Morning light filtered through the thin slats of the curtains, casting faint stripes across the bed where Kijo lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of Mimi's strawberry-vanilla body mist—cloying, soft, and sweet, like her. But that sweetness felt like a ghost against the stale taste of bitterness that had taken root on Kijo's tongue.
Mimi had cried herself to sleep, face buried in the pillow, small hiccupping sobs that had stabbed at Kijo's chest with every shaky breath. She had tried to hold her, to soothe her, but Mimi had only whispered, "Please… don't lie to me anymore," her voice so small, so broken.
Now, in the gray dawn, Kijo's hands curled into fists on the sheets. She couldn't stand to see that expression again—the way Mimi's eyes had looked so wide and lost, like she was made of glass, one careless word away from shattering. It burned at her, clawed at her heart until all she could taste was the metallic tang of her own fury.
She sat up slowly, every muscle in her body taut, and glanced at the soft curve of Mimi's back beneath the blankets. Mimi was still asleep, her breath slow and fragile. Kijo reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek, her fingers trembling as they lingered for a moment.
"I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered into the quiet room. "I won't let her hurt you again. I swear."
Kijo rose from the bed and moved to the shower, letting the water pound against her skin like punishment. She leaned her forehead against the cold tile, steam billowing around her, her mind already turning—calculating, cold, and focused. She would deal with this. She had to.
At the office, the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. Kijo's arrival was like the first icy gust of a winter storm—silent but promising destruction. She stepped into the boardroom without a word, her eyes scanning every face before locking onto her assistant. The woman stood poised, a stack of reports in hand, but there was a flicker of something—fear?—in her eyes when she met Kijo's cold gaze.
Kijo didn't waste words. She turned and walked straight to her private office, the door clicking shut behind her. She poured herself a coffee she wouldn't drink, her hand clenching around the ceramic mug. She waited—because she knew the assistant would come.
And she did.
Soft footsteps approached, a polite knock at the door before the assistant slipped inside. Her tailored blazer was perfect, her hair smooth and shining like polished obsidian. Kijo's lips thinned into a line as she set the mug down.
"Miss Volkov," the assistant began, her tone silky. "The marketing report—"
Kijo's voice cut through her like a scalpel. "Stop."
The assistant blinked, mouth parting slightly in surprise. "I… I beg your pardon?"
"Stop pretending." Kijo's eyes were dark, cold as a winter sea. "You know exactly why you're here."
The assistant straightened her shoulders, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. "If you're referring to the conversation with your wife yesterday—"
"I'm not referring to it," Kijo snapped, her voice low and lethal. "I'm telling you: you will never speak to her like that again."
The assistant's expression didn't waver. "I only told her what she needed to hear. She's… sweet, I'll give her that. But she's soft. She doesn't belong at your side—"
Kijo moved in a flash, crossing the space between them until they were inches apart. Her jaw was tight, her breath slow and controlled—a predator just before the kill. "You think you know what I need? You think you're entitled to judge my wife? She is everything to me. You don't get to decide if she's worthy."
The assistant's eyes hardened, but there was a flicker of something else—something wounded, a glimmer of vulnerability. "She's holding you back," she said, her voice quieter now. "You're wasting yourself on her. I could give you more—"
"More of what?" Kijo's laugh was sharp, humorless. "Lies? Betrayal? You don't know me at all."
The assistant's lips trembled, and for a moment her composure slipped. "You're making a mistake," she whispered. "You're too powerful to waste your life on a girl who doesn't understand you—"
Kijo's eyes flashed. "Enough."
She turned away, raking a hand through her dark hair. The silence in the office was like a thundercloud, thick and electric.
Downstairs, Mimi clutched a pink lunchbox in her hands, her fingers nervously tracing the small rabbit sticker she'd added to the lid. She'd woken that morning to an empty bed, the cold sheets beside her a silent echo of Kijo's absence. But she'd refused to let the memory of that heartbreak—the assistant's cruel words—destroy her hope.
So she'd dressed carefully, her pink bow perfectly tied, her lipstick a soft cherry red. She'd packed Kijo's favorite lunch—spinach ravioli with garlic butter, a side of her beloved black coffee, and a small note that simply read:
"I love you. Come home safe."
She wanted to believe it could be enough. That maybe—just maybe—her small gestures could chase away the shadow she'd seen in Kijo's eyes last night.
Her heart pounded as she stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hall toward Kijo's office. She could hear voices—low, tense. She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob, but then she took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
She walked in just as the assistant, her face tight with desperation, reached for Kijo—fingers curling in the fabric of her black suit jacket. Mimi froze in the doorway, the lunchbox clutched to her chest.
"Mimi," Kijo breathed out, her eyes wide. There was a warning in her voice, but it was too late.
The assistant's lips crashed against Kijo's in a kiss that was all wrong—sharp, forceful, nothing like the way Kijo kissed Mimi. Kijo's eyes went wide, her hands instinctively coming up to push the assistant away, but Mimi saw none of it. All she saw was the woman she loved tangled up in someone else's arms.
The lunchbox slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. The soft thud of it was like the breaking of her heart.
For a moment, time stopped. Mimi's vision blurred with tears, her lips parting in a silent, choked sob.
Kijo wrenched away from the assistant, her expression murderous. "What the hell are you doing?" she spat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The assistant's smirk was triumphant, her eyes flicking to Mimi like a dagger. "Proving that she's not enough," she said, her voice dripping with venom.
Mimi took a stumbling step back, her pink bow trembling in her hair. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight and aching. She wanted to scream, to run, to vanish. But all she could do was stand there, her hands shaking at her sides.
Kijo's gaze snapped to Mimi, her eyes desperate. "Mimi, no—it's not what it looks like—"
But Mimi was already backing away, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I thought… I thought you loved me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "How could you—?"
"Mimi, please—" Kijo reached out, but Mimi flinched away, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself small.
"I can't—I can't watch this," she sobbed, turning and bolting from the room.
The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Kijo in a suffocating silence.
She turned on the assistant, her voice a low growl. "Get out," she ordered, her tone as cold as the grave.
The assistant hesitated, her face paling. "Kijo—"
"I said get out!" Kijo roared, her voice shattering the quiet.
The assistant's lips parted, but she didn't argue this time. She turned and walked out, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a funeral march.
Kijo stood there for a long moment, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She closed her eyes, the image of Mimi's tear-streaked face seared into her mind. She'd never seen Mimi look at her like that—like she was a stranger. Like she was a monster.
She pulled out her phone with shaking hands, typing out message after message:
"I love you. Please talk to me."
"I swear to you, I didn't want that. She means nothing."
"Mimi, please. You're everything. I'm so sorry."
But downstairs, Mimi stumbled out of the building, her face buried in her hands. She didn't see the curious glances of the employees or the way the receptionist's mouth fell open in shock. All she could think of was the taste of betrayal in her mouth—how she'd believed Kijo when she'd said, "You're mine. I'd never hurt you."
How foolish she'd been to believe that love was enough.
To be continued