13 - The Flight to Fix Things

⋘ ⁕⁕⁕ ⋙ Min-ho

I was sitting at the vast, marble-topped kitchen island, a cup of black coffee cooling between my hands, when I heard the soft shuffle of feet. She emerged from the hallway, wrapped in the oversized robe, her hair a wild mess and her face pale. Her eyes were puffy from last night’s tears, shadowed with exhaustion and lingering shock. She looked completely wrecked.

And I found it, perversely, extremely attractive. Not in a carnal way, but in a raw, human way. This was the unfiltered Mia, stripped of pretence, surviving. The vulnerability on display wasn’t weakness; it was the evidence of a brutal honesty I rarely encountered. It was real.

Before I could speak, my phone buzzed with an insistent, coded vibration. The call I’d been waiting for. I stood up, my movements deliberate to avoid startling her. I pushed the other cup of coffee—already prepared with cream and two sugars, how she’d taken it at the restaurant—towards her.

“Drink,” I said, my voice low. “I have to make a call. I’ll be right back.”

I walked into my study, closing the door softly. I hit the secure line.

“Mirha.” My head of household staff answered on the first ring. “I need you to come in today. I need discretion. You need to oversee the packing of the playroom. All of it. The secure truck will come to load everything on Monday for transport to the new property.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end. She knew what the ‘playroom’ was and what its relocation signified. “Understood, sir. The new installation space is prepared. The contractors have finished the soundproofing and reinforcement as specified. Do you wish for the configuration to be replicated exactly, or shall I consult the diagrams for the new layout?”

“Replicate the core functionality,” I instructed, my voice steady. “But utilise the new, larger space. The annexe is to be fully operational before my return. I will be out today, and I will be back Monday. I have something I need to fix.”

“Of course, sir. It will be ready.” Her tone was impeccably professional. “And the other matter? The connecting suite?”

“Proceed as discussed,” I confirmed. “I will send you an email with her sizes and preferences. Stock the room accordingly. Get it ready. We will talk soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ended the call and stood for a moment in the silent, ordered space. The decision was made. The fortress wasn’t being abandoned; it was being expanded, with compartments carefully arranged. The playroom wasn’t disappearing; it was being given a new, more distant wing, a deliberate separation of worlds. One side for the darkness I managed, the other… for a possibility of light. It was a compromise, not a capitulation.

I returned to the kitchen. Mia was still sitting on the stool, clutching the coffee mug with both hands as if it were the only warm thing in the world. She looked up as I entered, her eyes wide and uncertain.

“I am having clothes sent up for you,” I said, my tone brisk and practical. A lifeline of normalcy to grab onto. “And toiletries. There’s a bag by the guest room door. Pack as much as you can from what’s sent. The rest, we will buy there.”

She blinked, confusion cutting through the haze. “Where… where are we going?” she asked, her voice small, shocked.

“To fix things,” I replied, meeting her gaze. I saw no pity there, only a determined, sober responsibility. “I booked us a suite in Jeju. We leave now. We’ll be back Monday.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. A trip. An escape. Not a conversation in a tense living room, but action. A change of scenery. It was impulsive, extravagant, and exactly what the situation demanded.

“Once you’re done packing,” I continued, moving to pour myself a fresh coffee, “I will meet you by the car. The plane is waiting.”

I gave her the space then, busying myself with nothing at all, letting the enormity of the statement settle. A private plane. Jeju. A suite. It wasn’t an apology—apologies were words, and my words had proven dangerous. This was a gesture. A tangible, physical removal from the scene of the crime, a provision of neutral ground.

Twenty minutes later, a discreet delivery arrived—two garment bags and a small suitcase of essentials from a boutique that knew better than to ask questions. I left them outside the guest room.

Another twenty minutes after that, she emerged. She was wearing the simple jeans and sweater that had been sent, her hair tied back, and the borrowed backpack slung over one shoulder. She looked young and terribly brave.

Without a word, I took the backpack from her. She didn’t resist.

We rode the elevator down in silence. The Aston Martin was waiting out front. The drive to the private airfield was quick. She stared out the window, taking in nothing.

The jet was a elegant white Gulfstream. The flight attendant greeted us with a professional smile, showed us to the plush, facing leather seats, and then disappeared to the galley.

As the engines whined to life and we began to take off, Mia finally spoke, her eyes fixed on the tarmac rushing past the window.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes,” I said, looking straight ahead as the plane lifted smoothly into the morning sky, Seoul shrinking into a geometric grid below us. The old fortress, with its soon-to-be-emptied room, and the new one, with its carefully planned annexe, both fell away behind us. “I did.”