Destiny's love

Part- 66

Rohan — I'm not losing her

I can't get the image out of my head: Hayoung, chest heaving, lunging in front of Nayoung. The call from the hitman should have been a clean finish—news I'd swallow with pleasure—but instead his voice had sounded clipped and half-broken: She's alive. Hayoung saved her.

I paced. My office suddenly felt small, suffocating. I told myself I didn't care about Nayoung—yet my fingers tightened around the phone until the plastic creaked. Hayoung. She'd interfered by saving that woman. She'd put herself in harm's way for someone else.

A dozen ugly thoughts warred with another, quieter one: What if she's hurt? It's maddening. I don't permit chaos in my perimeter—least of all where Hayoung is concerned.

I sit down hard, the chair protesting. I don't move at once. I call myself cold, detached, objective—but now my heart is a traitor. After pacing for what feels like forever I pick up the phone. I dial her number, my thumb trembling.

If she's alive and near me... then I must know. If she's hurt... then I must know. I need to be there. The hand that hired men to kill now wants to cradle. That contradiction should shame me. It doesn't. It terrifies me.

Author's POV

The hospital waiting room is white and antiseptic and full of a different kind of noise: soft sobs, muffled announcements, footsteps on linoleum. For a family built from friendship, the edges of this night are raw—fear turning to the desperate relief that comes when an operating theatre door opens and a doctor says, she's going to be fine. But out past this relief, human plans are already shifting: one man will dial a number he never imagined dialing for this reason. Power corrodes empathy; sometimes it reveals one's true wants.

Hayoung — I have to be the lie

They let us into the observation room to see her—Nayoung's face pale, a dressing on her temple, sleeping under nurse care. Taehyung refuses to let go, and Jungkook stands a little to the side, fierce and still. I feel like I don't deserve the air in this room. All I did was run. All I did was shove her. All I did was listen. But now everything unravels from that moment.

When the nurse steps out and says we can stay in the room, my phone buzzes in my bag. I see the name and my chest tightens like a fist. Rohan.

My thumb hovers. I don't want to pick it up. My mind screams at me not to. But my fingers move of their own accord. Jungkook squeezes my hand without looking, something like a warning. I put the call on speaker. If he wants to show up, let everyone hear him.

His voice is not the smooth banker's tone I know. It is ragged, small. "Hayoung—are you hurt? Where are you?" he says, panic raw in his syllables.

I take a breath. My brain races: if he comes to the hospital, he'll be watched; if he comes to my home, he's isolated in my space. I need him to expose himself. "I'm at home," I say, steady as I can make it. "You don't need to worry."

"Good. I'm coming," he replies sharply—too quickly. This is my cue. I whisper to Jungkook through the speaker: Be ready. Record. He'll come. Taehyung answers for the room: I'll stay here with Nayoung.
Jungkook's voice is a single, cold word: Ready.

Then I hang up. I walk out of the ward feeling hollow and resolute at once. I did not want bloodshed, but I would not let him harm anyone more—or let him think he could. If he wants to threaten me, he'll have to say it where he can't deny it. I tell Jungkook to be ready, and he moves like a machine—protective, quiet, lethal.

Taehyung — I'll hold her here

When Hayoung tells me to stay, I don't hesitate. I sit with Nayoung's limp hand in mine while machines beep and nurses move in quiet efficiency. I trace the back of her fingers with my thumb and count the breaths under my own breath so I don't tear apart. I can't leave her side. I will not leave.