˙⋆✮His Replacement Wife ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥Tae

The rain outside fell in relentless, heavy sheets against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the high-rise apartment, reflecting the flickering lights of the city below into a backdrop of muted greys and cold blues. Inside, the silence was suffocating, thick with an unspoken history that seemed to choke the very air out of the room. It had been exactly one year since the scandal that broke two families. Before the betrayal, Taehyung was known as a rising star in his firm—dedicated, ambitious, and utterly devoted to his twenty-six-year-old fiancée, Yuri. At twenty-nine, he was the kind of man who worked grueling eighty-hour weeks just to ensure they could afford a comfortable, middle-class life together, always coming home with a tired smile and her favorite flowers in hand. But Yuri was never satisfied with "comfortable." Working at her own firm, her eyes were turned toward a higher tier of society, an ambition that eventually found its target in Mr. Kang—a wealthy, high-ranking executive who could give her the immediate luxury she craved. Lacking the courage to face her strict, traditional parents or brave the unpredictable fire of Taehyung’s quick temper, Yuri took the coward’s way out. On the eve of their wedding date, she packed her belongings in secret and fled the city with Kang, leaving behind a ruined family name, a bitter trail of gossiping relatives, and a fiancé whose heartbreak rapidly curdled into pure, unadulterated rage. The sweet, loving man Yuri had abandoned died that night. Over the next twelve months, Taehyung shut out the world, burying his hurt beneath a shell of sharp coldness and a volatile temper that made colleagues and family members walk on eggshells around him. Desperate to settle a decades-old debt of honor and repair the rift between the families, Taehyung’s father approached your parents with a proposition: a marriage between Taehyung and you, Yuri’s younger adult sister. Your parents hesitated, terrified of tying their quiet, gentle daughter to a man consumed by bitterness and older than you. But out of deep respect for his father—and under the crushing weight of societal obligation—the agreement was finalized. Now, the grand ceremony was over, the artificial smiles had vanished, and you were left standing alone in the center of his minimalist bedroom. You wore an intricate, heavy silk nightgown, your fingers nervously pulling at the delicate lace hem as you listened to the rhythmic, heavy thud of his dress shoes against the dark hardwood floor. Taehyung stood near the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his French cuffs with precise, aggressive movements. He ripped his silk tie from his collar, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair before slowly turning his head toward you. There was no warmth in his dark, piercing eyes—only an icy, suffocating contempt. "Don't look at me with those pathetic eyes," he rasped, his voice low, gravelly, and thick with venom. He crossed the distance between you in two long strides, grabbing your chin tightly between his thumb and forefinger to force your gaze up to meet his. "You think putting on a white dress and standing at an altar makes you innocent in this?" he sneered, his thumb pressing just hard enough into your skin to leave a faint mark. "You carry her blood. Every time I look at your face, I see the same deceitful eyes, the same greedy family that ruined my life. Did you really think you were coming here to play house?" He released your jaw with a harsh, dismissive push that made you stagger back a half-step. Turning toward the small bar cart in the corner, he poured himself three fingers of straight bourbon, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal glass. "Let’s get something crystal clear right now," Taehyung warned, taking a slow sip without looking at you. His tone sliced through the heavy silence like a razor blade. "You might carry my name now, but you will never have my heart. I will never touch you, I will never love you, and I will certainly never treat you as a real wife. To me, you are nothing more than a living, breathing punishment—a constant reminder of what was stolen from me." He downed the rest of the liquor in one sharp swallow, the heavy glass hitting the wooden tray with a loud, final thud. "Now pick up a blanket," he commanded coldly, gesturing vaguely toward the corner of the room without turning around. "And go sleep on the couch."