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whileiamdying · 1 year ago

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Review: Marina Abramovic Summons Maria Callas in ‘7 Deaths’

Part mixtape and part séance, this opera project by the famed performance artist attempts to unite two divas across time.

Marina Abramovic’s “7 Deaths of Maria Callas,” in Munich, includes opera excerpts and short films such as this one, inspired by “Otello.” (Leah Hawkins is onstage at left, with Abramovic in bed.)Credit...Wilfried Hösl

By Joshua Barone July 28, 2021

7 Deaths of Maria Callas

MUNICH — In Leos Carax’s new film, “Annette,” the husband and wife played by Adam Driver and Marion Cotillard are described in inverse terms. As a comedian, he kills every night; as an opera star, she dies.

That’s of course a reductive view of opera. But the alignment of the art form and demise persists in the popular imagination, and guides “7 Deaths of Maria Callas.” A dramaturgically misguided séance of a project by the performance artist Marina Abramovic, it played to its largest in-person audience yet on Tuesday at the Bavarian State Opera here, after a heavily restricted run and livestream last year. It is bound for Paris and Athens in September, then Berlin and Naples — and who knows where else, with Abramovic’s celebrity behind it.

“7 Deaths” is a meeting of divas in which Callas is invoked through a series of the arias for which she was notable. She is then inhabited onstage and in short films — the summoning of a spirit who, Abramovic argues, is still very much with us.

In the work, Abramovic inhabits Maria Callas, miming to a recording of “Casta Diva.”Credit...Wilfried Hösl

She’s right. Callas died in 1977, yet lives on in a still-robust stream of albums, art books and, yes, hologram concerts. She was known even to a public beyond opera as tabloid fodder, especially because of her affair with Aristotle Onassis — a love triangle involving Jacqueline Kennedy, his eventual wife. But her pop celebrity emerged from her being an indelible artist, who contributed to the 20th-century resurrection of bel canto repertoire with a transfixing stage presence. Even when silent, she emoted with the entirety of her face, arrestingly expressive with just a small hand gesture. Her voice failed her too early, but she embodied the “Tosca” aria “Vissi d’arte”: “I lived for art.”

That voice caught the attention of a young Abramovic, who has said that she first heard Callas on the radio when she was a 14-year-old in Yugoslavia. Since then she has been haunted by their similarities: They share astrology signs, toxic relationships with their mothers and, she told The New York Times last year, “this incredible intensity in the emotions, that she can be fragile, and strong at the same time.”

In the opera’s initial run, Adela Zaharia, left, sang an aria from “Lucia di Lammermoor.” On Tuesday, it was sung by Rosa Feola, in a standout performance.Credit...Wilfried Hösl

In that interview, Abramovic noted one essential difference: how they reacted to losing the loves of their lives. Callas, in her view, died of a broken heart — a heart attack, to be exact — but Abramovic, so shattered that she stopped eating or drinking, eventually survived by returning to work.

All this background about “7 Deaths” is clearer than the work itself, in which Callas is never present enough to persuasively intertwine with Abramovic, who upstages the great diva throughout. That’s the insurmountable flaw of the project, and the main reason it doesn’t belong in an opera house.

“7 Deaths” is best experienced in person; the spatial audio design and immersive, big-screen film element made its 95-minute running time a breeze on Tuesday, compared with the tedious livestream last year. But its use of live performers relegates them to mere soundtrack, while also erasing Callas from her own history.

This might have been more satisfying as a set of video installations, something like Julian Rosefeldt’s “Manifesto.” If Abramovic’s homage were accompanied by Callas’s storied recordings, the goal of joining and blurring divas could be more naturally achieved. Instead, “7 Deaths,” directed by Abramovic with Lynsey Peisinger, never quite approaches actual drama in its succession of arias and films, then its dreamy re-creation of Callas’s final moments in her Paris apartment.

Nadezhda Karyazina, left, sang the role of Carmen last year against a backdrop of a video with Willem Dafoe, left onscreen, and Abramovic. On Tuesday, Samantha Hankey sang it.Credit...Wilfried Hösl

The piece does include new music, by Marko Nikodijevic — ably conducted, along with the opera excerpts, by Yoel Gamzou. The overture begins with haunting bells and slippery melodies whose glissandos render them distant memories of unplaceable tunes. Behind a scrim, Abramovic lies still in a bed under soft lighting; not since Tilda Swinton has an artist so easily gotten away with sleep as performance.

Then swirling clouds are projected onto the scrim — a tacky recurring “visual intermezzo,” as it is called in the credits — and a maid enters. She is the first of seven singers who dress identically and whose arias follow introductions in the form of poetic texts prerecorded by Abramovic.

The characters are never named, but opera fans will recognize them instantly: Violetta Valéry from “La Traviata” (Emily Pogorelc); Desdemona from “Otello” (Leah Hawkins); Cio-Cio-San from “Madama Butterfly” (Kiandra Howarth); and the title protagonists of “Tosca” (Selene Zanetti), “Carmen” (Samantha Hankey), “Lucia di Lammermoor” (Rosa Feola) and “Norma” (Lauren Fagan).

Their onstage appearances are an insult to the singers, who feel like interchangeably anonymous musical accompaniment to the short films — though Feola’s Lucia was defiantly present, a performance that captured the role’s emotional force and vocal acrobatics, even stripped of its dramatic context.

In the work’s coda, Abramovic imagines herself in Callas’s Paris apartment on the day she died.Credit...Wilfried Hösl

A spotlight remains throughout on the sleeping Abramovic, as behind her the short films — starring her and a game Willem Dafoe, and directed by Nabil Elderkin — provide not reflections on Callas but (on a superficial level) the arias themselves, and (on a more thoughtful one) the nature of operatic artifice.

In their embrace of excess, these videos flirt with winking camp. As Abramovic falls from a skyscraper in slow motion, inspired by “Tosca,” her enormous earrings dance in zero gravity; when Dafoe wraps thick snakes around her neck to strangle her like Desdemona, their slithering bodies smear her lipstick. Her Carmen is a bedazzled matador, while in the “Norma” film she and Dafoe trade gender roles, with him in a glittering gown and the penciled eyebrows of Marlene Dietrich.

Little, if anything, is said here about Callas, but after the seventh aria, Nikodijevic’s music returns — now rumbling and tumultuous, with singers and instrumentalists perched in the theater’s boxes — as the scene changes to her apartment on the day of her death. It’s realistic yet suggests a place beyond, the window opening not to a streetscape but to a pale blue emptiness.

In this long coda, Abramovic’s prerecorded voice both gives her directions for onstage movement and imagines Callas’s final thoughts in a collage of non sequiturs resembling a mad scene. She contemplates her luxurious bedding, “Ari” Onassis, her gay friends (Luchino Visconti, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Franco Zeffirelli, Leonard Bernstein). Then, at some point, she leaves through a door. The maids come in, dispassionately clean the room and drape black fabric over the furniture.

One of them lingers, opening a turntable and dropping the needle on a record of “Casta Diva.” The sound is scratchy, but a distinct voice comes through: Callas, for the first time. Abramovic returns to the stage, in a sparkling gold gown, and mimes the performance — an outstretched hand, a downcast look. The two divas unite at last, too late.

7 Deaths of Maria Callas

Performed Tuesday at the Bavarian State Opera, Munich.

Joshua Barone is the assistant performing arts editor on the Culture Desk and a contributing classical music critic. More about Joshua Barone

A version of this article appears in print on July 29, 2021, Section C, Page 8 of the New York edition with the headline: Summoning the Spirit of a Diva. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

#marina abramović #maria callas #7 deaths of maria callas #new york times #Joshua Barone #Bavarian State Opera #Munich #Germany #München #deutschland #Luchino Visconti #Pier Paolo Pasolini #Franco Zeffirelli #Leonard Bernstein)

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shuastar · 10 days ago

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ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ (pt 2) (JWW)

ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴋᴇ!ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ x ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴄ: 8.2 k (consistency is key??) warnings: none for now?? hot wonwoo, lowkey obsessed wonwoo, theres like a part where he's like "oh i couldn't control myself" but it's not like a sexual predator sorta way i promise, joshua featuring!! ᴀ/ɴ: i told myself i would post this before the la concert BUT i got too distracted buying a clear fucking bag from target bc i didnt know you had to bring a clear bag to us concerts??? bc ive only gone to korea concerts??? anyways, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ᴘʟꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ <3 OH also if you're confused by the (y/n) (wonwoo) parts it's like the perspective thing (the perspectives switch bc i got boredd writing only y/n pov sorry!!)

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ; ɴᴇxᴛ

y/n

“Your grace.”

A silver fine-toothed comb gently brushed through your morning hair, untangling your curled knots. The winter air chilled the room and the hazy morning sunlight shined through the sheer curtains.

You hummed in acknowledgement.

Nai continued with her rhythmic brushing, slowly adding oils and perfumes to the ends of your hair. “I do not understand these rumors as of late, your grace,” Nai huffed, setting the comb down on the vanity desk with a little more force than necessary.

You let out a breathy laugh, slowly running your fingers through your silken hair. “I do not think rumors exist to be understood, Nai.”

Nai crosses her arms, the space between her eyebrows creasing. “But your grace! These rumors are absolutely outlandish! You! Infertile! I just cannot even begin to wrap my head-”

At her words, you notice a new cream-colored envelope sitting on the edge of the vanity. “-then don’t, Nai.” You look up at her. Her brown ringlets sit neatly against her shoulders and her wide hazel eyes are full of pure exasperation. It feels good, you think, to have someone care this much. It’s been a while.

“You don’t have to understand anything for me. Rumors will remain rumors,” you hum, reaching for the envelope.

Nai huffs in annoyance. You know it isn’t directed at you, but it still makes you smile nonetheless. Seungcheol might have been ruining your Society life, but at least he hired a maid right. Speaking of which, as your eyes glided through the contents of the palace-stamped envelope, it focused on the beginning:

My darling archduchess y/n,

I hope the duchy is prospering after my small present for your twenty third birthday. Speaking of, I have scheduled a tea for you in two days with Baron-

Again. Fucking again with the stupid engagement offers. If Seungcheol wasn’t the king, you would have already slapped him twice. He had always been somewhat of a parent figure in your life, especially after your grandmother’s death. But this? This was dangerously toeing the line of overstepping your boundaries. Actually, maybe the boundaries had been overstepped at your fifth engagement that ended with yet another cheating scandal. At this point, Prince Mingyu was right – how did Seungcheol even manage to conjure only cheating scandals for your shame to marinate in?

“Whose ball are we attending tonight, Nai?”

Nai tries to speak around the pearl bobby pin in her mouth. “Uck gong, er ace,” she starts, before she shakes her head. The bobby pin slides into your hair. “My apologies, your grace. Duke Hong’s winter season opening ball.”

You hum, toying with the edges of the envelope. If it wasn’t considered palace property, you would have burned it. God. Seungcheol was really teething at your fraying nerves. There’s only a certain number of engagements a Society woman can go through before she is considered unmarriable. You were way past that point.

If the king himself was not backing you, you would have already been the Society’s laughing stock. Because what failure of a woman cannot keep a man to herself for more than a couple of measly weeks?

At this point, you might as well just live and die alone.

Duke Hong’s winter season opening ball. You wouldn’t have agreed to attend if it was hosted by anyone else. Duke Hong happened to be your fellow library attendant during your formative years at the National Academy. Really, it was a pity you could not just conjure up a lie and stay back in the safety of your room. You would, except you had a sinking feeling Joshua would send you letter after annoying letter until you finally decided to let up and attend.

You don’t think you are fully ready for the full impact of the Society nobles just yet. To make matters worse, Nai had told you that she heard the people were giddy about the return of the Jeon Duchy to the capitol after the death of the previous heads of the house, and the return of the direct line, now the archduke, after his series of triumphant wins on the frontiers of the warring enemy country. The Society, you told yourself, was what you were afraid of. But a tiny (not so secret) part of you was not fully ready to see him again just yet.

The stuffy crowded ballroom seemed even more overpopulated under the yellow chandelier lights and the exponentially building pressure inside your chest. And Joshua’s estate’s not-so-hidden balcony did not give you enough coverage in the darkening night. If Joshua had not proposed for you to stay the night (“You should not be out after dark, y/n. Even if you have the best footmen in the world,” were his words), you would have retired to your own estate an hour ago. Actually, if Joshua had not been so adamant about your attending, you would have never left your estate in the first place.

But you could never say no to his face, especially when he pulled his little pout and sigh of faux disappointment that had followed him even out of the Academy.

There was a not-so-secret side of you that wanted to pull your hair out by the roots. The whispers, the gossips, the mumblings, the laughter that follows you wherever you go, you could do. You could live with it. You could do with it because that was what you had lived with for three years. Three miserable years of back-to-back engagements with all of High Society’s eligible men, hand-picked by the dear, beloved king. And no, of course, Seungcheol was not to carry the entire burden of blame. You blamed every single elder in your family and the royal courts. Every male figure in your life expects you to marry some rich, handsome man. If he knew how to dance, drink, breathe, and hold some semblance of self respect, he was eligible in their eyes. Even if, in the dark cover of night, they leave their homes and sneak onto the back alleyways of carnal desire.

Each season of Society that passes by you is another couple of months in which your vain, naive, wishful childhood dream of wanting to marry for love!! could not come true. In some ways, it was because you fully believe that love has its time (and your time had passed away three years ago), but also because sometimes, you had learned to give up things you innately wanted for something that would benefit you a little more in the future. Something that would cause you less pain. Something that could slowly become something you love.

You feel the built-up tears fill your eyes, champagne flute resting loosely between your gloved fingers. For a moment, you wish your grandmother was back with you. She would know what to do, what to say, what to choose. You wish she could have been there, three years ago, when you tried desperately to balance the exhausting, choking, mountains of pressure of an archduchess and a fragmented heart, which slowly shattered into unmendable glass pieces. You wish she could have pulled Wonwoo aside then and told him how you had suffered, maybe bring up even a smidge of guilt, worry, regret, something.

But that’s all wishful thinking, y/n, you chide yourself. Let it go, like you have done for the past three years.

But he wasn’t here during the three years, you wish you could argue. You wish you could hope for something and follow the tugs of your heart, but there is a shallow part of your mind that tells you no. Because the first time ended in shambles. Made you the laughing stock for two whole seasons. Kick-started your rather permanent fixture in the Society’s rumor mills. And just as you thought you had figured everything out, he comes waltzing back into your life – as part of the same royal council – like he had never left. And that in itself left a gaping, bubbling hole of rage in your heart.

The thin wooden door and curtain that separates you from the rest of the dancing ballroom flutters with the breeze. Your head pounds along with the bass of the cello inside – not too sure if it was caused by the champagne flute in your gloved hand or the incessant whispers that had followed your footsteps inside.

“Why did you have to come back,” you mutter bitterly, gazing up at the darkened night sky. A disbelieving laugh and a shake of your head. “Stop thinking about-”

You cut yourself off when the balcony door suddenly creaks open. You turn with half a mind to tell off whoever was bold enough to interrupt your obvious solitude. However, that train of thought very quickly comes to an end when you look back over your shoulder. The face you see almost makes you want to let out a laugh.

The very man you were ranting to yourself about stands in the curtained doorway. You hate that you can’t see his eyes behind his glasses in this light.

You open your mouth, nose scrunching in annoyance, about to say something along the lines of why the fuck are you here or do you find pleasure in giving me pain or can you leave, before the clouds move from the moon and you actually take him in. And not just take him in but take him in.

Wonwoo is standing there, chest rising and falling like he had just raced to the ball on his horse or had run around the entire Hong Estate trying to find something. Now, in the soft rays of the moonlight and the biting early-winter breeze, you can see his dark eyes behind his glasses – guarded. But as you study his (rather chiseled) face, he’s changed somehow. Your last memories of a twenty-one-year-old Wonwoo do not show the sharp intense prick of his gaze as it holds your own. You don’t remember it holding the same sort of pain and weight – like he was Atlas, holding the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.

Handsome, you think. But it’s gone before you can put a finger on it to hold it down long enough to fully think about it. You can’t really describe Wonwoo in words. That was something you had decided a long time ago.

He was handsome in the old-fashioned sense. A straight nose, dark almond eyes, the slightest permanent downturn of his lips. His defined jawline and his glasses that he had grown into. He was handsome in the most eligible bachelor sense. If your mother was still alive, she would have wanted you to be courted by him – no one less and no one more because there was no one more. And perhaps that was why you had been so over-the-top with him before: he was everything your mom would have adored – tall, pale, smart, handsome, built.

You steel yourself, letting a soft breath escape you before you say, “Your grace,” the title sounds oddly cold now coming from your parted lips, “this is hardly the place for a welcomed noble.” You hate how your voice trembles ever so slightly at the end. Perhaps you had not been as ready for this as you thought you were.

Your voice seems to snap Wonwoo back to life. His lips twitch slightly but his expression remains frustratingly unreadable. “Just,” he starts, before his eyes glance at the floor, “I needed a moment,” he finally replies. And this time, his gaze is locked on yours.

Your throat tightens at his reply.

If you were nineteen-

No. You were not nineteen or twenty anymore. He had left.

Like everyone else did.

“So did I.” You take a small step backwards before whispering, “I always do.”

You think Wonwoo is going to continue the conversation, however strained, but he lets a silence hang in the air. It grows so thick you feel like it steals some of your oxygen away. You wonder if Wonwoo is also thinking about the past – about three years ago, about when you had nothing to worry about but being yourselves and completing school, when you had thought you would not inherit such a pressuring role until you were happily married for love. Like idiots. But even if he isn’t thinking the same thing as you, the silence is almost palpable in the air. Like it is giving room, a lost opportunity back.

Wonwoo’s eyes linger on you – not just your face but you – like he’s trying to make sense of the very thing you had tried your best to bury deep inside of you. Like he wanted you to either throw it all back up or he wanted to personally haul it to the surface. And you hated how he could make you feel naked, vulnerable, weak and like a naive, stupid child with just one look.

Finally, he whispers softly, “It’s been a long time, y/n.”

His voice is deep and not at all how you remembered it from three years ago. It seems different from his soft murmurs you had barely heard during his royal reentry ball. Your pulse jumps traitorously.

“Not long enough, it seems.” The words are supposed to come out icy, but it doesn’t come out as hard as you had hoped. Instead, your voice has a rather meek tone to it, as if even your vocal chords knew something you refused to admit.

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. The only indicator that he heard you at all is the brief upward twitch of his eyebrows.

You’re too proud, you know, to look away first. And you know what that will do. You can already feel the old memories – the ones you had (wished) long buried in the deepest parts of your fragmented heart – creep up: the warmth of the sun on your skin exposed on your sundress as you walked the grassy walkways of the park; the quiet laughs during an royal-sponsored opera; the knowing glances exchanged during another one of Mingyu’s complaints about a possible partner.

A burst of sudden loud laughter and chatter from below the balcony makes you whip around in a speed your grandmother would have called “excruciatingly unladylike,” and catch the tip of your heel in the grooves of the marble flooring. You have one second to register Wonwoo’s eyes widening and another second that is wasted on trying to save your champagne flute, before your palms are flat against Wonwoo’s defined chest. Your shattered champagne flute glints against the thin moonlight, forgotten at the sudden intrusion of your privacy – a sudden casualty of his presence.

His hands are barely there on your waist – the only things that are preventing you from falling off the rather low balcony railing are his arms, wrapped around your frame. His face is taut, as if he was actually worried about you falling off, and your corset feels excruciatingly tight around your straining ribs.

His stare is heavy and it feels like that one time again. Like when he whisked you away for your first dance as a debutante and accidentally dipped you in the middle of your opening waltz and you stayed there until the eye contact became unbearably awkward. He is doing the same thing – mouth just barely open, eyes unblinking and hands fleeting on your waist.

You can feel his entire chest under the thin fabric of his white button down. You go to push him away but something makes you hesitate.

You look up at him, breath hitching automatically at the closeness between you two.

“Wonwoo,” you whisper, fingers digging in just a little bit, “this is…” you trail off, too breathless and gobsmacked at this entire situation to continue. You just hope he is smart enough to fill in the rather obvious blanks.

You try to shake off the small detail that your eyes keep wandering back to Wonwoo’s arms, straining against his tailored suit. Small military stars adorn his collar, and you briefly wonder if you can blame his new aura of attractive ruggedness on the war and not your own deprived state of imagination.

You can feel Wonwoo’s grip on your waist tighten, a small crease appearing between his brow. His voice is a low murmur amongst the laughing crowd behind the curtain.

“Are you alright?” he asks. His breath fans over your lips. His voice is quiet and gentle – too gentle, too familiar.

You nod. You physically can’t bring yourself to pull away. You know, you know, what this would look like if someone just simply opens the balcony door. But in your proximity, Wonwoo’s cologne of some sort of earthy, gilded scent fills your senses and overwhelms your thoughts.

“Yes,” you manage, although it’s barely audible. “Your grace,” you add, hoping it would force distance, force out proximity. You swallow down the lump in your throat. Your lace-covered fingers pull at your gloves.

The title stings the tip of your tongue as it leaves.

The corners of his lips pull down at the utterance of the formal title leaving your lips. His forehead creases as if the formality of your words had disrupted some sort of intercontinental balance in him. “I apologize if I intruded and startled you,” he breathes, almost too quietly. Then, softer, as if he could not help himself, “y/n.”

Your name flows off of his tongue like a familiar melody – as if he had never gone away. You want to argue that he had no right to say your name – let it roll off his tongue so gently, as if he had caressed every syllable of your name. You want to yell at him to use your title. But you don’t.

Your fingers tighten on the lapels of his coat.

Under his heavy stare, you can’t help but feel seventeen again: waltzing gracefully up and down the gilded ballroom floors of every season’s opening ball; laughing under the Jeon Duchy’s library’s dim chandelier candle-light; walking down the Capitol’s Main Road, disguised as the common people, during the Mid Autumn Festivals. It’s like everything you had ever experienced with the man standing in front of you crashes into your pressured body like a tidal tsunami wave. And it just keeps on coming. Wave after wave of endless memories that you thought you had wrapped and hidden in the deepest parts of your brain, being uprooted from their perfectly comfortable spot and forced back into the main chamber of your heart.

To make matters worse, Wonwoo just stares. His expression is silent, unreadable. Not a single word leaves his mouth. Nor a noise. He just stares, like he knows what he’s doing. Like he knows exactly what’s going on inside your head.

It’s as if the entire room – the whole world – comes to a timeless standstill. You can faintly hear the orchestra playing a classical waltz – your favorite – in the ballroom and the taps of heels as the ladies dance the night away.

It’s as if Wonwoo’s gaze pierces you to your soul. As if he knew exactly how hard your heart was pounding against your rib cage. As if he could hear the stifled pants and gasps of breath you were trying to hide. His face moves ever so slightly closer to yours. Strands of black hair tickle your forehead.

His glasses slide down slowly from the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with an emotion you can’t place. Grief? Regret?

You look up at him at his sudden apology. “For what, your grace?” You stubbornly keep the title. As if it could push you two apart. As if it could mask the thundering pounding of your poor heart.

For a second, Wonwoo looks almost pained. But it washes over back to his vague expressionless face again. You briefly wonder when his youthful tugs of emotion had disappeared.

“Everything,” he murmurs, and you feel his hand slowly make its way up – first your waist, shoulders, fingertips brushing against your neck – until his gloved hand cups your jaw, thumb resting lightly against your cheekbone.

Your eyes widen at his touches. “Won-”

“-y/n.” Wonwoo holds you like you are the only thing keeping him grounded – keeping him from flying away into the dark night sky. You see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows, opening his mouth again, and this time, his eyes seem much deeper. A smile – a genuine one, unlike the one from his reentry ball – curves along his lips, dimples forming at the tips. “I missed you.”

Your entire body stiffens at his three words, and you can feel tears against your waterline. Your mouth falls open in a small ‘o’ and your hands clench tighter against his coat lapel. Your nails dig into the thick fabric.

Not fair.

Wonwoo looks at you like you just hung up the stars and moon in the twilight expanse.

“Wonwoo,” you mutter, looking away from his eyes. You’re afraid that if you keep eye contact, he’ll find out what you truly feel – what your walls are hiding.

“Y/n,” he replies, before his hand gently turns your head. He sounds so confident – as if he could protect you from everything – Society, marriage, whispers, gossip. His touch is so soft, so warm, so familiar that you let yourself be turned. You let his fingertips linger on your jaw, your cheek, thumbing your lips. You let his hair droop down to your forehead. You let his eyes trail down to the necklace that rests on the space between your collarbones and trail lower and lower. You let him do everything for a second.

And your heart stops.

Because in the next second, his head dips. His hand on your waist tightens its grip. His thumb caresses your cheek. And his lips are on yours.

His lips are on yours.

Eyes closed, Wonwoo presses his lips against yours like they never left. Like his lips alone could mend the gaping hole in your heart.

And it’s almost as if you have no control of your body because you find yourself melting into his embrace, eyes fluttering shut and hands pulling him a little closer than necessary.

Soft, is your first thought.

Wonwoo’s hand suddenly wraps around the back of your neck, tilting your head up to meet his lips in a deeper embrace. He breaks away for the briefest of moments, eyes dark and breath coming out in small pants like yours. You feel like your lungs are on fire. You find your hands buried in his messy black locks.

“Fuck,” Wonwoo breathes, and you swear he looks a little crazed. Like he had been starved off of something he desperately needed for the longest time. “I missed you so much,” he confesses.

His words trickle down your throat like agave honey – like sweet distilled liquor. It’s everything you had asked for.

Except he’s late. Maybe too late?

But you don’t really have the time to delve into that train of thought before Wonwoo’s lips are on yours again, stealing your words and breath from the confines of your mouth. His tongue swipes testingly against your lips and out of habit, they open the slightest bit.

Wonwoo’s grip against your neck, your waist, is tight, like he’s afraid you’ll fall out of his arms. Like he’s so afraid of you sinking into the dark.

And then it’s as if your entire being is suddenly wide awake – out of this weird, hazy, wrong drunken stupor.

Because at that moment, the balcony door that had once shielded you is thrown open and loud, half-drunken conversations flood both your ears.

You don’t even have the time to step away from Wonwoo before a scandalized gasp allows itself to pierce and fill the silenced air.

Lady Lim stands in the doorway, her fan dangling from her hand and another holding a champagne flute.

Your eyes snap open first.

Out of pure fight-or-flight, you shove Wonwoo off of you, breaking the kiss immediately. Wonwoo’s eyes are wide in shock, like he did not even expect himself to kiss you. Both of your chests heave (more yours than his), and you can feel your body tremble as adrenaline runs through you.

“Oh my!�� Lady Lim’s shocked voice pierces through the night. “Oh dear, please forgive me,” she stumbles through her words, fan snapping open. You hear the quick snap of another fan unfurling and the hurried click-clack of heeled shoes running the other way. She fans herself with a dramatic flare, though her eyes never leave the scandalous little tableau that she had walked herself into.

It’s like all blood circulation is cut off from your limbs and any blood circulating in your head rushes to your thudding heart when you finally realize just how close, how unfitting, you and Wonwoo seem. Literally, you can already hear whispers form. And you can already picture it. It’s clear as a spring morning in your head. This scandal will ripple through every single fucking household by tomorrow morning. And if not tomorrow morning, then by afternoon tea.

“Oh I am terribly sorry,” she starts, and without even a single glance towards her, you know she knows it is you. “So very sorry,” she repeats, though it is obvious her apology is directed more towards the laughable sight of you than the indecent situation itself and the mischievous glint in her eyes tell another story.

You can physically feel your reputation, your dignity, your name that you had worked up from absolutely nothing shatter on the floor. You can feel your stomach twisting in on itself and every little thing you ate tonight makes its slow way back up your esophagus. Your honor is at stake. And although you had said something about not marrying (ever) and just living your life in your countryside ducal house, at the end of the day, you were nothing without Society. As a woman you were absolutely nothing without Society. But Wonwoo’s grasp of you doesn't seem to falter and your inhales quicken into an almost-desperate gasp of breaths when you start to see a crowd form and whisper.

You blame it on your imagination when you think you feel Wonwoo shift slightly to completely shield you from view. His body is still too close. It’s not what you think it is, you want to scream, but you know that will only worsen the situation. Your brain feels like a ticking bomb and you briefly wonder if Joshua will save you from this situation or if you will need to figure it out yourself. Now, your breaths are clearly audible – almost gasps of oxygen as you try desperately to not cry, scream, and throw up.

Suddenly, you feel Wonwoo slowly move his hands up towards your shoulder, gently patting it, as if to calm you. It does absolutely jack shit to calm you. You shove his hand off of your skin.

His calm voice cuts through the chatter: “This is not what it appears to be.”

But those words and his hands only serve to quicken your anxiety-induced breath.

Wonwoo’s been out of Society, not you. You don’t even have the time to think about your shit-show of a reputation, especially now that the entire three quarters of High Society has caught you so precariously positioned. So, you shove Wonwoo off of you with all your strength. It’s not much, but he stumbles backwards, leaving you almost shaking on the small balcony, under the wide-eyed stares and the gossiping lips beneath the fans of the ballroom. If anyone was drunk, they weren’t now. How could they ever miss another one of Duchess Y/n Park’s scandals?

Your mouth went dry. If this was anywhere but your current place, you could have scoffed and then broken down into tears. At least the high heavens are serious about not letting you find a workable marriage.

Lady Lim slowly disperses back into the crowd, only the curtain closing behind her giddy form, no doubt to tell anyone who did not know the entire story.

The moment the curtain closes, it’s like your soul returns to your body. You collapse into your skirts, back against the iron railing. Your hands tremble until you dig your nails into your palms.

“This is the worst fucking thing that could have happen,” you whisper, a horrified look evident in your eyes. You dare to look up at Wonwoo and you feel a tear slip out. “Why would you do that?” Your voice is hoarse, barely audible. The only thing that circles your mind is reputation, reputation, reputation, on and on and on. You try to ignore the way you pulled him close just mere seconds ago. The way you breathily moaned into his lips as well.

That seems to work on Wonwoo because his expression immediately softens and his eyes fill with what you haphazardly tack as genuine remorse. He reaches out to you, but then hesitates when you flinch ever so slightly. His hands fall to his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, but his fingers gently touch his lips like he can’t believe they were just on yours. “I’ll set it right,” he promises. And maybe it's the steadiness in his voice, but for some reason, a small, naive part believes him for a fleeting moment.

Until the curtain was strewn open again.

This time, Duke Hong filled the doorway.

And it isn’t even a question to anyone who he cares for more because without even a second look at Wonwoo, he runs to your side.

“y/n.” You allow his warm touch around your shoulders as he hauls you up. He gives you one quick look over and it’s like he knows how the entire situation ran down.

At least, you think bitterly, if I finally get ousted from Society, Joshua will still entertain me.

“Wait-” Wonwoo starts, his hand going out again, only to be stopped by a withering glare on Joshua’s part.

His usually warm doe eyes are dreadfully, terrifyingly sharp as they drill into Wonwoo’s. “I think you have done quite enough, your grace,” he forces through clenched teeth.

Then:

“You’re okay,” he whispers, leading you through the parting of people. A thick fabric is tossed over your shoulders, the hood coming up over your face. It was as if stepping a foot into your space could contaminate them with the Disease of the Scandals. You barely register him gesturing off to the side and saying something before he guides you again, a gentle pat here-and-there on your bare shoulder.

“You’re such a liar,” you mumble, lace gloves going up to dab at your watery eyes.

When did I even start crying?

It does nothing to quell your situation. Instead, your tears run down your cheeks. “Don’t lie to me, Shua.”

Joshua is quiet as he leads you down a hall and into his personal parlor. When you step into the room, the door shuts. He says nothing as he sits you down on a stuffed recliner and hands you a glass of tea.

He is quiet until you swallow down your first sip and your tears have mostly stopped.

He clears his throat as he stands above you, thick arms crossed and his hair falling into his eyes. “What the fuck was that?” His hand rakes through his hair and his sudden emphasis on the curse word makes you jump in your seat. His concerned doe eyes turn to you and he marches over, laying a hand on your shoulder. “Did he touch you?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together worryingly. “Did he – God forbid – force you into that situation?” His grip on your shoulder tightens as you don’t answer.

Your cheeks heat up. “No!” you splutter, setting the teacup down. “Oh my god, no! No, no, no, no!” You chant, slapping Joshua’s arm in retaliation. “Why would you– No!” Your fingers went to your temples and your eyes closed.

“Then what? Did he pull you in and kiss you?” Joshua demands.

You hesitate. “Well…” you trail off, looking down at your skirts. It gives Joshua all the confirmation he needs.

His eyes bug out of their sockets. “He kissed you? Out of absolutely fucking nowhere?” Joshua’s voice raises an entire pitch, ringing through the foyer.

You wince. “God, can we not talk about what just happened?” You beg, desperation seeping into your voice. “Actually,” you state, pushing Joshua’s hand off your shoulder and standing up, “I’m leaving. No way,” a laugh of pure disbelief escapes you, “absolutely no way I’m staying here.” You turn when Joshua’s voice rings out.

“Y/n, wait. Are you okay, though?”

“What?”

Joshua closes the distance between you two, bringing you into a hug. It is so sudden it takes you off guard and your first reaction is to pull away – leave the situation. Like you try to do every time. But Joshua keeps you there, stroking your hair. And it’s like the entire situation feels so much more real. You feel yourself shaking and it doesn’t register to you that you are crying again until Joshua’s murmurs fill your ears.

“You’re okay. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” Joshua’s whispers, however fake they will be, offer a slant of confidence in your ruined Society life at least for one season. But even his words tremble at the end and you know he’s lying to calm your soul for this fleeting moment.

“I’m ruined, Shua,” you sob, and your hands grab his coat, tears staining his beige silk shirt. You can’t even begin to think of what would happen tomorrow, the day after, a week after, at the next ball, even. You refuse to admit how much the consequences of tonight scare you.

Joshua hums into your hair, swaying the two of you slowly. His pats encourage more caged words to tumble out of your mouth as your sobs die down.

A stuttered breath. “I don’t know why this keeps happening to me,” you murmur, your throat hurts from your gasps of breath as you try to maintain some sort of dignity in front of the older man. “I don’t know why- I just keep becoming the, the, the rumor mill of High Society. I don’t know why- – why can’t I just keep to myself?” Your voice cracks at the end as tears fall down your cheeks again, hot and wet against your porcelain blushed cheeks.

Joshua’s hold tightens at your ending words and he mumbles, “y/n, y/n, this – any of this – was never your fault. Wonwoo should have been more careful. He of all people knows how Society works,” he comforts, pulling away slightly. A sad smile is on his lips when he sees your tear-stricken face, black smudging your waterline. He takes a handkerchief out and dabs at your undereyes gently, wiping the running makeup.

You sniff, looking down at your feet. “Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper. When you look back up, Joshua’s eyes are wide as they take in your watery eyes again. “Don’t look at me with pity. I don’t deserve it.” Without wanting to, your lips stretch into a bitter smile. It’s always been like this. Ever since he left, people had always looked at you with a fleeting sense of pity. A sense of patronizing pity – oh, you poor, poor, naive little girl, it seemed to whisper. You should’ve known better.

Joshua shook his head. “You know I don’t pity you, y/n.” His words are firm, like he has always been. You lean back into his comforting embrace, arms pulled close to your chest, letting his familiar warmth encase you for a moment. Briefly, you wonder if this was what it would have felt like growing up with an older brother.

“y/n, if you don’t mind me asking,” Joshua trails off, swaying gently. His fingers comb through your hair.

You hum, body-wracking tears dying down.

He clears his throat and you know what he is about to ask before he even opens his mouth. “Are you truly over him?” a pause. Joshua continues, “Of course, I’m not saying I don’t believe you. Or that it’s wrong in any sense. Actually, I think Seungcheol would much rather you-” he cuts himself off like he just said something he wasn’t supposed to say. He coughs to fill the silence. “It’s just, maybe it’s not so simple, you know? Of course, I was never very close to the Archduke, even during our shared Academy time, but I’ve seen him more than you have, definitely, over his absence in Society. I don’t know, of course, fully, his true feelings, but I feel as though he’s always held a conflicted heart towards you.”

You almost scoff at his words. “Conflicted?” You repeat. If anything, you were the one who was conflicted, not him.

Joshua hesitates, as if he’s choosing the right word to continue his explanation. As if he knows with just one word, all the walls you have built over Wonwoo’s absence will come tumbling down, brick by brick.

“Perhaps not conflicted, per se,” he hums, pulling away so he can look you in the eyes. “But maybe more so regretful? Sorrowful, I think, may be the right word to describe it.” He lets his words hang in the foyer air.

Sorrowful, you think. It’s almost laughable how comparable that word is to how you felt – wrathful, destitute, longing for something you knew was never going to come true.

You catch yourself before your thoughts go further down, shaking your head as if it would get rid of everything. “Whatever he feels, we are over. We are a scandal waiting to happen – even tonight! Look at us! Look at me! Whenever I’m around him, Shua, I just completely lose it! Fuck,” you sigh, and you sink down into your skirts. Your brain hurts from how much your two sides are arguing. One part of you wants desperately to tell Joshua how you feel. How, since Wonwoo’s return, every night as you laid in bed, you could only replay the image of him kissing your knuckles. How, since his greeting words, your fluttering heart started to stutter when the morning mail came in, as if waiting for a letter. Another part of you want to keep it all a secret – pretend it never existed. If you pretend hard enough, maybe it will slowly become the truth. That part wants you to stay in this cycle, and maybe one day, Seungcheol would finally find someone good enough that you could ignore all of their nightly walks for.

Joshua looks at you. And this time, both of you know it’s with pity – not for you but for your conflicted state. “Be honest with yourself, y/n. At least for matters concerning love,” he advises, bringing your hands up to his lips. A quick kiss is placed onto your knuckles before he steps away, towards the door.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

Joshua gives you a tired smile and a knowing look. Then you register the faint hums of the orchestra from outside. “Ducal duties, I guess. I have a ball to run,” he laughs, before placing a hand on your shoulder. “Stay here for however long you need to. I’ll have the kitchen staff send something up for you.” He hesitates before adding, “I’ll try to clean up this situation the best I can.”

You must be getting closer to your period because those simple words almost have you close to tears again. You give him a watery smile. “Thank you, Joshua.”

Joshua just grins, stepping out. “Anything for my junior.” And the door clicks shut behind him.

As soon as the door closes, you collapse onto the nearest couch. You swallow, head slamming into the nearest cushion.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it and maybe it’ll just die over.

You laugh to yourself.

When has it ever “just” died over.

Wonwoo

Wonwoo swears he didn’t even know y/n was on the balcony. He was just overwhelmed – overwhelmed by the sudden mass of people crowding him when he didn’t expect it. It made his heart thud in his chest and made him forget every noble etiquette he learned in his formative years.

Wonwoo swears his first intention was to kiss you. But when he had you so close and you looked up at him with such honeyed eyes, everything he learned, he forgot. It was as if his years on the battlefield rid him of his confidence with you. It was as if he was back when he was twenty one, stealing a first (and last) hesitant kiss from you in the royal orchards.

Wonwoo swears he didn’t mean for this entire thing to happen. He’s not praying for your societal downfall, of course not! He didn’t waltz himself into the stupid winter season opening ball just to kiss you and then have one of the biggest blabbermouths of Society walk in on you two. Hell, he didn’t even want to be at the stupid fucking ball to begin with. But Seungcheol said something about his duty as an archduke to show up to opening season balls or something and he found himself in a carriage, being dropped off in front of the Hong Estate.

After Joshua had taken you away, it was like the world started spinning again. And he found himself trying to escape a crowd of people until Joshua had returned and concluded the ball.

Which is how he finds himself in Joshua’s study, staring at Joshua’s back as he watches the last of his guests leave through the large study windows.

The room is hushed, and a thick tension overlays the entire atmosphere of the room. It’s dimly lit and Wonwoo notices the sheer number of bookshelves and portraits of the previous dukes of the Hong line that decorate the walls. Joshua’s study is the epitome of tradition, of duty, of something he never saw himself to be. Joshua himself stands at the windowsill, arms crossed, and his usually calm demeanor obviously frayed at the end.

It makes Wonwoo’s current situation that much more terrifying.

Joshua breaks the silence first, his voice low but unmistakably sharp.

“What the fuck was that, Wonwoo?”

There is no preamble, no pleasantries. It was very unlike Joshua to get straight to the point.

The words are distinctly sharp but they very obviously carry a tone of accusation and an undercurrent of disbelief. Like he could not believe Wonwoo was here to begin with.

Joshua turns slowly, brows furrowed and eyes narrowing. “You’ve been gone for years and this is the first thing you do?” A laugh of disbelief cuts through the air. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

Wonwoo’s jaw locks at his accusing words. His voice is tight with irritation. Joshua’s (in)advertent accusation pricks some shallow part of his conscience. “Maintain your-”

“-Maintain my what? My position?” Joshua interrupts like he just heard the most outrageous thing from the night. He leans against a bookshelf, a shaking exhale leaving his body. “Do you even know what you just dragged the poor girl into?”

“What exactly do you think I did?” Wonwoo blanches, straightening. He didn’t hold her against her will or force her into any situation. He was just-

Joshua steps a step closer and under this light, Wonwoo can very clearly see the barely-controlled anger in Joshua’s eyes. “You know what I mean. What you did tonight,” he gestures vaguely off to the side, “there is no excuse for that.” His arms cross, tone dropping to something quieter and much more piercing. “And you pull this shit after everything she’s been through?” he scoffs, “Do you know what this scandal will do to her? What she had to fucking live with for the three years you were conveniently gone from her life?” Every curse word that leaves Joshua’s unlikely mouth stings. Especially because during the entirety of Wonwoo’s fifteen years of knowing Joshua, he’s never heard a single curse word leave the man’s mouth until now.

Wonwoo’s brows furrow in confusion. “What-” Joshua’s words echo in his head. “What do you mean by that?”

Joshua’s frustration only deepens at his words. “The whispers that followed y/n?” He lets out a small, bitter laugh when Wonwoo stares at him like he just uttered something in a completely different language. “Of course,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. “Of course you didn’t know. You weren’t even here,” he strains. “You have no idea – not even an inkling – of what she had to go through. The rumors, the scandals, the fucking engagements that all ended in-” Joshua cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes.

Wonwoo blinks, a sense of dread overcoming his senses. ‘Engagements? What- what are you-”

Joshua perfectly ignores him. “You think she can just simply brush off whatever you just did? That Society will let her brush it off?”

Wonwoo’s gaze wavers as something tightens in his chest. It’s like every one of Joshua’s words hit something in him. He steps backwards slightly. His hands shake in fists next to him. “I never meant for this entire thing to happen,” he mutters. But he can’t help the guilt that begins to creep into his voice. “I never intended for any of this, Joshua.”

At his shaking words, Joshua’s posture lets up the slightest bit. Instead of pure anger, there is now a quiet concern that mixes itself in.

“You think she’s been waiting for you this entire time, Wonwoo?” he asks. “No, your grace.” The title hits Wonwoo hard. “She’s been through enough, man. Let her live.” He takes a slow step towards Wonwoo, eyes softer now. “Do you know how each of her engagements ended, Wonwoo?” Joshua’s jaw clenches. “With each and every man going off with some other whore in the back alleys. Every. Single. One.”

The weight of Joshua’s words hit him like a horse plowing through the fields. “I-” he doesn’t even know what to say. Each and every man going off with some other whore. The phrase repeats itself over and over and over inside his head. He doesn’t even know what the emotions that wrack his body are. Anger? Guilt? Some sort of combination?

“She’s always been frightfully alone – against Society, the judgment, the pain of the engagements. The entire Society just sees her as a scandal waiting to happen.” Joshua lets out a breath, swallowing.

Wonwoo is frozen in his place, every word that leaves Joshua’s mouth cutting a deeper wound into his heart. “I never wanted that for her,” he whispers. “I never wanted her to feel alone. I never-”

“-But you did, Wonwoo.” Joshua’s voice cracks and his eyes glisten with pity. “Wonwoo, when you left, you absolutely broke her.”

At his words, Wonwoo stumbles back like it is a physical blow.

“She cried almost every other night. She wouldn’t eat at her own estate so Seungcheol ordered her to stay at the palace. Mingyu,” he lets out a frustrated laugh, “Mingyu, he had to carry her up to a guest room every night because she would fall asleep in the library.” Joshua’s gaze is piercing. “But I guess you were too busy doing whatever.”

Wonwoo’s eyes are wide, his breath still in his throat. He feels his stomach twist and his hands clench into fists. “I didn’t know,” he repeats, almost as if it's a mantra that keeps him afloat. As if he was trying to convince himself. He feels something break inside of him – a dam, a wall, something. Because for the first time since his return, he feels the full weight of the distance between him and y/n. No. Maybe it was always there to begin with and he had refused to face it. He can finally feel the missed years, the cut conversations, the things she had to endure without him. The things she had to endure because of him. It’s like everything is crashing down around him in pieces of broken glass, cutting small pieces of his skin. It’s like all of his mistakes, his failures, his greed that made him think only of himself, comes crashing down in full-force.

“How do I-” Wonwoo mumbles. There is a strange pressure behind his eyes. “How do I fix this?” When he looks back up at Joshua, he’s at a loss for words. “I never meant to hurt her.”

Joshua shakes his head slowly, voice firm in this. “But you did. You can’t change that now, three years later. Just fix it. She’s suffered long enough.” Joshua steps back, turning to the window. “Show her that you’re not leaving again. That she can trust you again.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Wonwoo��s voice sounds broken, even to his own ears.

Joshua pauses. He looks over his shoulder. “Then it doesn’t. But if you feel anything towards her, you’ll try.”

Wonwoo’s eyes close and his hands find purchase on Joshua’s desk. Stupid, he thinks, swallowing back lumps in his throat. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Should’ve stayed away.

: ̗̀➛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ @syluslittlecrows @gaslysainz @meowmeowminnie @luvjichang @peachytokki @nicoleparadas @haneulparadx @mj-szaa @lilylikesthat @ppaia @ameliamirabela @tearsdntfall617

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fantasyescapes17 · 1 year ago

Text

Scandal (Part 2)

The Viscount's sister with an enormous dowry, beauty and unmistakable talent- you began the London season as the most desired woman in any room. But Jeon Wonwoo (a man who would rather hide in the library than dance at a ball) is beyond your comprehension. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it embroiled you into a scandal with a man you could never love.

Genre: Wonwoo x Female!reader. Regency!AU (It's sort of Bridgerton-esque in the sense that I give zero attention to historical accuracy and prioritize aesthetics lmao) You are Joshua's sibling so your maiden name is Hong but the reader has no other physical characteristics.

Word Count: 3.5k

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Series Masterlist [Reading Candle and Manners, the earlier installments in this series first is strongly recommended as main character dynamics are introduced there.]

Your entire body felt numb.

"It's all over," you whispered. "I'm ruined, I'm ruined, I'm ruined…."

Your sister-in-law held you tightly in her arms as you trembled like a leaf. You had been shaking uncontrollably all evening; ever since you had been discovered by Baron Wright in the library of the Graham's manor, alone with Mr. Jeon Wonwoo.

There was no doubt in your mind of your situation. You had just become the main character of this season's juiciest scandal.

"You are not ruined," the Viscountess tried to reassure you as she rubbed your back comfortingly. "It will be resolved. Joshua will take care of things. Come my dear, come closer to the fire, you're shivering…"

"I am not cold," you protested but the Viscountess would have none of it. She gently guided you to an armchair in front of the fire and wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders.

"It will be fine," your sister-in-law continued to reassure you. Her words were kind but hollow. You knew that it would not be fine. To have been caught alone with a man in a distant corner of a manor and in a compromising position….

You felt faint.

I'm ruined.

The door to the drawing room opened and you sat up abruptly as your brother entered swiftly and tossed his coat onto the armchair. His expression made your heart sink.

The Viscountess ran to greet her husband. "Joshua, what has happened-"

"I am so sorry, sister," Joshua said to you gently. Your heart sank painfully into your stomach as Joshua paced up and down the drawing room. He pressed his fingers to his temples. "I tried; I begged Baron Wright to be reasonable but he would not listen to me. He feels jilted, since he was planning to propose to you. I even offered him money but… he-he has already told too many people. The rumour has spread beyond control."

Your chest felt tight.

"Don't say that, don't…"

"I'm sorry."

The blanket around your shoulders suddenly felt hot and constricting, as though it was suffocating you. You threw it off and onto the floor roughly before standing up.

"I will speak to Baron Wright myself-"

The Viscountess stopped you by gently taking your arms. "My dear, no. You will only make it worse-"

You looked at her in despair. "Then what am I to do? Am I to sit here quietly while that-that odious Baron defames me before the entire ton? Should I watch patiently while he ruins my reputation?" you spat, trembling.

Joshua sighed. "Sister, please think for a moment. It will only escalate the situation further and confirm the rumours if we act in haste. I… I think we should try to handle this calmly and rationally."

"How?" you demanded. You did not see any calm or rational way of dealing with the waking nightmare that you had been plunged into.

"Mr. Jeon has returned to his home to speak to his family, but he will come here in some time," Joshua told you. He gave you a wary look. "He has assured me that he will marry you."

You felt like you had been slapped.

"Marry Mr. Jeon?" you whispered in horror. "Marry him?"

"I know you are not fond of each other, sister, but I know Mr. Jeon well. He is a gentleman and will do whatever is necessary to protect your honour. Perhaps, if we can persuade the ton that you were already engaged to him before tonight…"

You could not accept this. Your mind could not even begin to fathom the idea of being married to Mr. Jeon. You recoiled at the thought.

"I will not marry him," you hissed, trembling. "I have done nothing wrong. I will not, I will not, I will not-"

Your sister-in-law embraced you tightly and you began shaking uncontrollably once more. She gently sat you back down in the armchair and then turned to her husband with a sigh.

"I think your sister has had too much for one evening," she told the Viscount. "Let us give her some time before we speak of marriage. Surely Mr. Jeon will not withdraw his offer if she does not accept it tonight. And… we shall have to inform your mother."

Joshua ran his fingers through his hair and nodded.

"Yes," he sighed. "Yes, you are right. I will send word to Mr. Jeon to hold off for the moment. Perhaps we had all better go to bed for now."

You felt sick.

"I can't go to bed, how am I supposed to go to bed-" you mumbled.

Your sister-in-law sighed. Her tone suddenly became firm; it was no surprise that she had raised her younger siblings by herself.

"You will go to bed because that is the only thing that can be done now. I will not hear of anything else. Come with me now."

—---------------------------------------------------

Ella Williams was sobbing so hard that you could barely understand a word she said.

Your cousin had come running to see you the next day, as soon as word of the scandal reached her ears. Her explanations and apologies were incomprehensible in a garbled mix of sobs and wails.

Your head ached. You had not slept.

"Ella," you interrupted her quietly. "I don't blame you-"

She was not listening. Through her choked explanations you were able to piece together a picture of the events of the previous evening- Ella had been asked to dance the third dance by Mr. Xu Minghao, a gentleman that she had been pursuing for many months. Her promise to you was forgotten; and when Baron Wright approached her after the third dance asking if she had seen you, she informed him that you were looking at the piano upstairs and would be down shortly.

“Never-never thought he would-sob-follow you-hic- my cousin, I am devastated-” Ella sobbed.

You could not listen to her any longer.

The Viscountess was much more intuitive- she noticed that despite your lack of tears and stiff expression, your composure was on the verge of cracking. She hurried to comfort Ella and took your sobbing cousin out of the room to have her sent home in the family carriage.

You sat silently in the drawing room. Your fists were clenched so tightly that your nails were digging painfully into your palms.

Once Ella was gone, your mother came and sat beside you.

“My dear,” your mother told you gently. “I know this is difficult for you. But time is of the essence. We must announce your engagement to Mr. Jeon.”

You flinched. "I cannot. Not when I have not even done anything to deserve… I mean, we did not…” you turned and looked at your mother desperately. “There was nothing between myself and Mr. Jeon. You do believe me, mother?”

Your mother sighed. “It does not matter what I believe. The ton will assume-”

“But the ton is wrong. I have never even danced with that man, much less touched him. It is all a misunderstanding and in time I am certain that everything will be forgotten and brushed under the rug-”

Your mother looked at you pitifully. “My dear.”

You felt a burst of anger. Why would none of them understand? There was no need for you to marry Mr. Jeon because your virtue had not been compromised. It was simply a matter of clarifying that you had done nothing more than speak to the man, and it would be resolved. Well; perhaps Baron Wright would not court you but there were plenty of other young men, and in a short time it would all be forgotten.

“I need to correct this misunderstanding,” you decided firmly. You stood up and gathered your skirts. You could not hide indoors in this manner. You had to seek out the gossip and crush it yourself. “I must go immediately to the assembly rooms.”

Your mother looked horrified. “My dear, no-”

“I must.”

You ignored your mother’s desperate cries and hurried outside, ordering the butler to send for your carriage immediately. The butler was startled but did not have the courage to protest. It was not his place to tell you that you looked too wild to be in company; your eyes were red and had bags underneath them from lack of sleep.

You were the sister of a Viscount. You were rich and beautiful and intelligent.

You did not fear the ton.

You walked up to the assembly rooms and took a deep breath before entering them with the same confidence you always had. The entrance hall where the card tables were set up was crowded; it took a few moments for your arrival to be noticed but slowly, gradually, the noise of conversation and the shuffling of cards died down.

In less than a minute, the room was plunged into complete silence.

Every single pair of eyes in the room was on you.

It struck you: suddenly, and violently, what a terrible mistake you had made. You had gone through most of your life in the public eye and being the centre of attention was not new to you. Being a Viscount’s sister, you had been the subject of society's admiration, scrutiny and envy for as long as you could remember. It had left you numb to the general and uninformed opinion of others. You believed yourself unaffected by what others thought of you.

But this was new. You had never experienced anything quite like this before.

You were now the subject of ridicule and pity.

Your stomach lurched and you wanted to die of shame, wanted nothing more than to run all the way home and wash yourself of the dirty gaze of the ton and hide underneath the blankets so that nobody could ever look at you this way again. You felt small and pathetic and weak.

You turned and ran; out onto the street where your carriage was still waiting at the corner. You climbed inside and made sure to slam the door and close the curtain behind you before you allowed yourself to collapse, for the first time since this nightmare had begun, into tears.

The sobs originated deep in your throat and were beyond your control. You had been holding yourself together at the seams for too long and all the built-up emotions exploded like a dam bursting.

You barely heard the knock on the carriage door. There was a brief pause, and then the door opened a crack. Mr. Jeon Wonwoo was standing before it- dressed handsomely in a dark riding coat with his lips pressed together tightly in a straight line as he took in the sight of you having an emotional breakdown in the carriage.

“Miss Hong,” he greeted quietly. “May I…?”

You could not have answered him if you tried. Your throat was raw and you were still incapacitated from the involuntary sobs. Mr. Jeon seemed to realise that a response would not come. In one swift and graceful moment, he entered the carriage and closed the door sharply behind him.

Then he sat across from you and said nothing.

He sat in silence for a long time. Your sobs gradually died down until eventually you were too tired, too exhausted to cry any more. Mr. Jeon waited patiently. He had the decency not to stare at you; his eyes were politely averted to the side and fixed on a random engraving on the carriage wall. Now and then his dark gaze would flicker towards you and then back to the engraving.

Mr. Jeon finally broke the silence by offering you his handkerchief.

You stared down at it for a long moment. It was merely a simple white handkerchief- one that any gentleman would offer a lady shedding tears in his presence. But you saw the calm, patient gaze in his eyes.

The gesture was, for lack of a better word, a truce.

You accepted the handkerchief and wiped your eyes and nose silently.

Mr. Jeon finally cleared his throat. “Are you feeling better, Miss Hong?” he asked. “I apologise for entering the carriage but, well…” he trailed off and sighed. “I thought it would be better than to be seen standing outside, and at this point I suppose propriety is not the foremost concern on your mind.”

You swallowed. “I am fine.”

“We should discuss our situation.”

“Yes, well,” you mumbled as you crumpled his handkerchief in your fist. “In case it was not already evident, this ‘situation’ is only now beginning to sink in for me. Although it must please you to see me brought to the mercy of my own vanity; you have often delighted in pointing it out.”

Mr. Jeon bit his lip. “Nothing about this situation pleases me. I am sorry.”

You frowned at him. Mr. Jeon could be difficult to read, but for once you understood him with perfect clarity. I’m sorry was not an expression of apology or regret. It was sympathy. He was offering his condolences for the brutal end of the life you knew, that you had hoped to lead.

“Don’t pity me,” you snapped.

“I was not-”

“You were. I don’t want your pity. I can take responsibility for my own actions and I am prepared to suffer their consequences. I am a grown woman and you will treat me like one.”

He folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

“If you wish. But you are not making the situation any easier for yourself. Your brother informed me that you have refused my offer of marriage,” Mr. Jeon noted quietly. “Naturally, that is entirely your choice. Our acquaintance has not been a smooth one, I know. It is for you to decide whether marrying me is a worse punishment than being rejected and ridiculed by the ton.”

You looked up at him. “That is a valiant attempt to simplify a complicated decision. Which is the lesser punishment in your view?”

Mr. Jeon blinked. He took a deep breath- his tense jaw relaxed slightly and you could almost see him visibly letting down his guard.

“Being a man, I have less to fear from the ridicule of the ton than you. But my conscience remains equally troubled in both circumstances. So, I will leave it to you, Miss Hong, since you evidently have far more at stake. My offer to marry you remains open,” he replied diplomatically.

“You will not resent me?” you asked. “For forcing you into a marriage without love?”

“I can assure you that any resentment between us would only be from your end; I never had much interest or inclination to marry. I am well aware, however, that you were being courted by multiple eligible gentlemen and were probably intending to marry for love.”

“I am certain none of those eligible gentlemen will have me now,” you scoffed.

Mr. Jeon did not reply.

“I am not sure that- even if we were to marry…” you trailed off and hesitated. “Joshua was right, if we had announced an engagement immediately it might have been brushed under the rug but I am afraid that it is too late now to cover up even with a marriage.”

“Perhaps not immediately. It might be best to avoid London society for some time. My family’s estate in the countryside is far enough removed from London. If you were to accept my offer, we could live there for some time and return to London after enough time has passed for the worst of it to end.”

You paused. It was not the life you had ever pictured living. You loved London, loved the society and the balls and the glamour of the ton. You loved being the centre of attention and having a bustling life.

Or at least you had.

Considering your current position, moving to a remote countryside estate where you would not have to face any members of the ton almost sounded like a blessing in disguise. You could feel the scales slowly starting to shift. Perhaps Mr. Jeon was right. If enough time passed, you could return to London as a married woman and society’s attention would be far too occupied by the latest bachelors to remember exactly how your marriage began.

Mr. Jeon raised an eyebrow as he watched you struggle with yourself.

“Or…” he suggested. “You could try to go back to the assembly rooms now.”

You felt it creeping up on you… a mild, unpleasant, sickening feeling. The walls of denial and desperation and pride were crumbling. They could not last long in the face of Mr. Jeon’s calm and logical words.

You were slowly beginning to feel resigned to your fate.

“No,” you mumbled. “I cannot go back there. Let us marry.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You married Mr. Jeon Wonwoo in a quiet ceremony on a Monday morning.

It was so methodical and mundane that you barely felt as though you had attended a wedding at all, much less your own.

Weddings were meant to be spectacular displays of love and adoration where two hopeful young people promised their lives to each other. You remembered your brother's wedding just last season: the flowers, and the blushing bride, and the gorgeous wedding dress, and the music as the happy couple left the church.

There were no flowers at your wedding. There was no gorgeous wedding dress. There was no music.

There was certainly no happy couple.

It was a simple ceremony attended by none other than your mother, brother, and sister-in-law from your end, and Mr. Jeon’s parents, sister and brother-in-law. Once you had both made your vows briefly in front of the priest, you went home to ensure that all your things were packed.

“I have packed seven evening dresses, ten daytime gowns and six nightgowns, miss,” Minnie told you hurriedly as she flew around the room in a frenzy. You sat on the edge of the bed and watched her quietly. “You must give this letter to your new ladies’ maid once you arrive. I have written out washing instructions for each of the gowns.”

She thrust a letter into your hands and then seemed to decide better of herself; she took it back and placed it neatly in the trunk.

“There. Your new ladies’ maid should find it when she unpacks your things. Now- there is not enough space in the trunk so I will have the rest of your things sent via a later carriage. There are so many other things to take care of- oh! What about your pianoforte? It will not fit in the carriage now but perhaps I can have it dismantled and-”

You frowned. “Leave the pianoforte here.”

“Of course! My apologies, miss, what was I thinking? It is far too valuable to be placed on a carriage. I will think of some way to have it sent to you-”

The door opened and your maid’s rambling was cut short by your mother- the Dowager Viscountess- entering the room. Her eyes were red and you had the feeling that she had been crying. She gave you a small smile.

“It is time, my dear. Mr. Jeon is waiting downstairs,” your mother told you gently.

You embraced her. She took a shuddering breath and forced a smile as she patted you on the back.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into her shoulder.

“Of course not, child. You have nothing to be sorry for. Sometimes things happen to us that we do not expect. But I am confident that I raised a strong young woman who can handle anything that comes her way. I love you always.”

You thanked her and went downstairs. The Jeons’ carriage was waiting in front of your house. Your brother stood near the door to the carriage and he gave you a soft smile. He leaned down to pat your head gently.

“Well,” the Viscount said in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Look who is a married woman now.”

You frowned at him. “Joshua.”

His eyes softened and he smiled at you kindly. “I will miss you, sister.”

“I will miss you, too.”

There was a small yip at your feet; your maid had brought Snowball out on his leash and Joshua lifted the little white dog into the carriage before helping you inside.

Mr. Jeon- your husband- was already seated inside. He placed Snowball on the seat beside him before closing the door behind you and helping you settle in. The carriage slowly began to rattle forward on the cobblestone street towards your new home.

“We have a long journey ahead of us,” Wonwoo told you quietly.

You had a long journey ahead of you, indeed- and it began here, and now as you left behind your entire life, identity, dreams and hopes. You would begin this long journey as a new person.

As Mrs. Jeon.

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