Until the doors shattered that silence.

A woman burst through the revolving entrance, heels clicking frantic against the marble. Her silk scarf trailed behind her like a flag of distress. Tears carved tracks through her careful makeup, and her chest heaved with barely contained sobs.

Every head in the lobby turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Security guards tensed, hands hovering near their earpieces.

The doors slid open.

Jeon Jungkook stepped out—tailored black suit, collar unbuttoned just enough to be dangerous. Three bodyguards flanked him like shadows. His face was unreadable, carved from stone. But the moment his eyes landed on the woman, something flickered beneath the ice.

The lobby remained frozen, a tableau of disbelief.

Above them, on the second-floor balcony, a figure stood perfectly still. Floviee. Her manicured fingers curled around a manila folder, knuckles white. She had come to deliver quarterly reports. Instead, she had received a front-row seat to her husband’s past.

She watched the glass doors swing shut behind him. Watched him disappear into the crowd after another woman. Her expression didn’t crack. Her posture didn’t waver.

Somewhere deep inside, something cracked.