Yul's keys jangle as he ushers me out of the building. The air outside nips at my bare arms, and I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. Yul notices and without a word drapes his leather jacket over my shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells faintly of pine and earth—comforting.
We descend the steps to a sleek black Genesis parked at the curb. I stare at it for a moment. It's not exactly the height of luxury, but it is a car with an out-of-place price point for … this area. The city noise swells around us—horns honking, people chatting, the distant wail of an ambulance. Yul unlocks the car with a press of a button, and the lights flash twice.
Slipping into the passenger seat, I glance in the back—clean, almost immaculate. No car seats, no toys strewn about, no sticky fingerprints on the windows. I frown, there should be signs of something, given we had children together.
"No car seats," I note off-handedly as he slides into the driver's seat.
Yul glances back, his expression shutters for a moment before he starts the car. "The kids don't ride in this car normally," he replies, his voice steady but distant. "I just don't have a reason to put any in."
His explanation hangs between us as he navigates out of the neighborhood. The cityscape changes from older buildings to modern high-rises with reflective glass that pierce the sky. People bustle on the sidewalks below, some looking up at us as we pass.
I watch them, my thoughts racing as fast as the scenery blurs by my window. What kind of mother was I? Divided between two lives so distinctly separate that even my children's presence was reduced to alternating days?
I turn to study Yul's profile—focused on the road ahead, jaw set in determination or maybe discomfort at having me there questioning our life together.
"I just… it feels surreal," I murmured more to myself than to him. "To have kids but no trace of them with me."
Yul glances at me briefly, a muscle ticking in his jaw before he looks back at the road. "Yeah," he says softly after a pause that seems to stretch on forever. "It can be… difficult."
The hum of the engine fills the silence that follows. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes for a moment, letting his word—difficult—echo through me.
The silence feels too heavy. I reach for something to say, anything to break the tension.
"So, when you're not behind the camera," I start, turning toward him. "What do you do?"
Yul's lips twitch into a half-smile. "Depends. Most of the time I'm just home, gaming. But I go to the gym when I want to get out. Play soccer with the guys on the weekend. Kickbox every other week."
"Kickbox?" I gape, "Is that just like … a casual hobby?"
Yul let out a startled laugh, and a warm glow fills my chest at the sound of it.
"You got me into it actually."
I gape at him.
"Me?"
He nods, grinning.
"You did kickboxing, pilates, and yoga when we first got married," he tells me.
I'm stunned. Adult me was way more athletic than teenage me ever dreamed of being.
"I can't picture myself doing any of that," I admit.
Yul shrugs casually, "You started the yoga and pilates after you had the first baby. Or so you said. The kickboxing you said you took up after someone tried to mug you one night in Itaewon when you were out with your friends."
I marvel at this. Shaking my head. That would explain all the hard muscles my adult body seems to have acquired. My thoughts unwittingly drift back to the empty back seat. The first baby. He'd said. Not our baby. I assume the first one, at least, was not his then. I have so many questions and they seem to be growing in number the more I know.
"Do you ever photograph the kids?" I ask.
He nods, his eyes softening. "Yeah, when they visit. They're… they're great subjects. Full of life and unfiltered emotion."
I can't help but smile at the thought—our children through his lens, their innocence, and joy captured in time.
I look out the window again, watching Seoul pass by as Yul drives us further from Gireum-dong. The streets become cleaner, the buildings taller and more imposing.
"And what about us?" I ask softly. "Did we ever do photo shoots together?"
His hands tighten on the steering wheel before he answers. "Once or twice," he says. "You were always… alive in front of the camera."
The word 'alive' resonates within me, like it has a double meaning for him.
Yul clears his throat, shifting in his seat. "We also did some family shots with Inha and the kids," he adds after a pause.
My chest tightens at the mention of Inha—my mysterious first husband. I wonder what our dynamic is like and how Yul fits into that picture.
"It must have been nice," I whisper, almost to myself.
"It was," Yul agrees quietly.
We fall into another silence, but this time it's different—softer, filled with shared fragments of a life I'm struggling to piece together. Yul seems more at ease now as we drive on, and despite everything, so do I.
The navigation system's voice fills the car with its crisp, clinical Korean, announcing our approach to Pyeongchang-dong. As we draw nearer, the disparity between this area and Gireum-dong is noticeable. Buildings stretch higher, boasting sleek designs and the opulence of wealth. The streets are lined with luxury cars, each model more polished and pristine than the last. Even the pedestrians carry themselves differently here—each step seems measured, assured by a cushion of affluence.
I steal a glance at Yul, noting the subtle shift in his posture. His shoulders have tensed, his grip on the steering wheel has tightened, and there's a stiffness to his jaw. It's as if with every meter we close in on Pyeongchang-dong, an invisible weight presses down on him.
"What's wrong?" I ask gently, my voice tinged with concern.
Yul's eyes flick to mine briefly before returning to the road. "Nothing," he replies too quickly, but there's a noticeable change in his demeanor. He's shed the light-hearted casualness that he was speaking with only moments ago.
I lean back in my seat, studying his profile. There's something he's not telling me—something about this place, or perhaps about Inha—that causes him discomfort. The air between us grows heavy.
"It's just different … here," I comment softly, trying to coax him into opening up.
He exhales slowly. "Yeah," he admits after a moment's hesitation. "It's where a lot of the rich kids lived when I was in school."
I nod, absorbing this new piece of information. "And where I spend most of my time?" I venture further.
Yul nods curtly.
As we continue our drive through the affluent streets, I feel like an outsider peering into someone else's life.
Yul maneuvers the car into a reserved parking space, and my gaze lingers on the imposing and luxurious new apartment building before us. I'm automatically comparing it with Yul's humble place in Gireum-dong. The lobby doors part to reveal a gleaming interior, the air subtly perfumed and the sound of soft instrumental music floating in the background.
We step into the elevator, and Yul presses the button for the penthouse without looking at me. The doors close, and I watch our reflection in the mirrored walls. He stands tall and composed, but there's a tightness around his eyes.
The elevator ascends smoothly, and my stomach flutters—not from the motion but from anticipation. I live in this kind of place? What kind of life did I lead here?
The chime of the elevator arriving at our destination pulls me from my thoughts. The doors slide open to reveal a private foyer that leads to a set of heavy double doors. Yul steps forward, entering a code into a sleek keypad beside the door. A soft click signals our entry.
He pushes open the doors, and we step into a space that takes my breath away. Sunlight pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a panoramic view of Seoul's skyline that sparkles against the backdrop of a fading afternoon sky.
"Welcome home," Yul says, his voice nearly lost in the vastness of the open-plan living area.
Home? This penthouse feels like something out of a magazine—a far cry from anything I would have ever called home.
Yul moves past me, setting his keys on an elegant console table by the entrance.
I drift further into the room, my fingers trailing along the back of a plush white sofa. The place is immaculate, decorated with art pieces that seem more like investments than expressions of personal taste.
"This is mine?" I ask, turning to face Yul.
He nods once, hands now tucked into his pockets as he watches me take it all in. "Yeah," he confirms. "Most of the decorating was you, actually."
The word 'you' echoes in my ears—a subtle reminder that despite being married to both men, there are parts of my life with each that don't overlap.
I walk toward one of the windows, captivated by the view but also seeking something familiar to this place—to this life I can't remember living. My reflection stares back at me—a woman dressed in clothes she doesn't recognize, standing in an apartment she's told is hers yet feels alien.
Yul remains near the entrance—close but distant—as if unsure how to navigate this reunion or perhaps hesitant to intrude on my attempts to familiarize myself with the space.
"Does it feel familiar?" he asks quietly from across the room.
I shake my head slightly. "It's beautiful," I admit honestly. "But no… it doesn't feel like mine."
He doesn't respond immediately, and when I turn to look at him again, there's an unreadable expression on his face.
I'm rooted to the spot, my gaze sweeping over the expanse of the penthouse. It's more than just opulent; it's a work of art, a testament to someone's—my own?—impeccable taste. My eyes land on a series of photographs arranged on the wall, and my breath catches.
There I am, captured in still life—a version of myself I don't recognize, but that's undeniably me. The woman in the pictures wears a smile that reaches her eyes, a look of contentment that seems genuine. In some, she's alone, in others, she's surrounded by children—our children. Their faces spark no recognition in me, yet there's an ache deep in my chest as I study their features.
"Those were taken three summers back," Yul's voice pulls me from my reverie, "Right after Seul— the youngest was born."
I glance at him, but he's looking at the photos.
I approach the photographs for a closer look. There are three kids in one picture, two in another—all with different features but carrying a semblance that suggests they belong together… with me.
My fingers graze the glass protecting one image—a birthday party, judging by the cake and candles. A little girl with pigtails is about to blow out her candles, and I'm leaning over her shoulder, my eyes crinkling with laughter.
The realization that these moments existed, that they were real and filled with joy, overwhelms me. I feel disconnected—a spectator to my life.
I wander through the space slowly. There's a small nook with shelves lined with books on marketing and skincare—industries I'm told I excelled in. A desk sits by the window with a view that could inspire sonnets, its surface neat but lived-in—a pen left uncapped beside an open notebook filled with handwritten notes.
"Your home office," Yul offers from behind me. "Not that it got much use. You liked being out here with the kids more, even if it meant no work got done."
The hint of wry adoring in his voice makes me shoot him a look. Again, he's not looking at me.
The desk chair looks inviting, molded by use into a shape that must have fit me perfectly once upon a time. It's another piece of this puzzle—this life—that feels so foreign yet supposedly mine.
My hand hovers over the back of the chair as if touching it might trigger something within me—a memory, a feeling of belonging. But there's nothing. Just the cold leather under my fingertips and a silence that stretches out.
Turning away from the desk, I spot more personal touches—a vase of fresh flowers on the dining table, a set of watercolor paintings that seem too quirky for anyone but me to have chosen them. There's life here amidst the splendor; it just doesn't resonate within me… not yet.
Yul's voice slices through the quiet that has settled over the room, pulling me out of my musings. "Here."
I turn, finding him holding out a sleek key fob, the emblem of a Mercedes Benz glinting under the soft lighting. I reach out hesitantly, the weight of it heavy in my palm.
"This is yours," he says, a note of something I can't quite place in his voice. "It's parked in the garage downstairs."
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Mine?" The word feels foreign on my tongue.
He nods, his gaze steady on mine. "The new one."
New? There's another hint of something in his voice. The tail end of a story I'm not privy to and he doesn't seem willing to offer up. "New" implies there was a car before. How many expensive vehicles have I owned?
I glance down at the key fob again, rolling it between my fingers. The idea that I owned something as luxurious as a Mercedes Benz seems outlandish—another piece of this life I don't remember that doesn't quite fit with the image I have of myself.
"And I just… drive around Seoul?" I ask, trying to picture myself navigating through traffic in such an extravagant vehicle.
"Mostly," Yul replies. "But you also enjoyed driving the kids out to the countryside on weekends. Said it cleared your mind."
I give him a bewildered look and his lips twitch.
"It's an SUV," he explains, maybe guessing by my expression that I was wondering how on earth I could fit five kids in the back of a Mercedes coupe.
The image of open roads and rolling hills tries to form in my mind, but like everything else, it remains hazy and indistinct.
I look back at Yul, questions swirling in my head. He anticipates them, offering an explanation before I can voice them.
"The car's one of the few things you were adamant about choosing yourself," he tells me. "You didn't care much for most material things, but the car was important to you. Safety was important."
The corners of my mouth twitch into a small smile at the thought. Insisting on personalizing things still fits my character.
I hold up the key fob, examining it more closely now. It's real—solid and cool against my skin—but it still doesn't feel real to me yet. My things, my car, my house.
Yul watches me silently for a moment before he lets out a sigh and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Well, Inha will be here soon. He left work early when I told him you were here."
I give him a look.
"You told him we were coming here?"
Yul dips his chin. "I called him back at my place first, just to make sure it'd be okay to drop you off."
Why would it not be okay for me to come home?
Yul's tone had carried an odd undercurrent when he mentioned Inha—something I couldn't quite place. Was it tension? Resentment? Or something more complex?
I watch Yul closely, trying to decipher the nuances of his behavior. There's a shift in his stance, a tightening around his eyes. It's subtle but unmistakable.
"Is everything okay between you two?" The question slips out before I can consider whether I really want to know the answer.
Yul hesitates, a flicker of something crossing his face before he schools it back into neutrality. "We manage," he says, and there's a finality in his voice that suggests the topic is closed for discussion.
I bite my tongue, respecting his boundary but still curious about the dynamics of this family I'm supposed to be part of. The relationship between Yul and Inha feels like another piece of the puzzle—a complicated one that might not fit easily into place.
Yul moves through the space with an ease that suggests he knows it quite well. He knows where everything is, from the light switches to the hidden panels that reveal a state-of-the-art entertainment system. His fingers brush over surfaces with a familiarity that hints at routine, and when he walks, there's no hesitation in his steps, no need to look around to orient himself.
As I observe him, it strikes me how odd it is for someone to navigate a space so intimately without calling it home. It's a complete contrast to how I'd expect him to be.
"Why do you seem so at home here if you don't live here?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it.
Yul pauses, turning to face me. He leans back against the marble countertop, arms crossed over his chest as he considers my question.
"I've spent a lot of time here," he admits after a moment. "Helping with the kids, fixing things around the apartment… I guess it's hard not to get comfortable."
I nod, accepting his answer but still not totally convinced by it. I just have an out of place feeling about everything, maybe.
He pushes off from the counter and walks past me to adjust a painting that seems perfectly straight already. His movements are slow and deliberate as he steps back to appraise his handiwork. But he's obviously fidgeting.
The room remains silent except for our breathing and the soft hum of the city below us. There's a silent uneasiness between us. Like we both know the other is uncomfortable but neither knows what to do about it.
I watch him as he moves on to straighten a stack of magazines on the coffee table, each action meticulous and purposeful. He may not live here, but there's no denying that he belongs in a way.
My head swivels, I don't hear anything else besides us in the apartment.
"Do we have like … pets?" I ask.
Yul snorts.
"Uh … Seungho—one of the kids—has a guinea pig?"
I bite down a smirk.
"I meant like, dogs or cats."
Yul shakes his head.
"Inha had one, way back. A big fluffy samoyed. But when it passed, you guys said you wanted to wait until all the kids were older to get another because of how busy the littles kept you and with both you and Inha working." He kicks once at the floor.
"My place is too small for pets."
I feel myself frowning again. I want to ask, but know he's going to dodge my questions about his personal situation already.
The apartment's stillness is shattered by the sound of the front door swinging open. A much deeper, distinctly male voice calls out, "Yena?"
Yul's eyes dart to mine, a silent question lingering between us. But before I can say a word, we both hear the sound of quickening footsteps. A tall, striking man in a long brown coat rounds the corner, his presence immediately consuming the room.
His eyes lock onto mine, and without a second's hesitation, he strides toward me. My heart races—pounding against my ribcage like it's trying to escape. Inha doesn't slow down; instead, he closes the gap between us with a few determined steps.
"Yena," he breathes out, a hint of relief coloring his tone.
And then, before I can process what's happening, he sweeps me up into his arms. His lips crash against mine in a kiss so passionate it steals my breath away. I'm stunned—frozen in place for a heartbeat—before something primal within me stirs.
My body reacts on its own, muscle memory guiding my hands as they tangle in his hair, pull him closer. His scent envelops me—a mix of cologne and something intrinsically him that tugs at the edges of my consciousness.
Inha's kiss deepens, and I'm lost in the sensation—his taste, his touch, the heat of his body pressed against mine. It's overwhelming and yet achingly familiar all at once.
Yul is somewhere behind me—a fact that registers faintly through the haze of Inha's embrace—but right now, all I can focus on is the man holding me as if I'm his lifeline.
Inha's lips against mine ignite a firestorm of sensations. His embrace is wild, stirring emotions that clash within me—comfort and confusion warring for dominance. As his hands roam with certainty over my back, I'm lost in the heat of it.
When he finally releases me, it's as if oxygen rushes back into the room. My chest heaves with shallow breaths, my lips tingling from the intensity of his kiss. Inha steps back, his hands still gripping my arms as if to steady me—or himself. His eyes search mine, a myriad of questions swirling in their depths.
Then his gaze shifts, and for the first time since bursting into the apartment, he notices Yul standing off to the side. The air shifts palpably, thickening with tension that hangs heavy between the two men.
Inha's jaw clenches as he takes in Yul's presence—his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It's a look that speaks volumes without uttering a single word. Yul returns the gaze with equal intensity; there's a steeliness there that totally eclipses his earlier warmth.
The silence stretches on—a taut string ready to snap. I find myself caught in the middle of their silent standoff. I glance from Inha to Yul, my mind racing to piece together the dynamics at play.
The penthouse suddenly feels too small. I'm starting to see that my challenge is not just going to be in finding out who I am but also navigating their relationship—a relationship that evidently includes me.
I clear my throat, trying to intercept their staring contest. "Inha?" I start, my voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn't break eye contact with Yul but responds with a curt, "Yes?"
"I… So you are Inha," I manage to say, feeling both their attentions pivot back to me.
Inha stares at me and then throws his head back and laughs.
"I guess I didn't exactly introduce myself," He chuckles shaking his head.
"Well, in a way," I grin. The rapport feels familiar. Oddly, I don't feel as shocked by Inha's kiss as I maybe should be, given that I don't actually know him in this current iteration.
"Yes, I'm your husband. At least, I hope you don't go around letting anyone other than your husband kiss you senseless," Inha smirks.
"I think you're giving yourself too much credit," I tease.
Inha arches a stately black brow. Damn, he's handsome. If he really is my husband and I'm not going to wake up just to find out this was a really vivid dream, then I've died and gone to heaven.
Yul clears his throat. Maybe unwisely, because Inha's head snaps up and he glares daggers in Yul's direction.
"Why are you still here?" He practically growls at Yul.
I flinch, stunned by Inha's hostile tone. I guessed things might've been sketchy between them, but the way Inha's tone sounds and the way he's looking at him. It's like he hates him.
"I … I asked him to bring me. He was just keeping me company," I intervene, because Inha looks as though he might actually grab Yul by the scruff and throw him out.
"Then he has no reason to stay now," Inha snaps. Not to me, his eyes are still on Yul.
I look between the two of them, anxiety knots in my stomach.
"Okay," I take a step back, put myself between the two of them, and hold my hands up.
"This is stressing me out. I want to know what's going on. What happened here? Why do the two of you look like enemies?"
A muscle in Yul's jaw jumps.
"It's complicated," he says.
"I don't think it needs to be," Inha retorts.
I stare at him.
"Inha," Yul warns.
Inha ignores him.
Inha's gaze bores into me, and I feel the weight of his next words before they even leave his lips. Yul's hand tightens on the back of a chair, knuckles whitening. I'm caught in the crossfire, the space between them charged with a volatile energy.
"Inha," I say again, softer this time, imploring. "What happened?"
He exhales sharply, the sound like a warning shot across the room. His eyes never leave Yul, but it's clear he's speaking to me.
"I don't want him around me anymore," Inha begins, voice low and steady. "Because of his mistake."
I blink, my mind scrambling to process his words.
"His mistake?" I echo, my voice sounding small in the vast room.
Yul shifts uncomfortably but doesn't speak. Inha nods once, his jaw set.
"He almost got you killed."
Yul's face goes white and I feel my jaw drop. Nothing but silence rings out in the room.