Chapter One Hundred Forty: The Call That Changed Everything
The phone buzzed against the nightstand like an angry hornet, its vibration skittering across the polished wood. Once. Twice. Three times. I reached for it without looking, my other hand still gripping the edge of the desk where I'd been standing for the past hour, my back to the empty room.
The caller ID flashed.
Doctor Rousseau – Hôpital Saint-Louis.
My thumb hovered over the screen. The test results. Three days of waiting, of pretending not to count the hours, of holding you when you dreamed and feeding you soup when you couldn't keep anything else down. Three days of building a fortress around my heart, trying to prepare for whatever news was about to break through the walls.
I answered.
"Mr. Kim." The doctor's voice was calm, professional, the voice of a woman who had delivered difficult news before and would again. "I have the results."
I said nothing. Just gripped the phone tighter and waited.
"We found something very surprising from the test. Something I didn't expect, given your medical history and your wife's trauma."
My heart stopped. Then slammed back to life, too fast, too hard, a wild drumbeat of fear and desperate, aching hope.
"What is it?"
The doctor paused. A breath. A shuffle of papers.
"Mr. Kim, your wife is—"
My phone buzzed again.
Another call, cutting in, the screen flashing a name I hadn't seen in nearly a year. Kim Namhyun.
My brow furrowed. Namhyun. Your professor. The man you'd once admired, the man whose lectures had felt like sanctuary, the man who had caught us kissing in an empty classroom and walked away without a word.
A man I hadn't spoken to in nearly a year. A man whose name I'd avoided, whose face I'd erased from my mental geography, whose presence in your past still made my jaw tighten with a jealousy I couldn't justify.
We weren't in contact. We'd never been in contact. There was no reason for Namhyun to be calling me now, in the middle of the night, in the middle of Paris, in the middle of—
I rejected the call.
The doctor was still talking. "—considering the extent of her injuries, the blood loss, the trauma to her abdomen—"
The phone buzzed again. Namhyun. Again.
I rejected it again.
"Mr. Kim, are you still there?"
"Yes." My voice was rough, scraped raw. "Keep talking."
"There is a very high probability that—"
The phone buzzed a third time.
This time, it wasn't a call. A message. Namhyun's name, stark against the glowing screen. I couldn't stop myself from glancing down.
Your wife is with me. She ran. She's safe. Come quickly.
The world tilted.
"Mr. Kim—"
"I have to go." My voice was hollow, distant, the voice of a man who had just realized the ground beneath him was gone. "I'll call you back."
I ended the call before she could respond.
The apartment was silent.
The rain had stopped. The city hummed beyond the windows, distant and indifferent. The bed was empty, the sheets cold, my shirt—the brown one, soft and worn, the one you'd been wearing—draped over the chair by the window like a ghost.
My phone buzzed again.
Namhyun's name. Another message.
She was crying. Barefoot. In the rain. Please come.
I didn't remember moving.
One moment, I was standing in the study, my hand still gripping the phone, my chest tight with a fear so sharp it felt like drowning. The next, I was in the hallway, the door slamming behind me, my feet carrying me toward the elevator on autopilot.
The lobby was a blur. The doorman said something—I didn't hear it. The rain had started again, soft and relentless, soaking through my shirt, plastering my hair to my forehead.
I didn't feel it.
I was calling Namhyun before I reached the street, the phone pressed to my ear, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Where?"
"The apartment near the river. Rue de—"
"I know where." My voice was a blade, sharp and cold. "Is she hurt?"
"No. Just scared. Confused. She said she saw a woman—"
"I'll be there in five minutes."
I ended the call before he could respond.
The car was in the garage beneath the hotel. I didn't remember unlocking it, didn't remember starting the engine, didn't remember pulling into the wet, dark streets of Paris. My hands were steady on the wheel, my eyes fixed on the road, but my mind—my mind was a storm of fear and fury and desperate, aching relief.
She ran.
She's safe.
She ran.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. Buzzed again. Ignored it. Again. Again. Again.
Finally, I glanced at the screen.
Junho: Hyung, where are you? Your location is moving. Is everything okay?
I swiped the call open.
"Junho."
"Hyung. What's happening? Your tracker shows you driving through Paris like a maniac."
"She's gone."
"What?"
"She ran." I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "She's barefoot in the rain. Namhyun found her. He's a professor. Her professor. The one she—" I stopped, my jaw tightening. "I'm going to get her."
"Hyung, slow down. You're not making sense. Why would she—"
"Because I was on the phone." The words came out bitter, sharp with self-loathing. "Because I told her to go somewhere. Because I was busy, and she was scared, and I didn't—" My voice cracked. "I didn't see."
Junho was quiet for a moment.
"We'll find her," he said finally. "She's safe. Namhyun has her. You'll bring her home."
"She left her shoes."
"What?"
"She left her shoes. In the apartment. And her phone. And her earrings—the ones with the tracker." My hands tightened on the wheel. "She left everything, Junho. Everything I gave her. Everything I used to keep her safe."
"Hyung—"
"She doesn't remember. She doesn't remember why I put trackers in her jewelry, why I have men watching her, why I can't let her out of my sight. She just feels trapped. Caged. And I—" I swallowed hard. "I made her feel that way."
"You kept her alive."
"At what cost?"
Junho didn't answer.
The GPS flashed. Rue de—. I was close. So close I could almost smell you, almost feel the warmth of your skin, almost hear the soft, steady rhythm of your voice.
"Hyung, I'm putting you on speaker. Minho and Jinwoo are here."
"Taehyun." Minho's voice, cool and steady, cutting through the chaos. "What's the situation?"
"She ran. Namhyun found her. I'm almost there."
"The test results," Jinwoo said. "Did the doctor call?"
My jaw tightened.
"Yes."
"And?"
"She didn't finish."
"What do you mean, she didn't finish?"
"She called. Namhyun called. I answered Namhyun. She ran." The words were fragments, broken shards of a sentence I couldn't complete. "I don't know the results. I don't know anything. I just know she's gone."
"Hyung—"
"She left her shoes, Minho. Her shoes. She's barefoot in the rain in a city she doesn't remember, and I don't know if she's pregnant or if she's dying or if—"
"Taehyun." Minho's voice was sharp, cutting through the spiral. "Stop."
I stopped.
"Call the doctor back. Now. Put her on speaker. We'll listen. You'll drive. And when you get to Namhyun's apartment, you'll know."
"Minho—"
"Call her, hyung."
I pulled to the side of the street, my hands shaking, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The rain was a curtain, silver and endless, blurring the lights of the city into smears of gold and red.
I found the doctor's number.
Pressed call.
She answered on the second ring. "Mr. Kim. Is everything—"
"I'm sorry." My voice was rough, scraped raw. "I had to go. My wife—she ran. I'm going to get her now. But I need to know. The results. Please."
The doctor was quiet for a moment.
"Mr. Kim, your wife is pregnant."
The world stopped.
"Approximately six weeks. The embryo is healthy. The implantation is secure. Given her medical history—the bullet wound, the blood loss, the trauma to her abdomen—it is something of a miracle."
Pregnant.
I couldn't breathe.
"Mr. Kim? Are you still there?"
"Miracle," I repeated. The word tasted strange on my tongue, foreign and sacred.
"Yes. And there's more."
More. There couldn't be more. My heart was already too full, my chest already too tight, my mind already spinning with images of your belly round and full, of your hand pressed to your stomach, of the child we'd made together.
"The test results also indicate that her amnesia may be resolving. The brain is a remarkable organ, Mr. Kim. Trauma can lock memories away, but it cannot destroy them. With the right triggers—familiar places, familiar faces, emotional events—they can return."
"When?"
"I cannot say. Weeks. Months. Perhaps not at all. But there is hope."
Hope.
I clung to the word like a lifeline.
"Thank you," I said. "I have to go."
"Of course. And Mr. Kim—congratulations."
The call ended.
The car was silent.
My hands were still shaking.
"Hyung?" Junho's voice, small through the speaker.
"She's pregnant."
A beat of silence. Then—
"SHE'S WHAT?!"
"Junho—"
"SHE'S PREGNANT?! HYUNG, SHE'S PREGNANT! WE'RE GOING TO BE UNCLES!"
"Junho, calm down—"
"I CAN'T CALM DOWN! MINHO, SHE'S PREGNANT! JINWOO, SHE'S PREGNANT! DID YOU HEAR THAT?! SHE'S—"
"Pregnant," Minho finished, his voice flat, but beneath it, something warm.
"How far?" Jinwoo asked.
"Six weeks."
"Six weeks." Jinwoo's voice was soft, wondering. "That was… that was before everything."
I closed my eyes.
The jungle. The helicopter. The bullet that had nearly killed you. The blood on my hands, the terror in your eyes, the way you'd whispered my name like a prayer.
You'd been pregnant then.
You'd been carrying my child while I carried you out of the darkness.
"Taehyun." Minho's voice was steady, grounding. "You need to tell her."
"I know."
"I'm not talking about the baby."
I opened my eyes.
"You need to tell her about the accident. About Venice. About who she was before she forgot. About the sister she doesn't remember."
"Minho—"
"She's going to find out eventually. The memories are coming back. The doctor said so." A pause. "And when they do, if you haven't told her, she won't forgive you."
I didn't answer.
"Tell her, Taehyun. Before it's too late."
I put the car in gear and drove.
The streets of Paris blurred past me—cobblestones slick with rain, windows glowing amber, the Eiffel Tower a distant ghost in the dark. I drove too fast, swerving around corners, barely stopping at intersections. I didn't care. I couldn't care. You were out there somewhere, barefoot and alone, and I was the reason you'd run.
I was looking for you.
And you were nowhere.
The GPS led me to a narrow street in Le Marais, the buildings old and close together, their windows dark. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, my hands still on the wheel, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Then I got out.
The rain was cold on my face, soaking through my shirt, plastering my hair to my forehead. I walked to the door—heavy wood, iron knocker, a small plaque with a name I didn't read.