The receiver felt like a block of ice against Yoongi’s ear, even as the apartment air hummed with the heat of his own fury. Emily’s words, sharp and cold, had punched through the raw pain of Aya’s confession, leaving a new, gaping wound. *Siblings*. The word echoed, grotesque and impossible, twisting his gut. He stared at Aya, her face streaked with tears, her shoulders still shaking from the force of his anger, and the world tilted.
His hands trembled, not with rage at her, but with a sudden, bone-deep chill. He wanted to throw the phone, shatter it against the wall, but he couldn't move. Emily’s voice, a serpent’s hiss, had just unravelled the very fabric of his existence. He had just confronted Aya about the abortion, the betrayal a fresh, burning wound, and now this. How could he even process it? How could he even begin to believe it?
Aya lifted her gaze, her eyes swollen and red. “Yoongi,” she whispered, her voice a raw rasp. “Please. Say something. Anything.” She reached for his arm, her fingers brushing his sleeve, a tentative, pleading touch. He flinched, pulling back instinctively, not from her, but from the horrifying shadow Emily’s words had cast over her.
He wanted to shout, to demand answers from Emily, to dismiss her as a desperate liar. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat for daring to plant such an insidious seed. Yet, a cold dread coiled in his stomach. Emily had mentioned files, old family secrets. He knew their grandmothers had been friends. A cold possibility, however faint, whispered in the back of his mind. A sick, twisting thought he couldn't quite extinguish.
“Yoongi?” Aya’s voice was quieter now, laced with a new fear, sensing the shift in his silence, the way his eyes seemed to look past her, into some distant, terrible place. His previous rage, though searing, had been directed *at* her. This was different. This was a withdrawal, an icy barrier erecting itself between them. He closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temples, trying to clear the static, to make sense of the chaos.
He had to focus on one thing. The abortion. That was real. That was here. The betrayal was concrete. Emily’s words, however, were a phantom, a whisper of a horror he couldn't yet grasp. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to look at Aya, trying to see his wife, the woman he loved, not the impossible sister Emily had tried to paint.
“Why, Aya?” he finally managed, his voice hoarse, barely his own. He wasn't talking about the call, not yet. He was pulling back to the immediate, tangible pain. “Why would you do this? How could you hide this from me?” The questions were old, but they were safer, a familiar fire compared to the nuclear chill Emily had just unleashed.
---
Aya watched him, her heart twisting in her chest. His face, usually so warm and expressive, was a mask of cold fury and something else she couldn't name—a distant, haunted look that terrified her more than his shouts. He was angry about the abortion, yes, but this new silence, this profound withdrawal, felt like the end of everything.
She took a shaky breath. “I was scared, Yoongi. So scared.” Her voice cracked, tears welling anew. “My father… the university… Emily’s letter… I didn’t know what to do. I felt like our life was already so complicated, and a baby… it just felt impossible.” She tried to close the distance between them again, her hands clasped in front of her, pleading.
“Impossible?” His voice was a low growl, devoid of its usual melody. “Our child was impossible?” He finally dropped the phone onto the plush carpet, the thud echoing in the quiet apartment. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing two steps, then stopping, unable to settle. “You took that decision from me, Aya. From us. What kind of marriage is that?”
“I know. I know it was wrong,” she sobbed, finally collapsing onto her knees before him, her hands reaching for his jeans, clinging to the denim. “I should have told you. I was selfish, I was a coward. Please, Yoongi. Please forgive me.” Her face was pressed against his leg, her body shaking with the force of her regret. “I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with desperation. “I’ll have another baby. Right now, if you want. I’ll give you as many children as you want. I’ll submit to you, Yoongi. My body is yours. You can do whatever you want with me. Just please, please don’t leave me. Don’t abandon me.” The words tumbled out, desperate, unthinking, a torrent of self-abasement.
His gaze was still distant, unseeing. He stared over her head, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling heavily. The words about her body, about having children, should have brought some softening, some flicker of hope. Instead, they seemed to bounce off him, hitting an invisible wall. She could feel him withdrawing, even as she clung to him.
“Please, Yoongi,” she pleaded again, her voice raw. “Tell me what to do. I’ll obey you. I’ll make it up to you. I can’t lose you. I can’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could rewind time, erase that terrible decision, and bring back the warmth that had filled his eyes only hours ago. Now, all she saw was a cold, impenetrable wall.
---
Yoongi couldn't look at her, not really. Her desperate pleas, her promises of submission, were just more noise against the cacophony in his head. Emily’s voice, *siblings*, clawed at him. He needed to get away, to breathe, to think. He needed to call Emily back, to tear her lies apart, or to face the truth, however horrific.
He gently, almost imperceptibly, detached her hands from his leg. “I… I can’t, Aya,” he said, his voice strained. “I can’t talk about this right now. I need… I need air.” He pushed himself up, moving away from her as if burned. He grabbed his coat from the back of the sofa, his keys from the small table by the door. His movements were stiff, automatic.
Aya scrambled to her feet, her face etched with fresh panic. “Where are you going? Yoongi, please! Don’t leave!” Her voice was shrill, desperate, but he was already out the door. He heard her frantic calls fading behind him as he descended the stairs, his mind a hurricane of accusation and terror.
He fumbled his phone from his pocket, his fingers clumsy, and dialled Emily. She answered on the second ring, her voice surprisingly calm, almost smug. “Yoongi,” she purred, the sound grating on his nerves. “Did you think about what I said?”
“What game are you playing, Emily?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. He was walking aimlessly, his feet pounding the Parisian pavement, the cold night air doing little to cool the fire within him. “This is sick. Telling me Aya and I are siblings? What do you hope to gain from this twisted lie?”
Emily chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Lie? Yoongi, you wound me. I’m trying to save you. Save you both from a truth you’ve been blind to your entire lives.” Her tone hardened. “I have the files. Old family records. Letters. Your grandmothers knew. They tried to keep it hidden, but secrets always come out.”
“Prove it,” he spat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to dismiss her, to hang up, but the specificity of her claim, the mention of their grandmothers, held him captive. He knew they had been friends. Could there be something there? Could this be the deeper, older secret Emily had alluded to earlier?
“Oh, I will,” she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “But not over the phone. You need to see them. See the truth for yourself. Meet me. Tomorrow. The cafe on Rue de Rivoli, noon.” She gave him an address, then hung up before he could respond. He stared at his phone, his hand clenched around it, his knuckles white. He had to know. He had to prove her wrong. Or face something far worse than he could imagine.
---
The apartment felt suffocating when Yoongi returned. The soft glow of the lamp in the living room cast long, accusing shadows. Aya was curled on the sofa, a blanket pulled tight around her, her face buried in her knees. He heard the faint, hitching sound of her sobs. His chest tightened, a knot of conflicting emotions tangling inside him. The raw pain of her abortion, the devastating betrayal, was still very much alive. But now, overlaid on top of it, was the chilling, impossible thought planted by Emily.
He walked over to the sofa, his steps heavy. Aya flinched, pulling the blanket tighter, but didn’t look up. He sat on the opposite end, the cushions sinking under his weight. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He wanted to tell her about Emily, about the phone call, about the monstrous lie. But the words stuck in his throat. What if it wasn't a lie? What if Emily, in her twisted way, was telling the truth? He couldn’t bring himself to even utter the possibility.
“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Aya whispered again, her voice muffled by the blanket. “I truly am. I’ll make it right. Just tell me how.” She slowly lifted her head, her eyes still red and swollen, but now filled with a desperate, fragile hope. She reached out a hand, tentative, seeking. “Please, don’t let this break us.”
He looked at her hand, then at her face, her beautiful, tear-streaked face. His wife. His Aya. The woman he had married, loved, protected. And now, the woman Emily claimed was his sister. The thought was a poison, seeping into every corner of his mind, corrupting every memory, every touch, every whispered promise.
He wanted to take her hand, to pull her into his arms, to reassure her that they would get through this, as he always had. He wanted to dismiss Emily’s cruel fabrication. But the image of their grandmothers, old friends, and Emily’s smug certainty, the mention of hidden files, gnawed at him. He found himself studying Aya’s features, searching for some resemblance he had never noticed before, some familial echo in her high cheekbones, the curve of her lips. It was insane. It was Emily’s work. Yet, the seed was planted, and it was growing.
He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. He just couldn’t. Not until he knew. Not until he could prove Emily a liar. The betrayal of the abortion was a gaping wound, but this new possibility, this monstrous shadow, threatened to shatter their entire world, to redefine every single moment they had shared. He looked at her, his wife, and the thought that Emily’s words might be true, that she might be his sister, was a cold, inescapable dread that made his stomach churn, making him pull back, physically and emotionally, as if she were a stranger, a forbidden mystery he could no longer solve.