The afternoon sky gleamed like honey drizzling over warm, buttery waffles, its glow thick and rich, saturating the world in a golden haze. Sunlight poured over the streets with precise intensity, lighting deep, cinematic contrasts—sharp-edged silhouettes of sidewalks and buildings met the softened glow on tree leaves and the distant shimmer of the sea. The ocean, bathed in just the right balance of light and shadow, vibrant enough to mimic a Van Gogh masterpiece.
The seaside, just a whisper away from the bustling city, felt quieter at this hour. A few cars zipped past, their engines humming like busy bees, while pedestrians, lost in their own hurried rhythms, moved past one another—some rushing to catch a bus, others leisurely strolling, perhaps en route to a café, the promise of warm coffee and easy conversations lingering in their steps.
The sun, poised at the very heart of the horizon, seemed in no rush to bid farewell. Yet, with the solstice tipping the balance of time, daylight slipped away swiftly, dissolving into hues of pink, lavender, and deep indigo. The sky, once a canvas of burning gold, softened as the sinking sun—brilliant and round—cast its last molten rays over the rippling sea, staining the waves with gold sunlight.
Aretha sat on a weathered wooden bench, its surface surprisingly cool beneath the thin fabric of her dress. She gazed ahead, her dark auburn eyes tracing the molten sphere dipping into the horizon. "Why does the sun look so much like an egg yolk?" she murmured, her voice barely above the hush of the evening breeze.
A little ways off, the Queen sat away from the main seaside gathering place, where laughter and chatters drifted in soft echoes. With her legs elegantly crossed, she exhaled slowly, allowing the weight of the day to slip from her shoulders as she leaned back on the backrest beneath the sturdy embrace of an old grape tree.
The bench Aretha sat on was much closer to a small, tree-lined park than the actual seaside, though despite the distance her view of the seaside did not disappoint. From where she was, she could still witness how the fading sunlight danced across the waves and bounced off the figures of a couple she had been quietly observing.
The woman, likely in her early thirties, exuded an almost childlike energy—light and carefree. Laughter spilled from her lips, unrestrained, as she tossed her head back, the soft fringes framing her face lifting with each joyous motion. Her brown hair, cut into a messy short bob with micro-bangs, bounced along with her lively steps. Her eyes nearly disappeared when she laughed, yet beneath the glow of her happiness, there lingered something else—the almost invisible weariness in the hollows beneath them, in the way her thin lips stretched just a little too tightly, as though they had known years of sighs.
Still, she danced, her movements airy and unchoreographed, as if the pavement itself was a stage meant only for her. Each step was a twirl, each sway a silent celebration. Her gaze, filled with admiration, kept drifting downward, fixated on the new pair of white floral shoes adorning her feet.
Aretha's attention shifted to the man trailing behind her, his steps slower, steadier, as though content to watch rather than interrupt her moment of joy. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his body toned from dedication rather than vanity. His jet-black hair, styled into a messy mullet, framed a face sculpted with sharp, defined features. The golden hour light brushed against his skin, a rich, warm tone like freshly poured crème latte, as the shadows settled into the natural crooks of his muscles, subtly highlighting the contrast beneath his white tank top.
His hands remained tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his posture relaxed, yet his lips betrayed him—just slightly curled at the corners, the hint of a smile resisting full bloom. His deep eyes held something soft, something fond, as they followed the woman's every movement. She twirled again, the hem of her dress catching the light like petals in the breeze, and he chuckled, a quiet sound meant only for himself. His gaze, warm and loving, held the tenderness of a man who had memorized the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she loved even the simplest things—like the shoes he had just bought her.
A heavy sigh slipped from Aretha's lips, barely audible over the distant hum of the waves. She tore her gaze away from the couple, but the ache in her chest remained—a familiar kind that's been around for centuries, the kind that acts as a souvenir of the past, of who she was, curling itself around her ribs like a phantom limb. It never left. It never faded. It sat there, quiet yet suffocating, that exact reminder of the fate that had been carved into her existence long before she had a say in it.
Her fingers lifted, pressing against her chest as the pressure swelled, as though grasping at a wound that refused to heal. The pain twisted, sharpened, and in response, her grip tightened, nails digging into the fabric of her blouse. She exhaled a bitter chuckle, her lips curving in something that wasn't quite amusement, wasn't quite sorrow. Tilting her head back, she narrowed her eyes against the glare of the setting sun.
It was meant to happen.
Still, she found herself looking back at them. Her gaze, that lingered something she couldn't quite name, drifted once more to the couple by the sea. They had moved closer to the water's edge, leaning against the railing that separated the sidewalk from the restless waves below.
The woman, height defeated by the tall rails, lifted herself onto the lower rail, adjusting her stance for a better perch. Her hands gripped the cool metal bars, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the worn texture as the breeze tousled her short hair. The man remained at her side, quieter in his presence, yet just as solid. He leaned forward, forearms resting against the top railing, his posture relaxed but attentive.
Neither spoke, yet the air between them buzzed with quiet understanding, the kind that needed no words. The kind Aretha once knew. The kind she would never know again.
"By the way," The woman began, her voice breaking the quiet rhythm of the waves, "if you're just looking for your birth father, why do you need a bag full of cash and a burner phone?" Her tone was casual, almost playful, but there was an underlying curiosity she couldn't mask. The question lingered in the air between them, carried by the gentle evening breeze.
He turned to her, his dark eyes soft, unreadable. The golden hour light cast a warm glow over his face, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones and jawline. Before he could speak, she followed up with a teasing lilt, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
"Like you're some criminal on the run or something."
She shrugged, her laughter light, though the words carried an edge—half a joke, half an accusation.
His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. Slowly, he turned his attention back to the horizon, where the sun bled into the ocean in a swirl of gold and violet. His voice, when it came, was quiet yet deliberate.
"I am a criminal," he murmured. "I kidnapped you, remember?"
She turned to him fully now, tilting her head in thought. The weight of his words settled in the pit of her stomach, but she refused to let them drag her down. Instead, she raised a brow.
"So all of this… is to hide from my in-laws?"
He hummed in approval, nodding slowly. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. "You said they had a lot of clout."
Her brows knitted together in a soft frown, doubt creeping into her expression. She studied his face, searching for cracks in his nonchalance. Something about his easy acceptance felt off.
"Is that really it?" she asked, her voice quieter this time, her words pressing into the space between them.
His expression faltered for a second—just a second—but it was enough. His brows lifted, his mouth parting slightly before pressing into a thin line.
"Hey," he muttered, eyes flickering back to the sea. "There's a lot of assholes out there just waiting to take me out the first chance they get." He lets out a sarcastic chuckle, carrying the truth as if it were nothing. The air around them grew heavier, the golden warmth of the sunset no longer as comforting as before. The tide rolled in, each wave crashing into the next like overlapping echoes of a conversation neither of them was willing to have.
"If I let my guard down, even for a second," he continued, voice quieter now, more to himself than to her, "I could end up with a knife in my back."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Aretha watched from a distance, her gaze locked onto the way his eyes stayed trained on the woman beside him. He wasn't just looking at her—he was watching her, studying her, memorizing every movement as if she might disappear the moment he blinked. His stare carried something weighty, something unsaid, something that clung to the back of his throat like words he couldn't force out.
His hands, usually steady, rubbed together absently, his fingers brushing against each other in a slow, nervous rhythm. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, a slow, forced gulp, his throat tightening around whatever truth he refused to speak.
Then, finally, he tore his gaze away, looking anywhere but at her.
"When you walk farther down the seaside, you'll see the nearest police station."
The words slipped from his lips so easily, so casually, yet they crashed into her like a violent wave, knocking the breath from her lungs.
The woman's head snapped toward him, her wide eyes searching his face, desperate—pleading—for him to stop, to take it back before he could say what she feared was coming next. If she could freeze this moment, keep him from continuing, maybe—just maybe—none of this would be real.
But he didn't.
He stood there, composed, unreadable. His face was eerily calm, his voice steady. So different from the man Aretha—who just watches in a distance—had caught in rare, fleeting moments—the one who had let his walls slip for one second, just enough for the Queen to see the fear, the hesitation, the unease lurking behind his cold exterior.
"Your husband is there waiting."
The woman who stood in front of him's expression crumbled, confusion and shock washing over her like ice-cold water. The world around her blurred, the crashing waves, the golden hues of the sunset, the distant hum of city life—everything faded into a muffled silence.
He straightened his posture and stood taller, shoulders squared as his hands slipped back into his pockets, turning to face her fully. His features, once familiar and warm, were now cold and distant, as if the last few days had never happened.
"Let's stop this now, Jaemi." His voice was firm, final. "You should go home."
She didn't move. Couldn't move.
Her mind fought to process what he had just said, but it was like trying to piece together a shattered mirror—the edges too sharp, the pieces too scattered.
She almost laughed as she thought, Home. Where was home? That house filled with people who hated her? That future where she thought she could be enough, but never will be? Where she would always be a disappointment, a stain on their legacy, a wife who could never bear the child they so desperately wanted?
How could he be so warm one moment and so frozen the next? How could he look at her like she meant something, touch her like she was still his, fight for her the way he had… only to throw her away like this?
Jaemi's breath came unevenly, her body rigid with disbelief. Her fingers twitched at her sides, curling slightly as her heartbeat pounded against her ribs. She stared at him, as if looking long enough would force him to break—to let the truth slip from his lips, to admit this was a cruel joke. Because none of this made sense.
He went through hell and back to get me.
He had crashed her wedding—her wedding day—pulled her away from the life she was about to step into to take her with him on a trip to find his biological father; he refused to let her go no matter how many times she told him it was too late. She had refused strongly, had told him again and again that what they had was over, that three years long ended and that she had buried everything they once were. That she was finally moving forward, at the peak of her life, standing before the future she had chosen. Yet he had insisted that she come with him, that he needed her. He had looked at her with such desperation, such certainty, as if he'd rather burn the world down than leave her behind.
He didn't let go.
Just until she caved. Just until she let him pull her away from the bride's dressing room, away from the life she was about to step into, away from the prison of strict in-laws who despised her. Away from the fear of facing the fact that she's suffering from premature menopause. Away from a marriage that would never grant her happiness even if it did go through—not when she could never bear the child they so desperately wanted, not when she was nothing but a failed extension of her soon to be husband's five-hundred-year-old bloodline.
And just when she was starting to believe in him again—just when she was starting to believe in them again—he was pushing her away.
Jaemi's fingers curled into fists. She swallowed hard, her throat tight, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Why?
Why did he take her from that wedding if he was just going to leave her? Why did he make her remember the way his touch once brought her comfort, the way his presence used to feel like home? Why did he make her hope—make her want—only to throw it all away like this? Had she really meant nothing? Had these past three days—the moments, the stolen glances, the weight of his gaze when he thought she wasn't looking—had all of it been for nothing?
Her breath hitched.
She never had anything to do with him finding his father, she never asked to be taken, or saved.
Jaemi clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay composed, to keep the sob clawing at her throat from slipping past her lips. But she felt it—the way her body betrayed her, the tremble in her hands, the sting behind her eyes.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours of hope, of warmth, of almost.
What a waste.
What a waste of the past three days.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste iron, as if the pain would brace her, keep her from breaking. But no matter how hard she fought, the ache in her chest only grew, spreading like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.
And as she stood there, staring at the man who had once sworn never to let her go, she knew. He already had.
The tears clung stubbornly to the corners of her eyes, welling up like a flood restrained by sheer willpower. They screamed to spill down her cheeks, to shatter the fragile mask she was desperately trying to hold in place.
If it weren't for the sharp sting of her teeth sinking into her tongue, grounding her in pain, she would've already broken.
Jaemi sucked in a breath, but it came out shaky, rough.
"Then—" her voice wavered, cracking under the weight of the moment, "then what was all that for?"
Seunghyeok didn't flinch. Didn't soften. Didn't move.
His expression remained unreadable—blank, almost bored—as if her breaking right in front of him was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.
Jaemi swallowed, the burn in her throat making it almost impossible to speak. She felt like she was choking on her own words, on the questions clawing at her ribs, desperate to be set free.
"Why did you get me these shoes?"
Her voice barely came out, hoarse, strangled. She hated how small she sounded, how fragile, like the child she once was grasping at something already slipping through their fingers.
Seunghyeok exhaled heavily, the load of his sigh pressing down on the space between them. His eyes, dark and empty, drifted down toward her feet—the white flower shoes, the pair she took care of like how a mother would to her child, the pair she kept cleaning with wet wipes whenever it got dirty.
The shoes he had bought for her.
The ones that had fit perfectly, as if they were made for her.
"You said you wanted to cherish it," he said flatly, his voice devoid of warmth, of the man she thought she knew. "Because it had been thrown away."
Jaemi's stomach twisted. She knew what was coming before he even said it.
"That it reminded you of us."
Her breath hitched. His gaze lifted back to hers, cold and detached, as he continued.
He pointed a finger at her. "You, an orphan." then at himself, "Me, a mistake."
Jaemi felt something in her shatter. She stared at him, searching, pleading—for anything. A look of regret, hesitation, anything to tell her that he didn't mean what he just said. "Is that all?" She asked. He only tilted his head slightly, his features painted in exhaustion, like she was nothing more than another burden he was ready to be rid of. "What else is there to it?" His voice was low, tired, like he had already decided this conversation—they—were a thing of the past.
Jaemi's grip tightened into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms so harshly she was sure they'd leave crescent-shaped marks. She wanted to scream. To tell him he was lying. To demand to know why he was doing this. But all she could do was stand there, drowning in the silence between them.
Seunghyeok pressed his lips into a thin, unforgiving line. His gaze flickered to the side, away from her, as if looking at her for even a second longer would make him falter.
"I'm finally letting you go home." His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, "Isn't this what you wanted anyway?"
Jaemi scoffed, the sound breaking apart into something closer to a sob.
What I wanted?
Her throat burned, her chest tightening as she found it hard to breathe.
"After all that?" Her voice wavered, anger and anguish intertwining as she took a shaky step closer. "After everything—you'll just tell me I'm free to go?"
She reached out, grasping his hand with both of hers, pressing against his skin, desperate for warmth, for reassurance, for something real.
"Did something happen?" Her voice was pleading now, searching, begging for an answer. "Just tell me what it is, huh? You wouldn't do this without a reason, I know you."
Jaemi's words trembled on the edge of hope, a tiny light in the storm of everything crashing down around her. Tears finally broke free, spilling hot down her cheeks. But she smiled—God, she smiled—because she still wanted to believe.
She still wanted to believe in him.
Seunghyeok stared down at her hands for a moment, the warmth of her touch searing through his skin like an accusation. Then, slowly, carefully—he lowered her hands, peeling her fingers away from his like it was the easiest thing in the world.
He let them go.
Jaemi's breath hitched. With his face blank, void of any sign of the man she once knew, he looked her straight in the eyes.
"No, you don't," he murmured.
His voice was void of hesitation. "There's nothing else to say, Jaemi. You should go back home." She flinched as if the words had struck her, the rejection settling deep into her bones.
Seunghyeok exhaled, the sound heavy, like there's something he would never say aloud. His gaze drifted out to the sea, the way the waves rose and fell, constant and inevitable, carefree, at ease.
"He would still love you," he said after a long pause, voice reassuring. "Even with that premature menopause."
Jaemi's body went rigid.
Seunghyeok turned back to her, his eyes tired.
"You, out of all people, should know that," he continued. "You know him."
A bitter laugh slipped past his lips, breathless and empty. His eyes lowered again to the white floral shoes she wore—the ones he had given her. The ones she had cherished because they were once thrown away, because they reminded her of them.
His frown deepened.
"I shouldn't have taken you with me."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension in his posture fading into something more resigned, more defeated, as he lifted his gaze to meet hers one last time.
"So please, Jaemi," Seunghyeok's voice trembled for the briefest second, his gaze softening—as if, just for a moment, he regretted everything he was about to say.
But then, just as quickly, he steeled himself. "Don't confuse my kindness for romance, alright?" Her vision blurred from the steady stream of tears slipping down her cheeks.
Every part of her wanted to believe this was a cruel joke—that he would take it back, that he would say just kidding, stay with me—but the coldness in his expression, in his eyes, told her otherwise. She could barely catch her breath the moment he spoke again.
"You're coming off desperate," he said, voice sharp like shattered glass. "And it makes you look fucking easy."
Jaemi choked on a sob.
The world around her seemed to collapse, her legs trembled, but she refused to let them give out. Seunghyeok didn't waver. His face, his entire being, was unreadable—like he had already closed the door, like he had already locked away every memory they had ever shared.
Jaemi wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, but they wouldn't stop. They just kept coming, refusing to be swallowed down like she wanted.
A bitter laugh broke the silence. Though, it wasn't hers.
Aretha, watching from the distance, let out a quiet chuckle, void of amusement.
She had seen this act before—the way a person would build walls so high, so impossibly thick, to protect themselves from the burden of their own pain. And Seunghyeok? He was a master of it.
But that didn't mean she couldn't see through it.
The way his fingers twitched in his pockets.
The way his throat bobbed with a silent gulp.
The way his breathing had turned just a little too controlled.
It was laughable, really—how hard he was trying to be cruel.
You're pathetic, she wanted to tell him.
You think pushing her away like this will make it easier?
Maybe punishments always came with a twist. Maybe the ones who suffered the most were the ones who tried the hardest to avoid it. What's worse is that she knew, he had his reasons for all this.
Unfortunately for Aretha, her punishment was this—a never-ending cycle of watching broken hearts collide, shatter, and pretend they could still keep beating; all while she feels the exact same pain each couple feels.
The Queen of Hearts—ruler of Wonderland from the 6th dimension, feared by many, and cursed by fate—had always been the subject of mockery and scorn, long before she wore her crown. Since childhood, she had lived in the shadow of her half-sister, the favored child, the golden one—the daughter their father adored while she was left to wither in neglect.
She had envied her sister with a fury that burned through her veins, a resentment so deep it twisted into something dark. No amount of cookies or honeyed words could ever sweeten the bitter truth—that no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she clawed and fought for a place in their father's heart, it was already owned by another.
So she did the only thing she could. She sought to tear her sister down, to drag her beneath her, to ensure that if she could not have love, then neither would she. She played cruel tricks, whispered venom into listening ears, and spoke lies so intricate they could choke the truth itself. But fate, as it always does, had its own plans. And bad karma never lets sins go unpaid.
Her punishment was not swift. It was not loud. It was a sentence embedded into her very existence, into the very soul of her being. She became the Queen of Hearts—not just in title, but in the cruel, agonizing duty that came with it.
She would spend eternity severing the bonds of lovers. She would wander around relationships, break apart hearts that had once beat as one. Not out of malice, but out of necessity. Because sometimes, love was not salvation—it was destruction. That sometimes, letting go was the only way forward. And so she did it ruthlessly, mercilessly. She became the hand that tore apart toxic devotion, the force that shattered illusions of happiness, ensuring that no one remained trapped in love that could only lead to ruin.
But such power never came without a cost.
For every couple she destroyed, for every heart she splintered, something within her cracked just a little more. Because the cruelest part of her fate was not what she did to others—it was that she, more than anyone, understood what it meant to yearn for love.
And yet, she would never have it.
The more toxic and destructive a relationship was, the more intense the agony it left in its wake—an agonizing, suffocating web of love, resentment, and attachment that clung to every corner of their souls. And Aretha, bound to the hearts of every couple she tore apart, was condemned to feel all of it.
She wasn't just an observer; she was immersed in their pain as if it were her own. It was as if she became them, experiencing every kiss, every whispered word, every tear, every betrayal, every shattered dream. She felt the sting of unrequited love, the weight of the unsaid words, the suffocating choke of silent, toxic promises that no one had the courage to break.
But it was more than just sympathy. It was raw, visceral agony. She felt it all—twice as much as they did. The heartbreak, the struggle of being tied to someone who no longer cared, the attachment that neither could escape. She felt it so deeply it threatened to consume her entirely, yet there was nothing she could do.
Because this was her duty. This was her curse.
It was her job to free them. To sever the ties of toxicity that threatened to drown both partners in their own misery. She wasn't there to heal them; she was there to tear them apart. To separate them from each other, to release them from the chains they had built around their hearts.
But no one told her how much it would hurt. No one warned her that the act of saving them would carve jagged scars in her own soul. That the more deeply entwined the love was, the more it would destroy her.
She was no different from Eros, in a sense. Like him, her mission was to break the bonds between lovers, to sever connections that couldn't endure. But while he was tasked with reconnecting bonds, she was condemned to destroy the ones that were most firm, most rooted. The kind of love that hurts to let go of. And in doing so, she absorbed all of their anguish, all of their longing, all of their pain. The bitterness of separation, the heartache of lost potential, the devastation of what could have been.
And all the while, she yearned.
The Queen of Hearts, a woman who existed to tear apart what others held dear, a woman who could tear the strongest of bonds with a mere flick of her hand, secretly longed for love. Real love. The kind of deep, unconditional love that held you even when the world threatened to fall apart.
But that love, that comfort, that relief—was forbidden to her. Her punishment was to never know the very thing she needed most.
Every day, she watched the couples in the retreat, those who had come to heal from the wounds she had inflicted, and each one was a reminder of the love she would never have. She could never forget the faces of those she had separated—the tears, the broken hearts, the hopeless glances—but she had no choice but to continue. It was her mission. Her curse.
And in the quiet moments, when she was alone, her heart ached with the realization: she had saved so many from the pain of toxic love, but in the end, she was the most pitiful of all. A child abandoned, neglected by the very ones who should have loved her, condemned to a life of solitude. Her only companions were the memories of the couples she had torn apart.
She would never know the comfort of real love, of being held, of being wanted. Instead, she would carry the weight of every broken heart, every shattered dream, forever.