"Have you not done enough to her already?" Stephen's voice rang through the chapel like a whip. His eyes burned with fury. "And now you want to ruin her wedding? Her chance at peace—at healing?"
"She's not going to be happy with you!" Jin snapped back, his voice cracked and unhinged. "You don't know her. This isn't your place. Don't butt into something you don't understand. You're just an outsider."
Stephen's jaw clenched. He took a step forward, fists tightening at his sides, but—
"Stephen," Hana said softly, placing a hand on his chest.
He stopped immediately.
Her eyes were fixed on Jin—not with fear, but calm wariness.
Because Jin wasn't just emotional.
He was unstable.
And in his hand . . . was a small device. A button. Her breath caught.
No one had truly expected Jin to go this far. Not after everything. Not after supposedly falling for Yuna, her stepsister.
He was supposed to be in love with her stepsister.
And now—just when she had finally broken free from that one-sided love, just when she was beginning to heal and start a new life with Stephen—he came crashing back into her world, desperate to ruin it all over again.
As if her peace was something he could take.
As if her happiness was his to decide.
So what was this?
What was this twisted, last-ditch plea?
A man who claimed love, yet threatened destruction?
Hana's heart pounded. She kept her hand on Stephen, anchoring him back, not because she didn't want him to defend her—but because Jin might really push that button.
And that was something none of them could risk.
Not on her wedding day.
Not when innocent lives were on the line.
This wasn't just about her anymore—this was bigger than heartbreak or regret. One wrong move, and someone could get hurt. And she wasn't going to let that happen.
Jin stepped closer.
Hana didn't flinch.
"I know what I did. And I deserve to suffer for it. But please," he said, voice low now, begging. "Don't marry him. Just give me time. A year. A lifetime. Anything."
Silence fell over the room.
The priest slowly lowered his book. Stephen stood at the altar, not saying a word—but his eyes never left Hana.
She turned to Jin, her voice trembling but firm.
"This isn't the right time, Jin. Please . . . go away. Leave me alone. Let me be happy for once."
Jin's eyes widened, his hands shaking. "No, Hana, you don't understand . . . I can't live without you. I'll die if you walk away. I need to make it right. And if I'm going to die,"—his voice cracked, eyes glinting with something dangerous—"then I might as well bring everyone with me."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The guests, who moments ago were here to celebrate love, now watched in terror as their joyful day turned into a hostage situation.
Some were shielding their children. Others were frozen in fear. No one moved. No one spoke.
A few looked at Hana, eyes pleading. Silent, desperate cries saying please go with him . . . save us.
Stephen stepped forward. His hand tightened around Hana's wrist.
"Don't," he said, low and intense. "You don't have to do this. I have security. Reinforcements are coming."
But even he knew, as he glanced at the terrified crowd, that it might not be enough. Jin had money, power, influence—and madness on his side. It didn't matter how many guards stood outside.
He had found a way in, and he might really push the trigger.
Hana took a deep breath. Her fingers twitched.
She looked around the chapel—at the sea of horrified faces. At her grandparents clutching each other with fear for her. At Stephen's mother shielding a young girl. None of these people deserved to be caught in this. None of them had hurt Jin. None of them had hurt her.
This wasn't just her fight anymore.
And so, despite the shaking in her knees and the pounding of her heart, Hana looked Jin straight in the eye and said—
". . . Fine. I'll go with you."
The entire room exhaled as one.
Jin's expression brightened instantly, as if her words had pulled him back from the edge of insanity. His grip loosened around the button in his hand. "You mean it?"
Her voice barely held steady. "Yes. Just . . . let these people go. Let them have peace."
Her grandparents stood in stunned silence. Stephen looked as if the ground had been ripped from under him. His face went pale, and his eyes met hers with pure disbelief.
"No," he said, stepping in front of her. "You're not going with him."
Hana gently reached up and touched his cheek. "Stephen . . . I have to. I won't let him destroy everything—not again. He had already destroyed my past, I won't let him destroy my future."
His voice trembled. "I'll protect you—"
"I know," she whispered. "And I'll come back to you. I promise."
Jin stepped forward, hand extended like a child begging to be chosen. "You'll see, Hana. I'll prove everything. You'll remember the man you once loved."
"One week," she said. "That's all you get. One week. And then you leave me alone for good. That's the deal."
Jin nodded eagerly, tears now streaming down his face. "One week. I swear it. Just one week. I'll do whatever it takes. I will make you fall in love with me again."
She was about to take his hand when a soft, warm grip held her back.
It was Stephen's mother.
She looked at Hana with gentle, maternal eyes. Her lips were tight with pain, but her voice was calm.
"If you truly must go," she said, slipping something into Hana's arms, "then take this with you."
Hana looked down.
It was a box—not too small, not too large. Beautifully carved, the wood engraved with delicate roses. She didn't know what was inside.
Stephen's mother smiled sadly. "It's supposed to be my gift to you on your wedding . . . Open it when you're alone. And remember . . . no matter what happens out there, you have people waiting for you. A family. A future. My son."
Hana felt her throat tighten, but she nodded silently.
Clutching the box to her chest, she walked toward Jin.
She didn't look back.
Not at Stephen. Not at her wedding dress trailing behind her.
Not at the chapel she had once imagined walking out of as a bride.
Only forward.
Toward a man who had already broken her—
But this time, she wasn't the same girl he had once destroyed.