CHAPTER 47 TO 60

 

Chapter 47: The Shape of Us

 

It was a calm morning.

 

No storms in the sky, no angry whispers rolling through marble hallways. Just sunlight, streaming like liquid gold through the mansion’s towering windows. The estate was unusually still—like the world had exhaled after a storm and left behind nothing but quiet promise.

 

Jungkook sat cross-legged in the center of the studio floor, surrounded by open boxes of paints and half-finished canvases. A light smudge of cobalt blue brushed his cheek, his lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration. The piece he had started the day before—their piece—was slowly becoming more than an outline. It was turning into something vivid, something unspoken yet deeply familiar.

 

Not realism. Not abstract. Something in between.

 

Love, maybe. Possession. Belonging.

 

His hand moved steadily, the brush gliding across the canvas with the confidence of someone who no longer feared being seen.

 

And yet—despite the calm, he was waiting.

 

Listening.

 

For the sound of footsteps. For a door to open. For either Daddy or Dada to come find him.

 

The house was too quiet without them near.

 

—

 

They hadn’t left the mansion. But they had retreated—to the east wing study—where matters of business waited like wolves at the door. Security updates. Press inquiries. Adjustments to their shares in several companies due to the rise in public attention.

 

Koo’s fame had already become a stock market indicator.

 

“They want licensing,” V said as he scrolled through a file on his tablet. “Some are even offering seven figures for digital prints.”

 

“Not happening,” Taehyung replied without looking up. His eyes were fixed on the window, on the edge of the garden where Jungkook’s fox plush sat forgotten under a rose bush. “He doesn’t even understand what those numbers mean.”

 

“He doesn’t need to,” V murmured. “That’s our job.”

 

Silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just weighty with understanding.

 

Finally, Taehyung stood and pushed his chair back with a soft scrape. “He’s been alone for an hour.”

 

V didn’t protest. He was already rising, jacket left on the arm of the chair, eyes distant.

 

Together, they walked.

 

—

 

Jungkook didn’t look up when the studio doors opened. He didn’t need to.

 

He felt them—always did. In the pull of air that entered with them, in the grounding weight of their presence. His brush paused mid-stroke, body relaxing instantly without thinking.

 

Taehyung reached him first.

 

He dropped to the floor without a word, long legs folding beside Jungkook’s frame. V followed, circling around to the other side. One twin at each flank, the usual configuration that made Jungkook feel like a protected center of gravity.

 

The brush was gently taken from his fingers.

 

“You’ve done enough for today, bunny,” V said softly, wiping his hand clean with a linen cloth.

 

“But I was almost done—”

 

“You are,” Taehyung murmured, his eyes on the painting. “It’s perfect like this.”

 

Jungkook’s mouth parted slightly, then closed again. He wasn’t used to that. Perfection. Approval. No demands for more. Just… stillness.

 

His voice lowered. “You came back.”

 

“We always do,” V whispered, brushing a thumb over Jungkook’s cheek.

 

There was a long pause, filled only by the quiet shuffles of the three of them adjusting their weight, their warmth pooling on the polished floor.

 

Then Jungkook leaned forward, hands crawling onto Taehyung’s thigh as he pressed his head into his chest, the movement childlike but loaded with need.

 

“Missed you, Dada…”

 

Taehyung smiled softly, threading fingers through his dark hair. “I missed you too, baby.”

 

On his other side, Jungkook reached blindly behind him, hand searching for V’s until fingers clasped tightly.

 

“Daddy too.”

 

“Always, my star,” V murmured, leaning in to kiss the crown of his head.

 

It was quiet again, but now the silence was full.

 

Full of pulse. Heat. Unspoken tension.

 

V didn’t pull away after the kiss. Instead, his mouth lingered a beat longer, and then trailed lower—along Jungkook’s hairline, to the delicate shell of his ear. His voice, when it came, was like ink poured into velvet.

 

“You know what I want, baby?”

 

Jungkook’s ears flushed crimson. He shook his head faintly.

 

“To hold you. Right now. Between us.”

 

He didn’t hesitate. Jungkook turned and crawled into his lap, small and yielding, but not entirely innocent. There was that glint in his eyes—soft, but knowing.

 

He was learning what he could do to them.

 

How he could ruin them with just a breathy moan or the way his fingers fisted in their shirts.

 

Taehyung shifted in closer from behind, wrapping an arm around Jungkook’s waist, chin pressing lightly to his shoulder.

 

“You always know how to turn everything upside down,” he whispered into his ear. “Even when you don’t mean to.”

 

Jungkook giggled, cheeks still stained with blue paint, his body curled like a kitten against both of them. The intimacy wasn’t rushed. It never was. It was about immersion—breath syncing with breath, the friction of fabric against skin, the burn of restraint in every small kiss.

 

Taehyung nipped Jungkook’s shoulder lightly, teasing. “Still smell like paint, baby.”

 

“Still taste like sin,” V added, voice low, as his hand smoothed down the curve of Jungkook’s thigh.

 

Jungkook shivered and pressed closer, little fingers grasping at the hem of Taehyung’s shirt.

 

It didn’t go further.

 

Not this time.

 

Instead, the twins pulled him in, one on either side, and sank against the floor cushions, their warmth tangled together beneath the afternoon sun. V held Jungkook’s legs draped across his lap, while Taehyung cradled his upper body, one hand softly tracing the lines of his collarbone.

 

It was intimacy without chaos.

 

The kind that lasted longer than anything.

 

And before they drifted off—together, tangled in a painting that hadn’t been finished—they heard Jungkook’s voice again.

 

Barely above a whisper. Almost too soft to catch.

 

“I want the world to know I belong to you.”

 

V and Taehyung’s eyes met over his head, both touched with something fierce and infinite.

 

One kiss landed on Jungkook’s forehead. The other on the corner of his lips.

 

“You already do, my star,” V said.

 

“You always will,” Taehyung followed.

 

And in the warm, breathless quiet that followed, the world outside faded. There was no storm, no headline, no secret.

 

Only three heartbeats beating in time.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 48: Your Name on My Skin

 

The sky had changed colors three times by the time the sun began its descent behind the long stretch of private forest surrounding the Kim estate. From soft lilac at dawn to blinding gold at noon, and now—just before evening—it dripped with molten orange, casting fire-glow shadows across the glass walls of the upper wing.

 

Jungkook hadn’t left the bed.

 

Not because he was tired. Not because they asked him to rest. But because the lingering weight of both twins—Daddy and Dada—curled around him like smoke, like silk, had made him want to stay exactly where he was: safe, warm, tangled in the gravity of their touch.

 

Soft cotton sheets clung to bare skin. The kind of bare that wasn’t indecent—but intimate. His favorite hoodie was pushed up to his ribs, pale thighs exposed, resting over V’s lap. Behind him, Taehyung’s long legs were hooked lazily around his waist, chin pressed to Jungkook’s nape with a possessiveness that melted bones.

 

It had been hours of that. Just touches. Just skin. Just heat building and retreating like the tide.

 

And then—

 

“Wanna show you something,” Jungkook murmured, his voice thick from napping, his cheek resting against V’s firm chest.

 

Taehyung hummed behind him, fingers carding through Jungkook’s soft brown hair. “What is it, baby?”

 

Jungkook wriggled free from the twins’ embrace just enough to reach under the bed. From beneath the hidden drawer, he pulled out a worn, leather-bound sketchbook. It was much smaller than his usual canvases. More private. More his.

 

He crawled to the edge of the bed, sitting cross-legged between them like an offering.

 

“I made it before the exhibition,” he said softly, eyes cast down. “Didn’t show anyone. Not even Noona.”

 

V took the book first, his brows tightening as he gently flipped through the delicate pages.

 

Each sketch was tender, sketched in graphite and soft shadow. They weren’t grand portraits or abstract chaos. They were moments—intimate, stolen, quiet.

 

Taehyung helping him tie his hoodie strings.

 

V brushing cookie crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

 

A foot curled around another ankle beneath a silk blanket.

 

Jungkook asleep, his own arm wrapped around a plush fox. Only, in the sketch, two larger hands held him too—from either side.

 

“These are…” V paused, his voice roughened around the edges. “These are us.”

 

Taehyung leaned forward, taking the sketchbook next, eyes darkening with every turned page. When he reached the final one, his breath caught.

 

Jungkook, sitting at a table. A wedding ring clutched between his hands.

 

But the most telling detail wasn’t the ring.

 

It was the reflection in the table’s glass surface.

 

Both twins, standing behind him.

 

One had his hand over Jungkook’s heart. The other held his wrist.

 

Neither face was drawn. Only shadows. Presence. Protection.

 

The words beneath it, written in small, messy hangul:

 

“Even when I’m alone, you’re with me.”

 

Taehyung didn’t speak. He only leaned forward and pressed his lips against the crown of Jungkook’s head with reverent care, his hand squeezing his nape gently.

 

“I think I wanna… show it,” Jungkook whispered. “Next time.”

 

V’s head lifted. “Publicly?”

 

Jungkook nodded, thumb playing with the corner of the page. “Yeah. Not everything. Just these… parts of us. So they know.”

 

“The world?” Taehyung murmured, arms tightening around him again.

 

“No,” Jungkook corrected softly, gaze steady. “Your world. The ones who follow you. Who think you’re just… cold and untouchable.”

 

V chuckled lowly, sliding a hand up Jungkook’s thigh. “We were, baby. You ruined that.”

 

“I like ruining things.”

 

The twins both smirked—touched with something warm and dangerous. Taehyung leaned down, biting softly at Jungkook’s earlobe.

 

“You ruin us in the best way.”

 

The weight of that sketchbook wasn’t heavy in their hands anymore—it was holy. A small, worn testament to the fact that someone like Jungkook, as fragile and feral and strange as he was, had chosen them to call home.

 

And they were never going to let him go.

 

—

 

Later that evening, just after dinner when the moon was starting to rise above the treeline, V reached out for Jungkook in the hallway outside the private office. He didn’t say anything at first. Just grasped his wrist and pulled him gently into his chest.

 

“Want to mark you.”

 

Jungkook blinked up at him, breath catching. “Wh-What?”

 

V’s fingers lifted Jungkook’s hoodie slowly. Reverently. Until the smooth pale skin of his lower back was exposed.

 

“No needles,” V murmured. “Just this.”

 

And then—cool metal touched Jungkook’s skin.

 

It was a signet ring. V’s.

 

He pressed the engraved crest of it softly into the small of Jungkook’s back, just under the curve of his spine. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to leave a print. A heat. A claim.

 

Jungkook’s lips parted, eyes glassy.

 

“Mine,” V whispered, dragging his mouth down the back of his neck.

 

A moment later, Taehyung appeared, quiet as a breath.

 

He watched the scene unfold with a molten stare, then reached forward and took Jungkook’s hand—placing it against his own chest.

 

“Feel that?” he said, voice velvet-dark. “Every time you breathe, it beats for you.”

 

Jungkook leaned in, voice breaking. “Then I wanna… stay there forever.”

 

And without hesitation, both twins pressed into him.

 

Not a kiss.

 

A devotion.

 

A full-bodied, unshakable promise that whether it was daylight or night, public or private, Jungkook was now stitched into the architecture of their souls.

 

He would never again be unloved.

 

Never again forgotten.

 

—

 

The next morning, the mansion woke to light rain. No thunder. Just soft drops tapping against the glass like tiny confessions.

 

And in the master suite—wrapped in white sheets and half-wrapped arms—Jungkook opened his eyes to find himself bracketed between the two men who had rewritten every definition of love he’d ever known.

 

“Morning, Daddy,” he whispered, fingers brushing V’s collarbone.

 

“Morning, Dada,” he mumbled, nose nudging Taehyung’s throat.

 

Two hands tightened around him simultaneously.

 

And in the quiet that followed, the rain carried his name like a prayer.

 

 

 

Chapter 49: Tangled in the Frame

 

The world outside had only just begun to stir—dew clinging to petals, fog kissing the windows, and the distant hum of estate staff returning to their morning routines. But inside the mansion, in the cocooned hush of the master suite, the trio hadn’t yet returned to reality. Not fully.

 

Jungkook was still half-asleep, his legs tangled between two bodies that refused to let him go. V’s palm was splayed against his stomach, anchoring him with a quiet, possessive firmness, while Taehyung's breath tickled the back of his neck, soft and warm like spring wind.

 

None of them had spoken yet.

 

They didn’t need to.

 

The silence wasn’t hollow—it was heavy with something new. A comfort born from acknowledgment. A peace that hadn’t existed before that night. Now that it was named—love—it didn’t feel as terrifying.

 

Jungkook let his eyes drift open, slow and reluctant, lashes fluttering as a ray of light caught the edge of the curtains. His first sight was the curve of V’s throat, rising and falling beneath a collarbone he now knew by touch. There was a mark there—faint, fading—a bruise left by Jungkook’s teeth when he’d gotten a little too worked up the night before. He traced it with a fingertip, smirking faintly to himself.

 

Behind him, Taehyung stirred.

 

“You’re smirking,” came the husky rasp against his ear. “That dangerous little smirk of yours.”

 

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just twisted his head back enough to graze a kiss across Taehyung’s jaw. “Mhm.”

 

“You’re going to cause trouble again, aren’t you?”

 

“Always,” he whispered.

 

Then V shifted, his voice muffled and dark with sleep. “No trouble. Not yet. Just five more minutes.”

 

Jungkook giggled, then instantly clamped his hands over his mouth as both twins groaned.

 

It was a domestic chaos now, the kind that had never existed in the mansion before. Taehyung’s deep chuckles, V’s slow-burning grumbles, and Jungkook’s mischievous energy all crashed together like mismatched puzzle pieces—and somehow, it still fit perfectly.

 

“Alright,” Taehyung said finally, stretching an arm over both their heads. “We have meetings today. Public ones.”

 

Jungkook groaned, burying his face into V’s chest. “Don’t wanna. Wanna stay here. Forever.”

 

“You could,” V murmured, brushing his fingers through Jungkook’s hair. “But then I’d just carry you into the boardroom anyway.”

 

Jungkook snorted. “Imagine the headlines.”

 

“They’d faint.”

 

“Let them.”

 

But even as he whined, Jungkook knew they had to face the world again. The night of the art exhibition had cracked the outer shell of secrecy. People had started to ask questions. Not about his identity, thankfully—the twins had done a flawless job shielding that—but about them. The sudden change in demeanor. The unusual warmth. The fact that two powerful, stoic CEOs had started leaving meetings early and attending private events like their lives depended on it.

 

He wasn’t ready to reveal everything. But he was ready to walk beside them—just a step behind the curtain.

 

As Koo. As the artist.

 

Not yet as their husband.

 

But the time was approaching.

 

—

 

Downstairs, the brunch table had been set. Long windows flooded the room with morning light. Silver trays revealed fruits, pastries, scrambled eggs, and glass pitchers of juice that Jungkook would absolutely pretend to drink before sneaking chocolate milk instead.

 

The trio arrived late—because Jungkook refused to wear anything other than an oversized sweater that belonged to one of the twins, and both insisted it had to be theirs. After a mini standoff, he wore Taehyung’s hoodie and V’s cologne. A peace offering they both seemed smugly satisfied with.

 

As they entered the dining room, Niki Park stood near the corner, waiting. Her usual clipboard was held in one hand, while the other adjusted her smart, pale blue blazer. She bowed gently to all three of them.

 

“Mr. Kim. Mr. Kim. And Koo-ssi.”

 

Jungkook beamed at her. “Noonaaaa.”

 

Both twins narrowed their eyes at the childish tone.

 

“Jungkook,” Taehyung said lowly, “try again.”

 

Jungkook’s eyes sparkled. He corrected himself with a little pout, “Good morning, Noona.”

 

She gave a small laugh, her eyes softening before turning her attention to business. “The gallery team has released limited prints of three of your paintings from the exhibition,” she began, her tone crisp. “All three sold out within twenty minutes.”

 

Jungkook blinked. “...What.”

 

“The media is calling it the Koo Renaissance.”

 

He made a strangled sound and nearly dropped his juice glass. “I don’t even know what that means.”

 

Taehyung chuckled as he slid into his seat. “It means they’re worshipping you.”

 

Jungkook shook his head, overwhelmed, nestling between them at the table. V reached over to casually steal a strawberry from his plate, and Jungkook swatted his hand—then grabbed the same strawberry and fed it to him anyway, cheeks pink.

 

Niki cleared her throat. “Also… the Foundation for Artistic Youth is requesting to feature your work in their annual gala.”

 

“Do they know who I am?”

 

“They only know Koo. They don’t know… this.”

 

Jungkook looked between the twins, hesitation briefly clouding his eyes.

 

Then Taehyung reached under the table and wrapped his fingers around Jungkook’s.

 

“Do you want them to?”

 

There was silence. Jungkook stared at the food. Then at the morning sun.

 

“I want to go,” he said quietly. “But… not alone.”

 

“You won’t be.”

 

“We’ll be there,” V added. “Even if no one knows it yet.”

 

A moment passed.

 

And then Jungkook smiled.

 

The kind of smile that held dreams instead of fear.

 

“Okay.”

 

—

 

Later that afternoon, while the twins busied themselves with video calls and project briefings in the estate’s east wing office, Jungkook returned to his sanctuary—the private studio.

 

He wore nothing but boxers and one of V’s loose dress shirts, half-buttoned and smeared with charcoal. Music played softly from a speaker in the corner—some lo-fi instrumental playlist that reminded him of rainy days and safe places.

 

He didn’t pick up a brush.

 

Instead, he stood in front of a blank canvas and just breathed.

 

So much had changed. And somehow, he was still here. Still whole. Or maybe not whole—maybe lovingly cracked, like one of the pots in his favorite kintsugi documentary. Broken, but gilded.

 

He reached for his sketchpad and began to draw—not from memory, but from longing.

 

Two hands. Intertwined.

 

Three silhouettes reflected in a mirror—imperfect, but clinging.

 

And in the center, always in the center, a boy with a hoodie too big for his frame and a heart far too full to keep hidden anymore.

 

—

 

That night, he fell asleep on the studio couch, curled beneath a paint-streaked blanket.

 

When the twins found him hours later—one twin grumbling about how he needed proper rest, the other cooing about how sweet he looked—they didn’t wake him.

 

They just lifted him together, one arm each, and carried him back upstairs.

 

Back to the bed that now held three souls.

 

And in the hush of the night, with Jungkook tucked between them once more, the mansion sighed in its sleep.

 

No longer quiet.

 

No longer cold.

 

But brimming—with a love fierce enough to set the world ablaze.

 

 

Chapter 50: The Gala of Shadows and Light

 

The mansion buzzed with subtle tension that morning, though its halls remained polished and pristine. The source of the unrest wasn’t chaos—it was anticipation.

 

Jungkook stood at the edge of the wardrobe mirror, stilling as Taehyung fixed the collar of his suit from behind. V lounged against the dresser nearby, arms crossed, his gaze slowly sliding down Jungkook’s reflection like a shadow.

 

“You’re nervous,” Taehyung whispered, voice like soft velvet, as he adjusted the lapel with quiet care.

 

Jungkook nodded mutely, his eyes never leaving the boy in the mirror. The sleek black suit wrapped snug across his shoulders, double-breasted and custom-cut, lined with the tiniest embroidery of swirling vines along the inner seam—details only those closest to him would notice. His hair was soft, parted naturally. A thin silver chain rested on his collarbone, gifted that morning by V. It had no pendant—just a small engraved tag: Koo.

 

“I’ve never... stood in front of people like this. Not as me. Not even as Koo like this,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual.

 

“This gala is just a room with polished lights,” V murmured as he pushed off from the dresser and approached, “but we’ll be your shadows tonight.”

 

Jungkook’s eyes flickered to meet his. “What does that mean?”

 

“It means we’ll be everywhere... but unseen. Your support. Your safety. Your fire escape, if needed.”

 

He swallowed and exhaled shakily. “And if someone sees me?”

 

“No one will know,” Taehyung reassured him, smoothing his hands down Jungkook’s shoulders like sealing armor into place. “Your face is still a mystery. To them, you’re Koo. The art. Not the husband.”

 

The words caused something to tighten softly in Jungkook’s chest—bittersweet pride tangled with nerves. He wasn’t just showing up tonight as a mystery artist. He was showing up as himself, even if the world didn’t know the whole truth.

 

He was no longer alone.

 

—

 

The venue glowed beneath warm amber chandeliers, the kind of soft light that whispered elegance but offered no intimacy. The Foundation for Artistic Youth had spared no expense for its annual gala—art pieces carefully arranged between pillars, a live cello performance murmuring through the air, and guests dressed in their most strategic versions of grace.

 

Jungkook arrived alone—but only in appearance.

 

His entrance was managed with delicate timing. A low-profile car. A side hall. Niki Park by his side, clipboard in one hand and a familiar protective tension in her brow.

 

“You don’t have to speak to everyone,” she said gently. “Smile, nod. I’ll do the rest.”

 

Jungkook nodded. His heart thudded painfully in his ears as the murmurs began—whispers rippling across the room as soon as the first people recognized the silent figure in black approaching the gallery wall. He didn’t wear a name tag. He didn’t need one.

 

Koo.

 

The artist whose work had sold out in minutes. The painter of eyes that had been called holy by critics. The storm-chaser of colors. The enigma who had captured grief and love in the same stroke.

 

But no one knew his face.

 

And tonight, even though they saw him... they still didn’t.

 

Niki offered him a quiet nod and moved off to intercept a group of over-enthusiastic donors, while Jungkook stood before his displayed work—six pieces, carefully lit and cordoned off.

 

He stared at them with a quiet reverence. He remembered painting each one. The brush trembling in his hand. The way his chest had ached. The fury in his fingers. The love bleeding through when he hadn’t meant to show it.

 

He hadn’t known, back then, what each canvas would become.

 

Now, looking at them again… he saw them.

 

The twins.

 

One piece, a faceless silhouette with two shadows behind it. Another, a figure with their mouth sewn shut, color pouring out of their chest. Another still—his most recent—the one he had painted in secret, after that stormy night when his little space first cracked open the silence of the mansion.

 

It was a boy on a floor, curled in a corner, a blanket clutched around his frame, a tiny mole drawn under the lower lip. Two figures stood over him—one in black, one in gray. Neither touched him. Yet they both reached. Eyes empty. Arms open.

 

The caption below it read only: “He waited for them to find him. They already had.”

 

A chill ran down Jungkook’s spine. He hadn’t realized until now how honest he’d been in his work. How exposed he already was.

 

And yet… no one here knew.

 

Except two.

 

He felt it before he saw them—those silent, powerful auras cutting through the crowd like wind through wheat. No sound. No announcement.

 

But the shift in the room was palpable.

 

His protectors had arrived.

 

V and Taehyung were dressed like shadows—sleek, suited, sharp. V in deep charcoal, Taehyung in midnight black. They didn’t come near him. They didn’t even look at him directly.

 

But he saw them.

 

Always flanking. Always watching.

 

And when their gazes did meet—brief, electric—Jungkook felt the grounding force of something ancient and immovable.

 

He wasn’t just being watched.

 

He was being kept.

 

—

 

Later, toward the center of the gala, after brief words of appreciation were said by the gallery’s chair and a gentle applause echoed through the marble room, Jungkook was approached by a tall, unfamiliar man in a dove-gray tuxedo. His tone was polite. His eyes were not.

 

“You must be Koo,” the man said, voice silk-smooth. “Or should I say... the ghost of Koo? We’ve been dying to meet you.”

 

Jungkook offered a small bow, his lips in a tight smile. “Just... Koo.”

 

The man’s gaze dipped slowly down Jungkook’s figure, lingering too long before returning to his face. “Your work is very... raw. Tell me, are you always so emotional?”

 

The question was laced with derision, barely veiled. A test.

 

Before Jungkook could respond, a cold presence moved to his side.

 

V.

 

Unannounced. Uninvited.

 

He didn’t say a word.

 

He didn’t have to.

 

The man’s spine stiffened instantly. His eyes flicked toward the taller figure with a flash of alarm. “Mr. Kim. I—”

 

V tilted his head slightly. His gaze was stone.

 

“Is there a reason,” he said softly, “you’re interrogating an artist about feeling?”

 

The man flushed, mumbled something about curiosity, and quickly retreated.

 

Jungkook blinked up at V.

 

“You weren’t supposed to talk to me.”

 

“I don’t follow rules when someone tries to touch what’s mine.”

 

Jungkook’s breath caught.

 

Mine.

 

He couldn’t respond. Not with words. Instead, he stepped back against the wall and reached for V’s hand—hidden, behind the fold of a curtain. Just the softest brush of fingers.

 

They stood like that for a long moment.

 

Just breathing.

 

—

 

The gala ended with sparklers on the lawn and wine glasses clinking softly over parting conversations.

 

Jungkook left through the same side hall, flanked quietly by both his shadows now. In the backseat of the car, he rested his head on Taehyung’s shoulder while V took his hand and kissed the knuckles with absentminded reverence.

 

They didn’t need to talk about what happened.

 

He had stood before the world.

 

And he hadn’t broken.

 

In fact—he’d shone.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 51: Silk Ties and Satin Walls

 

The soft hush of midnight in the mansion was unlike anything outside its walls—an old quiet, deep and heavy like velvet draped over a symphony. The kind of silence that didn’t beg to be broken, but instead curled around those who lived in it, pulling secrets and truths from their skin like heat from breath.

 

Jungkook lay across the velvet chaise in the private wing’s drawing room, still dressed in his black suit pants, his shirt unbuttoned down the middle, pale chest rising and falling with the weight of everything that had unfolded just hours ago.

 

The art gala.

 

The moment.

 

The eyes.

 

The stares that tried to dissect him as if he were his own canvas.

 

He blinked up at the high ceiling. The fireplace flickered in soft waves across the floor, gold against deep gray. Somewhere in the other wing, the clock chimed a singular hour. The whole world outside this mansion felt miles away—irrelevant, unreachable.

 

A creak shifted from behind the half-open doors, and a familiar figure stepped into view.

 

Taehyung.

 

He didn’t speak right away. He never did when it mattered. He simply walked in, the dark robe he wore brushing against the floor, his bare feet making no sound. His hair was tousled from sleep or restlessness—Jungkook wasn’t sure which—but his eyes were soft.

 

Quietly, Taehyung walked to him, sat beside him on the edge of the chaise, and slowly reached to brush back Jungkook’s bangs.

 

"You did beautifully," he murmured.

 

Jungkook leaned into the touch.

 

His voice cracked as he whispered, "It felt like I was split in two. Half of me wanted to run. The other half wanted to scream that I was yours. That I was—"

 

Taehyung leaned down, lips brushing the shell of Jungkook’s ear, soft and breath-warm.

 

“You are. No one else needs to know.”

 

The moment hung between them. A pause. Then Jungkook whispered, “Where’s Daddy?”

 

“V’s in the library. He’s writing back to someone who tried to buy your last piece.” A smile tugged faintly at the corner of Taehyung’s mouth. “He didn’t like the way they worded their bid. Called it ‘possessive.’ Hypocritical, really.”

 

Jungkook let out a breathy laugh that felt far too light for his chest. “That’s rich, coming from him.”

 

Taehyung tilted his head. “Do you mind if I…?” His hand gestured down to Jungkook’s half-open shirt.

 

Wordlessly, Jungkook reached for Taehyung’s hand and pressed it to his bare chest.

 

The skin-on-skin contact sparked more than warmth. It lit something beneath his ribcage. Something that had been coiled tightly all evening.

 

Without saying another word, Taehyung bent down and gently pressed a kiss to the center of his chest.

 

Soft.

 

Intentional.

 

Then another, higher up, just below his collarbone.

 

Jungkook’s hands tangled in the silk of Taehyung’s robe, pulling him closer.

 

“You make me want to breathe again,” Jungkook whispered, voice hoarse with sincerity.

 

Taehyung exhaled slowly against his skin, the heat of his breath traveling lower before he stopped. He pulled back just enough to look into Jungkook’s eyes.

 

“You’re already breathing. You just never knew it was allowed to feel this good.”

 

A faint knock interrupted the moment.

 

Neither flinched.

 

The door opened, and V stepped in, still in his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled high, the buttons undone to the middle of his toned chest. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just run his hands through it with water, a sign he’d been agitated or thinking deeply.

 

His eyes moved from Jungkook to Taehyung. Then down to where their bodies lingered close—Jungkook’s bare skin glowing under the firelight, Taehyung’s fingers lightly resting on the rise of his stomach.

 

“May I join you?”

 

The question was rhetorical.

 

Jungkook didn’t answer with words. He reached out one hand toward V.

 

V crossed the room slowly, like a storm that had decided not to rain—but still dark, still alive. When he reached them, he knelt beside the chaise and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to Jungkook’s outstretched palm, his eyes never leaving his.

 

Then, after a moment, he climbed beside them.

 

It wasn’t hurried. Nothing ever was between the three of them.

 

This was a ritual.

 

This was home.

 

Taehyung shifted, his hands still reverent as they moved lower, fingertips skimming the line of Jungkook’s waistband with measured permission. V wrapped an arm behind Jungkook’s shoulders, tilting him slightly, letting his head rest against the crook of his neck.

 

Jungkook exhaled shakily as their warmth pressed in from both sides.

 

“I felt like I was... floating,” he said softly. “Like I wasn’t real unless you were both there.”

 

Taehyung’s lips brushed against his temple. “We’re always here.”

 

V kissed the corner of his jaw. “And you’ve always been real. We just see more of you than the world deserves.”

 

A pause. Then Jungkook whispered, "Can we stay like this a little longer?"

 

They didn’t answer.

 

Instead, they held him tighter.

 

—

 

Hours later, long after the fireplace had turned to coals and the silence returned thicker and deeper than before, Jungkook lay between them in their bed.

 

One hand clutched in V’s.

 

One foot tangled around Taehyung’s.

 

Their breaths in sync. A shared rhythm.

 

Outside, the sky was beginning to gray—the earliest hints of dawn curling along the mansion walls.

 

But inside...

 

He was surrounded.

 

He was seen.

 

And for the first time since the world whispered his name in gallery halls—

 

He belonged.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 52: A Name Written in Smoke

 

The morning after the exhibition didn’t begin with light.

 

It began with weight.

 

Not a heavy burden, no—this wasn’t the same pressure that had chased Jungkook all his life. It wasn’t the cold silence of gallery walls, or the calculating murmurs behind tinted glasses. It wasn’t even the suffocating hush of the mansion before he came.

 

It was something else.

 

He awoke to the feeling of two bodies curled around him in seamless harmony. Kim Taehyung’s arm lay draped over his waist, his long fingers splayed over Jungkook’s soft stomach like they belonged there. Behind him, V's chest was pressed to his back, one leg hooked around his thighs, breath steady and warm against the nape of his neck.

 

For the first few seconds, Jungkook didn’t move.

 

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering against the pillow. He lay still, counting heartbeats. The scent of sandalwood from V, mixed with the subtle, fresh citrus from Taehyung, made it impossible to breathe without inhaling them.

 

He belonged here now. This was no longer an intruder’s bed. This was his.

 

And yet…

 

His fingers curled around the hem of the sheet near his chest.

 

Last night had been soft, quiet, intimate. There was nothing rushed. No tearing of clothes or marks left in anger. It had been a slow unraveling, like silk coming undone in candlelight.

 

And still, beneath it all, a single thought kept curling in his chest like smoke.

 

The world knows now.

 

Not that he was married. Not that he was their precious little thing, secretly bound by silk and sin.

 

But that he was Koo.

 

The invisible artist who had painted the world without letting it see the hands behind the brush.

 

Now that veil had lifted. Now, his name was echoing across every screen.

 

Koo had a face now.

 

A shape.

 

And beneath the illusion was him—Jeon Jungkook, the boy with wide eyes and a tender voice who liked chewing on his sleeves and hiding in silence.

 

He stirred slightly, brushing Taehyung’s fingers with his own, but not waking him.

 

V's arm tightened around him in response, protective even in sleep.

 

He turned slowly, shifting enough to look at V’s sleeping profile. The hard edges of his face were softened by rest, by the golden morning light seeping through the blackout curtains. Jungkook’s eyes traced the line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips.

 

Without thinking, he leaned in and pressed the lightest kiss to the corner of V’s mouth.

 

V didn’t open his eyes, but the smile that tugged at his lips was unmistakable.

 

“Mmm... that was greedy,” he murmured, voice gravelled from sleep.

 

Jungkook’s nose scrunched. “Wasn’t.”

 

“It was. I wasn’t ready.” A pause. “Try again. Let me taste it properly.”

 

Jungkook huffed, biting back a grin, then leaned in and gave him a second kiss—this time softer, longer.

 

V’s hand slid to the back of his neck, thumb brushing the skin there like he was smoothing down wings.

 

When Jungkook pulled back, breath slightly shallow, Taehyung was awake.

 

“Not fair,” he mumbled against Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes still half-lidded. “You’re kissing without me.”

 

Jungkook turned in the twins’ arms, pressing a chaste kiss to Taehyung’s forehead. “Dada’s always jealous.”

 

“Mm, not jealous.” Taehyung cracked one eye open. “Just... possessive.”

 

V’s laugh rumbled behind Jungkook’s back. “Same thing.”

 

“No, it’s not,” Taehyung said, now dragging his hand up to Jungkook’s chest, fingertips idly tracing his skin. “Jealousy means insecurity. Possessiveness means you’re mine. I’m not insecure.”

 

Jungkook flushed.

 

That heat spread under his skin like fire licking at silk.

 

Before he could respond, a sudden vibration buzzed from the nightstand. V’s phone. The moment cracked around the edges.

 

V reached out, glancing at the screen.

 

His eyes narrowed faintly.

 

“What is it?” Jungkook asked quietly.

 

V hesitated for half a beat, then showed them the phone.

 

A news article. The headline bold and slick with intent.

 

“The Face of Koo Revealed: Young Prodigy or Mafia Myth?”

 

Jungkook’s breath caught.

 

The rest of the article preview beneath the headline was just a string of speculation—questioning how a hidden artist like Koo could remain anonymous for so long. Rumors of mafia affiliations, twisted lies about connections to powerful underground art collectors. One section even tried to link his gallery debut to the Kim family's influence.

 

Taehyung sat up instantly, all traces of sleep gone from his body.

 

“That’s not just media curiosity,” he said coldly. “That’s targeted slander.”

 

V’s jaw clenched. “Someone leaked information. Not the face—but enough.”

 

Jungkook sank back against the pillows, eyes wide and dazed.

 

“It’s starting,” he whispered. “The digging.”

 

“We won’t let them touch you,” V said, voice like a steel blade wrapped in velvet.

 

Taehyung reached for his robe, swinging his legs off the bed. “I’ll contact Yoongi. He’ll know how to trace the leak.”

 

“No,” V said sharply, sitting up too. “Let Namjoon handle the press. I want Yoongi to focus on the ones behind this—not the journalists. The source. The money.”

 

Their business instincts kicked in immediately, sharp and precise. Like kings slipping into their armor.

 

Jungkook, still curled in the tangle of sheets, watched them both rise—twin figures moving like opposites in motion. V in sleek, predatory calm. Taehyung in storm-churned focus.

 

He swallowed.

 

“I thought they’d focus on the art…”

 

“They will,” V replied, his voice tight. “But the moment the art wasn’t anonymous, it became you. And you... are something they don’t know how to control.”

 

Taehyung turned back toward the bed. His expression shifted—just enough for Jungkook to see the protectiveness burning beneath.

 

“You’re ours,” he said. “They’re not ready for what that means.”

 

—

 

By the time breakfast was served—silently brought into the sunroom overlooking the east garden—the mansion had already shifted into something else. A fortress.

 

Guards were doubled.

 

Press access was blocked.

 

Private investigators had been called.

 

But inside, around the long glass table, the air held something different.

 

Power.

 

Because even though the outside world had started to stir—

 

Inside, they were unshaken.

 

And Jungkook, sitting between the two men he now called Daddy and Dada, sipped his tea with trembling hands, but a steady heart.

 

He wasn’t alone.

 

And when V’s fingers found his under the table, giving them a squeeze—when Taehyung reached over to brush his hair back and offer a smile—

 

He knew one thing:

 

The world could dig all it wanted.

 

They’d never find the whole of him.

 

Because the real Jungkook?

 

He was already claimed.

 

And no headline could ever rewrite that.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 53: Velvet Armor, Silken Thorns

~ The aftermath deepens, and the world dares to knock. ~

 

The mansion, once a cathedral of silence and shadow, had transformed into something new by the next morning—not frantic, not loud, but sharpened. Alert. Like a beast roused from slumber with a single name whispered too boldly into the wrong ear.

 

“Koo.”

 

Jungkook sat cross-legged in the center of the reading lounge, a sun-drenched alcove lined with towering bookshelves and the scent of old paper and expensive leather. The world outside buzzed with half-truths and frenzied speculation, but inside, within these walls built of glass and guarded stone, the air remained carefully still.

 

Until the twins entered.

 

Taehyung first, all casual linen and quiet thunder. He said nothing as he padded in barefoot, sleeves rolled up and damp hair still tousled from a shower. His gaze flicked to Jungkook and held there.

 

Then V appeared, silent as a storm in silk—dark slacks, bare chest under an open robe, rings glinting faintly against his skin. His presence didn’t just fill the room—it defined it.

 

And suddenly, Jungkook wasn’t cross-legged anymore.

 

He was standing. Straightening his oversized hoodie over pale thighs, wringing his fingers.

 

Because when they looked at him now, after the gallery, after the kiss, after the reveal... it wasn’t just affection in their eyes anymore. There was a simmering intensity, raw and protective and far too focused.

 

Taehyung closed the door behind him.

 

“Yoongi found the source,” he said calmly, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against a bookshelf. “One of the gallery’s backend employees. Slipped a file to a third-party tabloid for a hefty fee.”

 

Jungkook blinked. “What file?”

 

“An inventory log. Not your name—but some old digital sketches you submitted years ago under your real initials.”

 

“Enough to draw the connection,” V muttered, stepping beside Jungkook with a glance so sharp it nearly seared. “They saw the signature style. The media may guess, but someone behind this knew exactly what to point them toward.”

 

“Someone who’s watched you longer than the world has,” Taehyung added, voice low.

 

Jungkook’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

 

His hands trembled slightly.

 

“They’re after me?”

 

“They’re after the control they don’t have over you,” V answered, not missing a beat. “And they’re using the spotlight to test if you flinch.”

 

“But you won’t,” Taehyung said, pushing off the shelf and walking slowly toward him.

 

He reached out, fingers sliding under Jungkook’s chin to lift it.

 

“You won’t flinch, baby,” he murmured. “Not while we’re here.”

 

“I... I don’t know how to do this,” Jungkook confessed in a breath. “They’re writing things about me that aren’t true. They're saying I must be someone’s kept secret, that Koo was never real—just a front.”

 

V’s voice cut through the air like velvet laced with ice. “Then we remind them who the artist is.”

 

“But—”

 

“You’re not hiding anymore,” Taehyung whispered, eyes glinting. “You’re becoming.”

 

The room stood in silence for a moment. A moment that crackled.

 

Then V stepped behind him, long arms looping around Jungkook’s waist from the back, chin resting atop his head.

 

“You remember what you called us?” he asked softly. “Last night?”

 

Jungkook blinked, startled by the sudden switch.

 

His cheeks burned. “...Yes.”

 

“Say it.”

 

“I—” his voice caught, but Taehyung moved in closer, their bodies like two halves of one soul around him. “I called you... Daddy,” Jungkook whispered toward V, then peeked at Taehyung, “and Dada.”

 

Taehyung smiled. Slow and darkly warm. “That’s right.”

 

“Then let your Daddy and Dada deal with the noise, baby,” V murmured against his ear. “Let them scream. We’ll burn the lies before they reach your name again.”

 

The weight of them pressed in—gentle but inescapable. Arms around him. Words anchoring him. Breath against skin.

 

And he knew...

 

He wasn’t afraid.

 

—

 

By noon, the twins had split to handle business.

 

And business, for them, wasn’t just spreadsheets or office calls.

 

It was boardrooms and silent deals. International partners, high-profile meetings, control over industries that most people didn’t even realize they touched. Their wealth was old and quiet and everywhere. From high fashion to technology patents, they sat atop empires stitched from influence.

 

Jungkook stood near the second-floor balcony, looking down into the foyer as Taehyung gave short instructions to a suited woman in sharp heels. V, on the other hand, was already on a secured call, pacing with his back to the stained-glass mural.

 

But neither of them had let him out of sight for long.

 

Their eyes always returned to him—checking, watching, grounding.

 

It was suffocating and safe all at once.

 

Later, when the house quieted again, Jungkook returned to the west-wing studio where his canvases waited. He stood before a blank canvas for what felt like forever.

 

Then he picked up a brush.

 

And began to paint.

 

Not a face.

 

Not a name.

 

Not even a symbol.

 

He painted touch. The way V's hand gripped his waist at night, grounding. The way Taehyung held the back of his neck when he cried, thumb warm and unyielding.

 

He painted silence—not emptiness, but the sacred hush between words.

 

He painted them.

 

Not as owners.

 

But as mirrors.

 

Reflections of every hidden part of him he never dared name.

 

And when he finished, hours later, the canvas bled with tones no camera could ever capture. Colors that looked like whispers.

 

And love.

 

—

 

That evening, curled in silk sheets between two warm bodies, he whispered softly into the dark,

 

“Will you always protect me?”

 

Taehyung turned his head, brushing a kiss over his temple. “Always, love.”

 

V’s voice, soft and sure from behind, followed, “Even if the world turns to ash, we’ll still be holding you.”

 

Jungkook smiled into the hush. And when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see headlines or threats.

 

He saw a garden blooming in a desert.

 

A name painted in starlight.

 

And two shadows that stood at his side—not as cages, but as wings.

 

 

Chapter 54: A Name Carved in Gold

~ When the world begins to whisper, the house becomes a fortress ~

 

The morning after Jungkook’s painting, the mansion was unusually still, but not with the silence of old. No longer was it the quiet of suppressed breath or the eerie peace of a home too large for its dwellers. It was the charged silence of three hearts beating in sync beneath layers of veiled emotions. A new rhythm—formed from shared touches, melted tension, and the unspoken promise that none of them would be left to stand alone again.

 

Jungkook awoke sprawled between the twins, the room suffused with the soft warmth of golden morning light streaming through the tall glass windows. His cheek pressed against Taehyung’s chest, the steady rise and fall beneath his skin now a familiar comfort. V was behind him, one arm hooked loosely around his waist, the pads of his fingers pressed gently to Jungkook’s stomach beneath his sleep shirt.

 

He didn’t dare move.

 

Not when Taehyung’s leg was tangled between his, or when V’s breath tickled the back of his neck in slow, grounding exhales.

 

It was a pocket of peace.

 

But even Jungkook could feel it—it wouldn’t last much longer.

 

A faint hum vibrated through the wall. Phones. Tablets. Communication lines starting to flood with messages, requests, questions, demands. The aftermath of Koo’s unveiling hadn’t faded overnight. If anything, it had sharpened. The media had latched onto the mystery with gluttonous curiosity.

 

And now the world wanted to know more.

 

Who was Koo?

 

Why had his identity been hidden for so long?

 

And more dangerously... Who was he to the Kim Empire?

 

A slow shift behind him signaled V waking. Then Taehyung stirred, and Jungkook instinctively buried his face deeper into his chest.

 

“You’re awake,” Taehyung murmured, voice thick with sleep as his hand lifted to Jungkook’s nape. “You okay?”

 

A nod against his collarbone.

 

V’s lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You painted yesterday.”

 

Jungkook nodded again, cheeks flushing.

 

Taehyung’s eyes opened fully now. “Do you want us to see it?”

 

“I... yes.” His voice was muffled, hesitant. “But later. It’s not ready.”

 

Neither twin pressed. Instead, they wrapped around him tighter, a quiet understanding passing between them like static through silk.

 

“You won’t be doing any public statements,” V said eventually, voice crisp, calm. “Not now. Not ever unless you want to.”

 

“We’ve locked down everything,” Taehyung added, fingers idly playing with a strand of Jungkook’s hair. “Gallery’s made a statement about maintaining the artist’s privacy. Yoongi’s running digital surveillance to trace anyone pushing deeper.”

 

“And Niki?” Jungkook asked softly.

 

“She’s been protected since day one,” V answered. “No leaks from her. She’s clean.”

 

Jungkook exhaled.

 

The weight of their planning, their coverage, their control—it pressed against him like armor tailored for his size. He didn’t know how to lead, but they made sure he never had to walk alone.

 

Still, a question lingered like smoke.

 

“But... do I belong here?” he whispered.

 

The reaction was immediate.

 

V sat up halfway, hand tightening on Jungkook’s waist as he turned him slightly, eyes boring into his.

 

“Don’t ever ask that again.”

 

Taehyung’s fingers stilled. “You belong here more than we do.”

 

Jungkook’s eyes widened. “What?”

 

“We lived in this place like ghosts,” V said, softer now. “You brought breath back into it. Into us.”

 

“And the quiet?” Taehyung smiled faintly. “You destroyed it beautifully.”

 

That drew a small, sheepish grin from Jungkook. “I was really loud yesterday.”

 

“You climbed on the piano to pretend it was a pirate ship, baby,” Taehyung chuckled.

 

“You pulled a whole tray of pastries off the counter because you didn’t want to share,” V added with a snort.

 

“And then cried because we still gave you two extra,” Taehyung finished.

 

Jungkook’s hands covered his face in embarrassed protest, but the warmth radiating from the twins—his twins—soothed the moment into laughter.

 

“Don’t worry,” V murmured, brushing soft kisses along the side of his neck. “We love your chaos.”

 

“It keeps the house alive,” Taehyung whispered, lips ghosting over his cheek. “Keeps us alive.”

 

—

 

Later that day, Jungkook found himself in the garden, barefoot on the stone path, loose pants dragging slightly behind him. His fingers were stained with paint, hair tied loosely in a half-up bun.

 

The twins watched from a distance.

 

He was dancing.

 

Not in any practiced, formal way—but spinning lightly, arms extended as he weaved between sculptures and flowerbeds. The light from above hit him just right. His shirt flared, sleeves like wings.

 

And in that moment, they both saw it:

 

He wasn’t running anymore.

 

He was free.

 

A sound behind them made V turn.

 

It was Min Yoongi, tablet in hand, suit rumpled as usual, but eyes razor-sharp.

 

“There’s going to be a gala.”

 

Taehyung raised a brow. “Explain.”

 

“High-profile event. Invitation-only. Art, philanthropy, business fusion. The Kims are on the top of the guest list.”

 

V’s jaw tightened. “Who’s hosting?”

 

“Han Jae-Hwan.”

 

That name made even Taehyung still.

 

“CEO of Atelier Dusk?”

 

Yoongi nodded. “And rumored to be behind several anti-competitive acquisitions. He’s making a move.”

 

“On Koo?”

 

“Not directly.” Yoongi’s voice lowered. “But he’ll use the gala to pull you out. To test whether you're shielding someone... or hiding something.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

Then Taehyung’s eyes drifted back to the garden.

 

To Jungkook, now sitting in the grass, nose buried in a rose.

 

“We’re going,” he said simply.

 

V nodded once. “We protect him better in plain sight.”

 

Yoongi smirked. “Then I’ll have the suits delivered.”

 

As he left, Taehyung turned to V.

 

“You realize what this means, don’t you?”

 

V’s gaze was far away, cold as glass.

 

“If they come for him again... they’ll be doing it in our house.”

 

Taehyung smirked faintly. “Then let them try.”

 

Their fingers brushed.

 

And across the garden, as if sensing their promise, Jungkook turned and smiled.

 

Unaware of how brightly he now shone.

 

Unaware of how many had begun to watch.

 

But certain of one thing—

 

He was no longer alone.

 

[To be continued in Chapter 61...]

 

 

 

 

Chapter 55: The Gala Looms

~ In the midst of golden chandeliers, danger wears silk gloves ~

 

The days following the garden quietude began to shift with palpable tension—not inside the mansion, but at its perimeter. As the city buzzed louder with theories, interviews, and veiled curiosity, the inner sanctuary where Jungkook lived remained untouched by the chaos, thanks to the unyielding vigilance of the Kim twins.

 

But that calm wouldn’t hold forever.

 

The gala was approaching.

 

And though Jungkook remained blissfully unaware of the depth of its implications, both V and Taehyung had begun preparing—meticulously, quietly, and with the sort of strategic foresight only men like them could execute. The mansion transformed. Staff moved with silent urgency. Suits were tailored, security systems reviewed, guest lists dissected name by name. Only the best would be seen, and only the bold would step into that gilded hall under the twins’ protection.

 

Jungkook, meanwhile, was painting again.

 

A large canvas sat in the center of his sun-drenched art room—half-finished, moody swaths of color bleeding into pale whites, the image just beginning to form. He didn’t speak much as he worked, lost in thought, but his strokes were faster, sharper, more precise. Something in him had clicked open since the reveal. He no longer feared the eyes of others—not when Dada and Daddy stood behind him like twin shadows of fire.

 

He hummed softly as he painted, bare feet streaked with dry blue pigment. A lazy bun crowned his head. He hadn’t noticed the door open, but both Taehyung and V stood there now, watching him with the quiet intensity only they knew how to express without words.

 

“He’s blooming,” Taehyung said under his breath.

 

“He was always meant to.”

 

“He should never see that ballroom.”

 

V’s jaw tightened, eyes fixed on Jungkook’s swaying back. “But we’ll walk in beside him. Not as a secret.”

 

Taehyung’s brows furrowed, hesitation flickering in his gaze. “But his identity—”

 

“Won’t be revealed.” V’s voice dropped to steel. “Not unless someone forces our hand.”

 

They stood in silence for another moment before stepping inside.

 

Jungkook turned with a bright grin the moment he noticed them. “You guys look serious. Did someone burn the kitchen again?”

 

V arched a brow. “That was you, last week.”

 

“Was not!” Jungkook huffed, then grinned guiltily. “Okay, it was... but it was just toast!”

 

“You nearly lit the curtain on fire.”

 

“I said I was sorry.”

 

“And wore Taehyung’s shirt as an apron,” V added, deadpan.

 

Jungkook blinked. “It was cute!”

 

Taehyung sighed dramatically. “It had silk buttons, Koo.”

 

Jungkook pouted then, lower lip jutting out in that practiced, weaponized way he knew was dangerous. He turned, slowly dragging the tip of his paintbrush over his collarbone like a cat preening. “Dada... forgive me?”

 

Taehyung’s ears flushed immediately. “That’s not fair—”

 

“And you, Daddy?” Jungkook cooed, glancing at V beneath his lashes. “Still mad?”

 

V stepped forward slowly, his eyes dark, lips tilting. “If you weren’t covered in oil paint right now, I’d show you just how not mad I am.”

 

Jungkook stilled.

 

Then, with a wicked grin, he turned and smacked a blue handprint onto the front of V’s expensive black shirt. The splatter was vivid, childishly placed right over his heart.

 

“Oh no,” he whispered, eyes round. “I guess now you are mad?”

 

Taehyung burst into laughter, collapsing into the nearby chaise, while V stared down at the mess on his chest with a smirk that promised mischief.

 

“You little menace.”

 

“I prefer baby chaos,” Jungkook chirped before darting away, giggling, as both twins lunged after him.

 

The chase ended in a tangled mess on the sunroom floor—V pinning Jungkook down, Taehyung straddling his hips, their fingers smeared with streaks of blue and white. Jungkook squirmed, breathless from laughter, chest heaving beneath the press of their bodies.

 

“You two are heavy,” he wheezed.

 

“You’re asking for punishment,” V said softly, brushing paint from his cheek.

 

Taehyung leaned down, voice low. “You sure you can handle it?”

 

Jungkook blinked, body tensing just slightly at the subtle shift in the air. The moment turned heavier—less playful, more charged. Their weight over him wasn’t oppressive. It was possessive.

 

And Jungkook liked it far too much.

 

“I can,” he whispered, shy but unwavering.

 

And in that moment, with both twins hovering over him, eyes dark and fixed with tender hunger, Jungkook saw again—he was wanted. Equally. Not as a burden passed between two men but as a shared heartbeat they both cherished.

 

The intimacy that followed was slow, unhurried, threaded with soft touches and deep sighs. There was no rush, no frenzy—just the sacred kind of closeness that made the paint-streaked floor feel like a sanctuary. Fingers tangled. Foreheads touched. Murmurs spilled into skin like spilled sunlight.

 

Jungkook lay between them afterward, curled and content, his cheek resting against V’s chest while Taehyung traced lazy circles along his spine.

 

“I like being between you,” he murmured sleepily.

 

“We like you there,” Taehyung whispered.

 

“You belong nowhere else,” V said firmly.

 

—

 

That night, V made the first call to Han Jae-Hwan’s secretary.

 

They would attend the gala.

 

The invitation was accepted within seconds.

 

But before they would step into that ballroom, every stone had to be turned.

 

Jungkook’s name was now whispered behind every polished door in the city. Boardrooms filled with theories. Rival dynasties speculated on the connection. Koo’s fame had spread like wildfire—and the mystery only deepened as no photo of the artist had surfaced. Not a single clue.

 

And then came the real danger.

 

A leak.

 

One small breach.

 

An anonymous forum thread.

 

“Koo is not just an artist. He’s connected to the Kim family. Intimately.”

 

It was vague.

 

But the twins knew what followed vague.

 

They were running out of time.

 

—

 

That evening, as dusk fell, Jungkook stood at the balcony with a robe draped loosely around him. The city sparkled below, unaware of the storm about to brew.

 

Taehyung came up behind him first, wrapping arms around his middle, pressing a kiss to his neck. “You looked beautiful today,” he murmured.

 

Jungkook leaned into him. “So did you.”

 

Then V joined them, tucking in at his other side, pulling the robe tighter around him. “You know we’ll protect you, right?”

 

Jungkook nodded, gaze distant. “Even if I walk into that gala?”

 

V’s hand slid under his chin, tilting it upward. “Especially then.”

 

“And you won’t let them touch me?”

 

“Never,” Taehyung whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.

 

He turned between them then, letting them hold him, the weight of the world light in their arms. And for a brief moment, Jungkook believed it would be okay.

 

But the world was watching.

 

And the ballroom was waiting.

 

 

 

Chapter 56: A Symphony of Secrets

~ As the ballroom doors inch open, the world tilts on its axis ~

 

The morning of the gala dawned not with a storm, but with an eerie stillness that settled over the mansion like the quiet inhale before a scream. Even the wind held its breath. The household staff moved faster than usual—dressed in crisp blacks, whispering instructions through their earpieces. Every corner gleamed. Every lock was tested twice. The usual softness that had wrapped around the estate since Jungkook’s arrival was replaced with the cold precision of a calculated front.

 

It was a performance.

 

And the stage would be a ballroom glimmering with diamonds, lies, and sharpened gazes behind designer lenses.

 

In his room, Jungkook stood still as Niki adjusted the final pin in his collar. The custom ensemble was like nothing he’d worn before—white silk layered beneath a dove-gray fitted jacket, cinched just above the waist with a belt made of pale pearl-threaded silver. The trousers hugged him perfectly, the lines sculpted, elegant, commanding. No tie, no distraction. His neck was bare, soft and pale, collarbones peeking from beneath the structured folds of his suit like a whispered sin.

 

“You look like a dream,” Niki breathed, her voice reverent as she took a step back, hand pressed over her heart.

 

Jungkook didn’t answer right away.

 

He was staring into the mirror—unspeaking, unmoving—watching the reflection of a boy who now belonged to two men, loved deeply, and who would walk into a room tonight where sharks swam in still water. He blinked once.

 

Then, softly: “Do I look like theirs?”

 

Niki tilted her head, confused.

 

“I want to look like I belong to them,” Jungkook whispered. “Even if the world doesn’t know who I am to them… I want it to be felt.”

 

And when he turned to face her, eyes wide and dark with longing, Niki found her breath caught. She didn’t know the full truth. But she knew something monumental lived in the way Jungkook carried himself that day. Like devotion wrapped in lace. Like thunder hiding in petals.

 

Downstairs, V and Taehyung waited.

 

And gods—they waited in silence that could stop time.

 

V in ink-black. Taehyung in midnight-blue. Both wore suits custom-tailored by designers who knew better than to ask questions, fabric sculpted over muscle and tension, hair brushed back in sleek sweeps. Their rings glinted beneath the chandeliers—the only hint that something intimate remained close to them. They hadn’t spoken for ten minutes. Only waited.

 

And then Jungkook descended.

 

All three of them stilled as if the air had thickened with something primal. The moment he stepped onto the last stair, every eye turned. Niki stayed behind, quietly fading into the background, but her chest burned with awe.

 

Because when V and Taehyung saw Jungkook that night… they didn’t just see a boy they loved.

 

They saw theirs.

 

Possession radiated from the stillness of their gaze.

 

V stepped forward first, hand lifting to brush a single curled strand from Jungkook’s temple. “You’ll be the death of us.”

 

Taehyung’s voice followed, low and reverent. “Or the beginning.”

 

Jungkook smiled then—small, soft, but filled with the quiet bravery they had seen blossom across all these months. “Then let’s make them feel it.”

 

—

 

The car ride was silent but charged. A sleek bulletproof black Maybach snaked its way through the city under police escort, flanked by secondary vehicles. The media had been alerted of their arrival. But not his. Not Koo’s.

 

Jungkook sat between them in the backseat, each twin holding one of his hands like he was a heartbeat they couldn't afford to lose.

 

As the mansion faded behind them, the horizon ahead gleamed with chandeliers and consequences.

 

—

 

The gala hall bloomed like a jeweled forest—ivory pillars wrapped in silk, suspended glass installations reflecting golden light across marble floors. Influencers, CEOs, political elites, and international guests brushed shoulders beneath the soft echoes of live violin. Cameras flashed constantly. Flutes of champagne moved like whispers.

 

And then the announcement came.

 

“Kim Taehyung-ssi and Kim V-ssi of the Kim Dynasty.”

 

All movement paused.

 

And into that sea of power, they walked.

 

Jungkook’s steps matched theirs perfectly.

 

No one knew him—not by face. But oh, they felt him. People turned in curiosity. Their minds scrambled. Three men. One in between. Eyes like moonlight, face like myth, walking like he was the secret ink on their headlines.

 

The whispers began almost immediately.

 

“Who is that?”

 

“He’s not on the list.”

 

“Is that their… guest?”

 

“No. No, he’s not just a guest.”

 

The gossip simmered but never dared boil.

 

Because the way the Kim twins walked—one at each side, bodies slightly angled toward the boy between them—said untouchable. Said ours.

 

And that alone was enough to unsettle every rival present.

 

—

 

Jungkook remained quiet during the opening hours of the event, sipping water while the twins attended the necessary greetings. Important figures approached—bowed, smiled, spoke. He was never left alone. Taehyung’s hand brushed his lower back with comforting consistency, and V’s body was always angled protectively whenever they stopped.

 

But it wasn’t until Han Jae-Hwan approached that the air shifted from social to lethal.

 

The old man’s smile was sharp. “A beautiful turnout tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Flawless,” V replied smoothly.

 

Han’s gaze flicked to Jungkook. “And this… is he a new associate?”

 

“An artist,” Taehyung answered, tone even. “We collect his work.”

 

Jungkook bowed slightly, staying quiet.

 

Han’s eyes narrowed. “Something about him feels… familiar.”

 

V’s smile never faltered. “Does it?”

 

But the tension wrapped taut around them like a wire.

 

Jungkook glanced up only once—eyes locking with Han’s.

 

And for just a split second… Han’s expression cracked. Surprise flickered. Recognition almost sparked.

 

But before the old man could say more, Taehyung excused them.

 

—

 

They retreated to one of the private terraces for air.

 

Jungkook exhaled deeply, fingers trembling slightly. “He knows.”

 

“He suspects,” V corrected. “There’s no proof.”

 

“He’ll dig,” Jungkook whispered. “You saw it in his face.”

 

Taehyung took his hand gently. “Let him dig. We’ll cover every trail.”

 

The door creaked open behind them—an assistant summoning them to the press segment of the night.

 

Jungkook stood taller. “If I’m with you… I want to be seen.”

 

Taehyung and V turned to him slowly.

 

“I know my name won’t be spoken tonight. But I don’t want to shrink. Not anymore.”

 

The silence between them was filled with pride.

 

V stepped closer, cupping his cheek. “Then walk beside us.”

 

And when the three returned to the ballroom floor, they did not weave into the background.

 

They owned it.

 

The orchestra shifted into a slow, haunting piece. And suddenly—boldly—Taehyung offered Jungkook a hand.

 

“Dance with me?”

 

Jungkook blinked. “Here?”

 

“You said you wanted to be seen.”

 

He smiled, breathless. “Yes.”

 

And as Jungkook was swept into the middle of the ballroom in the arms of one of the most powerful men in the country—followed moments later by V cutting in—the world stared.

 

None recognized him.

 

But everyone felt him.

 

And the whisper that rippled through the golden hall like thunder was simple:

 

Whoever that boy was… he was not a guest.

 

He was everything.

 

 

Chapter 57: Beneath the Velvet Eyes

 

The hour had grown late, but the golden glow of the ballroom remained untouched—immaculate and endless. From the grand chandelier above, shimmering light spilled like captured starlight, refracting against crystal flutes and sequin-covered gowns. But in the middle of it all, there was only one thing that kept the world breathless:

 

Them.

 

The boy with midnight eyes dancing between the twin forces of shadow and fire.

 

V’s hand was at Jungkook’s waist—firm, anchoring. His other hand held the younger’s fingers gently, guiding him in a slow waltz as if they were the only two who had ever heard the music. And despite the room watching, despite every hungry eye tracking their every movement, the moment felt like a private confession between heartbeats.

 

Taehyung leaned back against one of the white stone columns nearby, watching—his dark gaze possessive, full of something softer than envy. Full of something holy. His glass of wine remained untouched. His smile curved only for them.

 

And then, as if answering some unspoken signal, V spun Jungkook out, fingertips trailing down the younger’s arm—before releasing him.

 

Only for Taehyung to step in smoothly, catching Jungkook in his arms mid-twirl.

 

Gasps sounded softly around the room.

 

But Jungkook’s breath was the loudest among them all.

 

He didn’t need to fake surprise anymore. Not with them.

 

Taehyung’s touch was warmer than V’s. His fingers brushed against Jungkook’s pulse point. His grip was less like a lead and more like a cradle—gentle, steady, drawing Jungkook closer until there was no air between their chests. He bent slightly at the waist, murmuring against Jungkook’s temple.

 

“Still want to be seen, baby?”

 

Jungkook’s lashes fluttered.

 

“I want to be felt.”

 

Taehyung chuckled under his breath, a sound that made Jungkook shiver. “Then feel this.”

 

He didn’t lean in for a kiss. Not in front of them. Not here.

 

But he held Jungkook like he was something sacred—and suddenly, that was more intimate than any kiss ever could be.

 

And when the song ended, there was no applause.

 

Only silence.

 

Only awe.

 

The kind of silence that could destroy reputations or build empires.

 

—

 

They didn’t stay much longer.

 

The whispers had become too thick, the air too hot with speculation. And though Jungkook was calm on the outside, he could feel his heart spiraling faster, thoughts flickering like flashes of light beneath his skin. V noticed first.

 

With a single look, he stepped to Taehyung’s side and murmured, “Time to go.”

 

Taehyung didn’t question.

 

They guided Jungkook toward the private exit—V’s hand resting protectively on the small of his back while Taehyung walked ahead, clearing their path. No one dared stop them.

 

And even as they left, the eyes never did.

 

Even as they vanished into the velvet night, the ballroom felt hollow in their absence.

 

—

 

Back inside the car, the silence was thicker than the night outside.

 

Jungkook sat between them again—body too tense, fingers twisting into his lap as if trying to keep something inside. The storm brewing within him wasn’t made of fear, though.

 

It was something more reckless.

 

Something hot.

 

Something dangerous.

 

He turned to V first, then Taehyung. And without speaking, he reached out—resting his hand softly on each of their thighs.

 

Taehyung was the first to react, inhaling sharply.

 

V looked down at the gesture, his jaw tightening just enough to betray how affected he was.

 

“Koo…” Taehyung warned, low and hoarse.

 

Jungkook didn’t pull away. “You said I should feel it. So I am.”

 

V’s hand moved slowly, covering Jungkook’s—thumb brushing over his knuckles with silent reverence. “Not here.”

 

Jungkook leaned his head on V’s shoulder, glancing toward Taehyung from beneath lowered lashes.

 

“Then take me home.”

 

His voice was barely above a whisper.

 

But it commanded them.

 

And gods, did they obey.

 

—

 

The moment the door to the mansion closed behind them, Jungkook was pinned against it.

 

By both.

 

V’s mouth hovered dangerously close to his neck—warm breath fanning against the skin just below his ear—while Taehyung’s fingers slid under the silk hem of his suit jacket, curling around his waist as if to say you’re ours.

 

Jungkook didn’t resist. He melted—back arching just enough for his body to press against both of theirs. The tension between them had been building for too long, buried beneath too many careful looks and chaste moments. Now it cracked open like a dam.

 

“You looked divine tonight,” V murmured, nose tracing a slow path down Jungkook’s throat.

 

Taehyung kissed just below Jungkook’s ear. “You had everyone on their knees without even knowing.”

 

Jungkook’s voice was breathy. “But only you get to touch.”

 

“And only we ever will,” V growled, finally allowing his lips to press firmly to Jungkook’s skin—claiming. Anchoring. Tasting.

 

They didn’t drag him upstairs.

 

They carried him.

 

One hand under each thigh, Jungkook wrapped around them, clinging, trembling—not from fear, but from something rawer. Something laced in devotion and burning need.

 

When the door to the master bedroom opened, it wasn’t with a bang.

 

It was reverent.

 

Like a temple receiving its god.

 

—

 

Later, hours later, after touch gave way to breathless laughter and sleepy weightless limbs tangled beneath silken sheets, the three of them lay beneath the same warmth. Jungkook nestled in the middle, head on V’s chest, fingers tangled with Taehyung’s.

 

And for the first time in a long time… he felt found.

 

Not hidden. Not caged.

 

Just home.

 

“I think they’ll know soon,” Jungkook murmured softly, half-asleep.

 

V’s fingers carded through his hair. “Let them.”

 

Taehyung pulled the covers higher. “What they think doesn’t matter.”

 

“You matter,” V whispered against his temple.

 

“And you’re ours,” Taehyung added.

 

And the soft sound Jungkook made in reply wasn’t a word. It was a sigh.

 

The kind lovers make when they stop running.

 

The kind made when war is no longer necessary.

 

Because love… had won.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 58: The Morning After the World Watched

 

The sun had risen, but the light inside the Kim estate remained hushed—golden only in the way it kissed the high ceilings, the velvet curtains, and the silent walls now haunted with the remnants of last night’s breathless tension.

 

In the master bedroom, silence was still sacred.

 

Not the old, heavy silence that had once settled over the mansion like dust—sterile and cold. No, this was something warmer now. Lingering. Echoing with hushed giggles, whispered names, tangled sheets.

 

Jungkook stirred first.

 

He blinked slowly, lashes fluttering like wings against V’s chest. The older twin’s arms were still around him, possessive even in slumber, his breathing deep and steady. On the other side, Taehyung lay with an arm draped over Jungkook’s hips, his face half-buried in the crook of Jungkook’s neck. Both twins were still asleep—serene and impossibly still, as if nothing in the world could shake them when Jungkook was pressed safely between them.

 

The peace was strange.

 

But not uncomfortable.

 

It was… new.

 

Jungkook lay there a moment longer, eyes tracing the patterns in the ceiling, his mind both quiet and too full at once. The art exhibition. The dance. The eyes. The press. The gasps. The endless speculation now running wild across the internet and beyond.

 

But most of all—

 

Them.

 

Their hands on him. Their breath on his skin. Their worship disguised as kisses and the way their bodies had spoken what their mouths still struggled to say.

 

He hadn't said it either.

 

But he felt it.

 

Every time one of them looked at him like he was something more than human. Like he was their truth.

 

And maybe he was.

 

Jungkook slipped from between them with practiced care, untangling from limbs and warmth. Neither stirred. He smiled faintly at that.

 

Tiptoeing, bare feet silent on marble, he padded out of the bedroom—wearing only one of Taehyung’s oversized shirts and nothing underneath, the fabric brushing just beneath the swell of his thighs.

 

—

 

The hallway outside was quiet.

 

And then, faintly—distant noise.

 

Murmuring voices from the lower level.

 

Jungkook tilted his head curiously. The media hadn’t been granted access beyond the ballroom, and the mansion staff were always discreet. But these voices weren’t maids. They were sharper. Colder.

 

He recognized one of them instantly.

 

Niki.

 

His art manager. His noona.

 

He tiptoed faster.

 

—

 

In the estate’s private gallery room—once a quiet sanctuary and now a battlefield of speculation—Niki stood with her arms crossed, facing two sharply dressed older men in suits. Her hair was in a tight bun. Her expression was unreadable.

 

“I told you,” she said, voice even. “You’ll get your press conference. But not today.”

 

One of the men scoffed. “You don’t seem to understand the gravity, Miss Park. Do you have any idea how much the exhibit has spiraled overnight? Koo’s sales tripled. The name is everywhere. People want answers. Investors want to know who—”

 

“He is not for sale,” Niki cut in coldly.

 

The man narrowed his eyes. “Then you better find another way to handle this before it explodes.”

 

“She doesn’t have to.”

 

The voice that cut through the gallery didn’t shout.

 

But it shattered every conversation in the room.

 

Jungkook stood in the doorway, barefoot and barely dressed, the morning light soft behind him like a divine spotlight. Doe eyes sharp with resolve.

 

“He doesn’t need to be hidden anymore.”

 

Niki froze.

 

So did the men.

 

They hadn’t expected him—not like this. Not in flesh and blood. Not with his voice low and soft and commanding like he owned the room. Like he was the art.

 

One of the men blinked. “Y-You’re—”

 

“I’m Koo,” Jungkook said simply. “And I decide when the curtain falls.”

 

—

 

By the time the twins came downstairs—fully dressed, fully alert, and radiating power—the gallery was quiet again.

 

The men had left, stunned.

 

Niki remained behind, pacing the corridor just outside.

 

Taehyung reached her first.

 

“What happened?” he asked calmly.

 

She turned, still looking pale. “He—he showed himself. Walked right into it like it was nothing. Spoke. He told them he was Koo.”

 

V looked toward the gallery doors. “And they believed him?”

 

She nodded. “How could they not? He… didn’t flinch. Like he’s not scared anymore.”

 

Taehyung exhaled slowly, chest swelling with something too complicated to name.

 

And when they opened the doors—

 

Jungkook was sitting on the gallery’s long white bench.

 

The morning light painted him in silver, and behind him stood his world. Dozens of paintings. All emotion. All him. All vulnerable.

 

He didn’t turn when he heard them enter.

 

But he smiled.

 

“Good morning,” he said softly.

 

“Baby…” Taehyung crossed the room in slow steps, kneeling in front of him. “You didn’t have to do that. Not alone.”

 

“I wasn’t alone,” Jungkook replied, reaching forward to card his fingers through Taehyung’s hair. “You were here. I just… wanted to protect you both from having to speak for me.”

 

V joined them, silent as he sat beside Jungkook and pressed their foreheads together.

 

“You’re ours,” he whispered. “But you’re also you. And that matters.”

 

Jungkook nodded slowly.

 

“I know.”

 

And for a moment, there was nothing in the room except soft breathing, warm hands, and the truth they’d been building together one heartbeat at a time.

 

—

 

Later that afternoon, the storm outside the estate built again—but this time, it wasn’t thunder or rain.

 

It was the press.

 

Reporters. Paparazzi. Helicopters.

 

The world wanted Koo.

 

And for the first time, the Kim estate opened its gates to that chaos.

 

Not to let them in—

 

But to let Jungkook step forward.

 

Hand in hand.

 

One twin on either side.

 

Ready to show the world that the boy behind the canvas was no longer a secret.

 

He was a king.

 

And he belonged to no one but himself… and them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 59: Shadows of the Crown

 

The roar of the world outside had reached a fever pitch.

 

News anchors spun endless speculation. Social media ignited with theories. Every media outlet scrambled for exclusives. And at the heart of it all—without a single word to the press—was Jungkook. Not as a silent shadow, not as a name hidden behind ink and brush, but standing, poised between the two most elusive, powerful men in the city.

 

His face was still not shown.

 

Not completely.

 

Every photo was carefully controlled, every camera angle directed. His hair obscured much, oversized sunglasses did the rest. But his voice—his stance—his identity as Koo—was no longer deniable.

 

Behind the estate's closed doors, the world could only guess.

 

But inside… everything had changed.

 

That morning, after the storm of cameras and whispers faded behind tall iron gates, the estate settled into a curious stillness. The kind of hush that came not from silence, but from awe. The staff moved differently, as though passing holy ground. The air held reverence.

 

And in the private sunroom overlooking the garden, Jungkook stood barefoot, his long shirt fluttering slightly against his thighs as he pressed both palms to the tall windows.

 

Outside, the first warm breeze of spring stirred the magnolia trees.

 

A soft voice broke the calm behind him.

 

"You didn’t sleep much.”

 

Jungkook didn’t turn, but his lips quirked. “Neither did you.”

 

Taehyung padded closer, his silk robe tied loosely at the waist, collarbones visible where the fabric parted. He stopped beside Jungkook, resting a palm against the glass just next to his.

 

The sun lit their profiles—one dark-haired, delicate, glittering like paint come alive; the other sculpted, quietly intense.

 

“You were brilliant yesterday,” Taehyung murmured.

 

Jungkook’s lashes fluttered. “I wasn’t scared.”

 

“I know,” Taehyung said. “That’s why it was brilliant.”

 

A moment passed, filled only with the breath between them. Then, quietly, Jungkook asked, “Do you think they’ll come for me now? The people who knew me… before?”

 

Taehyung’s jaw tightened slightly. “If they try… they won’t get far.”

 

“Even my parents?”

 

Taehyung hesitated. Then: “They let you hide. We won’t.”

 

Jungkook turned his head slowly toward him, heart pressing a little tighter in his chest. “I don’t want to be hidden anymore.”

 

“You won’t be,” came a third voice—low, deep, cutting into the space like a protective blade.

 

V had entered silently, still in dark slacks and a cashmere shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the scar Jungkook had once traced with wondering fingers.

 

He came to stand behind Jungkook, one hand resting on his waist, the other cupping the side of his neck.

 

“No one touches what’s ours,” he said simply.

 

And Jungkook believed it. Every word.

 

Later that afternoon, a quiet meeting unfolded in the main lounge.

 

The room was warm with honey light as the three of them sat around a large oak table. On its surface lay folders—confidential ones—marked with logos and signatures from elite firms, galleries, international collectors.

 

The art world was not whispering anymore.

 

It was shouting.

 

“You’ve received twenty-four offers from museums,” V said as he flipped through one file. “And seven from private clients. All through Niki.”

 

“Some offering millions,” Taehyung added. “And yet you still have no idea what your work is worth.”

 

Jungkook gave them both a sheepish pout, fingers fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “Numbers are… boring.”

 

V’s brow arched, unimpressed. “Millions are not boring, sweetheart.”

 

“But… I didn’t paint for them.”

 

The twins stilled.

 

Jungkook looked up slowly, his big eyes wide and a little too vulnerable.

 

“I painted for me. For what I couldn’t say. For all the things I wanted to scream but couldn’t. And then… you found me. So now I paint for us.”

 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

 

It was reverent.

 

Then Taehyung reached over, took Jungkook’s hand, and kissed his knuckles.

 

“You don't have to give anything to anyone,” he said gently. “Not your paintings. Not your name. Not even your story. But if you want to… we’ll be beside you. Always.”

 

Jungkook’s throat tightened.

 

He nodded once, a bit too quickly. “I want to share it. But not all at once.”

 

V leaned in then, lips brushing softly against Jungkook’s temple. “We’ll make them wait. Make them beg.”

 

And Jungkook smiled.

 

That night, the world still burned with questions.

 

But in the master bedroom—tucked beneath soft sheets, in a tangle of limbs, warmth, and whispered names—the only answer that mattered was this.

 

Jungkook lay between them again.

 

But this time, it was different.

 

There was no hesitation. No confusion. No fear.

 

Only the weight of their arms around him. The soft sigh of Taehyung pressing kisses along his jaw. The low hum of V as he whispered secrets in his ear, lips trailing down the curve of his neck.

 

Jungkook giggled softly, arching into them, eyes bright and mischievous.

 

“You’re both clingy,” he teased breathily.

 

“You made us that way,” Taehyung murmured against his throat.

 

“And you love it,” V growled low, fingers slipping beneath the hem of Jungkook’s shirt to stroke along the bare skin of his waist.

 

Jungkook shivered, cheeks pinkening, but he didn’t pull away.

 

Instead, he turned toward V, wrapped his arms around his neck, and whispered into his ear, “Don’t stop.”

 

Then to Taehyung, with a giggle that sounded dangerously close to the edge of his little space: “Dada’s warm… I want cuddles.”

 

That one word made Taehyung still for a beat. But then his eyes softened—melting into the quiet boyishness he rarely showed—as he pulled Jungkook closer into his arms.

 

“Anything for my baby,” he whispered.

 

V chuckled darkly, tracing slow lines down Jungkook’s thigh. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

 

“I’m not!” Jungkook giggled, squirming a little—but he didn’t deny the flutter of pride in his chest at how fast they melted for him.

 

The atmosphere shifted—soft, charged, intimate.

 

Clothes loosened.

 

Breath quickened.

 

But even as kisses deepened and hands explored, there was no rush. No urgency.

 

Just the slow, careful worship of someone treasured. A shared rhythm. A quiet hunger fed by every sigh, every murmur of "mine," every quiet gasp that passed between them.

 

Jungkook’s fingers tangled in V’s hair, lips parted under the weight of kisses. Taehyung’s hand caressed his back, his mouth murmuring adoring nonsense in his ear, half in Korean, half in moans.

 

It wasn’t about lust.

 

It was about claiming—together.

 

Jungkook belonged to both.

 

And both belonged to him.

 

No complications.

 

No jealousy.

 

Only the kind of bond forged not in public displays or grand declarations—but in the sacred silence of sheets tangled and breath shared.

 

That night, the mansion didn’t feel cold anymore.

 

It didn’t feel like a castle or a fortress.

 

It felt like home.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 60: The World Watches

 

The sun rose slow and honey-colored over the estate.

 

Its golden light filtered through gauzy curtains, spilling across silk sheets and pale skin, casting a glow that made Jungkook look almost unreal. His long lashes fanned over flushed cheeks, his bare shoulder peeked out from beneath the blanket, and one hand curled instinctively around the shirt cuff of the man beside him.

 

Taehyung’s eyes were already open, trained quietly on the sleeping figure nestled against his chest.

 

Every inhale Jungkook took moved softly against his ribs, warm and steady. Taehyung exhaled through his nose, brushing damp hair back from Jungkook’s temple with careful fingers. The night had been long, slow, full of touches that asked for nothing but gave everything.

 

Taehyung didn’t move even as a low hum rumbled behind him.

 

V had stirred awake.

 

"He's out cold," Taehyung murmured softly, his lips barely moving.

 

V shifted onto his side, peering over Taehyung’s shoulder at the peaceful expression on the younger’s face. His voice was still rough with sleep. “Good. He needed it.”

 

“He was glowing last night,” Taehyung added, a gentle smile curling the corner of his lips. “You saw the way he walked through the gallery... like it was his kingdom.”

 

“It is,” V said without hesitation. “He just didn’t know it until now.”

 

Outside the estate, the city was buzzing.

 

Across social media, hashtags like #WhoIsKoo and #TheKooReveal had climbed to global trends overnight. Some speculated he was the lover of the twins. Some called him their protégé. Others whispered about secret affairs, scandals, and even questioned whether he had painted those works at all.

 

But none of them had the truth.

 

None of them had him.

 

When Jungkook finally awoke, it wasn’t to silence.

 

It was to the soft rustle of fabric and the faint scent of roasted coffee from the hallway. He blinked drowsily, still nestled between the sheets. His voice was hoarse when he whispered, “Dada...?”

 

He expected the quiet comfort of Taehyung’s warm body beside him—but instead, found only the impression of where he had been.

 

Jungkook sat up with a soft pout, rubbing his eyes.

 

Then a deep voice drifted in from the doorway. “Looking for someone, baby?”

 

V stood there with a towel slung around his neck, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, his shirt only half-buttoned. His eyes gleamed.

 

Jungkook lit up immediately. “Daddy!”

 

He scrambled off the bed without thinking, tripping slightly in his oversized sleep shirt as he darted into V’s arms. V caught him effortlessly, hoisting him up as though Jungkook weighed nothing.

 

“You left,” Jungkook whispered against his neck, nuzzling.

 

“You were dreaming about pancakes,” V murmured, smirking. “So Daddy made sure they’d be waiting when you woke up.”

 

Jungkook pulled back, eyes wide and sparkling. “You cooked?”

 

V chuckled low. “Supervised.”

 

Downstairs, the brunch table had already been set.

 

Taehyung stood in the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he watched the staff place the final touches—strawberry syrup, whipped cream, delicate fruit carvings.

 

When Jungkook skipped in, still barefoot and half in his little space, he gasped at the sight of the table.

 

“You really made these for me?” he asked, glancing between them with a hopeful pout.

 

Taehyung pulled out a chair for him. “Every bite.”

 

“And we made extra,” V added, placing a hand on his head gently. “For when your appetite matches your curiosity.”

 

The meal was soft, full of laughter and syrup-sticky fingers.

 

Jungkook, in his oversized hoodie, sat cross-legged in the chair, cheeks puffed full of pancakes, speaking with an enthusiastic mix of childlike glee and his usual mischief.

 

At one point, he reached over, smearing whipped cream on Taehyung’s cheek with a delighted giggle.

 

“Jungkook,” Taehyung warned, voice dropping into his deeper register—but Jungkook only blinked at him with exaggerated innocence, licking the cream off his own finger.

 

“’M not naughty…” he said with a slow blink.

 

Taehyung leaned in, brushing his thumb over Jungkook’s lips. “No? Then why’s your halo always tilted?”

 

Jungkook squirmed.

 

V leaned over from the other side, his palm sliding up Jungkook’s thigh under the table, voice like warm sin. “Because it looks good on him.”

 

The bratty glint in Jungkook’s eyes melted almost instantly. A faint tremble replaced it, cheeks flushing pink.

 

“You’re both mean,” he whispered.

 

“You like it,” V whispered back, and the low growl in his voice had Jungkook squirming in his seat, lips parted just slightly in anticipation.

 

Before things could escalate, the sound of Niki’s voice carried from the hallway, sharp and anxious.

 

“Sir—there’s a press request at the gate again. They say they’re with the Seoul Modern. And… and there’s also a request from the National Museum in Paris. They’ve sent an offer.”

 

V’s face shuttered into something cool and unreadable.

 

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, brushing syrup from his knuckle with a napkin. “Let them wait.”

 

“But—”

 

“Let. Them. Wait,” V repeated.

 

Niki hesitated, then nodded, leaving quickly.

 

Jungkook watched all of it with a small furrow between his brows. “Is it bad that they’re asking for me?”

 

“No,” Taehyung said immediately. “It’s expected.”

 

“But they’re pushing,” V added. “Trying to own what doesn’t belong to them.”

 

Jungkook toyed with his fork for a moment. Then softly said, “Then maybe it’s time we show them who I do belong to.”

 

Both twins looked up at him, surprised.

 

Jungkook was still in his little space—his voice was soft, lilted, like he was offering them a drawing he made with his crayons. But there was something very clear beneath it: intent.

 

“I want the world to see us,” he said slowly. “Not everything. Just enough.”

 

A long pause stretched between them.

 

Then Taehyung spoke gently. “What are you thinking, baby?”

 

Jungkook took a deep breath. “I want to do an interview.”

 

“Out of the question,” V said instantly.

 

But Jungkook reached out and touched his hand.

 

“With you both beside me,” he said. “You don’t have to speak. Just... be there.”

 

V’s jaw clenched.

 

Taehyung looked at him, then back at Jungkook. “Do you really want to do this?”

 

“I want to talk about my art. About how I see things. I don’t want to answer their gossip or the ugly questions. But I want people to know... I’m not just a mystery. I’m me. And I want to be seen for me.”

 

There was no trace of hesitation in his voice anymore.

 

V exhaled slowly, looking at Taehyung.

 

Taehyung nodded once.

 

And finally—reluctantly—V did too.

 

By the time evening fell, the estate was already buzzing with private negotiations. Only one journalist would be granted access. One camera crew. One carefully orchestrated set.

 

Jungkook stood in front of the mirror, wearing an outfit designed to obscure and reveal all at once. His face was still partially hidden—mask-like, mysterious—but his eyes, his voice, his soul… all of that was his to give.

 

And he would give it.

 

Beside him, Taehyung reached down to adjust a strand of hair behind his ear.

 

“Are you nervous?”

 

Jungkook glanced at him, then at V’s reflection behind them.

 

Then he smiled.

 

“Not at all,” he whispered. “Because I’m not alone.”

 

And when the cameras rolled, and the lights bathed him in soft gold once more, the world would not see just a young man.

 

They would see the brushstroke of a legend.

 

Protected by two kings.

 

Loved by both.

 

 https://novelreadingislife.blogspot.com/2025/05/chapter-61-boy-behind-canvas.html