Possession [ JK version ]

= 45 = Victim of abduction

Author's POV

Jungkook strode into the corridor of his mansion, his black leather jacket clutched tightly in his hand. Clad in all black, his ruffled hair added a touch of untamed wildness to his striking appearance. Midnight had long since passed, and the storm outside raged with relentless fury, the heavy rain battering the windows like an army of furious drummers. He had been away for a grueling seven days and eight nights, his international business in Ankara and Istanbul a merciless taskmaster that kept him from the solace of home.

His steps, purposeful and measured, came to a halt in front of his bedroom door. His hand landed on the doorknob, and with a deliberate twist, he opened it. As the door swung open, he was immediately engulfed by a familiar, intoxicating fragrance that sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes fluttered shut in bliss, the scent wrapping around him like a long-lost lover.

Stepping into the room, he instinctively locked the door behind him, leaning his head against it as if seeking refuge. He took several deep breaths, the fragrance filling his lungs, striving to calm the raging storm of frustration and exhaustion within him.

Her scent was more than just a fragrance; it was an elixir, a magical balm for his weary soul, soothing his frayed nerves with each inhalation. The world outside, with all its turmoil and chaos, seemed to fade into insignificance as he stood there, allowing the essence of her presence to seep into his very being. It was a reminder of what he had been missing, a promise of the comfort and peace he yearned for.

For a moment, he stood still, absorbing the tranquility that her scent brought. It was as if the room itself was a sanctuary, a sacred space where he could shed the burdens of his relentless life. The storm outside continued its furious dance, but inside, he found a fleeting moment of serenity, a fleeting glimpse of the paradise he sought within the chaos.

He moved back and turned around. There she was, lying on the bed, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window. She slept peacefully, her face turned toward the door, clutching a pillow. The white sleeve of her delicate frock covered her arms, a vision of innocence and serenity.

Silently, he walked toward the bed, his movements fluid and graceful. He dropped his leather jacket onto the nearby sofa, his eyes never leaving her serene form.

She clutched the pillow as if her life depended on it, and a wave of jealousy hit him hard.

She had a strong, formidable man to hold and cling to, yet here she was, clinging to a pathetic pillow. Pathetic! he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He chuckled softly at the absurdity of it all.

How could she choose a lifeless, inanimate object over the living, breathing man who stood before her? It was almost comical, a twisted joke played by fate. The image of her holding that pillow, seeking comfort in its emptiness, contrasted starkly with the power and warmth he offered.

He gazed at her serene, sleeping face, and a haunting sentence echoed in his mind—

"Della Stewart wasn't the biological mother of Aziel."

Yes, he had discovered the truth. He had uncovered the dark secret of her past. Aziel wasn't Della Stewart's daughter; she was a stolen child.

Della had abducted her from her family when she was just five years old.

But how did he know all this?

He had assembled a covert team of 171 dedicated individuals to unearth her history, to trace her origins. Those 171 people had worked tirelessly, sacrificing sleep for 107 relentless hours, all to unravel the mystery of her lineage.

And what did they uncover about her family? It was a grim tale—Della had murdered her family before abducting her. Her father. Her father was the only person left in her family, and Della had killed him before abducting Aziel.