C38 - Soul-ed MATE

We spend the next week in bed, in the library. In his office. Doing all manner of illicit things, some even illegal in a few states. Neither of us feel inclined to leave the safety of these walls.

But eventually the world intrudes. Yoongi gets a call from Hyejin telling him a merger needs his attention. He’s dressed in a suit, his jaw freshly shaved, his eyes veiled. Standing in the middle of the room, he exudes confidence and strength.

I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of the chessboard to him like this.

I leave the bed, my nightgown a slinky contrast to his stark power. “Have a nice day, Mr. Min.”

He tucks me against his side, the suit fabric cool against my arms. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Of course.” I give him a chiding look. “You’re the one healing from fractured ribs. I’m completely fine.”

That’s not entirely true.

I suffered some smoke inhalation during the fire. Wracking coughs that went on for days. Or maybe just minutes. And worse than the cough are the nightmares.

Flames.

Fear.

Yoongi’s expression darkens. “I’ll stay home.”

And every night Yoongi has been there to wake me up, to hold me in his arms, to murmur reassurance. At one time I wouldn’t have believed he could be tender. Now I know what’s underneath the muscle and flesh, the sternness and dark sensuality.

“Hey,” I tell him softly. “You’re only a phone call away. And you’ll be back tonight.”

He frowns. “A half day.”

My heart does a jump with relief. The truth is I want him to come home quickly. I don’t want him to leave at all. But I don’t want him to worry about me. If I don’t convince him I’m okay he’ll stay out of obligation.

“Take as long as you need. Trust me, I need a long soak in that tub of yours with all the spray jets. Actually, it will be good for me. I’m a little…sore.”

He narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

I smile. “Good. Because I want you home. Once I’m well rested we can spend all night getting reacquainted. Ten hours is a long time to go without seeing you.”

“Oh, bluebell. Ten hours? After two you’ll be all closed up again, your body tight and fully healed. It will be my pleasure to tear you apart again.”

Heat sparks in me, spreading along my skin like wildfire. My cheeks heat.

“Maybe you could be a little late?”

He smiles coolly, enjoying my discomfort. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

I press against his side, savoring the hardness of him. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t go anywhere,” he warns, ignoring my plea. “If you need something talk to Baek.”

Security has been outrageous here ever since the fire. Patrols as if we’re in some kind of military compound. Men at every exit. More cameras installed. It’s supposed to make me feel safe, but I can’t shake the nervous anticipation.

“I’ll stay here,” I promise.

With a single hard press of his lips against mine, he’s gone. After a few minutes of aimless wandering in his room, I head into the bathroom. The tub is truly lovely, large and filled with jets, water pouring down from a ledge built with stone.

Little glass pots on the side are filled with everything I could want, and I pour in a small scoop of sea salt and a few drops of lavender oil. Steam fills the room, coating every shiny and reflective surface. It’s like bathing in a cloud. I close my eyes, breathing in the relaxing aroma.

The doorbell chimes. I jolt with surprise, sending water over the ledge. My breathing is too fast.

You’re safe, I remind myself.

There’s more protection here than at Daegu City Hall. Not to mention, if anyone had bad intentions they probably wouldn’t announce themselves by using the doorbell.

I grab a thick white towel and step out of the bathtub, taking care on the slippery floor.

I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, my wet hair in a manbun.

A man named Baek is in charge of security here. Apparently, he owns a prestigious company that does protection for businesses, even celebrities. Yoongi insisted that he personally oversee my safety.

My heart skips a beat when I see what’s leaning against the wall. A large brown box. Large and flat, wrapped in brown cardboard.

“Park Jimin. That’s me,” I say. “That’s mine.”

Even before I look at the label from the antiquities dealer in Daegu, I know that it’s my mother’s portrait. I started looking for it as soon as the escrow account transferred to my name. Yoongi offered to buy it for me, but I refused.

It’s important that the money from the auction goes toward rebuilding my life. My auction will always be twisted with shame and responsibility, with darkness and dread, but there’s one bright spot.

Because with that money comes independence.

I’m here by choice.

I’m with Yoongi because I want to be. It cost a small fortune to track down the picture. The original dealer had sold it to an anonymous buyer.

I had to pull a Polaroid from insurance records and send it all over the country. Finally, I found it. The agent I spoke with over the phone assured me it was the same painting. He even sent me a digital picture from his phone to confirm.

I bought it from him immediately and had it shipped. Baek’s expression is usually intimidating, military presence combined with hard experience.

Now it turns even more forbidding. “I need to inspect the package, Mr. Park.”

“I appreciate you taking the job seriously, but it’s just a painting. And it’s kind of personal.”

He nods without apparent sympathy. “I need to inspect it first.”

I hold back a sigh. “Okay.”

“If you could wait upstairs.” From the look on his face, this isn’t a request. It’s an order. And I’m guessing this man isn’t used to being disobeyed. I know he’s under the strictest orders from Yoongi, so I take pity on him.

“You have five minutes.”

Once upstairs I linger on the landing, elbows resting on the balcony. Baek glances at me, and I know he wants to tell me to go away.

What does he think is in that package—a bomb?

He must think better of it, because he pulls out a pocket knife and slits the cardboard. I cringe, not wanting the blade to touch the painting, but there’s some padding underneath.

And Baek is very careful, I’ll give him that. Even from far away I can see his delicate handling of the piece.

From here all I can see is jewel tones in the paint, a champagne gold frame. Excitement twists my stomach into knots. I force myself to stand still as Baek runs his hands along the sides and inspects the backing.

If there’s even a speck of dust on that painting he’ll find it. That’s how carefully he covers every inch. He takes his protection duties seriously, I’ll give him that much.

Helen of Troy has been represented in wildly different ways, from a dark seductress to an unwitting spoil of war. Her agency and motivations vary in every depiction, but one fact holds true. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.

The ancient Greeks didn’t consider beauty to be in the eye of the beholder. It was an objective trait, the universal value of a woman. Helen was the definitive best, all others judged against her perfection.

Every story of my mother is both true and false. Even the one she told herself through her diary. Filled with hopes and desires and dreams. With love for a man who didn’t deserve it. In the end all I have left is her beauty, immortalized in this painting.

Finally, Baek stands back and nods to me. “It’s clear.”

I dash down the curving staircase, eager to see the painting that had once been so familiar to me. I haven’t seen it in months, aside from the photographs. They’re too dark to see details, too impersonal to feel her presence.

Now I get to see the real thing. Baek has replaced some of the brown packing paper over the painting, maybe in deference to the fact that he opened it.

I pull the paper away. And I’m looking in a mirror. Not the kind made of glass, not the kind that frosts over in a bath. This is a mirror made of acrylics and canvas, color and shadows.

A painting, but it’s not my mother.

It’s me.

She and I look similar, same lips, same face but this painting is different. My eyes are smaller at the edges, a little more innocent. Her eyes were seductive with a touch of dangerous glow around her.

The one in the painting, her black hair are cut short instead of falling around her shoulders. She’s smiling instead of solemn. And wearing a white sweater I remember from my last day at college.

When my eyes settled on the earring dangling in the image, earring that my father gave me on my sixteenth birthday—seven years later my mother’s death.

I realize it’s not my mother, it’s me. It’s definitely me.

Right on the canvas where my mother should be.

My stomach drops for miles.

Horror.

Dread.

Anger that someone defiled my mother’s painting.

The frame looks the same, so that means they removed the old one and replaced the face with mine. Or maybe just painted right over, someone with skill and artistry and dark intent.

I look at Baek in shock, expecting to see some kind of reaction from him. He looks at me with bemusement, unaware that the painting should be something else. He probably noticed it was me at the beginning, but he assumed that it should be.

“Yoongi,” I whisper.

I need you, Yoongi.

Baek’s gaze narrows, flicking to the painting and then back to my expression. Whatever he sees spurs him into action. He gets on the phone.

“Get me Mr. Min,” he says in curt tones.

Yoongi will come back, but I don’t know what he can do. He vanquished my father for stealing from him. Turned away Namjoon with a terrifying look. Even tore through a burning building.

But he can’t find Kim Yongdae. The old man has roots in this city, dark and winding.

Roots that even Yoongi can’t penetrate.

Someone killed my mother. And as I stare at the picture with my face pasted on it, I wonder if I’m next.

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