C33 - Soul-ed MATE

The next day when I wake up, Yoongi is gone, but there’s a phone on the bedside table. I know it’s meant for me because the pawn sits on top of it.

When I turn it on, there are three numbers already saved—Hoseok’s cell phone, the number to Mr. Jinseok in the nursing home.

The last number says ‘Asshole.’

He answers after the first ring. “Good morning.”

“Where are you?”

“Downstairs. I have a few things to take care of in my office, but I’ll be done in time for lunch.”

“Am I allowed to wander?” There’s a hint of snark in my voice, but it’s also a serious question. I don’t know what the rules are for this new tenuous truce.

“Of course,” he says. “Just don’t get lost.”

His house is ridiculous with hallways that lead in circles, with bedrooms that lead into deeper rooms. I don’t know whether he bought it this way or had it built, but it suits him.

“I thought you like the chase.”

A low laugh. “Don’t tease me, bluebell. I have all afternoon to make you regret it.”

I shiver, knowing he can accomplish it. My body still aches with all the ways he took me last night, waking me over and over, sometimes moving inside me before I was awake, time folding on itself.

“Do I get clothes?”

“In the dresser. Top drawer.”

Crossing the room, I find the contents of my motel room neatly stacked. I nudge aside my clothes, a few books.

“The chess set is missing.”

“In the library,” he says, voice velvet with promise.

“I thought we might play.”

“Said the spider to the fly.” He doesn’t deny it. “I’m looking forward to it.”

My fingers brush against the bottom of the drawer. That’s it. “Wait. Where’s the diary?”

“We still have a week left.”

The final week he won in the auction. “What does that have to do with this?”

“You can have it back when we’re done. Unless you find it on your own.”

Red flashes across my vision. “Why do you play games all the time?”

“Why do you assume it’s a game?”

“Because you have no reason to keep it from me.”

“So, you say.”

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. Does it matter? In the large scheme of things I’ve gone years without reading the diary. I can go a few more days. “One week.”

And like we’re signing a treaty: “One week.”

What will happen after that? Will he send me away or ask me to stay? Is he even capable of asking something?

All he knows how to do is purchase me. Once the escrow transfers to me, I won’t be for sale anymore— I won’t need money. I won’t need Yoongi.

After hanging up, I call Hoseok. He tells me that he returned to Tokyo with Minho, that they’re locked in some kind of battle, neither willing to give in.

He’s fuming. “He’s doing this just to piss me off.”

“I know the feeling,” I say drily. “Except…”

“Except what?” he snaps, his voice rich with warning.

“As your friend I want the best for you. I want you to be happy.”

Hoseok sighs. “This is one of those tough love situations, isn’t it?”

“I’m just saying it seems like he’s trying to do right by you. And it kind of feels…” I clear my throat. “I mean, is it possible you’re spending more just to make him angry?”

“It’s my money!”

“Right, but he was tasked with managing your money.”

“My money, not managing me. He’s ridiculous. And horrible. And did I mention ridiculous?”

“Well, sure. Yes. But you know he takes his job seriously. It was in your dad’s will. It’s not like he can question what exactly the man’s intentions were. He looked up to your dad. He wouldn’t want to fail him in his last request.”

“Stop being reasonable,” he huffs. “He’s horrible.”

“Horrible,” I agree.

“I can’t believe you’re siding with him after what Jo Yunhyuk did to you. He trashed your trust fund! You lost your house because of him! He should be behind bars. He’s the one who should be bedridden. I’d kick his ass for you. If, you know, I weren’t this far.”

“I appreciate that, but Yunhyuk stole from me. You don’t think Minho’s messing with your money, do you?”

He sounds more aggrieved than ever. “No, he actually made it bigger with his investments. And don’t you dare say that’s a good thing. Flix before dicks. We agreed.”

“I’m pretty sure I never agreed to that, much less heard you say it. But for what it’s worth, I’d kick his ass for you. If, you know, I wasn’t stuck being the not-quite- sex slave of a rich asshole.”

The asshole and I live the next few days in a sex dream, never leaving the house, barely leaving his large four-post bed. There’s an urgency to our lovemaking, an unspoken awareness that the end is near.

In the mornings he works from his office, and I explore the house— searching for the diary. It’s a half-hearted search, fuelled more by curiosity than any real desire to end this.

Because the end is coming soon enough. I don’t need to hurry it along. The gaps in my knowledge loom outside these four walls, waiting, watching. They’ll find me soon enough, but for now I’m safe in Yoongi’s arms.

!!~~~~!!

By the last day I’m certain I’ve looked everywhere for the diary. It still eludes me. I even checked outside the house, almost getting lost amid the tall hedges shaped into an elaborate maze. I’m actually more impressed that Namjoon made it through that during my last stay.

I wake when the moon is high, suddenly alert.

Did I hear something?

Or is it only my anxiety, wondering what tomorrow will bring?

This might be my last night in this bed. I know that Yoongi cares about me, but I’m not sure he’s capable of having a regular relationship. Not sure he wants to try. On a whim I pick up the pawn from the side table.

Slipping from the bed, I walk barefoot through the empty halls. The air still smells faintly of the fresh biscuits Micha made for dinner. I turn sideways into the library, the fireplace dark in the middle of the night. There’s a small lamp on the table with the chess set.

I put the pawn in its place. We never did play, not with the set, but we played our own version—the instinctive waters of middlegame. Openings are strategic, mapped out and named. Analyzed with strengths and weaknesses.

But middlegames contain infinite combinations, too complex to define. Both fighting for control of the board, trading with the fervent hope that we’ll come out on top.

Keeping the king in relative safety, because that’s the point of the game. My fingertip touches each piece on the black side—king, queen.

Knight. An unusual piece because of the way it moves. Forward and sideways. The only piece able to jump other pieces. Not the most powerful on the board, but the most dangerous in closed positions.

I pick up the king, my thumb stroking over the ridges, the cross at the top. Once I read that Napoleon Bonaparte loved chess, though he hadn’t been an extraordinary player. He had played his generals, certain the game held some kind of tactical education.

He played every day of his exile, though I don’t remember who he played with.

His guards?

That hits a little close to home. And I remember something else—that an escape plan was hatched to hide instructions in a chess piece and send it to him as a gift. The piece in my hand is too small to hide anything, at least anything readable to the naked eye.

But the base of the set is tall. Yoongi had it custom carved for my arrival. I set down the king and test the set, careful not to knock over the lined-up pieces.

Heavy.

Some sets come with hollow compartments to store the pieces, but this one feels solid. Unless there’s something inside.

Tipping the surface, I let the pieces slide onto the rug. The king rolls onto the hardwood near the fireplace. I lift the lid of the chessboard and look inside—a leather-bound book sits in the empty space.

My mother’s diary.

I should be happy to have found it, even a day sooner than he had promised to give it back. Instead all I feel is dread. All the demons we’ve been keeping at bay—they’re free now. Free in the form of beautiful scrolling handwriting and a lifetime of secrets.

Turning the pages past wedding plans and honeymoon, past her excited and elaborate plans for the house that Dad builds her, a single word catches my eye.

Afraid.

My hand trembles as I flip back to find the page.

Everything I wanted has come true—a beautiful house. A kind husband. Security for my family. And yet I can’t shake the feeling that I made a terrible mistake. Even in my own room I can feel someone watching me, threatening me. I’m afraid that I’m going insane.

Was my mother insane?

It sounds like paranoia. Diagnoses and treatment of mental illness wasn’t like today. They had less knowledge and far more stigma.

I remember feeling like someone watched me. Maybe I’m going insane too.

Except someone had written WHORE over the fireplace. That’s not a figment of my imagination, an illness that needs to be treated. And someone took pictures of me.

Sejin insists that it’s in my head, but I’m sure it’s not. It’s like the house is alive. Breathing. Whispering. I’m never alone, even when the people have gone.

Unease moves through me. I glance at the shadows around me. I can’t see through them, but I know I’m alone.

Don’t I?

I remember my terror the night I saw someone outside the window. Is that how my mother felt all the time? I thought she loved the house. And at the beginning she did.

It turned into something sinister in these pages.

The strangest thing happened tonight. I saw him at a party for the Jae’s anniversary. We both pretended we had never met. When he asked me to dance, I said yes so, we could talk. I asked him how he got an invitation. He told me he had worked with Jaee Raphael, but he refused to go into details.

So, the mystery man met her again. Not that it told me anything. I didn’t know his name yet.

But Sejin acted strange the rest of the night. He kept asking me about my dance with him, even though we had maintained appearances. It’s almost as if he knows the truth.

He did, because he had followed my mother the night before their wedding.

Now I’m wondering if the eyes I feel inside the house have a name.

Park Sejin.

“Ah, you found it.” The voice startles me, and I jump from the chair. The diary falls to the rug amid the scattered chess pieces. This is the way he found me weeks ago, at the beginning of our month.

Now we’re here at the end. I know him better, but there are even more questions. Yoongi isn’t wearing a shirt, just low-slung slacks that reveal muscled abs and a trail of hair disappearing around the V of his lower abdomen. He looks unrepentant about hiding the diary, about having startled me, but then he always did like to play.

Yoongi crosses the room to the fireplace, kneeling to reveal the bunched muscles of his back. He settles a stack of logs from the metal basket beside the fireplace and strikes a match.

The roar fills the vacuum of quiet with crackles and pops of a new fire. When he faces me, the light flickers against his broad shoulders, his muscled arms, leaving his expression an enigma.

I pick up the diary with two fingers, as if it’s poison.

And God, it is.

How long has it been poisoning that house?

How long has it been making me sick without even knowing it?

And Yoongi doesn’t seem the least bit surprised.

“How did you know my mother was afraid?”

He settles into the other armchair, long legs stretched out. He’s the king of his domain—and a checkmate against him seems nearly impossible. How had I ever thought I could make him helpless?

Abandoned?

“Because she told someone,” he says.

“Who?”

“The father of my good friend Kim Taehyung.” His tone is sardonic. “You remember him, Don’t you?”

I swallow my shock. “Hard to forget the man who auctioned me.”

“His father, Kim Yongdae. That’s who she was going to see the night she was murdered.”

!!~~~~!!!!~~~~!!