The room smelled faintly of jasmine and old paper.
Hana sat alone in the billionaire family's private study, the letter clutched in her hand. Not the one with threats. Not the one with financial breakdowns. This one was written in her mother's elegant script—sealed with faded wax, the edges worn from time.
"If you're reading this, it means you've survived. And if you've survived, then you've already won half the war..."
Hana's hands trembled. She closed her eyes, letting her mother's words crawl under her skin like warmth on a winter morning.
"You were never weak, Hana. You were protecting others. But now? Now it's your turn. Fight for you. Love for you. Live for you."
The door creaked open.
Mi-Ho stepped in quietly. No swagger this time. No teasing smirk.
Just soft eyes and a tension he couldn't hide. "I saw the envelope," he said. "Was it from her?"
She nodded.
He sat across from her, almost hesitant. "You don't have to carry everything on your own, you know. Not anymore."
She looked at him, her voice hoarse but sure. "That's the thing. I don't want to carry it alone. But I won't collapse either."
A pause.
Then he leaned forward. "When you're ready… I'd like to be the one standing beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Just here."
Her eyes searched his—cautious, unsure.
But her lips parted into the ghost of a smile.
Just enough hope to crack the ice around her heart.