Chapter Ten — Plastic Bags and Glass Hearts
Mimi stirred before the sun had fully risen, the room still wrapped in a warm, sleepy blue. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks as she slowly opened her eyes, the memory of the night before making her cheeks glow with pink warmth. Her body ached, her thighs sore, her lips slightly swollen, but there was a dreamy smile curling her lips.
Kijo.
Even now, that name alone could send a tremble through her chest. Mimi turned her head on the pillow, watching Kijo's sleeping figure beside her. Even in sleep, Kijo was stunning—her jawline sharp, her lips parted just slightly, her raven-black hair mussed in the most perfect way.
For a few seconds, Mimi allowed herself to stare.
Then, quietly, carefully, she slipped out of bed.
Tiptoeing across the bedroom with the grace of a ballerina and the chaos of a girl in love, she picked up her pink silk robe from the floor and wrapped it around her body, tying it with a fluffy ribbon. She padded into the kitchen on light feet, the satin bow in her hair bouncing with every step.
She hummed to herself softly—something from a dreamy K-pop playlist—as she began preparing breakfast. Mimi wasn't a chef by any means, but she'd learned the way to Kijo's heart: black coffee (no sugar), boiled eggs, buttered sourdough toast, and sliced apples with a sprinkle of cinnamon.
She arranged everything into a cute little black bento box, decorating it with a tiny sticky note that had a smiling cartoon bunny on it. Her pink glitter gel pen scribbled:
"Don't skip meals, Miss CEO 🐰💼 — Love, Mimi ♡"
She gently placed the note inside the box, tucking it into Kijo's work bag on the side table, along with a tiny hand sanitizer bottle in the shape of a strawberry.
The clock read 7:42 AM.
Perfect timing.
Just as Mimi closed the fridge, she heard movement from the bedroom. The soft rustle of blankets, followed by bare feet hitting the marble floor.
Kijo emerged moments later, wrapped in a dark gray towel, her hair still wet from the quick shower she must've taken. She looked like sin made flesh—calm, cool, and devastatingly untouchable.
Except she had touched Mimi. Had claimed her last night like she owned her soul.
"Good morning," Kijo said, her voice deep and still laced with sleep.
Mimi turned with a smile, her hands behind her back.
"Morning!" she chirped. "I made your breakfast."
Kijo walked toward her, her eyes scanning Mimi slowly—lingering on the little bow in her hair, the soft way her robe cinched at the waist. "You always do," she murmured. "You're such a good girl."
Mimi's cheeks flushed. "Well, I don't want you fainting from starvation in your big scary CEO meetings."
Kijo chuckled. "I wouldn't dare. Not when I have you."
There was something in the way Kijo said it that made Mimi's heart flutter and ache at the same time. Was it a confession? Or just a comment wrapped in sugar?
They stood silently for a moment before Kijo bent down and placed a gentle kiss on Mimi's forehead.
"Thank you, Mimika."
"You're welcome." She blushed, looking down at the floor. "Come home early?"
"I'll try." Kijo straightened up and headed toward the closet to dress. "Text me if you need anything."
"I will."
And she did.
About twenty minutes after Kijo left with her polished heels clicking down the hallway, Mimi gave her a call.
"Hey babe," she said when Kijo picked up. "Can I get money for groceries? I wanna make your favorite dinner tonight. That spinach ravioli thing."
Kijo didn't hesitate. "I'll send it now. Don't carry heavy stuff alone, okay?"
Mimi giggled. "You act like I'm made of glass."
"You are."
The line went silent for a second, as if neither of them wanted to say goodbye. Then Kijo added softly, "Stay safe."
"I will. I love you."
"...Same here."
The call ended. Mimi grabbed her little pink purse, sprayed a cloud of body mist around her (strawberry-vanilla), and headed out.
The grocery store was unusually busy for a Thursday morning. Mothers with toddlers, old men comparing apples, tired cashiers scanning vegetables on autopilot.
Mimi walked through the aisles with a pink cart, humming again, occasionally stopping to check her list.
She was in the produce section—debating whether to buy regular carrots or the pre-sliced baby ones—when her chest tightened.
It wasn't the carrots.
It was the sound of heels.
Deliberate. Confident. Sharp.
Mimi didn't need to look up to know who it was.
But she did.
Kijo's assistant.
Standing across from her, holding a green apple in one hand, her other hand resting against her hip. Dressed in a crisp beige blazer and black trousers, the woman looked effortlessly flawless—like a model dressed up as a manager.
And her eyes?
Full of something cold. Something sharp. Something mean.
"Well, well," she said, lips curling into a smirk. "Mrs. Volkov. Grocery shopping like a good little housewife?"
Mimi blinked. "...Hi."
The assistant took a step forward.
"I didn't expect to see you out in public. Thought Kijo kept you in a pretty little cage."
Mimi swallowed. "I—I'm just cooking dinner. For her."
"Of course you are." Her voice was sugary sweet but laced with venom. "It's all very... traditional. Almost ironic, considering the woman you married."
The woman paused, then tilted her head.
"You know, when I look at you, I keep wondering—how? How did you become her wife?"
Mimi didn't answer. But her silence was enough.
"She deserves more," the assistant went on. "Someone who challenges her. Matches her. Not someone who just follows her around like a puppy in pink bows."
Mimi flinched.
Then it happened—her brain betrayed her.
A flashback. Sharp. Raw. From Before.
The dessert box.
The note left behind by the assistant.
The expensive mille-feuille.
The way Kijo avoided eye contact.
The smear of lip gloss on a coffee mug that wasn't Mimi's.
That cold night Mimi stayed up crying in the guest room.
It all hit her like a wave.