Jeon Jungkook

The silence in the enormous room was as thick as the tension between you. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and the scent of leather and whiskey filled the air.

Jungkook stood with his back to the viewpoint, gazing out the windows that overlooked the inner garden. He held a glass of whiskey in his hand, the ice clinking softly with each restless movement of his fingers. The wedding had been that morning. Cold, swift, devoid of genuine emotion.

You stood in the middle of the room, still wearing part of your white dress under your coat, speechless. There was no need to speak. The contempt in the air was palpable. He finally turned toward you, and his eyes, dark as night, locked onto yours.

"I'm not going to pretend," she said in a low but firm voice . "This isn't love, and it never will be."

He slowly approached the small table in the corner and poured more whiskey into his glass, without looking at you.

"You know perfectly well that I hate you. And I know the feeling is mutual." She paused to take a sip of her drink, her gaze still cold, but without raising her voice . "But our surnames are linked now, and that's bigger than either you or me."

His words were like knives: controlled, elegant, but sharp.

"Get ready for dinner tonight." She placed her glass on the table with a soft tap . "I don't feel like arguing or forcing you. You do your part... and I'll do mine."

He watched you for another second, with a mixture of contempt and resignation. Then, he simply looked back out the window, as if your presence were just another echo in that world built on power, pacts, and grudges.