For weeks, Taehyung had floated in a haze of shame and secret pleasure. Jungkook had become insatiable—sneaking into her room at night, stealing touches in the hallways, drinking from her like she was his private well.

But lately, things had started to change.

Hana had noticed.

Not the truth—no, her daughter didn’t suspect the filth they indulged in. But Hana felt something was different, something between her husband and her mother.

She started spending more time at home, canceling outings with her friends, insisting on “family dinners,” hovering around Jungkook like a shadow.

At first, Taehyung tried to ignore it. She told herself it was just her hormones making her sensitive, her guilt painting everything darker than it was. But every time she saw Hana clutching Jungkook’s arm, pressing kisses to his cheek, giggling and pulling him close, something inside her chest twisted painfully.

And she hated herself for it.

Because wasn’t this exactly how it was supposed to be? Jungkook was Hana’s husband. Hana’s future. Taehyung was just the surrogate. The mother. The vessel.

And yet—her belly swelled with his child, not Hana’s. Her breasts leaked milk that only he tasted. Her bed smelled of his sweat, his cum, his obsession.

Every glance he gave her across the room, every brush of his hand when Hana wasn’t looking, reminded her of the terrible truth: she was his in a way her daughter would never understand.

That evening, Hana decided they would all eat together.

“Mom, don’t get up,” she chirped brightly when Taehyung tried to clear the plates. “You’re pregnant. Let me and Kook take care of things.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. He stood, collecting the dishes in stiff silence.

Taehyung sank back down, forcing a smile. Hana curled herself against Jungkook’s side, hand stroking his arm, eyes shining with a possessive sweetness that made Taehyung’s stomach churn.

“Kook has been so good to me,” Hana said, loud enough for both of them to hear. “Haven’t you, baby? You’d never let me feel alone.”

Jungkook forced a small smile, kissed her hair. But his eyes—those dark, burning eyes—flicked briefly to Taehyung, and she knew the truth. He wasn’t thinking of Hana at all.

Later that night, Taehyung lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She pressed her palm to her belly, tears welling in her eyes.

She should be happy. Hana was smiling again, clinging to her husband. The family looked normal from the outside.

So why did it hurt so much?

Why did it feel like every kiss Hana gave Jungkook was ripping Taehyung’s heart out of her chest?

She blamed the hormones. She told herself it was the pregnancy making her irrational, fragile, needy.

But deep down, she knew it was fear.

Fear that maybe, just maybe, Jungkook would wake up one day and remember who he was supposed to belong to. That he’d stop sneaking into her bed, stop drinking from her breasts, stop whispering promises in the dark.

And he’d choose Hana.

Her daughter.

Like he should have from the start.

But Jungkook wasn’t Hana’s doting husband anymore.

That night, after Hana finally fell asleep, she curled into his chest, whispering, “Don’t leave me, Kook. Stay home more.”

Jungkook stroked her hair, but his expression was cold. His body stiff, his cock already aching for another.

When her breathing evened out, he slid out of her grasp, jaw tight with irritation.

Clingy. That’s what Hana had become. Clingy and demanding, as if she knew something was slipping through her fingers.

But the truth was, he was already gone.

He padded down the hall, eyes locked on the door that hid his true obsession. His real woman. His secret.

And when he slipped into Taehyung’s room, she was waiting for him—wide-eyed, guilty, terrified—yet still opening her arms.

As his lips crashed into hers, Jungkook thought bitterly of Hana’s clinginess, her shallow beauty, her complaints about her body, her selfishness.

And he whispered against Taehyung’s mouth, low and dangerous: “She can cling all she wants. But you’re the one I’ll never let go of.”