Christopher bahng

The high-gloss marble of my parents’ living room reflected the red ring around my eyes. It was 1:00 AM, following a sixteen-hour hospital shift and a stack of CEO reports waiting at my desk. "Sit down," my father said, his voice unusually sharp. They launched into a rehearsed speech about corporate alliances and a thirty-seven-year-old man named Christopher Bang. At twenty-seven, perpetually exhausted and entirely consumed by my work, I just tuned out their long yap. I didn't care to see a photo or learn his history. "Do whatever you want," I murmured, heading to bed. A week later, his mother visited me with surprising warmth, taking one look at my exhausted face and whispering, "You work too hard, my dear." Before I knew it, the wedding day arrived. Standing at the altar in an ivory gown, I finally looked up to see my ten-years-older husband for the very first time—a striking, powerful man whose quiet smile hinted that my routine life of medicine and corporate meetings was about to change completely.