to pull out his phone, only to curse when he remembered it was dead. He could feel panic rising in his chest, suffocating him, the silence in the penthouse closing in, suffocating. His hands moved frantically, yanking open drawers, searching for a charger. His movements were rough, desperate, as if charging his phone could somehow undo the nightmarish realization settling in his bones.

It wasn’t the first time Taehyung had missed something important because of work. Jungkook had always been understanding, always smiled and shrugged it off. But this—this was their wedding anniversary.