Jeon Jungkook didn’t speak unless it mattered. That was the first thing people learned. When he walked into a room, everything shifted. Voices dropped. Phones were pocketed. Eye contact became a gamble.

He was never loud. Never flashy. His wealth showed in whispers—the subtle glint of platinum cufflinks, the fine leather strap of a $30k watch barely visible beneath the sleeve of a hand-tailored Italian suit. He didn’t need to prove his power. He was power. He bled dominance in every calculated step, every dismissive glance, every silencing pause between words.

He was the kind of man who remembered every detail and offered none in return. He knew your weaknesses before you did. He could sit across from you in a boardroom, say nothing, and still make you agree to everything he wanted.

That was Jungkook.

He lived in a penthouse overlooking the city—a steel-and-glass palace made of cold surfaces and long shadows. Expensive, sterile, untouched. Just like him.

There were no framed photos on the shelves. No signs of sentiment. Just neat lines, glass whiskey tumblers, a row of books arranged with surgical precision, and a closet organized like a military operation. Control wasn't a preference—it was an addiction.

And underneath it all? He was bored.

Bored of mindless business dinners. Bored of fake smiles and fake moans. Bored of people who said what he wanted to hear. The women who slept in his bed were always beautiful, always eager, and always gone before breakfast.

Because none of them mattered. He didn’t let anyone in—not since the divorce. Not since the court papers made it clear that loving him was a losing game.

He wasn't angry about it. He didn't do anger. He did precision. He did control. He did detachment.

The door clicked shut behind him with a whisper of finality.

2:17 a.m.

The penthouse was exactly as he left it—quiet, untouched, sterile in that curated way luxury often was. Glass, marble, steel. Sleek and cold. Like him.

Jungkook loosened his tie with one hand, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt with the other, the sharp edge of his cufflink scraping across his skin. He exhaled through his nose—long, slow. He never sighed. Sighs were for men who hadn’t made peace with their choices.

His shoes hit the tile with dull thuds as he walked through the vast open space, passing the flickering city lights beyond the glass. Towering over the skyline, he should’ve felt victorious. He’d closed the deal tonight. Crushed a competitor. Made another hundred million for men who’d never appreciate the way he bled for it.

But all he felt was drained.

And alone.

He made his way to the kitchen, fingers rolling his sleeves up to the elbows. The dim glow from under the cabinets guided him like a ritual. No lights. No noise. Just the sound of the ice dropping into the crystal tumbler as he pulled the bottle from the shelf—The Dalmore 25. His favorite. Not because of the price tag, but because it burned just enough.

He poured slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl like molasses. One finger. Two. No water. No rocks. He didn’t need the soft edges tonight. He needed the sharp truth.

He leaned on the counter with one hand, the other holding the glass, and took his first sip.

It slid down his throat like silk over steel.

Silence wrapped around him like a second skin. In the distance, a car alarm echoed, far below. Somewhere else. Someone else's life. Here, in the kitchen of his glass tower, Jungkook stood still. Stoic. Untouchable.

But behind those dark-brown eyes, his mind never stopped.

The choices. The ghosts. The hours lost to boardrooms and negotiations. The women who left claw marks in his bed but never touched the man beneath. The son who admired him and resented him in equal measure. The boy who still hadn’t realized that Jungkook was not the man to be idolized.

He took another sip.

And that’s when he heard it.

The quiet patter of bare feet.

He didn’t move. Not yet. Just tilted his head slightly, instinctively sharpening his attention. He thought Elliot had gone out for the night, maybe crashing at a friend’s place. So who the hell was—

Then she stepped in.

Standing there like a dream he was never supposed to have. Her back was to him, body bathed in pale gold from the refrigerator glow. She wore nothing but Elliot’s oversized T-shirt—Jungkook recognized it instantly. One of the college ones, worn thin from years of use. It clung to her hips and stopped just below the curve of her thighs.

Bare legs. Tousled hair. The sleep-heavy sway of her movements as she stood on tiptoe to reach something on the top shelf.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

Not in the shadows. Not with her mind half-asleep. She was humming softly under her breath, something mindless and sweet, unaware that a man was watching her with a glass of expensive whiskey in one hand and the slow burn of everything he shouldn’t feel crawling beneath his skin.

His jaw clenched. Watched the way her shirt rose up a little too high as she stretched. Watched the outline of her form under the thin cotton. Watched the girl his son brought into their home walk barefoot and trusting into the dark, never once thinking she might not be alone.

Jungkook took a slow sip, let the silence stretch just long enough. Then, in a voice that carried more control than comfort, he spoke. “Do you always dress like that in other people’s kitchens?”