SPW 2

The inside of the apartment, which had been neatly cleaned at some point, was mostly covered in dust that had accumulated over several days. One room, one bathroom. On the old bed was a bare mattress without even a single sheet, and by the dark window, a wooden desk stood forlornly. It was an excessively small and dark space for someone who had been a professional soccer player, a national team member for his country, and Florian’s spouse to live in.

Kim Sarang’s belongings consisted of nothing more than a box on the desk, large enough to hold three or four books. Inside the box itself were only two notebooks and a single picture frame.

Suddenly, the rain that had been falling all morning stopped, and faint rays of light streamed in through the window. As if the fickle weather outside the misty window was working its magic again, the sun was rising. Right, he didn’t live in complete darkness after all. The sunlight also touched Florian’s pale cheek as he muttered inwardly.

Bailey, who had been staring blankly at his profile, belatedly came to his senses. It was an appearance he could never get used to, no matter how many times he saw it. America’s Prince. Thanks to Florian, the actual prince of the Commonwealth of Nations was treated like leftover rice by his own people. Although he was only 17th in the line of succession, Florian, with looks so magnificent it was no exaggeration to call him the real-life version of a fairy tale prince, also had impeccable comportment.

This was a rare, emotional side of Florian, who was usually so flawless as to seem inhuman. Feeling as though he had stolen a glimpse of a very private, fleeting moment, Bailey, like the polite secretary he was, quickly averted his gaze.

Yes, even if Kim Sarang was a scoundrel who threw mud on the ducal house and the Wellington family and tarnished Florian’s name while he was alive, he was still his spouse. Even if they hadn’t imprinted, they had been a married couple who faced each other and lived skin to skin for seven long years. Florian Dietrich Wellington, always rational and sharp in his judgment, even called a born negotiator, was also the owner of a warm and gentle disposition.

While he had taken the drastic step of divorce because he could no longer overlook Kim Sarang’s eccentricities and misdeeds, it was impossible that he felt no shred of pity for his young spouse. Weren’t they, in fact, an affectionate married couple for about a year? Perhaps he needed time alone to bid farewell to Kim Sarang, who had been his spouse. Finally realizing his own tactlessness, Bailey quietly excused himself.

“…”

America’s Sweetheart Lovely King, fighting!

Our pride, our treasure! Long live King Sarang!

The universe’s strongest forward! Wishing you happy soccer and a great future!

From the Gatekeeper of the Kim Sarang Praise Prison

From the We Should Have Given Birth to Kim Sarang Ourselves Association

On the picture frame, where a photo should have been, were supportive phrases carefully taped on in Korean.

Once the door opened and closed and Bailey’s presence disappeared, Florian set the frame aside and took out one of the notebooks. Nothing was written on the cover. Only the traces of time remained. As he turned the cover, sparsely written words were revealed. They were in Korean. The diary, written by Kim Sarang himself, sporadically filled one and a half notebooks. Florian stood there and read it all the way to the last page.

The sunlight, which had barely peeked through the foggy window, vanished, and dark clouds that had sluggishly gathered began to drop rain once more. The sun was setting, and the curtain of night was about to fall. After closing the final page, Florian raised his head. The darkness that had swallowed the blood-red sunset was spreading outside the window like a watery mist.

‘Hi? Lian.’

The day before the accident, Sarang had come to the summer palace. The summer palace, built by the first Duke of Dietrich for the spouse he loved, was traditionally used by the Duke’s spouse. Ownerless after Dietrich’s mother passed away, the summer palace had remained empty even after Florian took a spouse.

That day was the second time Sarang had visited the summer palace.

‘Are we really getting a divorce?’

Sarang, who had been injured on the pitch during a match, had stitches on his handsome forehead and a cast on his left leg. Florian, who had been relaxing by the window, basking in the rare warm sunlight, opened his closed eyes and looked down out the window. The 24-year-old alpha was looking up at Florian, just as he had on the day they first met.

Florian, leaning leisurely against the window frame, wondered for a moment how Sarang, who was not permitted entry, could be here, but soon gave up the thought. There were less than 24 hours left until the divorce papers were signed. Considering their past affection, he could overlook this level of impoliteness.

‘Yes, Sarang. We are really getting a divorce.’

Sarang, who had been silent for a while, smiled faintly.

‘I see.’

The bright summer sun shone on the young alpha’s face as he calmly accepted the fact. In that fleeting moment, Florian felt a twinge in a corner of his chest, but he didn’t pay it much mind. This young alpha, who knew no restraint and ran wild like a hooligan both on and off the pitch, was still just as Sarang-like as ever, but to Florian Dietrich Wellington, who led the ducal house and the Wellington family, he was an unnecessary and insulting presence. The failure to end things at the appropriate time was entirely Florian’s fault.

‘Lian.’

‘Yes, Sarang.’

‘Be well.’

Looking down into Sarang’s sincere eyes, which wished only for his happiness and peace, Florian raised the corners of his mouth.

‘Yes, you too.’

That was their last farewell.

Was it really an accident?

There were no signs of braking at the accident scene. Although Sarang had supposedly come from a club in downtown Canton, no traces of alcohol or d**gs were found in his system. Yet, Sarang had sped far over the legal limit and died by crashing the front of his car into a cliff.

‘It seems to be a post-concussion syndrome. I believe he may have lost consciousness while driving, which led to the accident.’

After leaving the club, Sarang drove in the complete opposite direction of the apartment where he had been living for two years. On the outer road leaving Canton, the desolate Route 17, with little car or foot traffic, one side was a sheer cliff, and the other was a sea of unknown depth.

With no streetlights, relying only on the faint moonlight and a single pair of headlights, Sarang sped down the winding, steep road at maximum velocity. And just like that, he died so futilely. As if he didn’t want to live any longer in a life without Florian. As if he were throwing a tantrum, demanding, Look at me, I died because of you.

It was probably a suicide.

Whether it was true that he lost consciousness while driving due to post-concussion syndrome or not, he must have felt the concussion symptoms early on. Getting into a car in that state, driving on a road infamous for being treacherous, not just speeding but at maximum output, was in itself a suicidal act.

Faced with the selfish choice of an alpha who was foolish and idiotic, foolishly Sarang-like and blind, and thus all the more unbearable, Florian couldn’t even manage a bitter smile.

「Lian, I love you.」

A confession he had never once heard in person while he was alive was embedded like a breath in the one and a half notebooks.

It wasn’t a selfish choice. It was the final, self-loving choice Sarang made when, after being pushed to the brink since he was seventeen—no, since birth—with nowhere to lean on and no one to rely on, he had nowhere else to go. Sarang, who was foolishly kind and altruistic, was no different even in death.

On the infamous Route 17, with almost no running cars or people. On that lonely and desolate road where no secondary damage would occur even if a car, unable to handle the maximum output, lost its balance, swerved, and was half-destroyed, Sarang died alone.

Florian could no longer hold back the tears that poured down.

July 7, 20XX.

The first thing Florian did upon opening his eyes was check the date.

In the dream, Florian had lived seven more years and was thirty-four, and his spouse in the dream, Kim Sarang, was twenty-four. A brat exactly ten years younger than Florian.

What is this…

It was a memory too vivid to be dismissed as a mere absurd dream. He didn’t even want to mention how it felt to become the kind of human s**m who not only took a young boy he’d never met as his spouse but also drove him to suicide on the verge of divorce. Touching his w** eyes with an unpleasant feeling, Florian was almost bewildered by the still-vivid swirl of emotions.

A side effect of the accident? What a cruel twist.

It had been five days since the day of the terrorist attack. Florian looked around the bedroom, which was a replica of an ICU, and his eyes met someone’s. Sitting by the door, the personal physician, who had been dozing off, was startled awake by the loud beeping of machines. He stared with a shocked face, stammering, before quickly shutting his mouth. It was because of Florian’s hand gesture telling him not to make a fuss.

Florian, who had miraculously woken up after being in a coma for five days due to a bombing, didn’t look like a patient who had been in critical condition, but rather like someone who had just woken from a deep sleep. Discovering a notebook and pen on the bedside table, the sight of him rapidly writing something down made him seem even more so. The word that occupied the first line of the first page of the notebook was ‘Kim Sarang’.

By the time Florian’s elegant script had filled nearly the entire notebook, his chief secretary, Bailey, who had received a report from the physician, took a breath in front of the door.

‘So… His Grace has woken up, but…’

Recalling the doctor who had stammered with a perplexed look on his face, Bailey frowned before placing his hand on the door. After knocking and waiting a short while, he opened the door and entered.

“Boss.”

Just as the doctor had reported, the sight of Florian leaning against the bed and rapidly jotting something down did not look like that of a patient who had been in a coma until just a moment ago.

“You were unconscious for five days.”

Florian raised a hand to Bailey, who had approached him, gesturing for him not to interrupt, all while continuing to write something down. Standing quietly as his boss had instructed, Bailey carefully observed Florian’s condition, his brow furrowing once again. Having unintentionally caught a glimpse of a part of the notebook, Bailey showed his bewilderment upon discovering a familiar name.

“Kim Sarang? The name is the same as one of the candidates on the list for your partner this heat cycle.”

The hastily written cursive was still elegant, but it was so messy that anyone who wasn’t a close associate like Bailey would have had trouble reading it. It was likely also due to him immediately using his arm muscles upon waking, without any recovery phase.

“Heat cycle partner?”

As if he had finished writing, Florian finally put down his pen, and his blue eyes turned toward Bailey. This blond, blue-eyed man was naturally gifted at capturing others’ gazes and making them tense at any given moment. Realizing this anew, Bailey nodded politely.

“Yes. Your heat cycle begins in two weeks, Boss.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that without you needing to point it out.”

An alpha named ‘Kim Sarang’ who was on the list of candidates for his heat cycle partner. An incredible coincidence for it to be a mere incident, Florian’s eyes shone with an unusual light. The sensation of memories and emotions pouring down, battering his soul and body the moment he awoke, felt as if they were carved into every single cell, still making it feel like he was in a dream.