Chapter One Hundred Three: A Plan That Was Never Mine
I sat up in the dark, your sleeping form still curled where I'd been holding you. The empty space beside me was cold now. My own fault. You'd told me to sleep on the couch. I'd argued—of course I'd argued. Like a child whose favorite blanket had been ripped away.
"You know I can't sleep without you," I'd said, my voice rough, almost desperate.
You hadn't looked at me. Your back was turned, your shoulders rigid. "Then learn."
"Angel—"
"You're being heartless, Wifey."
The word had slipped out before I could stop it. A plea wrapped in a pet name, hoping to soften you. It didn't.
You'd just pulled the blanket tighter around yourself and said nothing.
So I'd gone.
The couch was a punishment I deserved. Too short. Too cold. Too empty. I lay there staring at the ceiling, counting the hours, listening to the silence where your breathing should have been.
I couldn't make it till morning.
The clock read midnight when I gave up. My feet carried me back to our room before my mind caught up. The door was still open—you hadn't locked it. You never did. Even when you were furious, some part of you left the door open.
I stood in the doorway, watching you.
The moonlight caught your face, soft and unguarded in sleep. Your lips were parted slightly, your lashes dark against your cheeks. The tension that lived in your jaw during the day was gone. You looked peaceful. Young. Like the girl who had scowled at me over a six-dollar latte and called it a waste of money.
My heart.
My angel.
My heart.
I walked to the bed slowly, careful not to make a sound. The mattress dipped under my weight as I lay down beside you. I didn't reach for you. Didn't dare. I just lay there, on my side, watching you breathe.
You shifted.
Your body turned toward me, drawn by some instinct you couldn't control. Your hand found my chest, your face pressed into the curve of my shoulder. A soft sigh escaped your lips, and you curled into me like you belonged there.
I couldn't resist.
My arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer. My other hand came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair. You made a small sound—content, sleepy—and burrowed deeper into my chest.
"Angel," I whispered into the dark. "What am I going to do with you?"
You didn't answer. You were already gone, lost in dreams I couldn't follow.
I held you anyway.
Because that's what I did. What I would always do. Even when you pushed me away. Even when you told me to leave. Even when you looked at me like I was the villain in your story.
I held on.
And I whispered the truth into the darkness, knowing you couldn't hear.
"I didn't mean for it to happen like this."
The words came out soft, almost a confession to myself. Your breathing was steady against my chest, your body warm and trusting in sleep. Trusting. Even after everything. Even after the lies and the blood and the secrets I still couldn't bring myself to tell you.
"The plan was simple." My fingers moved through your hair, slow and soothing. "Come here. Take you back. Bring your memories home. Give you the truth. Give you your real family back."
I closed my eyes, remembering. The dossier on my desk. Your photo clipped to the front. A girl with no past and a future someone else had tried to steal.
"I wasn't supposed to fall for you."
A bitter smile touched my lips.
"But then you walked in. With that sharp tongue. That fire in your voice. That look in your eyes like the world had never deserved you."
You shifted in your sleep, your hand curling into my shirt. I stilled, waiting, but you didn't wake. Just settled deeper, like you were searching for something only I could give.
"You never smiled at me. Never flirted. Never even looked at me long enough to notice." I pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering. "And somehow, that made me want you even more."
The confession was easy in the dark. Easy when you couldn't hear. When I didn't have to see the hurt in your eyes or the doubt that my words had planted there.
"I waited." My voice dropped, rougher now. "I told myself I would wait until you remembered. Until you saw what we were. What we could be."
I swallowed hard.
"But then they stepped in. Your fake parents. That bastard Jihoon. That sudden arranged marriage—like they wanted to bury you alive before you even got a chance to breathe."
The memory still made my blood run cold. The document on my desk. Your name beside his. A contract signed in ink that should have been written in blood.
"So I changed the plan."
I sat up slightly, still holding you close. The moonlight caught the hard line of my jaw, the shadows under my eyes.
"I killed them."
The words were quiet. Final. A sin I would carry forever.
"I married you with blood on my hands and your name in my mouth like a prayer."
My voice cracked—just a fraction.
"And you didn't even know the truth."
My gaze drifted to the nightstand, to the drawer where the diary lived. Your diary. The one where you'd written about me before you forgot. Where you'd confessed a love you couldn't remember feeling.
"That diary—where you wrote about me, where you loved me before you forgot me—was supposed to be the proof. I was going to show it to you when you were ready."
I laughed once, bitter and hollow.
"But fate doesn't wait. So I made the choice for both of us."
You stirred in your sleep, pressing closer, your lips brushing my collarbone. I held my breath, waiting for you to wake, to push me away, to call me a liar and a monster and everything I deserved to be called.
You just sighed and settled deeper.
A long pause. The rain started again, soft against the windows.
And I whispered the quietest truth of all—
"I'm not sorry for loving you. I'm only sorry that love made me a villain in your story."
---
The hours passed. I didn't sleep. I couldn't. My mind was a storm of memories and regrets, of things said and unsaid, of the weight of a truth I still hadn't told you.
At some point, you shifted again. Your hand slid up my chest, your fingers brushing my jaw. Your eyes fluttered open—hazy with sleep, unfocused.
"Taehyun?"
"Go back to sleep, Angel."
"You're not sleeping."
"I'm watching you. It's my hobby."
A soft, sleepy laugh escaped you. "That's creepy."
"It's romantic. There's a difference."
You didn't argue. Just curled closer, your face pressing into my neck, your breath warm against my skin.
"Stay," you mumbled.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
The word was small, fragile, barely audible. A question you were afraid to ask.
I pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering.
"Promise."
You relaxed against me, your body melting into mine, the tension draining away. Within moments, you were asleep again, soft and trusting and completely unaware of the war raging inside me.
I held you.
And I made a vow to the darkness, to the rain, to whatever god might be listening.
I would tell you. Soon. Everything. The accident. The family you'd lost. The love you'd forgotten.
And I would pray—with every broken piece of my soul—that when you remembered, you wouldn't hate me.
That when you saw the truth, you would still choose to stay.
That the villain in your story might, somehow, become the hero you needed.
But until then—
I held you.
And I watched the sunrise paint the room in shades of gold and rose, your face peaceful against my chest, my heart aching with a love I never meant to find.
My angel.
My heart.
My home.
And I wouldn't let you go. Not ever. Not even if you begged me to.
Because some loves weren't meant to be gentle.
Some loves were meant to be survived.
And I would survive this.
Even if it destroyed me.