Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Two: The Ache of a Stranger's Belly
Paris – Evening
The Parisian evening was soft, the kind of soft that made you believe in fairy tales. The sky was a watercolor of lavender and gold, the last light of the setting sun painting the city in hues of honey and rose. I stood on the hotel balcony, my hands wrapped around the wrought-iron railing, the cool metal biting into my palms.
The air smelled of chestnuts and rain and something floral I couldn't name.
I wasn't looking for her.
She found me.
A woman—beautiful, impossibly beautiful—walked along the cobblestone street below. Her gown was loose, flowing, the color of cream and moonlight, and it billowed around her ankles with each step. Her hair was dark, spilling over her shoulders in waves that caught the dying light, and her face—her face was soft, serene, the face of a woman who had seen the worst of the world and chosen to smile anyway.
In one arm, she carried a toddler. A boy, no more than two, with chubby cheeks and dark curls and eyes that sparkled even from this distance. He was pointing at something—a bird, maybe, or a flower—his little hand waving, his mouth moving in words I couldn't hear.
And in her other hand, she pressed her palm to her belly.
The curve was subtle, barely visible beneath the loose fabric, but unmistakable. She was pregnant. Swelling with new life, with hope, with the promise of a future she was already carrying.
My heart ached.
I didn't know why.
I watched them until they disappeared around a corner, swallowed by the narrow streets of Le Marais. The toddler's laughter echoed for a moment—bright and carefree—and then faded, replaced by the distant hum of traffic and the soft murmur of conversation from the café below.
I stood there for a long time.
The balcony was cold. The sky was darkening. And my chest—my chest was tight with something I couldn't name.
Does every pregnant woman look this beautiful?
I pressed my hand to my own belly.
Flat. Empty.
I wondered what it would feel like to carry a life inside me. To feel it kick, to watch it grow, to hold it in my arms and know that it was mine. That I had created something beautiful in a world full of ugliness.
I turned away from the railing.
---
The Hotel Room
The room was warm. The curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, the soft glow of his laptop the only light in the dim space. He was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, his brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers moved across the keyboard, quick and precise, the way they always did when he was working.
He didn't look up when I entered.
I crossed the room, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet, and climbed onto the bed. He shifted automatically, making room for me, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
I settled onto his lap.
His hands left the keyboard immediately, one arm wrapping around my waist, the other coming up to brush the hair from my face.
"Angel." His voice was soft, amused. "What's wrong?"
I pouted. It was childish. I knew it was childish. But I couldn't help it. The image of the woman—beautiful and glowing and full of life—was burned into my mind.
"I saw a woman," I said.
"A woman?"
"On the street. She was beautiful. Ethereal." I traced the collar of his shirt, avoiding his eyes. "She was holding a toddler. A little boy. He was so cute, Taehyun. Chubby cheeks. Dark curls. Big, sparkly eyes."
"I'm sensing a 'but.'"
"But she was also pregnant." I looked up at him, my lower lip still pushed out. "She was holding her belly, like she was protecting something precious. Like she was carrying the whole world inside her."
His expression softened. "Angel—"
"I want to be pregnant too."
He blinked.
"I want to be pregnant," I repeated, louder this time. "I want to have a beautiful son. With chubby cheeks and dark curls and eyes like yours."
"Angel—"
"How do I get pregnant like her?" I grabbed his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. "Tell me. I want to know. I want to be a mother."
He stared at me. His lips parted. Closed. Parted again.
"You're serious," he said.
"I'm very serious."
"You're pouting."
"I'm serious and pouting. They're not mutually exclusive."
He laughed—soft and surprised, the sound vibrating through his chest.
"Angel," he said again, his hands sliding up my back. "You can't just decide to get pregnant."
"Why not?"
"Because it's—" He paused, searching for the right word. "—complicated."
"I don't care about complicated. I care about having a baby."
"A baby is complicated."
"Then I'll be complicated with the baby."
He stared at me for a long moment. "You're impossible," he said.
"So I've been told."
"You're demanding."
"Also true."
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I blinked. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He kissed me. Soft. Slow. His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back, and he kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my lips, the taste of my breath, the way I sighed against his mouth.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"I want a baby," I whispered.
"I know."
"I want your baby."
"I know."
"I want to be a mother."
"I know." He pressed his forehead to mine. "And you will be. Someday."
"Someday?"
"Someday." His thumb brushed my cheek. "When you're ready. When we're ready. When the world isn't trying to kill us."
"The world is always trying to kill us."
"Then we'll fight it. Together."
"Angel."
"Don't 'Angel' me."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Then why are you pouting?"
"I'm not pouting."
"You're absolutely pouting." His thumb traced small circles on my hip. "Your lower lip is doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where it pushes out and makes you look like a disgruntled kitten."
"I don't look like a kitten."
"You look exactly like a kitten. A very cute, very annoyed kitten."
I glared at him. It didn't work. His lips twitched, fighting a smile.
"Tell me what's wrong."
I looked down at my hands, twisting in my lap. The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other, desperate and embarrassed and strangely, terrifyingly honest.
"I want to be pregnant too. I want to have a beautiful son. I want to hold his hand and watch him grow and feel him kick inside me. I want to be like her. That woman. That beautiful, glowing, pregnant woman."
"Angel."
"I know it's crazy." I bit my lip. "I know I don't remember anything. I know I'm still healing. I know I'm not—I'm not ready, probably. But I saw her, and my heart ached, and I couldn't stop thinking—"
"Thinking what?"
I looked up. "Thinking that I want that with you."
The silence that followed was heavy. Not uncomfortable, but full—full of something I couldn't name, something that made my chest tight and my eyes sting.
"You want a baby," he said slowly.
"Yes."
"With me."
"Yes."
"Even though you don't remember our wedding?"
"Especially because I don't remember our wedding." I reached for his hand, pressing it flat against my stomach. "I want to make something new. Something ours. Something that doesn't depend on memories I've lost."
His hand was warm through the thin fabric of my dress. His eyes were dark, unreadable.
"Angel."
"Don't tell me I'm not ready."
"I wasn't going to."
"Don't tell me we should wait."
"I wasn't going to."
"Don't—"
"Angel." His other hand came up, cupping my face, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't felt fall. "Stop."
I stopped.
"I'm not going to tell you you're not ready," he said quietly. "I'm not going to tell you we should wait. I'm not going to tell you any of the things you're afraid to hear."
"Then what are you going to tell me?"
He leaned closer, his forehead pressing to mine.
"I'm going to tell you that I want that too."
My breath caught.
"I want a baby," he continued, his voice low, rough. "I want a son. I want to hold his hand and watch him grow and feel him kick inside you. I want to see you glow. I want to see you become a mother."
"Taehyun—"
"I want all of it." His hand slid from my face to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. "But not because you saw a beautiful woman on a balcony. Not because you're feeling impulsive or emotional or scared."
"Then why?"
"Because I love you." His voice cracked. "Because I've loved you since before I knew your name. Because every day with you is a gift I don't deserve, and every night with you is a prayer I never learned to speak."
"Taehyun."
"I want a family with you, Angel. I want late nights and early mornings and tiny shoes by the door. I want to teach our son how to braid hair and how to be kind and how to love someone the way I love you."
My eyes were streaming now, tears sliding down my cheeks, dripping onto his hands.
"But I want you first," he said. "I want you healthy. I want you whole. I want you to remember—or not remember—whatever you need to remember, whatever you need to forget. I want you to choose me, every day, because you want to, not because you feel trapped."
"I do choose you."
"I know." He kissed my forehead. "But I need you to choose yourself first."
I stared at him.
"You're very wise for a man who kills people."
His lips twitched. "I'm a complex individual."
"You're a good man."
"I'm not."
"You are." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "You're a good man, Kim Taehyun. And you're going to be a good father. And I'm going to be a good mother. And our son is going to be the most loved child in the history of children."
"Our son?"
"Or daughter. I'm not picky."
He laughed—soft and surprised, the sound vibrating through his chest.
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
"I love you."
I kissed him—soft at first, then deeper, my fingers tangling in his hair, his hands sliding down my back.
"So we'll wait?" I whispered against his lips.
"We'll wait." His voice was steady, sure. "Until you're ready. Until we're ready. Until the world isn't trying to kill us."
"And then?"
"And then," he said, pulling back just enough to look at me, "we'll make a baby."
I smiled.
It was small, uncertain, the smile of someone who was still learning to hope. But it was real.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kissed me again.
And outside the window, the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle.