loveless

Turning Point

Jiwon had gone to the divorce court and returned with the papers in hand, the settlement neatly attached. She was grave, resolute. This was no impulsive tantrum; she was deadly serious about ending her marriage.

She chose a well-known, exclusive restaurant—one frequented only by the elite, its prices alone acting as a gatekeeper. She craved peace of mind, or at least the illusion of it, and believed a bottle of misandre sherry would serve as suitable medicine.

By the time she lifted the glass again, Jiwon was already intoxicated, teetering on the edge of reason. Drunk. Wasted. Ready to divorce Park Sohyun in the most dramatic fashion imaginable. She pictured his expression when she thrust the papers into his hands—the disbelief, the fracture of composure. The thought delighted her.

She laughed loudly, satisfaction etched across her face, her smile sharp and wicked, like a devil’s descendant preparing to unleash something vile. She wanted him to hurt as deeply as he had hurt her, to feel his pride crumble the way hers had. Somewhere along the way, she had forgotten her own worth.

Soon, Jiwon began to wail, her cries slicing through the refined atmosphere of the restaurant. Heads turned. Whispers followed. Those who recognized her—the wife of Korea’s most successful CEO—raised their phones, recording her unraveling.

“What are you looking at…?” she demanded, her voice echoing as she chuckled bitterly. “Never seen a drunk woman before?”

An attendant, an old acquaintance, leaned close and whispered urgently, “It’s okay. You’re wasted. Please stop making a scene.”

Jiwon jerked away. “I’m not going anywhere,” she muttered, head lowered. Then, snapping her gaze upward, she screamed, “They need to know! They need to know why I’m like this! It’s because of that fuckin—”

Secretary Han arrived just in time, gripping her arm firmly. “It’s alright, miss. Let’s go home,” he whispered.

She sagged against him, finally surrendering—until her eyes landed on Sohyun, seated across from another woman.

Jiwon burst into laughter, brushing her hair back. “Fuckin’ Sohyun,” she muttered.

“Let go of me,” she ordered.

Having no choice, Secretary Han released her. Jiwon marched straight toward Sohyun’s table, slamming her misandre sherry bottle down with a deafening thud. The restaurant froze, every eye fixed on her. To the world, they were the perfect couple—gracing events together, admired in interviews, the epitome of success and harmony.

“Ya, Park Sohyun,” Jiwon demanded. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sohyun remained silent. The air thickened.

Without hesitation, Jiwon tipped the remainder of her wine over the woman’s head. “You’re both shameless,” she spat. “Cheating in public.”

Sohyun grabbed her arm instantly, signaling Secretary Han. “Quit this nonsense,” he said calmly. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll regret it.”

“Regret?” Jiwon laughed hollowly. “My only regret is ever getting involved with you.”

Secretary Han tightened his grip. “Let’s go home, miss.”

Sohyun turned to the stunned woman. “My wife is under severe stress. Please understand.”

“Understand?” The woman rose, attempting to slap Jiwon, but Sohyun caught her wrist. “Violence won’t solve anything.”

“You’re all insane—especially that wench!” she snarled, pointing at Jiwon.

“Please refrain from calling my wife a wench,” Sohyun said coldly.

“Then what is she?”

“My wife.”

Jiwon smiled faintly at that. Her heart somersaulted—whether from the alcohol or his words, she couldn’t tell. The nausea surged. She retched. Secretary Han stepped aside just in time.

Jiwon vomited all over Sohyun.

She looked up at his livid expression. He looked ready to devour her whole.

“Please,” he said through a forced smile, “carry her out.”

maintenaning his poise remarkablely.

****

Kim Jiwon woke with her head feeling unbearably heavy. “My head…” she murmured, clutching it. The room was dark—and smelled unmistakably of vomit.

The curtains were suddenly drawn back, light flooding in. Night had already fallen.

“You’re finally awake,” Sohyun said.

She flinched, then relaxed upon recognizing him. “You startled me… What are you doing here? Can you get me some water? My head feels like it’s about to explode.”

Sohyun laughed—loudly. Freely. She stared, stunned. She had never heard him laugh like that before; it was as though happiness had once been forbidden to him.

“What’s so funny?” she asked cautiously.

“Go watch the news,” he scoffed. “I told Secretary Han to handle it. How did it even reach the media?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, bewildered.

He turned on the television.

“Mrs. Park Jiwon causes a scene at an upscale restaurant out of jealousy after spotting her husband with another woman. She allegedly assaulted Mrs. Ahn Jung-woo by pouring alcohol over her—”

He shut it off.

Jiwon covered her mouth. “Did they really have to cover my face with a poop emoji?”

“We’re talking about a press conference,” he snapped, “and that’s what you care about?”

“Yes!” she protested. “Isn’t it offensive?”

“Brace yourself,” he said coldly. “You’ll be apologizing. There will be a press conference.”

As he turned to leave, she shouted, “All you care about is work! You couldn’t even bring me water or hangover soup!”

“Am I obligated to?” he replied without turning back.

“Shitty as ever,” she muttered.

Moments later, a cook entered with soup and water. Jiwon smiled. “Thank you. You’re the only one who genuinely cares about me.”

The cook smiled softly. “Actually, your husband asked me to prepare this before leaving.”

Jiwon froze.

“At least he still has a hidden human side,” she murmured—then gasped. “Wait… Mrs. Ahn Jung-woo? The biggest investor in Korea."

The press conference was a disaster. To the media, she was the jealous, unhinged wife.

But her real worry lay elsewhere.

When she finally apologized to Mrs. Ahn Jung-woo, the woman remained cold—yet Jiwon learned the truth behind Sohyun’s meeting.

That night, over dinner, she asked him, “Why did you do it?”

“If you have something to say, say it,” he replied impatiently.

“You knew I proposed her as my investor. Why meet her?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Why are you suddenly being nice?”

“Are you interrogating me, or are you drunk again?it seems it has become habitual”

“You cared. You asked for my soup. Thank you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scoffed. “Stop drinking.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t give a f**k about you.”

“Even so,” she smiled softly, “thank you.”

****

Another calamity had arrived, uninvited and loud. Upon hearing the news, her mother wasted no time, storming into Jiwon’s home with indignation sharpened to a blade.

“Jiwon, you’re all over the internet.”

“I know.”

“You’re twenty-seven. How could you still be so catastrophically reckless?”

“you mustn't rub it in my face you know! Besides, that Satan had it coming,” she replied, lips curling into a defiant smirk.

Her mother, Mrs. Choi Nam-su, struck her sharply across the back.

“Ouch!” Jiwon cried.

“You should learn caution. You are not with child yet. What do you think would happen to your father’s company if your husband decided to divorce you?”

“Is that all you care about?” Jiwon shot back. “What about me? My happiness? Why do I always have to be the sacrifice? Ji-yeon is getting married soon. Do I still have to rot in this miserable marriage?!”

“Lower your voice, you whiny child. I should teach you a proper lesson. You are the elder one. Responsibility is yours to bear.”

“It’s been six years,” Jiwon said, her voice fracturing. “Do you even love me? All my life I’ve been groomed, polished, and sold off like an asset. It isn’t fair.”

“Enough,” her mother hissed. “Stop fuming. I’m going home. Tell your husband I stopped by and brought his favorite dishes.”

With that, Mrs. Choi turned and left.

“He doesn’t even eat them,” Jiwon muttered bitterly once she was gone.

“Do you even know my favorite dish?” she whispered to the emptiness.

****

After accompanying her mother to the car, Jiwon stepped back inside. That was when she noticed it: all of Sohyun’s cars were present. The sight was unsettling, anomalous.

Her gaze lifted instinctively to the wall clock hanging in the living room. Its muted ticking spread through the space like a disciplined pulse, authoritative and unyielding.

Beneath it, slightly off-center, hung their wedding photograph. It was modest in size yet impossible to ignore once acknowledged. The frame was pale wood, immaculately smooth, stripped of embellishment as though ornamentation would have insulted its quiet arrogance. She stood beside him with an expression that suggested certainty rather than joy, convinced then that her marriage could blossom into delight. After all, she was marrying the illustrious Park Sohyun. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, tentative and hopeful. His eyes, however, were glacial, emptied of warmth, fixed into that eternally expressionless stare she despised above all else, surpassed only by his artificial grin. The photograph immortalized a moment steeped in pretense and naivety.

The room was saturated with her perfume, not freshly applied but lingering stubbornly, woven into the upholstery and drapes. Warm amber mingled with a floral note that had shed its sweetness and acquired gravity, like blossoms recalled rather than touched. Each breath felt intrusive, intimate, as though the room itself still remembered her presence. The fragrance dulled the sterile sharpness of polished surfaces, rendering the silence deliberate rather than vacant.

It was ten in the morning. Entirely unlike him to be home.

“Oh well.”

She dismissed the thought with feigned indifference. Perhaps he had traveled. She retreated to her room, collapsing onto the bed, imagining herself placing divorce papers into his immaculate hands.

“This is the best chance I’ve got,” she murmured. “With everything happening. And Ji-yeon getting married… it doesn’t matter how old I am. As long as I’m free.”

A smile curved across her lips, buoyant and reckless.

Yet a thought refused to dissipate.

What if he didn’t travel?

He would’ve told me… right?

Her steps carried her toward his room. She stopped at the door, hesitation coiling tightly in her chest. She was forbidden to enter. His room, his study, were inviolable territories.

She knocked softly.

No response.

“Damn,” she sighed, turning the handle anyway.

The room was dark, heavy with the oppressive scent of his cologne. Her eyes adjusted slowly, scanning the space—until she saw him.

He lay there, unnaturally still, as though life itself had abandoned him.

Jiwon gasped.