The Dinner Invitation

The tension in our Kensington apartment was thick enough to choke on. Jungkook had been planning this “dinner” since the moment he hauled me into our bedroom yesterday, his movements precise, cold, and calculated. He’d insisted I wear a silk shirt that clung to the curve of my belly, leaving the top buttons open just enough to tease. It wasn't a choice; it was a uniform for his prize.

"Look at me, Tae," he commanded, his hands busy adjusting my cufflinks. His gaze was burning, tracing the hollow of my throat. He pressed a kiss there, not soft, but a hard, marking graze. "You’ll sit, you’ll eat, and you’ll let me handle the guest. If he says anything that upsets you, look at me. Only me."

When the doorbell chimed, I felt my stomach lurch. Jimin walked in looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine—impeccably tailored, with that same predatory glint in his eyes that had always made me feel both safe and completely exposed.

"Jungkook. Taehyung," Jimin greeted, his voice smooth as velvet. He didn't even wait for an invitation before stepping into the dining room. He stopped right beside my chair, his hand lingering on the back of it, his fingers brushing my shoulder just a little too intimately. "You look radiant, Tae. Pregnancy really suits your skin."

Jungkook didn't blink. He sat at the head of the table, his wine glass held in a grip that looked like he was trying to crush the crystal. "Sit, Jimin. Let’s talk about old times."

Dinner was a slow-motion car crash. Every bite I took felt heavy, the atmosphere humming with unspoken electricity. Jungkook watched us both, his eyes darting between me and Jimin like a panther tracking two prey.

"You remember the summer in Jeju, don't you, Tae?" Jimin asked, his eyes locked onto mine, completely ignoring Jungkook’s presence. "When you cried because you felt like you were never going to be free? You used to hide in the gardens just to feel the wind on your face, away from everyone’s expectations."

I felt my breath hitch. I did remember. I remembered the isolation, the crushing pressure of being expected to be perfect—and how Jimin had been the one to whisper that I should just run away.

Jungkook’s knife scraped against his plate, a harsh, grating sound that made me flinch. "He doesn't need the past, Jimin. He has a future. With me."

Jimin chuckled, a low, melodic sound that seemed to mock the tension. "Does he? Because he seems so… quiet, these days. Does he still tell you his secrets, Jungkook? Or does he keep them for me?"

Jungkook stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He didn't shout; he didn't need to. He just walked around the table, his shadow falling over me, his hand descending onto my heavy, rounded belly. He squeezed, his thumb digging into the soft skin, a silent, public display of ownership.

"He tells me everything," Jungkook purred, his voice dropping to a dangerous, predatory growl. "Anything he tries to hide, I eventually find. I am the one who keeps him, Jimin. I am the one who feeds him, clothes him, and claims him. You’re just a ghost from a life he’s moved on from."

The dinner ended in a suffocating silence. I was trembling, the weight of the baby pressing against my bladder, my nerves completely shot.

As the evening finally wound down, I retreated to the lounge, feeling the need to catch my breath. I heard their voices by the front door—low, guttural, and vibrating with pure, unadulterated hostility.

I leaned against the wall, listening.

"You think you own him," Jimin’s voice was barely a whisper, but it was laced with venom. "But you’re only feeding his resentment. When the baby comes, he’ll realize he’s just another one of your trophies."

"He is mine," Jungkook replied, and the absolute certainty in his voice made my blood run cold. "And if you ever step foot in my home again, I will make sure you disappear into the history you’re so fond of digging up."

I peeked around the corner just as the door clicked shut. Jungkook remained standing there, his back to me, his shoulders rigid. He didn't turn around immediately, but he spoke, his voice ice-cold.

"I know you're listening, Taehyung."

He turned, his eyes glowing with a dark, terrifying intensity. He walked toward me, his hands reaching out to cage me against the wall, his breath hitching as he stared at me.

"He's playing a game, baby," Jungkook whispered, his hand sliding down to cup my throat, his grip firm. "And I'm going to make sure you never want to play with him again."

He leaned in, his lips inches from mine, when my phone, sitting on the side table, began to vibrate uncontrollably. A flurry of messages—a dozen in a row—from an unknown ID. I looked over Jungkook’s shoulder and saw the preview of the first message: He’s not protecting you, Tae. He’s training you. Look at the photo I sent.

Jungkook turned his head, his eyes widening as he saw the notification. His grip on my throat didn't loosen; it tightened.

"What did he send you?" he demanded, his voice a low, murderous threat.

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