Chapter Text
-PROLOGUE-
[7:56 pm] unsaved number: this weekend…
[7:56 pm] unsaved number: it meant a lot to me
[7:56 pm] unsaved number: thanks.
You’re fairly sure that set of messages shouldn’t make your heart crunch into a million shitty, happy pieces, but it does all the same.
“Before we go in, do you need a moment?”
You look up from your illuminated phone and a swirl of snowflakes goes right into your eyes, partially obscuring your view of your employee. He hasn’t opened the door yet, because you’re both stopped on the front step to the estate, and you’re wondering why he hasn’t. And why he asked that question. It’s not like you couldn’t multitask, return to your room and read your phone at the same time, take off your jacket and hope that your tenderly healed heart isn't out for the world to see.
“Whatever for, Lucas?” you ask in return, trying to glean the hidden meaning out of him.
The tall man fidgets with the blonde fringe visible under his beanie, a slight nervous gesture that is unlike his practiced ease. His voice goes quiet to follow, “Well, you've been away this weekend, and you’ve kept your phone off this whole time.”
“A purposeful decision that was agreed upon,” you remind him, though you suppose you didn’t really give anyone an option to deny your request.
You’d turned the device off before boarding the train to New York and returned it to life on only minutes ago, out of pure curiosity that there might be a specific message or two waiting for you. Turns out, there were three messages waiting, they'd been waiting since before you'd even gotten on the train. And again, you probably shouldn’t be feeling like this.
“I didn’t comment because I disagree, I commented because I’ve kept my phone on this whole weekend,” Lucas says, fully nervous this time. That means somewhere in the nest of swiped away notifications is one you would not like to see, and you have at least two hundred and thirty four imagined possibilities for what it could be. Literally all of them bad, too.
Ignorance is bliss in this scenario, and you tell him that, “I’d rather not know. Let me take it.”
You have your hand on the golden door ring, prepared to heft your weight and open the door, but Lucas’s hand over yours stops the motion. He questions you again, “Are you sure?”
Now he’s making you nervous, and you really don’t have time to deal with that right now. You don’t offer up a response, and Lucas will know it’s because you don’t have leeway to change your mind. Whatever’s happened has happened, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. He opens the door for you, and lets you in first.
“Room first then?” he asks as he takes your snow-covered jacket, then slips a final hint of friendship in before it’s back to work, “or would you like a hot chocolate detour?”
“Room f—,”
“y/n.”
You and Lucas freeze, like the precipitous winter storm, in the middle of the foyer at the proper call of your name. You want to hide behind his broad form, but it’d been your name that echoed out into the space, that requires your response.
It’s the evening, but your husband’s mother is still in her crisp Armani dinner gown, poinsettia pin sparkling in the chandelier light where it's resting on her lapel, cross necklace on as it always is. You’d been itching only seconds ago to get into your pajamas, but now it feels like you can’t yet because the head of the household hasn’t. You walk over to where she’s standing by the entryway to the informal study and give her the appropriate air kisses.
“Hello,” you greet her, and definitely don’t miss the way her nose wrinkles in displeasure at how it’s still hard for you to look her in the eyes while addressing her.
“How was your time in the city?” she asks, out of pure curiosity. You hadn’t told her explicitly where you were going, but since Lucas knew, it was an assumption that she would eventually find out. There's no secret you can safely keep here, except for maybe one.
“It was an agreeable weekend,” you respond in a neutral tone, gathering up Lucas to back you up, “wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wong?” He wouldn’t know, because he hadn’t spent a single day of this weekend actually in your physical presence, but every now and again he’s good for a lie. He'd made it known where his loyalties lie the first time you'd officially met.
Before he can answer, though, Mrs. Lee blockades him with a knowing, “Lucas, I’m sure you need to check in with security upon arrival.” In lady of the house terms, that means get out of here because shit is about to go down. He obliges, stepping away with a bow and leaving you there, defenseless. She gestures behind her to the study, you can hear the fireplace crackling from within. “y/n, would you care for a cup of hot chocolate with me before you get settled?”
Into the lion’s den you’re about to go. “Sure.”
“When did your train get in?” Mrs. Lee makes polite conversation as she always does, nothing too out of the ordinary yet. Maybe you’re just concocting this all up in your mind because of what had happened during these past three days. Maybe she actually just wants to have hot chocolate and catch up before the big news comes into town.
“Maybe half an hour ago? There was a big traffic jam leaving New—,” you begin to detail, but that blows out the window when you see that the study is not unoccupied. “Mother? Dad?”
Your parents are here in the estate, looking wildly uncomfortable in their church clothes, outfits they’ve pulled out in a clear attempt to fit in amongst the finery here. You’re about to say something more, but your mother’s severe shake of her head tells you to shut the fuck up in an instant. Your eyes are next drawn to the carved antique armchair positioned right by the roaring fire, Mr. Lee’s pleasantly cool expression not giving anything away. The same thought pricks in your mind, that this is just a family holiday night, that Mr. Lee had always been more than kind in trying to make your parents feel like they're a part of your life here.
And you’re instantly proven so wrong. So, so, so wrong.
Your husband’s father’s knee knocks against the coffee table by his leg, a purposeful gesture to draw attention to the magazine that’s on it. He doesn’t sound mad, but there’s an undertone of a promise of that emotion when he opens, “I will cut right to the chase. Would you please care to explain what this is all about?”
It’s a New York Post, you can tell that from the lurid font alone, but from where you’re standing, you can’t quite make out what the headline or pictures are.
“We are so embarrassed,” your mother bursts out as soon as she can, hanging her head low in contriteness, “I would like to apologize again on my daughter’s behalf.” She’s making a scene, as always, and your father is silent, as always. You have no idea what the hell she could possibly be apologizing for. Mr. Lee knows where you were this weekend, had even encouraged you to do so. There was no attempt to hide from him that you weren’t going away to Europe with his son, considering the matter his trip revolved around.
“Calm down, please,” Mr. Lee soothes your mother’s hysteria before it can take over the room. He juts his head out towards the article and prods, “y/n?”
Okay, okay, here goes. You have no idea what this is going to be about, make sure you stay as cool and calm as always, no need to make this into an actual confrontation. You don’t sit in any of the empty furniture, you come up behind the couch, snatch up the Post, and turn slightly, so none of them can register your expression when you dive into the article.
Crackin’ Some Nuts!
Manhattan, December 12th - Looks like chestnuts aren’t the only nuts getting cracked by a Nutcracker this holiday season. News broke earlier this year that New York Ballet Company’s youngest and most renowned soloist Taeyong Lee would be taking a leave of absence for the fall and winter seasons. Lee cited familial problems as the reason for his hiatus from the company - as our readers know, he is the son of the richest man in New Jersey, CEO Taeho Lee.
But could we have found another?
This past weekend, Lee's wife - y/f/n y/l/n - who we learned from our sources is a fellow ballet dancer he married in July, was seen dining in the city with a mystery man. Rumor has it that since their nuptials, the couple has spent all of their time at the Lee estate with their son. So, to see her out and about with someone else was of notable interest. Our staff received numerous tips that she shared a cozy, intimate dinner with an unknown man - pictured here - but she was certainly stealthy enough in her actions that this image was all we were able to get. If you have a tip on this man’s identity or have any details about what occurred during this weekend rendezvous, contact [email protected].
You don’t even look at the picture before you’re denying, “Not sure what this is about.”
“You went to back New York this weekend, we saw Lucas’s listed itinerary,” Mrs. Lee reminds you of the piece of evidence that goes against your statement. Plus another, “And you haven’t exactly hidden your tattoo well.”
You slip your hand as high up in your turtleneck’s sleeve as you can, concealing the dainty outline of a lily on the back of your palm. It’s not an obscene tattoo, but she means it more as an identifying statement. You have to look at the picture to confirm.
It’s grainy to no end, the picture, but of course it’s you. You remember buying the maroon dress at Saks, cut just a bit lower than you’d usually wear. You’d bought the matching ruby and diamond hairpin, too, to wear next to the pearl one already pinned into your bun, just because. But you know it’s you beyond your physical appearance, because you’re convinced no one on this planet has worn this particular expression on their face before. Honey fascination dripped all over your features as you hang onto every word of the conversation, candlelight illuminating your eyes in enchanting beauty, cheek resting on your hand, visible trace of a flower there upon your skin, all swept up in the presence of your companion.
She's missed the most obvious, glaring signal in your favor, that massive, sparkling diamond that's also resting on that hand. You still have your wedding ring on, you'd never taken it off. It would be dumb of you to go out gallivanting in public with that piece of jewelry on display, to step out with a man that wasn't your husband and have intentions otherwise. It'd be so dumb.
“No, I mean, obviously that’s me. Mr. Wong was with me the whole time,” you explain, because you can't deny something so obvious. You know that the listed itinerary of your travels only covered your comings and goings from the city, not a single morsel of what had occurred in between. To them, it should be logical that Lucas was at this dinner, chaperoning, and not visiting his mother in Pittsburgh like you'd instructed him to.
“You have to understand the optics of what this looks like, y/n,” Mr. Lee states, waffling between developed concern and firm sternness.
The shot is of only you directly, but the short, dark hair on the turned head of your compatriot gives it away that you were with a man. Sadly for you, Lucas doesn’t have black hair.
“I don’t,” you feign ignorance, “what are the optics?”
“Well, I, uh—, er,” he can’t even form the words, had intended to let you implicate yourself.
“It looks like you’re having an affair,” his wife answers for him, not having a problem with hitting you with the naked observation.
It is heavily ironic that she is the one that's confronting you like this, considering what you know about her and the legitimacy of her own children. Even more so that she's fiddling with her crucifix pendant as she does so, trying to gather the strength to get through this. Your mother tucks her horrified expression into your father’s shoulder, not wanting to watch what’s unfolding. He sits there, phone in his hands, and doesn't make a single move in your defense. I'm past the point of feeling bad that you won't come to my aid, despite the fact that that's your duty as a father. It's all on me to get out of this, so hmm, hmm, how will I frame this for them?
“Okay. Why does this picture make you think that?” You turn it all on them, force them to explain how they’ve come to this conclusion, give you the strands of excuses you can pick from, “As you know, my old life is in New York. My old colleagues, some of whom are men, work there. Many of the company members are men. Ten lives there, too, like so many other people I know.”
First off, they can’t be sure from the photo that the man in question is even at your table. But beyond that, they have no idea that you don't know any of the male bartenders hired at your old bar. And if you needed another line of defense, you doubt they keep tabs on Ten's hairstyles, know that he'd just dyed his hair back to black. It very well could be him in this photo. Winwin always keeps his that natural way as well, so does Doyoung, so does Johnny. You suppose you’re doing nothing more than listing possible affair partners in your mind, but nothing in that article had said anything explicit about what you were doing. There’s no harm in going out to a restaurant with a friend. The ambiance of the place could play all sorts of tricks on the mind. It certainly had for you.
“Are you having an affair?” she hits you with the repeat, blunt question, not bothering to play this game with you in her quest to get what she wants.
"We would never do anything to purposefully dishonor you or your family!" Your mother’s rush to apologize once again is lost to your train of thought, that you might have to look up in the dictionary what the actual definition of affair is. You’re internally arguing semantics with yourself over whether or not this weekend counted within the bounds of that definition. Both of you had sworn to not cross that line and had been steadfast in not breaking that swear. But who are you kidding. It hasn’t only been this weekend.
“Mama, Papa.”
Ah, no. Here we go.
You turn where you’re standing, your face on the magazine crumpling under your hold, while your face in real life illuminates in the opposite manner. At least, you hope it does. Taeyong is back from his trip, standing in the doorway with his arms spread wide for a hug his mother. His grey cashmere beanie and scarf are still dusted with frosty licks of snow, and he looks happy.
“Ah, Yongie, you’re home!” Mrs. Lee squeals happily, jumping up and down on her crocodile skin heels in excited anticipation after she’s pulled away from the hug, “Tell us, tell us!”
You’re surprised they don’t know yet. You would’ve thought they were the first ones he’d call, considering you’d kept your phone off the whole time. You’re even more surprised that he’s prepared to break the news to you all at once, in this very public sort of setting.
“Mind if I steal my wife for a second first? I’ll come back and have hot chocolate with everyone and we can talk.” He at least takes you into consideration, and when you meet eyes, he has the decency to look a degree less joyful. You walk over to stand by his side, and he places a hand around your waist while greeting your parents, “Good to see you, Mr. y/l/n, Mrs. y/l/n.”
“Hello, Taeyong,” your mother excitedly acknowledges him the same way she always does, “So, so great to see you again!”
Taeyong has enough presence of mind, knowing eavesdropping is a guarantee with the adults involved, to bring you well out of earshot of the door of the study after you exit. He also is kind enough to remove his hold when you don’t melt into his grasp and let you take your personal space to lean up against the marble railing of the staircase. There’s no one in the entryway, no security, no maids, it’s just you two.
You offer him a close-lipped smile. “Hello.”
“Hey, cake pop,” Taeyong says quietly, taking off his beanie to shake out the snow from his silver hair. He senses that there’s something amiss because he offers up the light, usual joke, “No hug?”
It’s been very sterile, these past ten minutes, you don’t have any particular catalyst to be upset with him. Yet. You bridge the five step gap and wrap your arms around his torso, leaning your head against his shoulder. You expect to breathe in the familiar scent of his Dior eau de toilette, and all you get is the spicy bombardment of what you know is Bulgari's signature. You'd spoken too soon.
“Sorry,” you mumble against his pullover regardless, “your mother is all riled up about some New York Post article, tension’s kind of high.” No point in trying to keep him in the dark, Taeyong is the last person here who has any moral high ground to stand on in criticizing you. Not like you’re roaring to tell him the full truth, though, so you’ll see where it goes from here.
“I know, got the screenshot,” Taeyong concedes after you’ve broken apart from the embrace. You’re unsurprised that his mother sent the article along to him. But he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it, considering his follow up question, “How was seeing Ten?”
Okay, not bad, he believes it so far, at least more than his parents do. And you doubt Taeyong has enough mental space to remember the precise details of what the back of Ten’s head looks like, know that it’s definitely not him in the photo that’s still scrunched in your hand.
“Fine. A typical weekend in the city,” you offer up no details, letting him infer as he may. Perhaps he’ll think about the weekends you spent together during that wisp of a year you'd been happy together, crammed in the tiny apartment of yours you'd re-visited this weekend.
Taeyong’s thinking of another matter entirely. “You did keep your phone off, though.”
“Like I told you I might do.” You don’t have to recall the phrasing exactly for him to remember, but it’s there in your mind, I’ll probably keep my phone off for some of it, for sanity’s sake, and the reluctant face he’d pulled when he’d agreed.
That reluctance is still a part of him now because Taeyong rubs at his right earlobe, his signature nervous tick making its first appearance as he admits, “I didn’t have a problem with it, I just kinda wish you did, because Milan was—,”
The first appearance of your own bitterness comes to the forefront when you cross your arms over your body and sigh, “I don’t really care about Milan.” You don’t want him to have a single second for protest, for getting the upper hand to bombard you with details you know will hurt you. You don’t even let his body fully react to your comment before you’re pelting him with the more urgent, “Where’s Sung?”
You’ve been so caught up in the snow and the Post and those three text messages that you hadn’t even noticed that Taeyong had walked in alone, and you really don’t like yourself for that.
“He’s with Chae, they should be coming up soon,” Taeyong tells you, knowing that you always hold a superficial level of worry in regards to Sung. But the moment you hesitate gives him the moment he shouldn’t have had to softly murmur, “Y/n, we really should talk about Milan.” Then, more urgently amend it to, “No, I mean, we kind of need to.”
I know what that means, so we don’t. Her baby is yours, you can tell me that and go.
You don't deign him with a response, you think you'll get a pass for standing there in blank and unmoving silence. You're not sure, though, if you're going to be blessed with the hand of forgiveness for choosing that exact moment to take your phone out - under the guise of passing the time in waiting for Taeyong's little sister to reappear - and send your response back to that unsaved number. You'd felt guilty earlier, for daring to feel even a dreg of joy at the presence of that tenderness in your phone, but who cares now. Who honestly fucking cares.
[10:43 pm] you: this weekend meant more to me than you could ever know
[10:43 pm] you: thankyouthankyouthankyou
[10:43 pm] you: i meant it btw, all of it.
A guardian angel appearing here, in the form of a bundled up little marshmallow of a boy, rescues you from the choppy waters you’ve just been thrown into. Chaeyeon is leading Sung by the hand through the foyer right to you. Her red dress, which matches her mother’s in hue, lends to the almost-perfect picture of the Lee family, assembling for the holidays. She waves happily when she sees you and her brother together, beaming with excitement, you’re sure she’s full to bursting with stories about seeing Europe for the first time. That makes the crystal tear that pools in the corner of your eye feel so, so, so much worse.
You sniff it away to put on your brightest of bright smiles, to crouch down and throw your arms out with abandon and chirp, “Is that my cupcake!”
Sung must’ve been too bouncy for the butlers to get his winter gear off, he comes toddling across the rug at the maximum speed his chunky boots allow, and practically tackles you with the full force an almost-three-year-old body can muster. Your eyes flutter closed when his cold, squishy cheek presses into yours as he hugs you, you’re glad he’s still wearing his coat so he won’t warble in a complaint about how you’re holding him too tightly. You missed him, you missed him so much, this weekend was everything but it was awful without him. He’s the only person in this whole place who actually cares about you in any way—,
“Hi mommy!”
You’re not able to stop the tear from falling upon your cheek this time, because, well. You never thought you’d hear the boy call you that, maybe ever. How did you ever get to this point?
tbc.
so. here we are. i am so freaking excited to introduce you to this whole new world.
this was borne out of a few ideas i've been ruminating on but never felt compelled to fully write. i was kind of lost after my previous work ended, stumbled upon a draft, and then just absolutely went to town on idea planning. i think it's going to be very entertaining, thought provoking, and as always super duper romantic lol. if you were with me for stitch, i would like to give a disclaimer that this is going to be wholly different. there's going to be some similar tropes explored, maybe some scenarios that evoke the same experience, but we are going a whole other angle here. there will be no world building, no politics, no death and violence and all that good stuff.
this is drama drama drama drama. you're getting an epically long journey this time, high school, college, life after. there's going to be spectacles! there's going to be tragedy! of course there's going to be angst! there's going to be longing and covert looks and secret rendezvous and the slowest of slow burns and all my signature classics. we're going super modern, we're talking regular people in the regular world, all the struggles and real life emotions that humans experience as they form relationships. something i haven't touched on that much in my other stories is religion, i know that's usually a heavy topic but i was intrigued with including it at least tangentially, especially with some of the plot points that will develop. it will be discussed here more in a moral way than it is in any sort of extreme manner. not that this needs to be said but i am a great proponent of freedom of religion as well as not believing, whatever you choose to do personally. this is a work of fiction that is designed not to bring offense to one's belief code, so please let me know if i egregiously step out of line.
as two out of the three main characters are in the ballet profession, you'll get to dive deep into that lifestyle, the hard work that's put in, the trials and tribulations of making it in a hard business. you can tell from this preview snippet that a child is involved, you will get to meet him and find out the role he plays in all of this. you will get to see the story weave together to explain why this opening weekend occurred in the first place. AND OF COURSE I KNOW YALL HERE JUST FOR THE ROMANCE, and it is particularly delicious in this one.
so i hope you join me for this ride! again, i am beside myself with enthusiasm to share this new tale with everyone. thank you for reading this! xoxoxo
as a conclusion, here are some answers to frequently asked questions (that haven't even been asked yet but i just know are coming lol):
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loseyoutoloveme, why do you always write about this particular member? because i just do, okay, for some reason i can't get into the headspace to write about anyone else and it's already hard enough for me as is to gather inspiration. let me live lol
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similarly, loseyoutoloveme, why do you set a lot of your stories in new york? this is the one actual fantasy i indulge in while writing. i've always loved visiting the place so this is my way of pretending that i get to live the glamorous city life
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wow you're a repetitive beeyotch. loseyoutoloveme, why do you like to include themes such as cheating and infidelity in your works? because they're fiction people!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! fsdjdsfj i hate cheating, i hate cheaters, i loathe, loathe, loathe the idea of being unfaithful to your partner. but it happens in real life and by god does it make delicious drama for a fictional story. i'm pretty confident in staying none of my stories actually romanticize cheating and i'm pretty sure this one won't either. but if for some reason it does, this is your friendly reminder NEVER TO CHEAT ON YOUR PARTNER. PERIOD.
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loseyoutoloveme, where did you get all your information about the ballet world? id like to give a shoutout to one of my close college friends who was a dancer and taught me a lot of this information! and also google and youtube for all the research i did to make it seem believable. dancers hold me accountable too lol
- loseyoutoloveme, what's your posting schedule going to be like for this? i'll probably start off with once a week like i usually do as i make my way through writing the final half of the story. when i get to a point where i'm finished and editing, or i feel that it's dragging, i'll increase the frequency.
okay, that's it! ta-ta for now!