Chapter 1
✦1| she would be his✦
A/N: 1.9.26. Welcome to AIR MARSHAL JEON’S WIFE.
DISCLAIMER: this story is a work of dark historical romance. It contains mature themes including obsession, forced intimacy (both genders), power imbalance, infidelity, toxic love, and emotional manipulation. The female lead is often denied agency in her choices, reflecting the harsh realities of the era. Readers should be aware that this book explores a highly dramatic, morally gray, and emotionally, mind-shatteringly, intense relationship, not a healthy one.
If you’re looking for sweet, fluffy romance, this book is NOT for you. Do not read it. Don’t ruin your innocence with it. I have written a lot of stuff in this. And it’s gonna be gut-wretching. BUT if you so crave a storm of passion, jealousy, tears, betrayal, devotion, and war; then do step inside. No, this is not a fairytale. This is a tragedy of love.
The character of Jungkook looks exactly like in the book cover. Photos used anywhere in the book are either taken online, credits belong to rightful owners.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
@himegimi
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The bus rattled up the winding road that led into the hills, the old metal frame creaking with every curve. It was 1976, and though the Cold War loomed over the world like a shadow, here in Republic of South Korea, the day bloomed soft and crisp, the mountain air clean with the scent of pine and damp earth. Students filled the seats, laughter and chatter spilling into the air, mixing with the occasional burst of a folk song hummed in the back rows.
Alicia Kim, 25 years old; sat quietly by the window, hands folded neatly in her lap over the modest folds of her navy-blue skirt. The hem brushed her calves, the stockings beneath sheer but plain. She wore her hair parted neatly down the center, tied into a low knot at the back of her neck. A pale beige blouse pressed that morning peeped out from under a cardigan the shade of dusty rose. Nothing about her drew attention, and that was precisely how she liked it. She had grown used to slipping into silence, to letting noise pass around her like a stream does around a stone.
Her fellows giggled beside her, adjusting their colorful scarves, gossiping about which professors looked kinder than others, which cities they hoped to visit in their medical training. Alicia smiled faintly when spoken to but rarely offered more. Her parents had raised her to carry herself with dignity, to guard her modesty as though it were treasure. And she believed in that; because what was hers was not hers alone. One day, her parents would arrange her match, and she would obey. That was her duty.
The bus screeched to a halt before a large hotel perched on the mountainside. Its whitewashed walls glimmered against the fading sunlight, ivy trailing down from the balconies like ribbons. The sign above the entrance, painted in bold Korean letters, declared its name in gold. An establishment for officials and scholars, not the common traveler. The students poured out with their luggage, chatter swelling as they admired the cool mist creeping down the slopes behind them.
Inside, the lobby was vast polished wooden floors reflecting the chandeliers overhead, velvet sofas pushed neatly against the walls. The scent of cedarwood and faint tobacco smoke clung to the air. Men in suits passed by, briefcases in hand, while women in elegant hanboks exchanged greetings at the reception.
Alicia clutched her small brown leather suitcase to her chest as she followed her classmates through the hallway. The corridor stretched endlessly, lined with tall lamps casting soft yellow light onto patterned carpet. She kept her eyes lowered, watching her shoes; simple black pumps polished that morning make no sound as she walked.
And then she brushed against something. No, someone.
Her shoulder collided with a broad chest. She stumbled back, gasping softly, her fingers tightening on her suitcase.
“I—I’m so sorry”, she murmured immediately, bowing her head, her voice barely above a whisper.
Slowly, she looked up.
The man before her was nothing like the professors or guests who had filled the lobby. He stood tall, towering in the narrow hall, dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Korean Air Force. The jacket was pressed to perfection, the silver buttons gleaming beneath the golden trim. A row of medals pinned neatly across his chest caught the light, sharp as stars. His trousers fell in crisp lines down to polished black boots that gleamed as though they had never seen dust.
But it wasn’t his clothes that stole her breath. It was him.
Jet-black hair, cut shorter at the sides but left thick and slightly tousled at the crown, framed a face carved with severity. His jawline was sharp, his lips firm, and his eyes dark, endless, and heavy seemed to pin her where she stood. There was a glint in them, not of annoyance at being bumped into, but of something else. Something unyielding. Something dangerous.
Alicia’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. She bowed again, forcing her voice steady, “Forgive me, Sir”
The man didn’t move. He only tilted his head, his eyes traveling slowly from her bowed head down to the modest line of her blouse, the plain skirt, the suitcase clutched like a shield.
His lips curved just barely into a smile that was not kind.
It was slow, deliberate, as though he’d just discovered something that belonged to him.
“Careful”, he said, his voice deep and smooth, steel hidden under velvet, “I might not let you walk away so easily”
Her breath caught. She lowered her gaze at once, heat rushing to her cheeks.
He was... teasing?
He must be.
Men in uniforms often teased, often thought a young woman’s embarrassment was sport. But there was no playfulness in his tone. Only certainty.
Alicia stepped back quickly, clutching her suitcase tighter, “i-it won’t happen again”, she whispered. Her classmates called her name from down the hall, and she hurried toward them without daring to look back.
But behind her-
Jungkook Jeon, 30 years old; the Air Chief Marshal of the Korean Air Force, feared even by his men for his ruthlessness watched her retreat. His eyes lingered on the sway of her modest skirt, on the trembling curve of her shoulders, on the way her small frame carried itself with quiet obedience.
And just with that bare minimum interaction, just by that bare minimum eye-to-eye contact, something inside him had already decided.
She would be his.
Not tomorrow. Not in months. Not by chance or accident.
But inevitably, entirely, and irrevocably; she would be his.
Only his.
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✦AIR MARSHAL JEON CHAPTER 1✦
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