JIMIN'S MANSION – NIGHT
The house was too quiet.
Too pristine.
The kind of perfection that felt suffocating. Every polished marble surface, every meticulously placed piece of furniture screamed emptiness. There was no sign of the chaos that had just unfolded here—the emotional carnage that had rattled the very foundation of this home. No traces of broken glass, no evidence of the tears that were supposed to be shed.
But still… there was something in the air. A heavy, unspoken tension that clung to the walls. It was the kind of silence that made your skin crawl as if the very air itself was too thick to breathe. It wasn't a silence of peace, but a silence of something lost.
The front door slammed open, the sound of it crashing against the frame like a gunshot. Holland's boots hit the floor with a sharp thud, echoing through the house with a resonance that could've cracked the walls. Behind him, K.D. followed closely, his breaths shallow, his heart thumping in his chest—not from excitement, not from adrenaline, but from the dread that gnawed at him. The fear that whatever they were walking into wasn't something they could fix.
They had expected devastation. Something to show for the storm that had passed through this place.
What they found instead was Jimin.
There he was, sprawled across the velvet couch like a fallen angel who had given up on redemption. His posture was effortless, but his presence felt like a stark contrast to everything around him. He was too calm, too… composed. Scrolling through his phone with lazy fingers, as if nothing had happened, as if the world hadn't just crumbled beneath him. As if the woman he swore to love hadn't walked out the door for good.
His lips curled up in that same infuriating smirk, the one that always made Holland want to punch him, yet now felt like a slap in the face.
"You good?" Holland's voice cracked the air, rough and unsure, more fragile than he would've liked to admit.
Jimin didn't even flinch. Didn't so much as glance up. "Peachy."
"Peachy?" K.D. echoed, disbelief ringing in his tone. His eyes narrowed in confusion and anger. "You're not even gonna pretend to be upset?"
Jimin's gaze finally lifted, locking with K.D's. His eyes were cold—cold in a way that made K.D.'s stomach turn. There was no fire, no passion, nothing that screamed loss or pain. Just a detached, hollow emptiness.
"Why waste time grieving a choice I made?" Jimin's voice was flat as if he had already rehearsed this. As if the words didn't sting anymore because he had said them to himself so many times.
Holland couldn't help himself. He took a step forward, his heart thumping painfully against his ribs. "You broke up with her?" His voice was low, hesitant.
"I planned to," Jimin said, his words deliberate and sharp as a blade dragged slowly across flesh. "She just beat me to it."
The response was so cold, so devoid of any emotion, that K.D. felt a chill wash over him. It didn't sit right with him. Nothing about Jimin seemed… right.
"You planned it?" K.D. asked, still processing. "So all those months—what were they? Lies?"
Jimin didn't blink. Didn't flinch. "Distraction. Strategy. Boredom."
Holland felt the anger swell in him, the urge to reach out, shake Jimin, and demand an explanation that made sense. But he couldn't. Not when Jimin was this far gone. This… empty. "That's cold."
"Better cold than foolish," Jimin retorted, his tone biting, final.
K.D. looked at Jimin for a long moment, seeing the mask slipping, seeing something darker flickering beneath the surface—grief, maybe, or maybe something deeper. Something more dangerous. "But still," K.D. said quietly, "you loved her once. Didn't you?"
The question hung in the air, and for the first time, Jimin paused. The briefest flicker of hesitation. The smallest twitch in his jaw, but it was enough. Enough to send a pang of unease through the room. Jimin didn't speak for a long time, and when he did, his voice was softer than K.D. had expected. It felt like a confession. A wound laid bare.
"Loving her was the dumbest thing I've ever done," Jimin whispered, his words barely audible. But in that moment, they cut through the air like a knife through silk.
The mask cracked—just enough for Holland to see it. The pain. The rawness. The shattered pieces of something that had been left behind. There was grief, but it wasn't the kind that was easy to understand. It was something darker. Deeper.
"She made me feel small," Jimin continued, his voice low and almost fragile now like he was talking to himself more than anyone else. "Like no matter how much I gave, it was never enough. Like I had to beg for the bare minimum. I swore I'd never be that man again."
His words hit K.D. like a punch to the gut. For a split second, he saw it—Jimin, not as the ice-cold villain, but as someone who had been crushed. Someone who had been betrayed, and who had grown numb in the aftermath.
Jimin's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening with the pressure, his veins straining against his skin as if he were fighting to contain something dangerous. Something broken.
"I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself," Jimin said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's when I knew it was over."
There was a long silence, one that stretched for far too long. Neither Holland nor K.D. had anything to say to that. What could they say? This wasn't something they could fix. This wasn't something that could be undone.
Jimin exhaled slowly, the cool indifference returning to his features as if it were a mask he had learned to wear. "And now?" K.D. asked, his voice hoarse, strained.
Jimin's lips curled into that cruel, deliberate smile. The kind of smile that made Holland's skin crawl, but it wasn't just a smile. It was a warning. A declaration. "Now, I become the villain. The one she warned herself about."
Holland blinked, trying to process what Jimin was saying, but before he could speak, Jimin leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a dangerous, manic kind of clarity. "I'm entering the Saga beauty awards. Not just entering," he added, a cruel glint in his eyes. "I'm going to dominate it. I'll make sure she sees what she threw away every time she opens her eyes."
Something was unsettling in Jimin's words. Something dark twisted in K.D.'s gut.
"You're dangerous when you're like this," K.D. muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if to dispel the ominous feeling settling over him.
Jimin's eyes turned icy. "No," he said, his voice sharp, dangerous. "I'm dangerous when I care. Now? I feel nothing. And that makes me unstoppable."
EARLIER THAT MORNING — VALE MANSION, TEA ROOM
Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows like a halo sent to mock the sins hidden within these walls. The Vale mansion was unusually quiet. Unnervingly quiet. As if the air itself was holding its breath.
Catalina sat at the polished mahogany table, sipping her morning tea with smug elegance. She wore a silk robe like it was armor, and her smirk curled with venom. Queenie, I'll make sure you leave this house. I'll make sure your life is miserable, she thought, lifting her cup with performative grace.
Georgina sat beside her, half-distracted by the society section of the morning paper. The maids floated silently about, shadows in the background.
Catalina took another sip—
And then she froze.
Her eyes widened. Her hand trembled.
"Catalina?" Goerigna's brow creased.
The cup slipped. Shattered porcelain skittered across the floor. Catalina gasped and clutched her throat.
"Something's—wrong…" she rasped.
Then the retching began. Blood—dark, red, violent—splattered across the porcelain tiles. The sound was animalistic and horrific.
Screams erupted. A maid dropped a tray. Georgina surged forward, catching her daughter as Catalina collapsed into convulsions.
"Someone call an ambulance!"
TWO HOURS LATER — HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM
Sterile antiseptic couldn't mask the fear. The lights were too bright. The world is too cold. Georgina paced like a storm barely contained, her robe now stained with panic and her daughter's blood. Allison stood to the side, her voice lost somewhere in her own horror.
A doctor finally emerged. "We've stabilized her. She ingested a toxic substance—definitely poison. If you'd gotten her here a minute later, she might not have made it."
Goerigna's breath hitched. Her face twisted into something primal.
"Who would do this to my daughter?" she hissed.
A whisper followed.
"I—I saw something."
It was Sage, the youngest maid. Pale. Trembling. Hands wrung tight against her apron.
"Last night… I saw Queenie in the pantry. She was holding a little bottle and said she was making a 'special brew.' I thought it was just some herbal thing…"
Georgina turned toward her, eyes lit with the fury of a thousand suns.
"Bring her to me," she said.
LATER — QUEENIE'S Room
Queenie sat cross-legged on her bed, barefoot, tying her hair into a messy bun. Completely unaware that hell was about to arrive.
She didn't hear the storm until it was already in the room.
The door exploded open.
"You tried to murder my daughter."
Goerigna's voice wasn't raised—it was weaponized.
Queenie froze.
She blinked. Once. Twice. "What?"
Her mind was molasses. Her breath caught in her throat.
Murder? What? She looked up, blinking at Georgina, trying to piece it together like a shattered mirror.
"What did you put in the tea?"
"I promise—I have no idea what you're saying, Auntie," Queenie replied, her voice weak, eyes wide.
"We have a witness. And we have a victim," Goerigna spat. "Where is it? The poison?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about!"
She couldn't breathe. Her heart pounded. Her ears rang.
This isn't real. This isn't happening. Please, someone, wake me up.
"You wanted her gone."
"That's a lie!" Queenie cried, her voice cracking like glass under pressure.
"Search everything," Goerigna ordered.
The maids moved in like jackals. Drawers yanked open. Clothes thrown. Pages ripped from books.
Then—
"Here it is!"
A maid pulled a small amber vial from beneath Queenie's pillow.
"No… no, that's not mine!" Queenie's voice broke completely. "Someone planted that! This is insane!"
But their faces had already turned. Judging. Disgusted. Afraid.
SLAP.
Queenie's face jerked sideways, stinging with the imprint of Goerigna's hand. The sting was nothing compared to the humiliation.
"You'll be lucky if I don't have you arrested right now," Goerigna hissed. "You filthy little snake."
"I didn't do it! I swear! I barely even talk to Catalina—"
"You hated her," Goerigna snarled. "Admit it."
"I'm being framed!"
She felt the floor beneath her cracking. Everything was falling apart. Her vision blurred. Her hands trembled.
Then—
"All of you, STOP!"
Allison shoved between them like a shield. "You're acting like a damn lynch mob!"
"She tried to kill your sister!"
"You don't know that! You just want someone to blame because it's easier than facing the truth!"
Georgina pointed. "That's proof enough."
"No, it's a setup."
"She's leaving," Goerigna snapped. "She walks out of here and never comes back."
"Auntie, please…" Queenie dropped to her knees, voice breaking apart in sobs. "Please don't do this. I have nowhere else to go."
"Don't touch me. Your apology means nothing," Goerigna spat.
"Mother, why don't we look into this more?" Allison asked.
"The evidence is right there! This witch tried to kill your sister!"
"Auntie… Catalina is my sister too. Why would I hurt her?"
"Why should I believe you?" Goerigna's voice cracked with fury. "I always knew you were trouble—but I never imagined you'd be this heartless."
"I'm calling the cops."
"No!" Queenie's voice tore through the room. "Please, Auntie, please—"
"Mother, don't involve the police. Please," Allison begged.
"Fine," Goerigna hissed. "Then she brings me the hospital bill by tomorrow. Or I will have her arrested."
"Auntie… I don't have any money."
"I don't care. Get out. And you leave without a single thing from here. Not a shirt. Not a pin."
"And Allison—you help her, and I'll have you arrested for aiding a criminal."
She stormed off.
Queenie collapsed. Her lungs burned. Her mind screamed.
She looked at Allison. Her only remaining thread.
"I believe you," Allison whispered. Her voice trembled with the weight of all the things she couldn't do. "I'm sorry. I just… I can't help you right now."
"It's fine," Queenie whispered, even though it wasn't. Even though it never would be.
She stood up. One foot in front of the other. Broken.
"I'll see you later," she muttered.
Allison wiped away a silent tear. "Take care of yourself."
Queenie nodded.
She stepped into the cold morning light.
The door slammed behind her.
She didn't look back.
Because looking back meant breaking.
And she had no more pieces left to lose.
But something new flickered in her chest.
Not fear.
Not sorrow.
Revenge.