𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 || 𝐉𝐉𝐊

chapter 53

-#[the next morning]:[Y/n's POV]:

The steam from the shower trailed after me as I stepped out of the bathroom, the plush robe cinched tight around my waist. A towel was draped over my head, my fingers scrubbing roughly at my damp hair, a mindless attempt to dry it and shake off the lingering fog of sleep.

I moved on autopilot, heading past the armchair toward the dressing table. But a flicker of disorder in my periphery made me stop.

My gaze snapped to the coffee table.

The contract papers.

Last night, I'd taken them out, counting the days on my fingers like a prisoner scratching lines on a wall. I'd left them stacked neatly, a tidy pile of my impending freedom but now?

Now, they were a mess. Pages splayed at odd angles, some half-sliding off the polished surface. A few had fluttered completely off, coming to rest like fallen leaves on the carpet below.

My brows pulled together. A slow, cold trickle of unease seeped into my veins, separate from the bathroom's warmth. I walked over, the soft soles of my slippers silent on the floor. Kneeling, I began gathering the stray pages. My fingers traced the creases, the sharp corners now bent. I'd been so careful with them.

As I reached for the last one, a cool whisper of air brushed the back of my neck. I looked up, following its path.

The balcony doors stood wide open. The sheer curtains breathed inward, then fell back.

A sigh escaped me, the tension in my shoulders loosening. Of course. I'd forgotten to close them last night, lost in my own thoughts. The night wind must have swept through like a chaotic but innocent guest rearranging my things. It was a logical, comforting explanation. And I clung to it.

Standing, I reassembled the contract, my movements remained methodical. I carried it back to the bed, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. But for some unknown reason the papers felt heavy in my hands, their weight more than just physical.

My eyes traced the lines I'd memorized, lingering on the most important one: the termination clause. Two weeks. Fourteen days. A countdown to the end of a sentence.

So why did my chest feel so tight?

I wanted this. I craved the open sky, the absence of his shadow, the silence of a room that was truly mine. I hated this gilded cage, the man who held the key, the way he could dismantle my composure with a look.

But beneath the hate, a treacherous, quiet ache throbbed. A stupid, sentimental pang at the thought of leaving.

Maybe I've just gotten used to the walls, I told myself, my grip tightening on the papers. Stockholm syndrome for a prison of silk and marble. This place, for all its horror, was a known entity. The world outside was a vast, terrifying unknown.

No. I couldn't afford this. Not now. I couldn't let my heart go soft, not for this place, not for the ghost of what I'd endured, and certainly not for him. Sentiment was a luxury for people who weren't fighting for their lives. My only focus was the passage of time. Getting through these final days and walking out that grand front door like it was just the exit from a long, terrible dream.

And I would never look back.

Not at this mansion. Not at this city that held his name in every corner.

Especially not at him.

The plan was solid, a lifeline I'd woven in secret. Two weeks from now, Aera and I would be on a plane. The destination wasn't just another city; it was another continent. The USA. A clean break, an ocean between me and the nightmare. A place where the name Jeon Jungkook would be nothing more than a cold, distant memory, fading with every mile of altitude.