(Kim Taehyung’s Perspective)
The rhythmic click of my pen against the polished mahogany of my desk was the only sound that broke the quiet hum of the office. I was reviewing the quarterly reports, a tedious task made bearable only by the efficiency of the data. A gentle knock on the door broke my concentration.
“Come in,” I said, without looking up.
My secretary, Ms. Lee, entered, her expression composed. “Mr. Jeon requests to speak with you, sir. He indicated it was urgent.”
Jeon Jungkook. The name always brought a tightening in my chest, a familiar blend of frustration and… something else I refused to acknowledge. He had a knack for demanding attention at the least opportune moments. I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
“Send him in,” I said, adjusting the angle of my chair.
Jungkook and I shared a history that stretched back nearly two decades. We’d grown up together, our families intertwined through the businesses our parents had built. We’d been close, once. But the inevitable power struggle that followed inheriting those companies had driven a wedge between us, transforming us into rivals.
The door opened a few seconds later, and Jungkook strode into the office, radiating a palpable fury. His presence filled the room, a storm cloud brewing in human form.
“What do you want?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
He glared at me, his jaw tight. “Don’t play games, Kim. How dare you humiliate me on live television? The public may laugh it off, but I am genuinely offended.”
I was growing weary of his theatrics. “Is that why you stormed into my office? To waste my time?”
He let out a guttural groan, and I instinctively reached for the documents on my desk. A mistake.
“Fuck you, Kim,” he spat, his voice laced with venom. “Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you!”
A headache throbbed behind my eyes. His outbursts were exhausting. “I’m asking you to leave. I don't have time to waste listening to you yell.”
He huffed, his chest heaving with rage. “You fucking asshole!” He slammed the door shut as he stormed out, leaving me alone with the ringing in my ears.
Why did he always need to be so volatile? I wondered, as the phone on my desk buzzed. I glanced at the caller ID. Eomma.
I picked up the receiver. “Yes, Mom?”
“Hun, your father and I need to see you. Come home immediately.”
“I’m on my way, Eomma,” I replied, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.