Chapter One Hundred Thirty: The Paris Proposal
The tablet glowed in the dim morning light, its screen filled with images of cobblestone streets and café terraces, of the Eiffel Tower piercing a soft grey sky, of roses blooming along the Seine. I'd been scrolling for hours—or maybe minutes; time had lost meaning in the warm cocoon of his arms.
He was still asleep.
His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, slow and steady, the rhythm of a man who had finally stopped running. His arm was wrapped around my waist, his hand splayed across my stomach, his fingers curled possessively against the fabric of his shirt—the one I was wearing, the one that smelled like him.
I shouldn't have been awake.
The sun was barely up, the room still dark, the world outside the windows hushed and waiting. But I couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking about the conversation I'd overheard, the coldness in his voice, the way he'd talked about killing children like it was just another business decision.
And yet—
Here I was.
Curled in his arms, wearing his shirt, scrolling through pictures of Paris like a love-sick fool.
I didn't remember our honeymoon.
I didn't remember our wedding.
I didn't remember the life we'd built together, the promises we'd made, the nights we'd spent tangled in sheets and whispered secrets.
But I wanted to.
I wanted to remember.
And if I couldn't remember—if my mind was a locked door with no key—then I wanted to make new memories. Better memories. Memories that didn't involve gunfire and hospitals and the weight of secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
I nudged him.
He didn't move.
I nudged him again, harder this time, my elbow digging into his ribs.
"Taehyun."
A grunt. His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer, his face burying in my hair.
"Five more minutes."
"It's been five minutes."
"It's been five seconds."
"It's been twenty-three minutes. I've been counting."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying." I poked his chest. "Wake up. I want to show you something."
He cracked open one eye. Just one. Dark and sleepy and unfairly beautiful.
"This better be good."
"It's very good."
"I doubt that."
I shoved the tablet in his face.
He blinked, recoiling slightly, his hand coming up to push the screen back to a readable distance. His brow furrowed as he took in the images—the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, the little café with the red awning and the basket of fresh croissants.
"Paris," he said.
"Paris," I agreed.
"Why are you showing me Paris at—" He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "—five forty-seven in the morning?"
"Because I want to go."
"You want to go to Paris."
"Yes."
"At five forty-seven in the morning."
"I've been thinking about it all night." I turned in his arms, facing him, my knees pressing against his thighs. "I don't remember our honeymoon. I don't remember our wedding. I don't remember anything."
His expression softened. "Angel—"
"I know it's not your fault." I pressed my fingers to his lips, silencing him. "I know you didn't choose this. But I want—" I swallowed. "I want to make new memories. Good memories. Memories that don't involve hospitals or gunfire or you looking at me like I'm made of glass."
"You are made of glass."
"I'm not. I'm made of steel. And sarcasm. And a deep, abiding love for croissants."
His lips twitched. "Croissants?"
"They have the best croissants in Paris. I read about it. On the internet. The internet doesn't lie."
"The internet lies constantly."
"This part doesn't."
He was quiet for a moment, his hand sliding up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair.
"You want to go to Paris," he said slowly.
"Yes."
"For a honeymoon."
"Yes."
"Even though you don't remember our wedding?"
"Especially because I don't remember our wedding." I bit my lip, suddenly uncertain. "I want to fall in love with you again. In Paris. In the city of love. With the croissants and the roses and the little bridges over the river."
"Angel—"
"It's beautiful there," I continued, the words tumbling out faster now. "I saw pictures. The light is soft, like honey. And the buildings are old, like they've been waiting for someone to love them. And the river—the Seine—it winds through the whole city, like a ribbon tying everything together."
"Angel."
"I want to walk along the river with you. I want to hold your hand and eat croissants and watch the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower. I want to forget about bullets and hospitals and the weight of secrets I don't understand."
"Angel."
"I want to be happy." My voice cracked. "Just for a little while. I want to be happy with you."
He stared at me.
His eyes were dark. Unreadable. But his hand—his hand was warm on my back, steady and sure.
"Please," I whispered. "Take me to Paris."
He didn't answer.
Just pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me, his face burying in my neck.
"You're impossible," he murmured.
"I know."
"You're demanding."
"I know."
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I pulled back, blinking. "That's not a yes."
"It's not a no."
"Taehyun—"
"Paris." He said the word like he was tasting it, testing it. "The city of love."
"Yes."
"Our honeymoon."
"Yes."
"With croissants."
"Lots of croissants."
He laughed—soft and surprised, the sound vibrating through his chest.
"Fine," he said.
My heart stopped. "Fine?"
"Fine. We'll go to Paris."
"Really?"
"Really."
I launched myself at him.
My arms wrapped around his neck, my legs around his waist, my face pressing into his shoulder. He caught me easily, his hands sliding up my back, his laugh rumbling against my cheek.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you—"
"You're welcome, you're welcome, you're welcome—"
"I love you."
The words came out before I could stop them. I froze, my face still buried in his shoulder, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Angel." His voice was soft. "Look at me."
I shook my head.
"Angel."
"No."
"Look at me."
I pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark and warm and full of something that made my chest ache.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Kim Taehyun. I love you even though I don't remember you. I love you even though you're terrifying. I love you even though you leave in the middle of the night and don't tell me where you're going."
His jaw tightened. "Angel—"
"I love you." I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my hand. "I love you, and I want to go to Paris with you, and I want to eat croissants, and I want to hold your hand, and I want to forget about everything else."
He kissed me.
Hard. Deep. Devastating.
His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head back, and he kissed me like he was drowning, like I was oxygen, like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"I'll take you to Paris," he said. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go. I'll give you anything you want. Just—" He pressed his forehead to mine. "Just stay. Don't leave. Don't disappear. I can't—" His voice cracked. "I can't do this without you."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kissed me again—softer this time, slower, like we had all the time in the world.
---
The brothers were less enthusiastic.
"Paris?" Junho's eyes widened. "You're taking her to Paris? For a honeymoon? Again?"
"It's not 'again' if she doesn't remember the first one," Jinwoo pointed out.
"Semantics."
"It's not semantics. It's romance. There's a difference."
"There's no difference."
"There's definitely a difference."
Minho turned a page of his book. "You're both missing the point."
"Which is?" Junho asked.
"The point is that hyung is taking his wife to Paris, and we're stuck here, listening to you two argue about semantics."
"I don't argue," Jinwoo said. "I educate."
"You're insufferable."
"I'm enlightening."
Minho looked at me. "Are you sure about this?"
I nodded, my hand wrapped around Taehyun's. "I want to go."
"Even though you don't remember?"
"Especially because I don't remember." I squeezed his fingers. "I want to make new memories. Good memories. Memories that don't involve hospitals."
Minho studied me for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Take care of her," he said to Taehyun.
"Always."
"And bring back croissants."
Junho perked up. "Yes. Croissants. Lots of croissants. And maybe some macarons. And that cheese—the one that smells weird but tastes amazing."
"You mean brie?"
"Is that the weird one?"
"They're all weird."
"You're weird."
"You're both weird," Jinwoo said. "Now let them pack."
---
The bedroom was chaos.
Clothes were everywhere—dresses and sweaters and scarves and shoes, piled on the bed, draped over the chairs, spilling out of the suitcase I'd opened and immediately abandoned.
"Angel." Taehyun stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression amused. "We're going to Paris, not relocating permanently."
"I need options."
"You need one suitcase."
"I need three suitcases."
"You need therapy."
I threw a sock at him.
He caught it.
"We're not taking three suitcases."
"Then you're not taking me."
"That's blackmail."
"That's negotiation." I held up a dress—soft lavender, the one he'd bought me, the one that made me feel like a princess. "Can I take this one?"
"Yes."
"And this one?" A cream-colored sweater, cashmere, impossibly soft.
"Yes."
"And this one?" A silk scarf, pale blue, the color of the morning sky.
"Yes."
"And—"
"Angel."
"What?"
He crossed the room, his hands settling on my shoulders. "We can buy clothes in Paris."
"But these are my clothes."
"You don't remember them."
"But my body does." I pressed the sweater to my chest. "They smell like home."
His expression softened.
"Pack whatever you want," he said. "I'll carry it."
"Even if it's three suitcases?"
"Even if it's ten."
I kissed his cheek.
"You're a good husband."
"I'm trying."
"You're succeeding."
He smiled—small, soft, the smile he only gave me.
"Now pack," he said. "Our flight leaves in four hours."
---
The plane was a dream.
Not the cramped, noisy planes I'd imagined, but a private jet—all leather seats and soft lighting and a bed in the back that made my cheeks flush.
"Did you know about this?" I asked, settling into the seat beside him.
"I arranged it."
"When?"
"This morning. While you were packing."
"You arranged a private jet to Paris this morning?"
"Yes."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
I stared at him.
"You're very rich, aren't you?"
"I'm comfortable."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
I leaned my head on his shoulder, watching the clouds drift past the window. The sun was rising, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something that might have been peace.
"Taehyun?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For taking me to Paris." I closed my eyes. "For not giving up on me. For staying."
His arm slid around me, pulling me closer.
"Thank you for coming back," he said quietly. "For waking up. For choosing me."
"I'll always choose you."
"You don't remember me."
"My heart does."
He pressed a kiss to my hair.
And the plane carried us toward the city of love, toward croissants and cobblestones and the soft grey light of a Paris morning, toward the memories we would make and the ones we had yet to create.
I couldn't remember our wedding.
I couldn't remember our honeymoon.
But I would remember this.
The way his hand felt in mine.
The way his voice sounded when he said my name.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
I would remember.
And if I didn't—if my mind failed me again—
I would still have Paris.
I would still have him.
And that, I thought, was enough.