A week slipped by like a shadow, heavy and unrelenting. Jungkook remained confined within the four walls of his lavishly adorned prison, the grandeur of the room doing nothing to ease the ache in his heart. The days blurred together, marked only by the distant sound of Byeol's cries, her tiny voice calling for him, tearing at his soul with every echo.
He hadn’t seen her—not even a fleeting glimpse. The faint, muffled sobs that reached him were his only connection to his daughter. His nights were restless, haunted by dreams of her small hands clutching his, her bright smile lighting up his darkened world. But when he awoke, there was only silence, the oppressive weight of loneliness pressing down on him.
Food was brought to him by the maids, though he barely touched it. His appetite had vanished, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that no meal could fill. His hands often hovered over the untouched plates, his mind elsewhere—thinking of Byeol, of her favorite meals, of the way she would wrinkle her nose when she didn’t like something. He wondered if she was eating well, if she was sleeping peacefully, or if she missed him as much as he missed her.
Taehyung was no more than a fleeting presence in his life now. He would come home late, the echo of his footsteps reverberating through the mansion long after the sun had set. He would leave before Jungkook could even muster the courage to speak, his absence lingering like a shadow in the room. And when he was there, he didn’t talk—not a word, not a glance, as though Jungkook had become invisible.
Jungkook clung to the hope that this was temporary. That Taehyung’s anger would subside, that the walls between them would crumble, and that he would finally be able to hold his daughter in his arms again. But as the days dragged on, that hope began to waver, teetering on the edge of despair.
He spent his days pacing the room, his fingers trailing along the edges of the furniture, the walls, the curtains—anything to anchor himself to reality. Sometimes, he would sit by the window, staring out at the sprawling gardens below, his thoughts a chaotic tangle of regret and longing. He wondered if Byeol was somewhere out there, playing in the sunlight, her laughter carried away by the breeze.
Jungkook’s nights were worse. The silence became deafening, the emptiness of the room swallowing him whole. He would lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying memories of happier times—Byeol’s first steps, her first words, the way her tiny hands would curl around his finger as she slept. He would remember Taehyung’s rare smiles, the way his eyes would soften when he looked at him, the warmth of his embrace.
But those memories felt like they belonged to another life, a life that was slipping further and further out of reach.
And so, he endured. Day after day, night after night, clinging to the fragile thread of hope that one day, things would change. That one day, Taehyung would open the door, and he would finally see his daughter again. That one day, his husband’s love would find its way back to him.
But until then, all he could do was wait—wait and hope, even as his heart slowly broke into pieces. It did nothing but made him remember the broken past
It was another day in the couple's life, though far from ordinary. The twenty-year-old boy sat on the edge of their large bed, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. His pout deepened with every glance he stole at the closed door, his glare sharp enough to pierce through it. His eyes were rimmed with red, swollen from the tears he had been shedding relentlessly since the afternoon. His frustration simmered, threatening to bubble over at any moment.
The room remained silent until the door finally creaked open, revealing his husband. A tall figure, dressed impeccably even in the casual confines of their home, stepped inside with a calmness that contrasted the storm brewing within Jungkook. His voice was soft, smooth as velvet, imbued with a tenderness that could melt glaciers. "Princess?" Taehyung called out, his tone delicate, almost hesitant, as though speaking too loudly might worsen the fragile atmosphere.
