The first thing Jasmine Carter noticed was the way the chandeliers lied.

They threw diamonds across the ceiling of the ballroom—clean, bright, innocent little prisms—like the whole room was blessed. Like nothing ugly had ever happened behind velvet curtains. Like this was just another glittering night on Fifth Avenue, another charity gala where old money smiled for cameras and poured champagne for strangers.

But Jasmine had lived long enough inside beautiful lies to recognize them on sight.

She smoothed the burgundy silk of her gown over her hips and let her hands go still. Not because she wasn’t shaking—she was—but because she’d learned, the hard way, that trembling was something people used against you. The Park family had trained her to hide emotion the way they trained their staff to hide mistakes: bury it, polish over it, pretend it was never there.

Tonight, she told herself, would be different.

Tonight, the truth would belong to her.

A server drifted past with a tray of champagne flutes. Jasmine accepted one automatically, feeling the cold stem against her fingers. The ballroom was a cathedral of wealth—marble floors, mirrored walls, floral arrangements taller than most people, a string quartet tucked near a column as if music were a natural resource the rich deserved to have on demand.

Outside, Manhattan roared. Inside, it purred.

This wasn’t just any event. It was the Kang Corporation Annual Gala, the kind of night that decided the next year of business and power in quiet conversations over oysters and vintage champagne. CEOs, venture capitalists, politicians who pretended they didn’t know crime existed, influencers who pretended they didn’t know money mattered. And threaded through it all, like a hidden river under the city, were the families who owned influence the way others owned property.

Korean-American dynasties. International money. Names that still carried weight in private rooms, names that never had to raise their voices.

Jasmine had once believed marrying into that world would mean safety. A home. Belonging.

She had been wrong in every way that mattered.

She let her gaze move across the room, calm and controlled, the way she’d practiced in mirrors when she still lived on Maplewood Drive in Queens and told herself her life would get better if she just tried harder. She saw the stage where the CEO would speak later. She saw the cameras set up near the press wall. She saw the discreet private security in tailored black suits, the kind whose earpieces weren’t decorative.

And then she saw, like a stain spreading across white silk, the people she had prayed she would never have to stand near again.

Junho Park.

Her ex-husband’s name landed inside her like ice.

He stood near the center of the room with his arm draped around a young woman whose jewelry was so expensive it looked unreal—emeralds and diamonds that screamed old trust fund, old lineage, old doors that opened before you knocked. The young woman’s throat held a delicate crest pendant, the kind of subtle status symbol that told everyone who mattered exactly what family she came from.

Junho was smiling the way he always smiled in public—polished, charming, easy.

The smile he never gave Jasmine unless someone was watching.

Jasmine’s grip tightened on her champagne flute, a fraction of an inch. Her face didn’t change. Years of surviving the Parks had carved control into her bones. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn away. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.

Junho noticed her anyway.

Of course he did.

He leaned to murmur something to his girlfriend, and the girl’s eyes flicked toward Jasmine with a quick appraisal—head to toe, like she was inspecting a dress on a mannequin. Then she giggled, the sound light and mean.

Junho excused himself and walked toward Jasmine as if he belonged in her space, as if he had the right. His girlfriend followed a step behind, curious. Hungry.

“Well, well,” Junho said, loud enough for the people nearby to hear. “Jasmine Carter.”

Her blood stayed cold. She turned slowly, as if this were ordinary, as if her past wasn’t trying to bite her in the middle of the most powerful room in New York.

“Junho,” she said, voice smooth.

He glanced at her champagne flute. “I have to say, I’m surprised you managed an invitation to this caliber of event.” He tilted his head, like he was amused by a clever joke. “These gatherings are typically reserved for people with actual value.”

A few guests turned subtly, drawn by the scent of humiliation like sharks drawn by blood. Jasmine felt their curiosity press against her skin.

Junho’s girlfriend smiled sweetly, the way girls smile when they’re enjoying cruelty. “Maybe she came as someone’s plus-one,” she offered.

Junho laughed. “My ex-wife,” he announced, like he was presenting a cautionary tale. “She’s had… trouble moving on.”

Jasmine looked directly at him. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

His smile sharpened. “How did you even get in here?”

A familiar voice slid in from the side—Junho’s sister, Seo Yan, elegant and poisonous in designer red. She wore her contempt as casually as lipstick.

“Did you accompany someone?” Seo Yan asked, the emphasis making her meaning unmistakable.

Then Mrs. Park appeared like a shadow drawn by scent. Park Minseok—Junho’s mother—wore a pale gold gown and a face arranged into exaggerated concern. She looked the way she always looked at Jasmine: as if she were a stain on the family name.

“Surely not,” Mrs. Park murmured. “Although Jasmine always did have her ways of getting what she wanted… despite being completely useless in every way that mattered.”

Her eyes flicked meaningfully—old habit, old cruelty—toward Jasmine’s still-flat stomach, as if a woman’s worth lived there and nowhere else.

The air around them shifted. Some guests looked away, uncomfortable. Others watched with a kind of voyeuristic fascination, as if this were entertainment included in the price of admission.

Junho’s girlfriend leaned closer to him, proud and smug. Junho pulled her in and let the room see it.

“My girlfriend,” he said loudly, “comes from one of the founding families. Educated, refined… and capable of giving a man what he deserves.”

His smile turned cruel in a way Jasmine recognized too well. “Everything you weren’t.”

Jasmine didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She didn’t give them the reaction they wanted. She simply lifted her champagne flute and took a slow sip.

Inside, though, old memories were trying to climb her throat.

Three years.

Three years of being corrected, mocked, measured, and found lacking. Three years of family dinners where she sat perfectly straight while Seo Yan “accidentally” spilled wine on her dress and laughed. Three years of Mrs. Park making appointments with specialists without telling Jasmine, handing her supplements and teas with a smile that dared her to refuse. Three years of Junho telling her she was too sensitive, too dramatic, too needy—right before turning around and letting his family cut her down again.

Three years of trying to earn love from people who believed love was something you deserved only if you were born correctly.

Jasmine had left that marriage with nothing but a divorce settlement that barely covered the lawyers and a scarred sense of self that took months to recognize as injury instead of weakness.

She didn’t notice the hush spreading across the ballroom until it reached them like a tide.

The string quartet faltered. Conversations slowed, then stopped. The room’s attention pivoted, sudden and instinctive, the way animals go still when a predator enters the clearing.

Jasmine felt the air change. Heavier. More charged.

Kang Gun Woo had arrived.

He moved through the crowd without hurrying, and the fact that he didn’t have to hurry was part of his power. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored black suit that looked like it had been built around him, he carried himself like a man who could end a conversation with a glance. His presence didn’t ask for attention.

It took it.

People stepped aside without realizing they were stepping aside. Heads turned. Eyes followed. Whispered names rippled through the room like electricity.

Junho’s face transformed in an instant. His arrogance cracked, replaced by urgent calculation.

“Mr. Kang,” Junho said, rushing forward, abandoning his girlfriend so fast she stumbled. Mrs. Park and Seo Yan scrambled after him like satellites pulled by gravity. “What an honor. We’ve been hoping to discuss—”

Gun Woo walked past them without a glance, as if they were nothing but air in an expensive room.

He stopped directly in front of Jasmine.

The way his expression shifted—subtle, controlled, but unmistakable—was a private miracle. The hard lines of his face softened. His gaze dropped to her, not like he was assessing her value, but like he was making sure she was intact.

He took her hand gently, lifted it, and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

The room held its breath.

His voice carried without effort, deep and calm, resonant enough that even the people pretending not to listen heard every word.

“Is everything all right, wife?”

Shock landed like thunder.

Junho went pale so quickly Jasmine thought he might be ill. Mrs. Park swayed, her perfect posture slipping. Seo Yan’s mouth fell open.

Jasmine smiled—slow, radiant, deliberate.

“Yes, darling,” she said sweetly, turning her face slightly toward him. “Happy birthday, husband.”

Somewhere behind them, a champagne glass hit marble and shattered.

The sound was almost satisfying.

Gun Woo’s hand settled at the small of Jasmine’s back, firm and possessive without being rough. It wasn’t a claim meant for Jasmine. It was a warning meant for the room.

Junho stared like a man watching the ground disappear under his feet. His girlfriend—his fiancée, as he’d been calling her all night—looked between Junho and Gun Woo and Jasmine with dawning horror. Mrs. Park’s face froze in a brittle smile that couldn’t hold.

Jasmine watched their humiliation unfold, and something inside her unclenched for the first time in years.

Gun Woo led her through the crowd like a queen being escorted through her own kingdom. Men who had never looked at Jasmine twice bowed their heads, suddenly eager to be respectful. Women who had once sneered at her “background” smiled too brightly, desperate to be seen on the right side of power.

Junho and his family were pushed to the edges of the room, stranded. No one wanted to stand too close to people who had just been publicly dismissed by Kang Gun Woo.

Jasmine danced under the chandeliers, her hand in her husband’s, and the laughter that escaped her throat felt real. Not forced. Not polite. Real.

Across the room, the Park family huddled together like animals caught in a floodlight. Junho’s face was gray. Mrs. Park’s carefully applied makeup couldn’t hide the humiliation tightening her mouth. Seo Yan’s smugness had curdled into barely contained rage.

Gun Woo leaned down, lips brushing Jasmine’s ear.

“Say the word,” he murmured, “and they’ll never show their faces in this city again.”

Jasmine’s pulse spiked—not with fear, but with the sensation of being protected by something massive and unmovable. Gun Woo’s tenderness always carried steel underneath it. It was part of what made him terrifying to everyone else.

She looked up at him, meeting his dark eyes.

“Not tonight,” she whispered back. “Tonight is about us.”

He smiled, but the promise of consequences still flickered in his gaze.

When they returned to the penthouse overlooking the Manhattan skyline, the quiet felt thick with adrenaline.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a painting made of light. The air smelled faintly of jasmine—real jasmine—from the flowers Gun Woo insisted were replaced daily. The apartment felt like a sanctuary carved out of a hostile world.

Jasmine kicked off her heels with a sigh and let her shoulders drop.

“That felt good,” she admitted, and her voice held something she hadn’t heard in herself for years: satisfaction.

Gun Woo loosened his tie, watching her with an intensity that never felt casual. He followed her toward their bedroom, his mood shifting, the controlled fury from the gala sliding closer to the surface.

“Jasmine,” he said, and the way he said her name made her pause. “What they did to you… what they said tonight… what they’ve done for years—”

His hands clenched, then released.

“Let me take care of it,” he said quietly. “They deserve consequences.”

Jasmine turned to face him fully.

This was the man the city feared. Not a myth, not a rumor—real power, real networks, real reach. He’d built an empire on precision and ruthlessness, the kind that didn’t leave fingerprints. For Jasmine, he would move mountains. For Jasmine, he would scorch the earth.

She crossed to him and placed her hands on his chest, feeling his heart steady under her palms.

“I know you want to protect me,” she said softly. “I love you for it.”

His gaze softened.

“But they’re not worth it,” she continued. “That part of my life is over. I have you now. I have everything I need.”

Gun Woo’s jaw flexed. “They broke you.”

“No,” she said, and surprised herself with the certainty. “They tried. But I survived. I became stronger. And now they don’t get another second of my peace.”

She cupped his face.

“The best revenge,” Jasmine whispered, “is living well. And we’re living beautifully.”

Gun Woo held her gaze a long moment, his instincts warring with her request. Finally he exhaled, a sound like restraint forced into place.

“Fine,” he said roughly. “For you. Only for you.”

Jasmine kissed him softly. “Thank you.”

Over the next week, Gun Woo wrapped her in devotion that bordered on worship. Flowers arrived every morning. Her favorite meals appeared without her asking. He canceled meetings to take her to art galleries and afternoon tea at hotels she used to walk past with longing when she was married to Junho. He bought her a diamond necklace and fastened it around her throat with reverence, as if placing a crown.

“You’re spoiling me,” Jasmine laughed.

“Impossible,” he murmured against her shoulder. “You deserve everything I can give you—and more.”

Then, quietly, he added, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”

Emotion swelled in Jasmine’s chest, hot and painful and sweet.

“You’re here now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

While Jasmine’s world expanded, Junho Park’s world began to collapse.

Business contacts stopped returning his calls. Invitations dried up. Deals he thought were certain evaporated. It wasn’t magic.

It was consequence.

In their circles, perception was currency. And Junho had publicly revealed that he didn’t just lose his wife—he lost her to Kang Gun Woo. That made him look weak, foolish, disposable. The very things the Parks couldn’t tolerate being seen as.

Junho did what desperate men always do: he tried to regain control by attacking the narrative.

He tracked Gun Woo’s movements for days until he spotted the black Mercedes in an underground garage beneath a private building near Park Avenue. Junho waited by the car, rehearsing his speech, telling himself he could still fix this if he said the right thing.

Gun Woo emerged from the elevator, and the temperature in the space seemed to drop.

His expression went flat, dangerous.

“Mr. Kang,” Junho blurted, voice too eager. “Please. Just five minutes.”

“You have two,” Gun Woo said, voice calm enough to be lethal.

Junho swallowed and pushed forward anyway. “You need to understand Jasmine isn’t who you think she is. She’s manipulative. She—she couldn’t handle basic responsibilities during our marriage. She’s using you.”

Gun Woo’s gaze sharpened. “Careful.”

The single word hit Junho like a wall, but panic made him stupid.

“And she’s infertile,” Junho said quickly, trying to land the cruelest blow he had. “She can’t give you children. Three years we tried, nothing. She’s—”

Gun Woo moved so fast Junho barely saw it. In one smooth motion, he pinned Junho against a concrete pillar, forearm pressing across his collarbone, not enough to injure, but enough to make the message unmistakable.

“My wife,” Gun Woo said softly, “is perfect.”

Junho’s breath came in shallow bursts.

“If she didn’t conceive during your marriage,” Gun Woo continued, voice low, “I would consider the possibility that you were the problem.”

Junho’s eyes widened, terror blooming.

Gun Woo leaned closer. “You had a jewel,” he murmured, “and treated her like dust. Your loss.”

He released Junho with controlled disgust. Junho stumbled, catching himself against the wall.

“Stay away from her,” Gun Woo said, his voice even. “If you approach her again, the consequences will be swift. Clear?”

Junho nodded frantically.

Gun Woo turned away as if Junho no longer existed.

That evening, Jasmine floated into the penthouse with a smile so bright it made Gun Woo’s mood—still tight from the garage encounter—loosen instantly.

He looked up from his laptop.

“You look happy.”

“I am,” Jasmine said, crossing to him. Her fingers trembled as she pulled something from her purse. “I have news.”

She placed a pregnancy test on his desk.

Two pink lines.

Gun Woo stared at it as if his brain had temporarily forgotten how reality worked.

“Is this…?” His voice broke on the edge of the question.

“I went to the hospital to confirm,” Jasmine said, producing documentation—discreet, official, from a private clinic that understood security protocols. Her eyes glistened. “I’m pregnant, Gun Woo. We’re having a baby.”

For a moment, the most feared man in the city simply sat frozen.

Then emotion cracked through him with brutal force.

He stood abruptly, pulled Jasmine into his arms, and held her like she might vanish if he loosened his grip.

“Our baby,” he whispered into her hair, voice thick with disbelief.

Jasmine laughed softly through tears. “Are you happy?”

Gun Woo pulled back just enough for her to see his face.

There were tears in his eyes.

It was the first time Jasmine had ever seen him unguarded in that way.

“Happy?” he echoed, almost broken. “Jasmine… you’re giving me a family.”

The word family struck both of them like a bell.

Two orphans. Two people who understood loneliness as a language. Two people who had built walls so high they forgot what it felt like to be safe inside someone else’s arms.

Now there was a third heartbeat in their future.

Gun Woo kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, as if he needed to memorize her.

“Get dressed,” he said suddenly, voice rough with joy. “Something beautiful. We’re celebrating.”

Jasmine laughed, radiant. “Give me twenty minutes.”

As she disappeared into their bedroom, Gun Woo stared at the pregnancy test again, something fierce and protective surging through him.

Junho had called her infertile hours earlier.

Gun Woo’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile—not because he wanted violence, but because he could already taste the irony of truth. He had promised Jasmine he wouldn’t waste energy on the Parks.

But protection wasn’t the same as revenge.

Protection was sacred.

Dinner was perfect: sparkling cider instead of champagne, Gun Woo’s hand always finding Jasmine’s, his eyes filled with wonder every time he looked at her. They talked about nursery colors, baby names, the future stretching bright and impossible in front of them.

Later, in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, Jasmine lay curled against Gun Woo’s chest. His fingers traced absentminded patterns on her arm. The contentment of the evening wrapped around them like silk.

“Can I ask you something?” Gun Woo’s voice was carefully casual.

“Anything,” Jasmine murmured.

“How long were you married to Junho?” he asked. “I want to hear it again. The whole story.”

Jasmine stiffened so slightly most people wouldn’t have noticed.

Gun Woo did.

He kept his touch gentle. “You don’t have to,” he added quietly. “Only if you want.”

But something in his tone—the genuine interest, the complete absence of judgment—made the walls Jasmine had built begin to crack.

Maybe it was pregnancy hormones. Maybe it was finally feeling safe enough to be vulnerable. Maybe it was the darkness making confession easier.

“It was hard,” she began, voice small. “From the beginning.”

Gun Woo didn’t interrupt.

“His mother made it clear I wasn’t what she wanted,” Jasmine continued. “Wrong background. Wrong everything. But I thought… if I just tried harder, loved him better, made myself more useful… maybe they’d accept me.”

Gun Woo’s arm tightened around her, but he remained silent.

“Seo Yan was worse,” Jasmine whispered. “She’d spill things on me at dinners. Make comments about my accent, my cooking, my clothes. Junho would laugh and tell me I was too sensitive.”

Her breath hitched.

“After the first year—when I wasn’t pregnant—the pressure started. Mrs. Park made appointments without asking me. She brought ‘remedies.’ She made jokes about my ‘empty womb’ in front of people like it was harmless.”

Jasmine swallowed.

“By year two, Junho started believing I was the problem. He compared me to other wives. He asked what was wrong with me. Doctors said there was nothing wrong. Somehow that made it worse. Like I was failing on purpose.”

Her voice broke.

“By year three, he barely spoke to me unless it was to criticize. Useless. An embarrassment. His mother suggested divorce like it was mercy. Seo Yan started bringing ‘eligible women’ to dinners right in front of me.”

Tears soaked into Gun Woo’s shirt.

“I was relieved when he finally asked for a divorce,” Jasmine whispered. “And I hated myself for feeling relieved. But I was so tired, Gun Woo. Tired of apologizing for existing.”

Gun Woo’s jaw clenched so hard it jumped.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

He tilted her chin up. In the dim light, his eyes held a ferocity that felt like safety.

“You are not worthless,” he said. “You were never the problem.”

Jasmine’s breath shuddered.

“They made you believe you were broken because it was convenient for them,” Gun Woo continued. “Because cruelty is easier than admitting they were wrong.”

He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth, as if trying to erase every insult with tenderness.

“You are everything,” he whispered.

Jasmine curled tighter against him. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her into sleep.

But Gun Woo lay awake, staring into the dark.

Three years married. No pregnancy. Multiple doctors found nothing wrong.

Now three months with him, and Jasmine was pregnant.

Gun Woo’s instincts—sharpened by years of surviving betrayal, reading people, detecting patterns—began to whisper that something didn’t fit.

Carefully, he extracted himself from bed and tucked the blankets around Jasmine’s sleeping form.

He walked into his office and closed the door silently.

Cho Taeyang answered on the first ring.

“Boss.”

“I need everything on Jasmine’s first marriage,” Gun Woo said, voice low. “Everything. Purchases. Daily routines. Medical records if you can access them legally. I want to know what she ate and drank for three years.”

A pause. “Understood.”

Taeyang knew better than to ask why.

Gun Woo’s voice dropped colder. “Three years with Park Junho. Three months with me. And now she’s pregnant.”

Silence on the line.

“Find out why she didn’t conceive with him,” Gun Woo said. “Something kept her from it.”

“I’ll have preliminary findings by tomorrow,” Taeyang promised.

“And Taeyang,” Gun Woo added, “this stays private until I know what we’re dealing with.”

The next days were torture.

Gun Woo maintained the face of a loving husband while something dark simmered underneath. He brought Jasmine breakfast in bed, scheduled her first prenatal appointment, researched the best obstetricians in New York with discreet security measures. He held her hair when morning sickness hit. He bought books. Downloaded apps. Listened as she talked about paint samples like their world had always been this safe.

“You’re being wonderful,” Jasmine said one morning as he cut strawberries into perfect pieces because she’d mentioned craving them.

“You’re carrying our child,” Gun Woo said, kissing her temple. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

He meant it.

That made the suspicion worse.

Because if someone had hurt her—if someone had stolen something from her and made her blame herself—Gun Woo didn’t know how to live with that without consequence.

His phone buzzed late that afternoon.

Taeyang: Report ready.

Gun Woo finished arranging the strawberries on a plate and carried them upstairs first, making sure Jasmine ate. Making sure she smiled. Making sure she was real and safe in front of him.

Then he returned to his office and opened the folder Taeyang had delivered.

It was thin.

Damning.

Gun Woo read it once, then again, his knuckles whitening against the edge of the desk.

“You’re certain?” he asked when Taeyang joined the call.

“Certain,” Taeyang replied, voice tight. “We traced consistent purchases through a specialty supplier—ordered monthly, routed through grocery deliveries under the label of ‘wellness tea.’ Payments trace back to Park Junho’s personal accounts through intermediaries.”

Gun Woo stared at the evidence.

For three years, Jasmine had drunk a “love tea” every morning.

A tradition, Junho had called it. A romantic promise. Something that made her feel included—like she belonged to their family story.

The lab analysis showed the tea contained anti-fertility substances—carefully introduced, consistent enough to prevent conception without causing obvious immediate symptoms. Not a dramatic poison. Not something that would send her to the ER. Something subtle. Insidious. Designed to make her body look like the problem while the Park family smiled and called her defective.

Gun Woo’s breath went slow and controlled.

“So he knew,” Gun Woo murmured, more to himself than to Taeyang.

“Yes,” Taeyang said. “And I suspect others in the family were aware, but I’m still verifying.”

Gun Woo closed his eyes.

He had promised Jasmine he would let the past go.

But this wasn’t just the past.

This was theft. Years stolen from her. A lie fed to her every morning with a smile.

He opened his eyes again.

“Keep digging,” Gun Woo said. “I want to know who else knew. The mother. The sister. Everyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Park Junho,” Gun Woo continued, voice quiet enough to be terrifying, “doesn’t get to walk away from this with his reputation intact.”

Taeyang inhaled sharply. “Understood.”

When the call ended, Gun Woo sat alone in his office staring at the folder.

He thought of Jasmine upstairs, looking at nursery colors. Smiling like she believed the future was gentle.

How did he tell her that her past had been engineered cruelty? That she had defended a man who had been poisoning her while letting his family shame her for being “broken”?

The answer was simple: truth.

He would give her the truth.

And then he would make sure the world understood it too.

Gun Woo found Jasmine in the room they had been calling the nursery. It was still mostly empty—paint samples taped to the wall, a single rocking chair by the window, a soft throw blanket draped over it.

Jasmine turned with a smile.

“I like the sage green,” she said. “It feels calm.”

“Jasmine,” Gun Woo said, and the tone stopped her mid-sentence. “We need to talk.”

Her smile faded. “Is it the baby?”

“The baby is fine,” he said quickly. “You’re fine.”

He pulled the rocking chair closer and sat across from her, taking her hands. His thumbs rubbed over her knuckles, grounding her even as he prepared to break her world open.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said softly. “And you may be upset that I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Jasmine’s throat tightened. “Gun Woo… you’re scaring me.”

“A week ago,” he began, “Junho approached me in a garage.”

Her eyes widened. “What? When?”

“The day before you told me you were pregnant.”

Jasmine’s face flushed with humiliation. “What did he say?”

“He tried to warn me about you,” Gun Woo said, watching her carefully. “He called you manipulative. Said you were infertile.”

Jasmine’s lips parted in disbelief. “I can’t believe he—”

“I told him to stay away from you,” Gun Woo interrupted gently. “And I meant it.”

Jasmine swallowed. “Then why are we talking about this?”

“Because something didn’t fit,” Gun Woo said. “Three years married, nothing wrong medically, and now you’re pregnant within three months with me.”

Jasmine went still. “What are you saying?”

“I asked Taeyang to investigate,” Gun Woo admitted.

A spark of hurt flickered in her eyes.

Before it could become a wall, he continued, careful and precise.

“Do you remember the tea Junho gave you every morning?” he asked. “The one he called a tradition.”

Jasmine frowned. “The love tea. Of course. We promised—”

Gun Woo pulled up the documents on his phone and handed it to her. “This is what was in it.”

Jasmine’s gaze dropped to the screen. She read. Her face drained of color inch by inch.

“No,” she whispered. “No, that can’t be right.”

Gun Woo’s voice was gentle. “Did you ever see anyone else drink it?”

Jasmine’s lips moved soundlessly as memories played behind her eyes—three years of mornings, Junho handing her a cup, him drinking coffee instead, Mrs. Park sipping something else, Seo Yan with her own herbal concoctions.

Jasmine’s hand began to tremble.

“He wouldn’t,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

Gun Woo stood and guided her up carefully when her knees threatened to give out.

“We’re going to confirm,” he said. “Dr. Lee will run tests. Will you let me take you?”

Jasmine nodded, numb.

Dr. Lee was Kang Corporation’s personal physician—a discreet Manhattan specialist who understood privacy, NDAs, security, and the kind of power that didn’t like waiting rooms.

They sat in a private suite while bloodwork was processed quickly.

Jasmine stared at nothing. Gun Woo paced like contained thunder.

“If it’s true,” Jasmine whispered, voice barely there, “I defended him. I told you not to hurt them.”

“You didn’t know,” Gun Woo said, kneeling in front of her, taking her hands. “This isn’t your fault.”

“But three years,” Jasmine breathed, and her voice cracked. “Three years I blamed myself. Three years of being called defective. Of doctors looking at me with pity. Of thinking I was failing at the one thing everyone said mattered.”

Gun Woo’s jaw tightened. “None of them deserved you.”

Dr. Lee knocked softly before entering, expression grim.

“The results are back,” he said carefully.

Jasmine braced herself.

“Mrs. Kang,” Dr. Lee said, “your blood shows significant traces of compounds used in certain traditional preparations that have anti-fertility effects. The pattern indicates long-term consistent exposure—years.”

The room tilted.

Jasmine heard Gun Woo ask questions—about lasting impact, about the pregnancy, about timelines. Dr. Lee’s answers were reassuring about the baby, but Jasmine barely processed them.

Three years.

He had been feeding her something that stole her future while he and his family smiled and called her broken.

Jasmine lifted her head slowly.

“I want to see him,” she said suddenly.

Gun Woo’s gaze snapped to her. “Jasmine—”

“I want to confront him,” she said, and her voice wasn’t shaking anymore. It was steel. “Face to face.”

Gun Woo’s instincts screamed to forbid it. Confrontation was his world. He could crush Junho without Jasmine ever having to see his face again.

But Jasmine wasn’t asking as a fragile woman.

She was asking as someone reclaiming herself.

“This is mine,” she said quietly, reading Gun Woo’s hesitation. “You deal with threats. But this… this is personal. I need to do it myself.”

Gun Woo stared at her, then nodded once, sharp.

“If he raises his voice at you,” Gun Woo said, calm and cold, “if he steps toward you, if he even breathes wrong—then I handle it.”

Jasmine held his gaze. “Agreed.”

“Taeyang will be nearby,” Gun Woo said. “Visible enough to keep it safe. Invisible enough to let you have the moment.”

Jasmine nodded.

Junho had been texting Jasmine since the gala—messages sliding from defensive to desperate.

I’m sorry for what I said.

Please talk to me.

My company is struggling. Just one introduction to your husband could save everything.

We had three years together. That has to count for something.

I’m begging you.

Jasmine stared at the messages, feeling something cold unfold inside her.

She typed: Okay. Let’s meet.

His reply came instantly, eager.

Yes. When? Where? Thank you, Jasmine. I knew you still cared.

Jasmine’s mouth curled.

She chose a restaurant in Midtown—upscale, discreet, public enough to prevent theatrics, private enough for truth.

Junho responded with relief so intense it almost made Jasmine laugh.

When she arrived, Taeyang held the door open, expression unreadable.

“I’ll be close,” he murmured. “If you need anything.”

Jasmine smoothed her black dress. Armor disguised as fashion.

Junho waved from a corner booth.

And of course—of course—the vultures traveled together.

Mrs. Park sat beside her son, perfectly coiffed, smile brittle. Seo Yan lounged across from them, examining her manicure as if she weren’t about to eat someone’s life.

Junho stood quickly. “Jasmine, thank you—”

“Sit,” Jasmine said softly.

He froze, then sat.

Mrs. Park leaned forward with false sweetness. “Family should support family,” she said. “We were family once, dear. Surely that still means something.”

Jasmine slid into the booth and looked at each of them, one by one, letting them feel her calm like a blade.

“You look well,” Seo Yan offered, the compliment clearly costing her.

“I am well,” Jasmine said. She accepted water from the server and took a slow sip. “My husband takes excellent care of me.”

Junho flinched.

“Jasmine,” he began, voice trembling. “About what I said—what I said at the party, and to your husband—”

“Let’s skip the performance,” Jasmine said, setting her glass down with deliberate precision. “You didn’t ask me here to apologize. You want something.”

The Park family exchanged glances.

Junho cleared his throat. “My company is experiencing… temporary difficulty,” he said. “Nothing serious, but a partnership with Kang Corporation would—”

“You want money,” Jasmine said.

“An investment opportunity,” Mrs. Park corrected smoothly. “Mutually beneficial.”

Jasmine reached into her purse and placed a folder on the table.

The conversation died.

“Before we talk business,” Jasmine said, voice steady, “I thought you’d be interested in these medical reports.”

Junho’s hand trembled as he opened it. Mrs. Park leaned in. Seo Yan’s bored expression shifted to alarm.

“These are blood test results,” Jasmine continued. “They show long-term exposure to anti-fertility substances.”

Color drained from Junho’s face.

“That’s—” Mrs. Park started.

“Three years,” Jasmine cut in, her voice cracking like a whip. “Three years of you calling me defective while your son fed me something that kept me from getting pregnant. Three years of making me believe I was broken.”

Seo Yan tried to laugh, but it sounded thin. “This is absurd.”

“The supplier confirmed it,” Jasmine said. “Orders, payments, lab analysis.”

She leaned forward.

“Did you know?” she asked, and her voice dropped into something deadly calm. “Did all of you know?”

Junho’s mouth opened, closed.

Mrs. Park’s smile faltered.

Seo Yan’s eyes flicked away.

Jasmine’s pulse hammered, but her posture didn’t change.

“I want to hear you say it,” she whispered. “Did you know?”

Silence stretched.

Then Mrs. Park’s mask cracked—and contempt spilled out like poison.

“So what if we did?” Mrs. Park said, almost bored now that the truth was unavoidable. “You were never good enough for this family.”

Jasmine’s breath caught.

“You were an outsider,” Mrs. Park continued, voice dripping venom. “Did you truly think we would let you produce an heir? Attach our name to your blood?”

Junho made a weak sound. “Mother—”

“Oh, shut up,” Mrs. Park snapped. “She already knows.”

Seo Yan’s fake civility evaporated. “We tried to get rid of you nicely,” she said, her voice sharp. “Hints, pressure, humiliation. But you clung on like a stray.”

Jasmine felt like she was underwater, their voices distant, distorted by a rushing in her ears.

“The tea was my idea,” Mrs. Park said, and there was something almost proud in it. “Junho was weak. He wanted children with you. I convinced him this was better. Keep you believing you were the problem. Then divorce you cleanly.”

Jasmine stared at them, the full scope of the cruelty settling into her bones.

“You made me hate myself,” she whispered.

Mrs. Park shrugged. “You were convenient.”

Seo Yan’s mouth curled. “And now you think marrying a powerful man changes what you are?”

Jasmine felt something inside her shift.

Not breaking.

Hardening.

“You know what the difference is between us?” Jasmine said softly.

Seo Yan blinked, startled by the calm.

“I survived you,” Jasmine continued, voice steady, eyes bright. “I clawed my way out of the life you tried to bury me in. You were born with everything and still needed to hurt someone to feel important.”

Seo Yan’s face twisted, rage snapping loose. She lifted her hand to slap Jasmine—an old gesture, one she’d done in private plenty of times, always when Junho looked away.

But Jasmine’s hand shot up and caught Seo Yan’s wrist midair.

The restaurant seemed to hold its breath.

“No,” Jasmine said quietly.

Then she released Seo Yan’s wrist and slapped her.

The sound cracked through the booth like a gunshot—sharp, startling, final.

Seo Yan gasped, head snapping to the side. A red handprint bloomed on her cheek.

Mrs. Park stared, horrified.

Junho half stood, confused and terrified.

Jasmine rose slowly, towering over them not in size, but in power.

“I am not that woman anymore,” she said. “And you don’t get to touch me again. Ever.”

She gathered the folder, turned, and walked out with her spine straight and her head high.

Outside, the city air hit her face cold and real.

Taeyang appeared at her side instantly. “Mrs. Kang—”

Then Jasmine saw the black Mercedes parked across the street, engine running.

And she saw Gun Woo step out, as if he’d been summoned by her need.

Relief, love, fury—everything crashed through her at once.

She crossed to him, and he opened his arms. She folded into his chest, gripping his suit like she needed something solid to hold onto.

“I heard everything,” he murmured into her hair.

Jasmine pulled back, eyes searching his face. “You wired the booth?”

Taeyang cleared his throat gently. “Security precaution,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Gun Woo’s gaze didn’t flinch. “I needed to know you were safe,” he said simply.

Jasmine looked back at the restaurant window, where she could see the Park family still sitting in shock, probably scrambling to rebuild control.

She turned to Gun Woo.

“Do what you want,” she said, voice cold and clear. “Whatever you think they deserve—do it.”

Something in Gun Woo’s expression shifted. Restraint dissolved.

His smile was terrifying—not because it promised blood, but because it promised ruin delivered with precision.

“With pleasure,” he murmured.

He guided her into the car, slid in beside her, and pulled out his phone.

“Taeyang,” he said calmly, “execute the plan.”

As the Mercedes pulled away, Jasmine looked back one last time.

For three years, those people had made her feel small.

Tonight, they looked small.

The invitation arrived two days later on heavy cream cardstock with gold embossing.

Kang Corporation’s Annual Networking Gala.

A separate smaller card was tucked inside:

Park Enterprises is formally invited.

Junho stared at it like it was a life raft. His hands shook.

“He invited us,” Junho breathed. “He invited us.”

Mrs. Park snatched the card, scanning it with barely contained excitement. “I knew Jasmine would be useful,” she murmured. “That girl always wanted approval. She’ll give it to us again.”

Seo Yan appeared in the doorway, makeup hiding the faint bruise from Jasmine’s slap, eyes bright with hungry ambition. “Does this mean we’re back?”

Junho’s smile turned manic. “One partnership with Kang Corporation and we’re untouchable again.”

They dressed for the gala like conquerors.

They walked into the ballroom of a luxury Midtown hotel glittering with crystal and power, convinced this was the moment the world would return to them.

They didn’t understand what Kang Gun Woo was.

They thought power was a thing you inherited.

Gun Woo had built his.

And he never forgot a debt.

The ballroom shone—ice sculptures, champagne fountains, press photographers. The city’s elite moved like a river of designer fabric and quiet ambition. A few politicians smiled too widely. A few CEOs laughed too loudly. Everyone wanted to be seen close to the Kangs.

At the center of it all, Gun Woo stood with Jasmine at his side.

Jasmine wore midnight-blue silk that caught the light like water. Diamonds rested at her throat—Gun Woo’s gift—subtle enough to be elegant, expensive enough to be unmistakable. Her stomach was still flat, but her hand drifted there now and then like a secret.

“Nervous?” Gun Woo murmured, his hand at the small of her back.

“Not even a little,” Jasmine said, and her smile was sharp. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

The Park family entered with their heads high.

They immediately began working the room—name-dropping, smiling, leaning into old connections as if nothing had happened. Some people were polite. Many were cold. But the Parks persisted, mistaking the chill for caution instead of disgust.

Gun Woo pressed a kiss to Jasmine’s temple.

“Ready?” he murmured.

“More than ready,” she whispered.

Gun Woo signaled to Taeyang.

The ballroom lights dimmed.

A hush fell as Gun Woo stepped onto the stage, spotlight catching him instantly. He cut an imposing figure—calm, elegant, fully in control.

“Good evening,” his voice carried effortlessly through the sound system. “Thank you for attending Kang Corporation’s annual gala.”

Polite applause.

The Park family positioned themselves prominently, confident they were about to be welcomed back into power.

Gun Woo’s gaze drifted briefly to Jasmine. Something softened in his face.

“Before we begin,” he continued, “I have a personal announcement.”

The room leaned in.

“My wife and I are expecting our first child.”

The ballroom erupted in applause. Congratulations rippled through the crowd. Jasmine smiled graciously, one hand resting lightly on her stomach.

Mrs. Park’s expression twisted for a fraction of a second before she forced a smile.

Gun Woo lifted a hand, letting the applause fade.

“As a soon-to-be father,” he said, voice shifting slightly, “I’ve been reflecting on legacy. On what we build. On what we leave behind.”

A pause.

“And on the difference between a future built on integrity… and a future built on lies.”

The air changed.

People felt it. Conversations died. Smiles faltered.

Gun Woo continued smoothly. “Which brings me to tonight’s main presentation.”

The massive screen behind him flickered to life.

Park Enterprises.

Then financial documents.

Junho’s smile cracked.

Mrs. Park’s face drained of color.

Seo Yan went rigid.

“Park Enterprises has been a fixture in our business community for decades,” Gun Woo said conversationally. “But recent investigations have revealed… concerning practices.”

The screen shifted—contracts, audits, numbers. Not dramatic enough for a movie, but horrifying in the way real evidence always is. Patterns. Trails. Methodical documentation that didn’t care about reputation.

Whispers spread like smoke.

Gun Woo’s voice remained calm. “Tax irregularities. Fraudulent reporting. Misappropriation of funds.”

Junho half rose from his table. “This is—”

Gun Woo didn’t even look at him.

“But financial misconduct,” Gun Woo continued, “is rarely where corruption ends.”

The screen changed again.

Security footage from Park Enterprises offices—employees being berated, threatened, humiliated. Evidence of labor violations and intimidation, captured not for revenge, but because the Parks had always believed no one would dare expose them.

Gasps rippled.

People stepped away from the Park family instinctively, as if proximity itself was dangerous.

Then Gun Woo’s tone sharpened—not louder, just colder.

“And then there’s this.”

Bank statements appeared. Wire transfers. A clear line of theft.

“Three million dollars,” Gun Woo said calmly, “diverted from personal trust funds under false pretenses.”

Junho’s girlfriend from the gala—sitting across the room at another table—stood abruptly, face blanching as she recognized her own accounts on the screen.

She stared at Junho with dawning hatred.

Then she turned and walked out, phone already at her ear.

Junho’s voice broke, desperate. “You can’t do this! This is defamation!”

“Everything on this screen has been authenticated,” Gun Woo replied, unruffled. “You’re welcome to dispute it in court.”

He paused, a faint smile touching his mouth.

“If you have time between cases.”

As if on cue, the ballroom doors opened.

Law enforcement entered—federal agents in suits and local white-collar detectives alongside private security coordinating smoothly. This wasn’t a dramatic raid. It was a planned takedown. Paperwork had been signed long before anyone poured champagne.

The lead detective’s voice carried through the stunned ballroom.

“Park Junho. Park Minseok. Park Seo Yan. You are under arrest for fraud, embezzlement, and multiple violations currently under investigation. You have the right to remain silent.”

The room erupted.

Not in sympathy.

In shock and self-preservation.

People who had been smiling at the Parks minutes earlier stepped back like they’d been burned. Business cards disappeared. Conversations ended mid-sentence. Partnerships died in real time.

Mrs. Park shrieked as cuffs closed around her wrists.

“This is a setup!” she screamed, struggling. “Kang Gun Woo, you’ll pay for this! You and that worthless—”

“Careful,” Gun Woo said quietly into the microphone.

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

Mrs. Park’s mouth snapped shut.

Gun Woo continued, voice clear. “And there is a separate investigation.”

The room went even quieter.

“The Park family deliberately prevented my wife from conceiving during her marriage,” Gun Woo said, calm as death. “They subjected her to years of psychological cruelty designed to make her blame herself for what they engineered.”

A collective inhale swept the room.

Jasmine stood perfectly still at the foot of the stage, her face composed, her eyes bright. This wasn’t a breakdown. This wasn’t a spectacle. This was dignity with teeth.

Gun Woo looked at her, then back at the crowd.

“Medical evidence has been submitted,” he said. “The investigation is ongoing.”

Seo Yan lunged forward, face contorted. “You think you’ve won? She’s nothing! She’ll always be—”

Security caught her before she could get anywhere near the stage. Her scream echoed as she was dragged toward the doors.

Junho didn’t scream.

He crumpled.

All fight gone, all charm evaporated, reduced to a man watching his life collapse in front of the people he’d tried to impress.

Mrs. Park tried to maintain dignity for five seconds. Then she dissolved into curses, her gold dress glittering under the chandeliers like mockery. Mascara streaked. Hair came loose.

The woman who had tormented Jasmine for years was escorted out in handcuffs like she was ordinary.

And that was the point.

The doors closed behind them.

The ballroom remained suspended in stunned silence.

Gun Woo descended from the stage and went directly to Jasmine.

He took her hand as if she were the only real thing in the room. He lifted it to his lips.

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

Jasmine looked toward the closed doors where her abusers had disappeared—arrested, exposed, dismantled in front of everyone who mattered to them.

Three years of humiliation answered with surgical precision.

She turned her face up to Gun Woo.

“I’m perfect,” she said softly.

And for the first time in her life, she meant it—not as a defense, not as a plea, but as truth.

People approached afterward with careful smiles, offering congratulations and sympathy without daring to mention the Parks by name. Some praised Gun Woo’s “integrity.” Some murmured about “justice.” Some tried to attach themselves to the moment like it was an opportunity.

Jasmine heard none of it clearly.

She was thinking about the girl she had been—the orphan who dreamed of family. The young wife who bent herself into impossible shapes to earn a place at a table where she was never welcome. The woman who apologized for breathing.

That girl was gone.

In her place stood a woman who had walked through public cruelty without flinching, who had faced the people who tried to erase her and watched them crumble instead.

Gun Woo guided her out before the night could drain her, before the adrenaline could turn into nausea. In the car, Jasmine rested her head against his shoulder, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

“You did it,” Gun Woo murmured.

“No,” Jasmine whispered. “We did.”

Back at the penthouse, Jasmine kicked off her heels and let the tension drain from her body. Her shoulders sagged, exhaustion hitting like a delayed wave.

Gun Woo watched her with something like awe.

“Come here,” he said softly.

Jasmine crossed to him, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her like she was the only thing he trusted in the world.

They stood in the dark, the city lights painting shifting patterns across their skin.

“Thank you,” Jasmine whispered against his chest. “For tonight. For believing me. For… for being the man Junho could never be.”

Gun Woo pulled back and cupped her face.

“I didn’t do anything you didn’t deserve,” he said quietly. “Respect. Protection. Truth. Those should have been yours all along.”

Jasmine’s eyes shimmered. “You stood up for me when no one else would.”

Gun Woo’s hand drifted to her stomach, gentle.

“Our future,” he murmured.

Jasmine covered his hand with her own. “I’m not afraid anymore,” she whispered. “For the first time in… I don’t even know how long. I’m not afraid.”

Gun Woo exhaled slowly, as if he’d been carrying his own fear too—the fear of losing her, of not being able to protect her from a world that had already hurt her so much.

They sat together on the couch, the city spread below them like a glittering map of human ambition.

After a long silence, Jasmine spoke.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked softly. “Something I never really say out loud.”

Gun Woo’s eyes stayed on her face. “Anything.”

“When I was growing up,” Jasmine said, voice distant, “I used to lie awake imagining what it would feel like to belong to someone. A real family. Not a place that kept me because it had to—people who chose me.”

Gun Woo’s arm tightened around her.

“I made up stories,” she continued. “Holiday dinners. Birthday candles. Someone tucking me in and telling me I was loved. I wanted it so badly it hurt.”

Her throat tightened.

“When Junho proposed, I thought I was finally getting it,” Jasmine admitted. “A family. A place. A name. So I gave everything. All my hope. All my love. I tried to become whatever they wanted, thinking if I worked hard enough I could earn it.”

Jasmine turned to look at Gun Woo.

“I didn’t know you can’t earn love from people who think you’re beneath them.”

Gun Woo’s gaze burned. “They didn’t deserve a single drop of your devotion.”

Jasmine swallowed. “Sometimes I feel stupid,” she admitted. “For trying so hard.”

Gun Woo shook his head, firm. “It wasn’t stupidity,” he said. “It was faith. You believed people could love the way you love. That’s not a weakness.”

Jasmine’s eyes filled again, not with sadness, but with the strange grief of being finally understood.

Gun Woo’s voice softened. “I grew up the same way,” he said quietly. “Different place, same loneliness. I built what I built partly to prove I mattered. But underneath all of it… I was still that kid who didn’t know what it felt like to have a home.”

He touched her cheek. “Until you.”

Jasmine’s breath caught.

“We’re building something different,” Gun Woo murmured. “A family that doesn’t require anyone to earn their place. A home where no one is disposable.”

Jasmine nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I’m not just your wife,” she whispered. “I’m not just the woman beside you.”

“No,” Gun Woo agreed. “You’re Jasmine Carter. Strong. Resilient. Worthy. You’re the mother of my child. You’re my partner. My home.”

They moved to the bedroom later, changing into comfortable clothes, the simple domestic routine feeling more intimate than any grand gesture.

In the darkness, Gun Woo pulled Jasmine against him, his hand resting protectively on her stomach.

“I’ve been thinking about our child,” he said quietly.

Jasmine smiled faintly. “Me too.”

“They will never feel unwanted,” Gun Woo said, voice fierce with promise. “Never feel like they have to earn love.”

Jasmine covered his hand with hers. “We’ll give them the childhood we never had.”

“Better,” Gun Woo said softly. “We’ll give them a childhood we didn’t even know was possible.”

Jasmine turned in his arms and met his eyes in the dim light.

“I love you,” she said. “Not because you protected me. Not because you destroyed them.”

Gun Woo’s gaze softened.

“I love you because you see me,” Jasmine whispered. “And you make me believe I was always worth seeing.”

“You always were,” Gun Woo said firmly. “From the moment you existed.”

She kissed him then—slow, certain, full of everything that had led them here.

When she settled back against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, the city outside continued its endless rhythm. Headlines would spin. Rumors would spread. People would pretend they’d always known the Parks were corrupt. The powerful would reshape the story to suit themselves.

But inside their home—inside the quiet space they had built together—something was finally true and untouchable.

The past was buried.

The future stretched wide and bright.

And for the first time in either of their lives, they weren’t facing it alone.

They were home.