Midnight. The city’s pulse had slowed to a dull, electronic thrum. In the cold, perfect silence of the master bedroom suite, Jungkook lay rigidly on his side of the vast, untouched bed. Eun-ji was a silent, fragrant presence on the other side, the space between them a yawning chasm of linen and mutual disinterest. She had retired an hour ago, after a final, pointless discussion about fabric swatches for a charity gala. The air still held the faint, cloying scent of her perfume—something expensive, floral, and utterly impersonal.

He’d been staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds, each one a grain of sand piling onto the coffin of his resolve. The memory of the island, of you, was a live wire under his skin, sparking and twisting. The sterile touch of Eun-ji’s hand as she’d briefly rested it on his arm after dinner—a gesture of empty spousal performance—had felt like a brand. He’d flinched, a minute, involuntary recoil he’d covered with a cough. She hadn’t seemed to notice, or care. But it had ignited a revulsion so deep it was nausea.