The Quiet Kind of Revenge

Introduction:

When Jisoo Kim lands in Belgrade for a high-stakes cultural project, she isn't just escaping the suffocating politeness of Seoul she's running from the slow, silent death of her marriage. Her husband's betrayal wasn't loud, but it was clear. And while he pretends nothing happened, Jisoo is about to make sure something does.

In a foreign city where no one knows her name, she meets Stefan a tall, infuriatingly charismatic Serbian architect with a reputation as intoxicating as his stare. What begins as tension across a conference table quickly unravels into something hotter, riskier, and far less professional.

Jisoo knows this is temporary. She's counting down the days until her return to Korea. But the longer she stays, the harder it is to tell whether she's falling for him or for the person she becomes when she stops pretending.

This is a story of secrets, desire, revenge, and rediscovery. Of what happens when you stop waiting to be chosen and choose yourself instead.

Welcome to the chaos.

She's not sorry she came.

She's just not sure she'll leave whole.

What to Expect:

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Characters:

Jisoo Kim -

Elegant, sharp, emotionally fraying. A married Korean consultant who looks like control... until she's pushed past her limits.

Stefan -

Tall, broad, Serbian architect. Quiet, dangerous charm. The kind of man who doesn't ask he just knows.

Minjae -

Jisoo's husband. Polished, golden boy type. Charming in public. Unfaithful in private.

Yuna -

Jisoo's best friend and moral anchor. Sarcastic, loyal, always one text away from setting something on fire in her honor.

Tina, Mira, Adnan -

Office gossip crew. Young, chaotic energy. The source of every rumor you wish you hadn't heard but can't stop thinking about.

Kinks & Heat Level:

Silent dominance - Few words, hard gaze, total control.

Oral obsession - He eats her like a last meal.

Rough sex - Hands everywhere. Hair pulled. Wall pressed. Bed rocked.

Praise + positional control - "Good girl." "Don't move." She melts.

Cheating / revenge sex - One man breaks her trust. Another breaks her open.

Soft aftercare - He ruins her, then holds her.

Height + race difference - Petite Korean woman, tall white Balkan man built in tension.

Tension > dirty talk - Heat builds in what they don't say.

Size kink & stretch play - He's massive. She's tiny. She feels every inch.

Emotional & Story Themes:

Infidelity & moral grayness - He cheated first. She's just... balancing the scales.

Revenge as reclamation - Not just about sex. It's about being seen.

Sex as survival - It wasn't just pleasure. It was therapy.

Foreign fantasy - The city, the accent, the man it all feels like escape.

Emotional detachment vs intimacy - They fuck like strangers. They hold each other like lovers.

Control & surrender - She's used to being in charge. Until him.

Female friendship - Honest, hilarious, ride or die support.

This is not a love story.

It's a story about reclaiming power through pleasure.

And what happens when she stops playing the good wife.

*******************************************************************************************************

The airport smelled like overly sterilized air and other people's exhaustion.

Jisoo Kim adjusted her coat and stared out the tinted window of her airport transfer, watching the flat winter sunlight slide across Belgrade's river. It was her first time in Serbia, and despite the picturesque charm of the city's bridges and cold gray skyline, she felt... nothing.

She should've felt excited. Curious. Maybe even nervous. Instead, she felt like a phone left on low battery for days barely functioning, too drained to die.

The car rolled through the city center toward her hotel. The driver spoke no English beyond "okay" and "thank you," but smiled each time they hit a red light like they were old friends. It should've been sweet. It was exhausting.

Jisoo's phone buzzed in her lap. She didn't need to look to know who it was.

Minjae.

Her husband of three years. Her boyfriend for five before that. Her golden boy. Funny, smart, great with her parents, and recently very good at lying.

She'd received the photo from Yuna three days ago.

A grainy, low res image snapped from across a dimly lit bar in Itaewon. The kind of shot you take discreetly, phone angled low, heart pounding like you're capturing evidence for a courtroom. It showed Minjae mid laugh, caught in a moment that should have been charming if not for the woman beside him.

He was holding a drink in one hand, his other arm braced casually along the bar, leaning in close to a woman with dark red lipstick and legs that seemed to stretch forever. Her face tilted toward his with practiced ease, the intimacy between them unmistakable even through the camera's blur.

Then came the second photo.

No room for ambiguity this time.

His mouth on hers.

Not a friendly kiss. Not an oops we're so drunk moment.

Full on, deliberate, mouth on mouth contact. No space between them. No hesitation.

That was the one that hit hardest.

Still want me to check on him?

Yuna's message had come seconds later, cool and detached, like she already knew the answer and just wanted to offer Jisoo the dignity of silence. The timestamp glared up at her like a slap. The implication needed no further commentary.

Jisoo hadn't replied.

She hadn't cried either.

She'd stared at the images until her vision blurred, then calmly closed the app, folded her phone shut like she was pressing a wound closed, and turned to her laptop. Twenty minutes later, she'd rebooked her flight to Belgrade two days earlier than scheduled. She told her assistant to cancel her meetings in Seoul, reassign the interns, and pack only what she'd specified in her forwarded email.

A navy blue power suit tailored to razor sharpness.

Her blood red lipstick, untouched since their honeymoon.

No perfume. Just clean skin and intent.

The message was simple: She wasn't broken. She was coming for control.

Her phone buzzed as she stepped into the arrival hall at Nikola Tesla Airport.

Minjae: "You landed okay?"

"Text me when you get to the hotel, yeah? Miss you."

???? + ❤️

Of course he used the cat emoji. Cloud, their ragdoll, had become their emotional buffer over the last year something to coo over when the silence stretched too long, when they couldn't bear to address what had been quietly rotting between them.

He hadn't mentioned their last fight. Hadn't asked if she was still upset about that night he'd "worked late" but didn't come home until 3 a. m. He acted as if things were fine. Maybe because, for him, they were.

Jisoo inhaled, slow and shallow, and typed back.

Jisoo: "Landed. Exhausted. Will text after check in."

✈️

The emoji softened it, made her look tired, not distant. She knew how to write texts that read like affection, even when they masked indifference.

The hotel lobby was a gleaming parade of marble, gold trim, and velvet upholstery every detail carefully curated to cater to foreign executives and their heavy wallets. The kind of place that smelled like soft jazz and understated power.

The woman at the reception desk greeted her in flawless English, smile polite, efficient.

"Seventh floor, river view," she said as she passed over the key card.

The elevator ride was silent but fragrant citrus cleaner and faint cologne clinging to the walls. Jisoo glanced at herself in the mirror: black wool coat tailored to perfection, dark lipstick just beginning to smudge at the corners, hair pinned up with not a strand out of place. Her eyes looked flat, unreadable.

She looked like someone who was in control.

Someone who didn't just discover her husband was cheating with a woman who wore cheaper lipstick and less clothing.

Someone who didn't spend ten minutes replaying every night Minjae had come home too tired to touch her, wondering if this was the night he kissed someone else.

She stepped into her suite.

The room was cold and elegant, floor to ceiling windows casting a gray light from the Danube. She dropped her bag onto the bed with mechanical precision, peeled off her coat, and collapsed into the armchair like her body had finally given her permission to surrender.

She unlocked her phone.

New messages.

From Yuna.

Yuna: "Any updates?"

"Need to know if I have to fight a Serbian man for you."

Jisoo allowed herself a tiny smile. The first real one in days.

Yuna wasn't just her closest friend she was also her coworker back in Seoul, her personal no nonsense oracle. They'd started at the company together, clawed their way through the bullshit, and ended up in different offices but always in sync. Yuna had been the one to offer to "keep an eye" on Minjae. She'd said it lightly, but they both knew what it meant.

Jisoo typed back:

Jisoo: "Landed. Hotel's nice. He texted me like nothing's wrong."

"It's like I'm in some parallel universe where I'm still the good wife."

A minute passed before Yuna responded.

Yuna: "You are the good wife. He's just a sneaky prick."

"Want me to leak the photo to his mom anonymously?"

That made Jisoo laugh.

An actual laugh.

Sharp, surprised, involuntary. It burst out of her like steam from a cracked pipe part mirth, part disbelief, part sorrow held too tightly for too long.

She wiped under her eye and tapped back:

Jisoo: "Tempting. Maybe later."

****

Her first day was a blur of faces, names, espresso shots, and half translated schedules.

The Belgrade team for the cultural restoration project was young, sharp, and magnetic in that curated chaos way coats slung over chairs, hair tousled just so, sneakers poking out from beneath sleek wool trousers. Everyone looked like they moonlighted as someone cooler: an architect, a DJ, a lifestyle blogger.

Jisoo, in contrast, was all Seoul structure ink black pencil skirt, starched white blouse, a soft navy blazer sharp enough to slice through fog. Her lipstick was deep burgundy, her posture impeccable, and her first impression was exactly what she intended: untouchable.

She found her footing quickly. She always did. Cultural consultant, communications lead, efficiency personified. She shook hands with half the regional planning office before noon, nodded through a chaotic lunch of cevapi and strong coffee, and mentally mapped out everyone's power dynamics by the time the last slideshow ended.

The project itself was a rare gem reimagining a row of crumbling Ottoman era warehouses along the river into multi use cultural hubs. Something between history and innovation. Something worth being here for.

But nothing nothing shifted the atmosphere like his arrival.

It was late afternoon when it happened.

The team had gathered on site, all huddled in oversized scarves and caffeinated determination. The cold had teeth, and the stairs were ancient and mean, winding like a bad decision.

He entered mid discussion, rain in his hair and a clipboard tucked under his arm.

"Apologies," he said, voice rich and slow. "Stairs hate me."

The group laughed easily, instinctively. Jisoo turned and there he was.

Mr. Stefan Sinadinović.

He was tall, broad across the chest, long limbed like someone who knew exactly how to move. His black coat was left open, shirt collar slightly askew, his hair swept back like he'd run a hand through it on the way in and left it.

He looked like a man who didn't need to try.

"Ah, the architect appears," someone joked behind her.

Stefan gave a modest, closed lip grin, and then his eyes found her.

"You're the communications lead, yes? Kim?"

She nodded, cool and controlled. "Jisoo Kim."

"Stefan," he replied. "Architect, occasional stairs victim."

His handshake was confident. Not lingering, but firm. His gaze held hers a moment longer than protocol called for just long enough to notice the curve of her lipstick and the glint of something unreadable behind her eyes.

"Nice to meet you," he said, then moved on, as if their interaction hadn't just thudded into her bloodstream like caffeine on an empty stomach.

She told herself she hadn't noticed the absence of a ring.

The first whisper came over afternoon espresso in the shared office kitchen the next day.

Jisoo stood quietly at the counter, pouring herself coffee and reviewing her notes. Her earbuds were in, but the music was paused. She preferred to listen. People forgot she was fluent in silence.

"He only dates foreigners," came a voice high, amused. Tina. The intern with six inch heels and cheekbones sharp enough to cut tape.

"That's not true," another voice countered Mira, quieter, deadpan. "Just the ones who look like they could ruin his life and walk away with clean hair."

Laughter.

Jisoo kept stirring her coffee.

"I'm serious," Tina said, lowering her voice to what she probably thought was a whisper. "My cousin went out with him for like, a month. She said he's got this thing like, reads you. Doesn't ask twice. Just knows."

Adnan, the soft spoken IT guy with puppy eyes, chimed in from the fridge, deadpan. "So like, psychic dick?"

More laughter. Louder this time.

Jisoo pretended to scroll through her email, ears burning.

She didn't say a word.

Two days later, it got worse.

She was organizing folders at the main worktable while Mira and two of the junior architects went over floorplan revisions. The conversation drifted as it always did, and Jisoo caught it mid pivot.

"I heard he doesn't talk during sex," Mira said, not even looking up.

"What? Like at all?"

"Not unless you beg. Even then, it's like one word. You know 'don't move,' 'good girl,' that kind of thing."

The girls squealed. Jisoo's pen slipped against the paper.

She didn't blink.

The next time was the worst.

Friday afternoon, snacks out, office buzzing with loose weekend energy. Someone had brought rakija. Tina was showing everyone a meme. Adnan was holding court like a reluctant gossip king.

"I'm just saying," he said, sipping slowly. "Mira's friend said and I quote 'He was so big I forgot my name.'"

"Oh my God," Tina laughed. "I want that kind of trauma."

"He's not just big," Mira added, "he knows how to use it. Like, ruin you good. The kind of guy who doesn't just fuck you he formats your hard drive and uploads a new operating system."

The whole circle howled with laughter.

Jisoo stared at the same calendar tab on her screen for five minutes straight.

She hated this kind of talk.

It was juvenile. Unprofessional.

She also couldn't stop picturing his mouth when he said her name.

That night, she sat cross legged on her hotel bed, hair loose, a glass of red wine perched dangerously on the edge of the nightstand.

Minjae had texted hours ago.

Minjae: "Just ordered that chicken you love. Felt weird eating it without you."

"Love you. Don't work too late."

She didn't respond.

Instead, she stared at the message for a long time. Then at the wall. Then at the mirror.

She thought of Stefan's voice dry, charming, a touch amused. She thought of the gossip. The way it had snowballed, whispered in layers, a trail of breadcrumbs that led right to her door.

She could feel it in her own body the part of her that had flinched at his handshake. The part that leaned slightly forward when he walked into the room. The part that hadn't really missed Minjae in days.

She opened a message window.

Jisoo: "There's a rumor about the architect guy."

"... Size."

Three bouncing dots. Then:

Yuna: "Oh?"

"Do tell."

"Are we talking ego or dick?"

Jisoo snorted into her wine glass.

Jisoo: "Definitely dick."

"And technique."

Yuna: "Bitch. Don't you dare fall in love. Just fall on something worth it."

That made her laugh. For real this time.

Her first laugh in days.

She didn't hate it.

****

Outside, Belgrade glittered like something cracked open. Cobbled alleys and warm lights, sharp corners and hidden wine bars. The river glowed silver beneath the city's bones.

It was a city built on layers.

Maybe that's why she felt so at home in it already.

Next day.

As she stepped into the building that morning, she nearly collided with Stefan at the office entrance he was waiting for the elevator, coffee in one hand, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up, surprised, then smiled.

"Oh hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied, trying to keep her tone light.

They stood side by side in the elevator as the doors slid shut. At first, it was just the usual small talk about the weather, work, how fast the week was going. But then it wandered, naturally, into life: late nights, ambitions, music, places they missed. It was casual, surface level, yet oddly comforting.

Still, as he spoke, her thoughts kept drifting. Whispers she'd heard about him rumors about charm, flirtation, even the occasional heart he'd supposedly broken echoed in the back of her mind. And while he talked, her eyes studied him, her curiosity flaring with each unspoken question. Who was he really? What did he want from people? What would he want from her?

A pang of guilt hit her like a cold wave. What was she doing entertaining these thoughts? She had a husband back in Korea. But then the anger crept in her husband, the one sneaking around behind her back. The one who'd already broken the vows she was still trying to honor. Why shouldn't she think about Stefan, even just for a moment?

It was a war inside her guilt and resentment pulling in opposite directions. But the longer Stefan spoke, the more she noticed how easy it was to talk to him. He didn't push. He didn't pretend. He listened. And in some quiet way, he made her feel seen.

When the elevator dinged and the doors opened, they both stepped out, the moment folding neatly back into the routine of the day. Everyone scattered to their desks. Work hours blurred by in the usual rhythm emails, meetings, screens.

Later, just before leaving, the team gathered in the break room for a quick coffee. They laughed, shared bits of their day, vented about deadlines. It was normal. Familiar. Then one by one, they packed up and went home.

The next morning, Belgrade was wrapped in fog.

Jisoo stepped outside the hotel lobby with a coffee in hand, her coat belted tight against the chill. The Danube murmured somewhere beyond the mist, and the air carried the faint bite of wood smoke and traffic. It smelled like a place halfway between old and new history brushing shoulders with ambition.

She liked it.

Not that she had time to admire the city much. Her calendar was a mess: three stakeholder briefings, one conference call with Seoul, and a press strategy alignment with the international partners. She was expected to speak English, smile politely, and look like a walking brand deck in heels.

But her mind kept circling the same sentence, whispered in that gossipy office kitchen like a dare.

"He doesn't ask. He just knows."

She hadn't seen Stefan that day. Or the next.

Which, irritatingly, only made it worse.

By the time she did, it was raining again thin and annoying, not dramatic enough to be beautiful. She was at a construction site near Republic Square, clipboard in hand, double checking notes with the project manager when Stefan appeared from behind a partition, hard hat crooked, pen between his teeth.

He spotted her and removed the pen with a grin. "Ms. Kim."

She nodded, calm, neutral. "Mr. Stefan."

He walked toward her, pushing his sleeves up, exposing forearms that absolutely did not need to be that good looking.

"Didn't think I'd see you on site today," he said.

"I was told you were presenting a new layout revision."

"I am," he said, casually pulling a folded sketch from his clipboard. "But I didn't know I'd have an audience."

He handed her the diagram, their fingers brushing nothing more than skin contact, but enough to make her spine straighten slightly.

She took the paper, read it quickly. Clean lines. Efficient design. She didn't have a single note.

"This is good," she said.

He tilted his head. "Just good?"

"Very good, then."

He smiled like he knew she wasn't talking about architecture.

Back at the office, she tried to avoid the interns.

Not because she was afraid of gossip, but because now she couldn't not see it the looks, the subtle glances. Tina gave her a smug little smile when she passed by the kitchenette. Adnan actually winked. Mira looked impressed.

Apparently, just talking to Stefan counted as newsworthy.

Jisoo texted Yuna later that night.

Jisoo: "He gave me blueprints today."

Yuna: "Was that code for dick pics?"

Jisoo: "No, unfortunately. Actual architectural drawings."

Yuna: "Sigh. Still counts as foreplay."

On Friday, everything shifted.

The team held a casual after work happy hour at a small rooftop bar near Knez Mihailova Street. It was charming in that old European way stone terrace, mismatched chairs, heaters tucked under umbrellas, a view of the lit up city below.

Jisoo told herself she was only going to stay for one drink. Then she saw Stefan leaning against the rail, drink in hand, shirt rolled at the sleeves.

She stayed for three.

They ended up at the same corner of the balcony, half by accident, half not. He sipped his whisky, glancing at the skyline.

"This place always feels like it's on the edge of something," he said. "History, war, reinvention."

Jisoo nodded, then offered dryly, "Sounds like me this week."

He looked at her then. Really looked.

"You okay?" he asked, voice soft but grounded.

"I'm here," she said.

"That's not the same thing."

She didn't answer.

He let the silence stretch between them, comfortable in it. Most men rushed to fill quiet. He let it breathe.

After a while, she asked, "Do you always know what people need?"

His eyes met hers. "Sometimes. Depends on if they're ready to ask."

She laughed, more bitter than amused. "I'm not good at asking."

"I've noticed."

She raised her glass in mock salute. "Here's to stubborn women and emotionally unavailable men."

He clinked her glass lightly. "To mutual dysfunction."

Their fingers touched around the stems. This time, neither moved away.

Back in her room, much later, she stared at her phone screen.

Minjae: "Going to bed. Love you."

"Wish you were here."

She stared at it for a full minute.

Then, she did something she hadn't done in weeks.

She picked up the phone and hit record.

"Yuna," she said into the voice message, her voice low, tired but clear. "I think I'm going to do it."

Beat.

"I'm not sure if it's revenge or just... need. But I think I'm going to fuck him."

Pause.

"You said to fall on something worth it. I think this might be it."

She hit send.

The next morning, Yuna replied with a three second voice note:

"Get it, queen. I want details."

Jisoo sat on the hotel bed, smiling into her coffee, her heart weirdly steady.

She didn't know exactly what she was doing.

But for the first time in days, she wanted something.

And that was a start.

****

The wind was loud between the buildings, the kind that pressed your coat against your body and made every word feel private. Jisoo walked quickly down the narrow street toward her hotel, heels ticking on stone like a metronome for a song she didn't want to name yet.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket.

Minjae: "How was the networking thing?"

"Eat anything decent? Or just wine and olives?"

She stared at it, walking without replying. He was trying, maybe. Trying to act like things were normal. But everything he typed felt like white noise now pleasant, forgettable, irrelevant.

She reached the hotel lobby, nodded to the concierge, and took the elevator alone. No music. Just silence and the hum of rising.

Her reflection stared back from the mirrored walls coat belted, lips faintly glossed, hair loose now, more vulnerable than she wanted it to be. She looked like a woman who had just decided to cross a line.

And maybe she had.

Or maybe she'd been falling toward it all week, step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat.

She'd just kicked off her heels when her phone lit up again.

Stefan: "Are you back at the hotel?"

"I left my jacket on the chair next to you."

"Blame the whisky."

She stared at the screen.

Her thumb hovered.

Then she typed:

Jisoo: "I have it."

"Come get it."

Send.

Beat.

Three dots.

Then:

Stefan: "Room number?"

Her heart jumped.

Jisoo: "718."

"Don't ask. Just come upstairs."

She dropped the phone onto the bed, hands suddenly shaky. Not scared. Just... bracing. For something.

For herself.

There was a knock. Three light raps.

She opened the door barefoot, still in her black dress from the rooftop bar. She hadn't changed. Hadn't done her makeup. Hadn't thought it through, and that was the point.

Stefan stood there, hair a little damp from the mist, dark shirt open at the throat. He held her gaze for a moment, no smile this time.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she echoed.

He looked at her. Just looked. And then slowly stepped inside.

She closed the door behind him.

The room was dim, just the city lights through the window. No music. No background noise. The air between them was so thick it pulsed.

He walked in, saw his jacket on the chair, but didn't reach for it.

"You didn't have to bring me up," he said quietly.

"I didn't," she replied. "I asked you to come."

He turned toward her.

And that was it.

The moment snapped.

He was kissing her before she could overthink it before she could remind herself of her marriage, or her husband's texts, or the picture buried in her gallery of him kissing another woman. All of that faded as Stefan's mouth claimed hers like he'd been waiting since the first time he saw her.

It wasn't soft.

It wasn't rushed.

It was precise. Intentional. Direct.

His hands cupped her jaw, his lips teasing at first, then deepening his tongue brushing hers with maddening control. She moaned against him, breath hitching as her fingers found the front of his shirt, gripping like she needed something solid to stay upright.

He stepped forward until her back hit the wall.

She gasped, lips breaking apart from his.

"You sure?" he murmured, breath hot against her mouth.

She nodded. "I said come upstairs. I didn't say stop."

That earned her a smirk. Not cocky just pleased.

And then he kissed her again, harder this time, one hand sliding down her back to her hip, the other tangling in her hair.

When she tugged at his shirt, he let her. Buttons popped open one by one. His chest was solid and warm, dusted with hair, every line and dip perfectly frustrating.

He helped her out of her dress like he'd done it before quick, efficient, reverent. She stood before him in a black lace bra and matching panties, and he took a long, lingering look, then met her eyes again.

"You're beautiful," he said, voice low.

She swallowed hard. "Don't stop."

He didn't.

They made it to the bed somehow, clothes trailing behind like breadcrumbs. His hands were everywhere skimming her waist, cupping her ass, brushing the underside of her breast through the lace.

He kissed down her chest, unhooking her bra with one hand like some magician bastard, and when he took her nipple into his mouth, her back arched on instinct.

She whispered his name. Once. Then again.

"Say it again," he murmured against her skin.

She did. And he smiled like it did something to him.

When his mouth moved lower, trailing down the center line of her stomach like he was memorizing her body inch by inch, Jisoo couldn't think. Couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. She lay back slowly, her robe parted, thighs instinctively spreading for him not from obligation, not from instinct, but from sheer need.

His lips brushed the inside of one thigh, then the other, not rushing, not teasing for the sake of it, but exploring with reverence. She felt the scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath, the weight of anticipation coiling so tightly in her gut it hurt.

She let her head fall back.

Then he touched her.

His tongue was slow, unrelenting, devastating in its control. Not messy. Not frantic. Precise. He licked her like a man who understood patience was its own kind of power and pleasure was a language best spoken fluently.

Her gasp was immediate, her fingers threading into his hair without thought. Her hips twitched, her body trying to pull away and press closer all at once. He held her steady, his hands firm on her thighs, grounding her with just enough force to make her shudder.

He didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

Her body was telling him everything.

Each flick of his tongue dragged her closer to some shimmering edge she didn't know she'd been craving this badly. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. Her legs trembled. She wanted to close her eyes but couldn't look away. He looked so calm between her thighs, like he belonged there.

Like he'd never leave until she came undone for him.

And she did.

Quietly. Completely.

A moan caught in her throat, her body arching, her thighs clenching around his shoulders as the orgasm ripped through her like a fever breaking. Her breath came in sharp, shattered waves. Sweat slicked her chest. The wine buzz blurred into heat.

She hadn't come like that in... God, she didn't even know.

Maybe not since Minjae had stopped seeing her. Before the silences. Before the careful avoidance. Before her body had become a familiar object he touched out of habit, not hunger.

The guilt came fast.

Like cold air under the sheets.

What have I done?

But then Stefan kissed her hip, slow and soft, and whispered, "Still with me?"

And just like that, the guilt flickered. Dimmed.

"Yes," she whispered.

Because she was.

More than she'd been in weeks.

When Stefan finally undressed the rest of the way, Jisoo pushed herself up on her elbows, her breath still catching in soft staccato beats from the orgasm he'd just coaxed out of her with his mouth. Her skin was flushed, her body humming, her thighs still trembling and then she saw him.

And froze.

"Oh."

The word slipped out before she could stop it half gasp, half confession. Like a prayer wrapped in disbelief.

Her eyes widened, sweeping down his body, slowly. Deliberately. And when her gaze landed on what he was now baring between his legs, her mouth went dry.

He was big.

Beautiful, yes but unmistakably, devastatingly big.

Not just thick, but long. Heavy. Proud. Veined. The kind of cock you only ever hear about in wild exaggerations over cocktails and whispered locker room stories, never expecting to come face to face with it. Let alone around it.

"That's not... normal," she said, voice thin with awe, her throat suddenly tight.

Stefan smirked not arrogant, but quietly pleased, like he'd been waiting for that exact reaction and would never tire of hearing it. He moved slowly, unbothered by the attention, the sheer effect of himself on her.

"Problem?" he asked, his voice low and curious. Not taunting. Just real.

She lifted her gaze, met his eyes, and tried to speak through the heat blooming in her chest.

"Only if I die from it."

He laughed rough and delicious. The sound of a man in full control of his power, but never careless with it. It curled around her like smoke, thick and warm and just a little dangerous.

From his wallet, he pulled a condom, tore the foil open one handed with practiced ease. She watched, fixated not just by the act, but by him. The large hands, the relaxed strength in the way he moved, the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from his skin.

He was everything she wasn't used to.

Tall, pale, powerfully built.

A white Serbian man born into different blood, different bones, different culture. Bigger than Minjae in every way, both literally and otherwise. There was no gentleness in Stefan's frame no softness. His masculinity wasn't sculpted like a K drama actor. It was functional. Lived in. Real.

She, by contrast, felt small. Delicate.

Her body, sleek and petite, every inch of her Korean heritage wrapped in silk and control had always felt restrained, self contained. But here, in this bed, in this city far from home, she liked the imbalance. Craved it.

She wanted to feel small beneath someone so much larger.

To surrender to it.

He knelt between her legs, stroking himself slowly once, then guiding the head of his cock against her entrance. She gasped already and gripped the sheets beside her, unsure if she could even take him.

"Breathe," he said, voice a hush near her ear. "Let me in."

His hands braced on either side of her hips, grounding her.

And then, slowly so slowly he started to push in.

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat.

She could feel her body stretching, adjusting, fluttering around him with delicious resistance.

"Oh my god," she whispered, eyes flying wide. "You're fuck "

"I know," he said softly.

He didn't slam in. Didn't rush. He moved with terrifying precision, easing deeper inch by inch, giving her time to take him, to feel all of him.

And she did.

Every vein, every ridge, every thick, impossible inch.

Her pussy clenched instinctively, so tight around him she could see his jaw tighten, could feel the groan rumble from his chest as he sank deeper.

"Jesus, you're tight," he muttered, breath shuddering against her shoulder. "So fucking tight."

She bit her lip, overwhelmed, aroused beyond sense. The stretch bordered on pain but the kind that made her wetter. That forced her to feel how full she was, how different this was from everything else.

Minjae had never felt like this.

He was careful. Familiar. Predictable.

Stefan was none of those things.

He was something else entirely.

Bigger. Blunter. Unapologetic.

She gasped again as he bottomed out, her thighs instinctively tightening around his hips, hands bracing against his arms.

"Too much?" he asked, stilling.

"No," she breathed. "Don't stop."

He didn't.

He started to move steady, controlled. Not slow. Measured. Each thrust deep, methodical, designed to ruin.

Her breath scattered. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her hips arched into him, needing more, needing all of it. Her body stopped thinking. It reacted to the feel of him inside her, to the weight of his chest hovering over hers, to the smell of his skin and the grip of his hands.

And God, he listened.

To the change in her breath. The shiver in her thighs. The helpless little sounds that slipped from her mouth every time he hit just right.

It wasn't romantic.

No whispered sweetness. No illusions.

But it wasn't rough either not in the careless, pornographic way the word was often used.

It was intense.

Pure.

Unforgiving.

The kind of fucking that stripped you bare and replaced you with something better.

When she came again, it felt like detonation her entire body clenching, nerves snapping, hands fisting in the sheets as a cry tore from her throat. She said his name. Loudly. Repeatedly. Like it was the only word she still knew.

And when he came hard, deep, breathless he didn't pull away.

He held her.

Stayed buried in her, face pressed against her neck, body twitching from the force of it.

Like he needed her just as badly as she needed this.

Afterward, he didn't roll off immediately. He stayed close, breath slowing, one hand resting over her stomach like a silent claim.

The room was quiet.

Dim.

Real.

She stared up at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling in uneven rhythm.

She had done it.

She had crossed the line.

The one she swore she never would.

And it didn't feel like destruction.

It felt like relief.

The guilt lingered thin and ghostly but couldn't compete with the warmth still blooming inside her, the sense that, for once, she'd taken something for herself.

Finally, she sat up, slow and quiet, reaching for the hotel robe draped across the edge of the bed.

Stefan didn't stop her.

He didn't pull her back, didn't ask for more.

He just watched naked, sweat damp, beautifully still with that unreadable calm that told her he'd give her space if she wanted it, and stay if she didn't.

Not possessive.

Not smug.

Just present.

"Regret?" he asked softly.

She shook her head.

"Good," he murmured, eyes closing. "Because I don't."

Jisoo didn't sleep.

Not really.

She drifted wrapped in the warm scent of Stefan's skin and the buzz of adrenaline still leaking through her system. Her body was spent, but her mind hummed at a frequency she didn't recognize. Not guilt. Not yet. Not exactly. But not peace either.

Just motion. Movement.

****

She turned her head and found Stefan half asleep beside her, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes, the other resting on the sheet like an invitation he didn't need to say aloud.

She slid out of bed without waking him.

The hotel shower hissed to life, steam rising quickly, chasing away the chill of the room. Jisoo stood beneath the water, letting it drum across her skin like a baptism. It didn't feel like cleansing, though. It felt like confirmation.

Last night happened.

And not in the abstract.

She could still feel him his hands, his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the unbearable gentleness of how he'd held her after, like he knew she needed it.

No regrets. That's what he'd said.

She didn't know if that was true yet. But she didn't wish she could undo it either.

Her phone buzzed again as she wrapped a towel around herself.

Minjae: "Hope you're resting. You always overwork."

"Send pics if you see anything cool today?"

She stared at the message for a long time. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Typing... stopped. Typing... stopped again.

Eventually, she just sent a photo of the view from her hotel window. The Belgrade Waterfront side glinting in the morning sun, pretending this was still just a business trip. Still just a woman doing her job.

Jisoo: "Will do."

No emoji. No warmth.

She wondered if he noticed.

She doubted it.

Breakfast was served in silence. Stefan had gotten dressed without asking. He'd poured her coffee like it was routine. Comfortable. It almost pissed her off.

"You're quiet," he said after a long minute, cutting into a croissant with the flat side of his butter knife.

She shrugged, chewing on a strawberry half.

"You don't have to explain," he said. "Or talk, if you don't want to."

That earned him a look. "You're very good at this."

"At what?"

"Being the casual hookup."

He smiled lazily. "Practice."

She narrowed her eyes. "How much practice?"

"Enough to know when not to ruin a morning."

Jisoo studied him for a beat. "So this means nothing to you?"

"I didn't say that."

She blinked.

"Don't confuse control with indifference," he said, his voice lower now. "You didn't want questions last night. I gave you none. You don't want strings today? I won't tie any. But if you wanted honesty... I'd tell you I haven't stopped thinking about the way you said my name."

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She looked down at her plate.

"Is it a bad thing?" he added gently.

"No," she said quietly. "Just... complicated."

Yuna messaged her halfway through the day.

Yuna: "Hey. Are you alive or did you drown in espresso at the embassy mixer?"

"And... something weird came up."

Jisoo was mid email, brain half melted from morning meetings, when her phone buzzed with that all too familiar tone reserved for Yuna alone. She blinked down at the screen, her stomach fluttering, already sensing where this was going.

Jisoo: "Weird how?"

There was a short pause, then:

Yuna: "One of the interns Milan? Tall, shaggy hair, smokes like it's 2003 was gossiping outside after drinks last night."

"Apparently he's obsessed with Stefan. Called him 'dangerous.'"

Jisoo's heart gave a tiny, traitorous jolt. She didn't move. Didn't type back right away.

"Dangerous" wasn't the word she would've used. Devastating, maybe. Disarming. But not dangerous. Unless they were talking emotionally. Which... okay, maybe.

Jisoo: "Dangerous like... workplace harassment or Bond villain?"

Yuna: "Dangerous like girls fall for him, and then quit their jobs to move on."

"Like, rumor is two from the Belgrade office couldn't deal and ghosted."

"Also 'too fucking good to recover from.' That was a direct quote."

Heat rushed to Jisoo's face, blooming across her cheeks and down her neck before she could stop it.

She was very aware of how good he was. She could still feel it.

Jisoo: "That's insane."

Yuna: "Is it tho?"

"You've had that dazed post orgasm texting energy since Tuesday."

Jisoo rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.

Jisoo: "I'm fine. Just... tired."

Yuna: "You can tell me things, you know."

"I'll be your vault."

The screen stayed blank for a moment.

Jisoo's fingers hovered over the keyboard, her thumb tapping softly against the screen. She wasn't sure if it was shame or nerves or the fact that saying it out loud would make it real.

But then again... Yuna was safe. Always had been.

So she typed it.

Jisoo: "If I told you I fucked him last night..."

"Would you judge me?"

The reply came instantly.

Yuna: "I'd want DETAILS."

"Life changing or just rage fueled revenge dick?"

Jisoo laughed out loud, startled by her own honesty.

Jisoo: "Both. Maybe."

"And also... not done."

A beat.

Yuna: "Ohhhh shit."

"Tell. Me. Everything."

"This convo never happened. ????????????"

And just like that, the tight coil Jisoo had been holding inside her chest began to unspool.

It was a relief letting someone know. Someone who didn't immediately ask about Minjae. Someone who didn't throw judgment like stones across a cracked marriage.

She leaned back in her hotel chair, tucked her knees up under her robe, and began typing.

Paragraph by paragraph.

Not the explicit parts not all of them, anyway but the real parts. The way he touched her without hesitation. How his mouth felt between her thighs. How he didn't rush, didn't push, just knew. How she gave in not out of recklessness but because for the first time in months maybe longer she felt wanted. Desirable. Not pitied. Not ignored.

Yuna read each message like it was a live feed.

Yuna: "This is better than porn."

"Please tell me you at least ran your fingers through his hair while he was down there. For feminism."

Jisoo: "Feminism was very served."

Yuna: "Tell me this: better than your husband?"

Jisoo hesitated for a moment. Then replied:

Jisoo: "It wasn't even the same planet."

She told her about the stretch, the difference in their bodies. How Stefan was tall, broad, very white, and how being underneath him her small Korean frame pressed down into the mattress made her feel fragile and powerful all at once. The cultural contrast, the weight of him, the heat of him.

Jisoo: "I liked how different he was."

"How foreign it felt. Not just nationality. Everything."

Yuna: "Oh my god."

"You got dicked down by imperialism."

Jisoo: "STOP."

They laughed over text for a full minute.

Then the tone softened.

Yuna: "I know you're hurting."

"Because of Minjae. Because of the photo. You don't have to explain."

Jisoo's throat tightened.

Jisoo: "It didn't feel like cheating."

"Not when I think about that picture."

Yuna: "It felt like survival."

Jisoo blinked.

Exactly that.

She typed more.

About how Stefan didn't demand anything. How he guided her, yes, but only when she wanted it. How he made her feel like she had the reins until she let go. And how, in the moment under him, wrapped around him she didn't feel like a wife. Or a woman scorned. Just a body in need. A heart looking for something warm to press against.

Yuna: "You needed that."

Jisoo: "I did."

"... And I think I still do."

Yuna: "Then do it."

"No guilt. No judgment. Just don't fall in love."

Jisoo: "Too late to fall."

"I'm not even looking at the edge."

There was a pause.

Then:

Yuna: "Girl."

"You fucked yourself sane."

And Jisoo, still curled in that robe, smiling softly to herself, knew that Yuna was right.

Not healed.

Not over it.

But seen.

And finally finally not alone in it.

Later that night, Jisoo was sitting on her bed in the same black robe, the same room, phone buzzing on the pillow beside her.

Minjae: "Night, babe."

"Kinda miss you."

She stared at it for a long time.

She didn't reply.

Not because she didn't miss him.

But because she didn't know which part of her missed what anymore.

*****

Jisoo was back at the Embassy Tower for a panel on cross border media policy, but her brain wasn't on the panel.

Not really.

Not with Stefan sitting four rows away, legs crossed, tie slightly loosened like some walking contradiction: polished but relaxed, charming but unreadable. She could feel his presence like a low hum in the back of her skull.

She'd planned to be cool today. Distant. Professional.

But then he'd caught her eye as she entered the hall, tilted his head, and smiled that smile. The one that said, I remember how you tasted when you moaned into my mouth.

And her brain had short circuited.

"Ms.?" the moderator asked politely from the dais. "Would you like to weigh in?"

Jisoo blinked. Shit.

She smiled smoothly, clearing her throat as she lifted the mic. "From a media strategy standpoint," she said with perfect poise, "optics always precede action. If your public facing policies don't reflect your internal priorities, people will know. So will investors."

A polite murmur of approval swept the room.

Stefan's smile got bigger.

She did not look at him again for the rest of the session.

It was late afternoon when she made it back to her hotel. Her heels hit the marble in a quicker rhythm than usual, tension coiled tight in her spine.

Stefan hadn't texted her since the night before.

He didn't need to.

She knew he'd show up again.

Her phone pinged while she stood in the mirror reapplying lipstick. A soft pink that made her look deceptively gentle. She wasn't sure she liked it.

Stefan: "Lobby. Now."

Her heart skipped. No emoji. No winks. Just command.

She stared at the screen for a full beat, then grabbed her purse and made her way down.

He was leaning against the marble concierge desk, looking entirely too expensive for someone wearing the same black button up he'd had on earlier. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins visible along his forearms.

She hated that she noticed.

"Going somewhere?" she asked, trying not to sound breathless.

"Yeah," he said, pushing off the counter and falling into step beside her without asking. "With you."

"I didn't say I was free."

"You didn't say you weren't." He opened the side exit door for her. "And you said don't ask."

She stepped out into the heat, unable to keep the smirk off her face. "So what exactly are we doing?"

He stopped walking and turned toward her.

"Finishing what we started."

They didn't make it to dinner.

Not even close.

They barely made it into the elevator.

The second the doors slid shut, Stefan pressed her back against the mirrored wall, hands braced on either side of her hips. His body heat surged through her, even through his shirt, and when his mouth crashed into hers again rougher this time, hungrier it felt like striking a match in her bloodstream.

She moaned into him, helpless and already aching.

Her fingers clawed at the collar of his coat, yanking it down over his shoulders, nails scraping against the stubble on his neck. He caught her blouse between his knuckles and tugged it popped open, one button flying off and bouncing onto the floor.

"Fuck," he growled against her throat. "I can't wait."

Her skirt bunched under his grip as he tugged her hips flush to his. She gasped when she felt him hard, thick, pressing into her even through their clothes.

"I wasn't hungry anyway," she murmured into his ear.

His answering chuckle was low and rough and a little unhinged.

When the elevator dinged at her floor, she was breathless, her blouse half undone, and her lips swollen from kissing. Stefan's hands never left her body as they stumbled into the hallway, then into her suite. He kicked the door shut behind them without ever looking away from her.

No small talk.

No games.

Just need.

Clothes peeled off in quick, messy silence her bra unclasped and dropped to the floor, his belt unbuckled with an impatient snap. His shirt hit the armchair. Her skirt fluttered to the ground, forgotten.

And then they were on the bed.

She straddled him slowly, letting herself savor the moment the contrast of her dark hair, her golden skin against the whiteness of his chest, the way his cock stood proud between them, thick and heavy, curved slightly upward like a weapon that had been used too many times to be subtle.

He gripped her hips and dragged her down over him.

Jisoo bit her lip and looked at him eyes half lidded, flushed with heat, already leaking against his abs.

"Tell me," he said, voice husky, his accent heavier now. "What do you want, sweetheart?"

She leaned down, lips brushing his.

"To fuck you," she whispered. "Like you're mine tonight."

That made him groan, fingers tightening.

"Ride me then," he growled. "Take what you want."

And she did.

She guided him in with one hand, easing herself down onto him inch by inch. Her pussy stretched, slow and trembling, as she sank over his length. He was so big, it stole the breath from her lungs.

"Oh fuck," she whimpered, hips stalling halfway. "You're still not all the way in "

"I know," he whispered. "But you're doing so good, baby."

She moaned at the praise, grinding her hips gently, adjusting to the stretch. Her thighs trembled as she bottomed out, finally seated fully on him.

He filled her to the point of delirium every thick inch brushing against the places inside her that had gone untouched for too long. She sat still for a second, eyes fluttering shut, as she clenched around him.

"God," she breathed, "you feel like sin."

"You look like it," he murmured, watching her from beneath his lashes. "Bouncing on my cock, all soft and wet and fucking perfect."

She rolled her hips, her hair falling loose over her shoulders. She was unhurried, grinding deep and slow, letting him feel everything. Her breasts swayed with every movement, her lips parted, her expression caught between pleasure and disbelief.

She looked possessed. Wild. Beautiful.

She rode him like it was a claim not desperate, not rushed but like she'd earned this. Every bounce was deliberate, every moan ripped from her throat like a prayer.

He grunted beneath her, one hand sliding up to squeeze her breast, the other anchoring her hips.

"That's it," he groaned. "Fuck, look at you."

She laughed breathless, intoxicated.

"Not so dangerous now, are you?"

He thrust up suddenly, hard.

She yelped.

"Oh fuck "

"You were saying?" he smirked.

She retaliated by riding harder, faster. His cock hit just right, and her head fell back as pleasure ripped through her. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, her slick body grinding down onto him again and again.

Her climax crept up like a rising tide inevitable, inescapable. She was panting now, fingers digging into his chest.

"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare fucking stop."

He didn't.

And when she came, it was all consuming.

Her body locked up, trembling violently as she cried out his name, pussy clenching hard around him. Her whole body convulsed, hips stuttering, nails raking down his ribs.

He watched her fall apart and loved it.

"Jesus," he groaned, thrusting up into her one final time. "I'm gonna fuck "

And then he came.

Hard.

His hips jerked, his cock pulsing deep inside the condom as he groaned against her collarbone, burying his face into her neck.

It wasn't neat. It wasn't polished.

It was real.

Perfect.

She collapsed on top of him, boneless, skin slick with sweat. Both of them were breathless, shaking, their bodies humming with the aftermath.

And when he pulled the blankets over them, curled one arm beneath her and pressed his mouth softly to her neck she let him.

Even though it terrified her.

Especially because it did.

Hours later, long after they'd fallen asleep and drifted apart, Jisoo sat in bed alone. Her makeup was gone, her skin still warm. Her thighs sore in a satisfying way.

She stared at her phone.

A new message blinked on the screen.

Minjae: "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Been a long day."

"Love you."

Love you.

It looked sterile. Typed, not spoken. A reflex, not a feeling.

She hadn't heard him say it out loud in weeks.

Her thumb hovered.

Then:

Jisoo: "Goodnight."

She didn't say it back.

****

The next morning, she sat cross legged in bed wearing Stefan's slightly oversized white dress shirt, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. A few stray strands of hair framed her face; his scent lingered on the pillow.

Yuna was blowing up her inbox.

Yuna:

"Spill."

Jisoo rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling.

Jisoo:

"Let's just say..."

A string of rapid fire texts followed.

Yuna:

"BITCH. I KNEW IT."

"Don't get attached tho. Just ride the chaos."

Jisoo glanced over at Stefan, still asleep in her bed, one arm slung across the pillow as if claiming the entire mattress by accident.

Ride the chaos.

Yeah.

That sounded about right.

By midday, she was back at the office, laptop open, arranging final schedules. Her return trip to Seoul was looming just one week away. Every draft of her presentation, every finalized timeline piece, felt a little heavier now. She had to say goodbye to the team, to this city, to the version of herself she'd rediscovered.

At the shared desk, she caught Mira's eye. They exchanged a soft smile. Later, Tina handed her a half empty bottle of water. Soft farewells, warm wishes. When the office manager offered a single local sweet from a gift box "for safe travels" Jisoo accepted, voice steady. Abroad or not, she knew how to leave well.

By early evening, she had returned to her room, suitcase nearly packed but lying open on the floor. Yuna was still bouncing off her screen like a dandelion seed in the wind.

Yuna:

"Cheeky. Delicious. Gimme something."

Jisoo:

"Okay, but you owe me one last pollen gif."

Yuna:

"Deal."

Jisoo grinned. "Yes we fucked."

Yuna:

"In this humble hotel suite?"

"Was it steamy romance like a K‑drama? Or more raw Balkan magic?"

Jisoo typed for a moment, then replied:

"I'll say this he's nothing like Seojun from our dramas."

"He doesn't text flowery poems."

"He just makes you feel whole without a word."

Yuna:

"Girl, I need examples."

"Visual aid needed."

Within seconds, Jisoo's phone buzzed with a string of porn gif links from her friend: dramatic, silly, explicit and somehow perfect.

Yuna:

"Was it like this or more like that?"

(Insert two particularly over the top gifs.)

They laughed for ages Jisoo describing the way Stefan held her like a secret, Yuna joking that she should attempt a conversion tour: "I might visit the Balkans someday too!"

Jisoo:

"Maybe I'll catch the Balkan travel bug."

"Find my own Stefan lite."

Yuna:

"Let me know if that happens, and I'll send you the meme."

By bedtime, the suitcase zippers slid closed. She stood back and ran a hand over the neat folds of her clothes. Tomorrow, she'd fly to Seoul and step back into the life she'd left husband, apartment, routine.

But tonight...

Under the soft glow of the reading lamp, she crawled into bed. Her phone lay face down on the nightstand. The gifs had stopped. Yuna's chat window silent.

She closed her eyes, letting the tension finally seep away. Somewhere between the sheets and the dark, she felt the echo of him. Not physical anymore but real. Important.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring.

But she was ready for the ride.

And that felt like enough.

Ride the chaos.

Jisoo didn't cry at the airport.

She didn't glance backward at the departure gates, didn't scan the crowd for a tall Serbian man with sin carved into his cheekbones and a smile that made her lose her logic.

She didn't even turn off her phone when the plane began to taxi.

She just sat upright in her seat, hands folded neatly in her lap, and let the quiet come.

Inside her, something was still vibrating. A memory, not a feeling. Like her body was the echo chamber of something louder that had already passed.

She hadn't said goodbye.

Not exactly.

But she'd said the truth. At last.

It had been the morning after their final night together.

The sheets were tangled at her waist, her back warm from where Stefan had curled around her. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Minjae: "You land tomorrow, right? Should I cook something? Or do we order?"

So casual. So... simple.

She'd stared at the message for a full minute before setting the phone down and rolling onto her side to face Stefan.

He was already awake, propped on an elbow, watching her with those devastatingly clear eyes.

She swallowed. "I have to tell you something."

He said nothing. Just waited.

"I'm married."

A pause.

"I figured," he said.

Her eyes widened.

"I'm not stupid, Jisoo," he said gently. "The way you talk about time, the way your phone lights up and you don't answer, the way you never stay overnight unless you've turned it off."

"You're not mad?"

He smiled softly. "You didn't promise me anything. We were two people getting what we needed."

Her throat tightened. "You're not going to tell anyone, right?"

"Never."

"You have to swear to me."

He reached out, tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, and whispered, "I swear."

She kissed him then not with passion, but with something quieter. Grateful. Final.

And then she left.

Now, a week later, Jisoo sits at the kitchen table in Seoul, the clink of Minjae's chopsticks the only sound between them.

"Your mom called," he says, mid bite. "She wants to know when we're coming to visit."

Jisoo nods and forces a smile. "Maybe in a couple weeks?"

He shrugs. "Up to you."

The conversation is normal. The tone familiar. Everything in its right place.

Minjae reaches across the table, covers her hand with his, thumb rubbing gentle circles.

"You seem lighter," he says. "Serbia must've been good for you."

Jisoo smiles, not too wide.

"It gave me... perspective."

He nods. "I'm glad."

And just like that, it's buried.

He thinks everything is fine. Thinks time and space patched the cracks. He doesn't know that she saw the cracks for what they were fault lines.

He doesn't know she matched him tit for tat.

He doesn't know about the suite, the sweat, the whispers in the dark. He doesn't know that she gave another man her body, her breath, her honesty.

He never asked. And she never told.

Because now, she's wearing the same mask he wore. Perfect wife. Sweet smile. A hand that still reaches across the table when the mood calls for it.

They are equals again.

Not in love.

In lies.

She dreams of Stefan sometimes.

Not the sex, though that memory still makes her thighs clench on the slow nights.

She dreams of the sound of his voice when he said, "You didn't promise me anything."

She didn't.

But now she'd made one.

To herself.

She would never tell Minjae. He would never know.

Just as she had never really known about his night until Yuna's blurry photo had said more than his mouth ever did.

Now they were even.

Maybe not in morality.

But in silence.

The kettle whistles. Jisoo rises, pours the tea, moves through the house like she belongs.

Like nothing broke.

And maybe that's the true cruelty of it how easy it is to pretend something didn't shatter once you've swept up all the pieces and learned to walk barefoot anyway.

She sips the tea.

The taste is clean.

The lie is settled.

The revenge? Hers alone.

Is revenge really revenge if he never knows? Maybe not. But it's peace. And sometimes, that's better.