The desert wind carried whispers through the manicured hedges of Al Quoz Cemetery, where Kim Soyeon knelt before her father's obsidian gravestone. The sky, an uncharacteristic slate gray for Dubai, mirrored her mood. Raindrops—rare as honesty in her social circle—splattered against the marble, mixing with her tears.
"Appa," she murmured in Korean, tracing the engraved characters of Kim Daehyun's name. Her Chanel cashmere gloves were soaked, but she didn't care. Here, away from the prying eyes of Dubai's elite, she could finally be unfiltered Soyeon: not the Instagram-famous heiress, just a girl who missed her dad.
Five years ago, in the boardroom of the Kim Estate, fifteen-year-old Soyeon had clutched her mother's hand as the lawyer read the will. "To my daughter, I leave my entire fortune—conditional upon her marriage. Until then, all assets remain under my wife's stewardship." Her mother's grip had tightened. Soyeon had laughed—a shrill, disbelieving sound. "Marriage? Is this a joke?"
Now, her phone buzzed in her Hermès Birkin, shattering the memory. She ignored it. Instead, she pulled out the faded Polaroid tucked in her bag: her father lifting her onto his shoulders at Burj Khalifa's opening, her child-self beaming in a ruffled Dolce & Gabbana dress.
"You promised we'd travel the world together," she whispered. "Now I'm stuck in this gilded cage."
A distant roll of thunder urged her to leave. As she stood, her Louboutin heels sank into the damp earth—fitting, she thought. Even in grief, Dubai's landscape resisted her.
Her midnight-blue Bugatti Chiron waited like a loyal steed outside the cemetery gates. The car—a 20th birthday "consolation gift" from her mother after another failed matchmaking attempt—was her escape pod. She revved the engine, letting the 1,500-horsepower roar drown her thoughts. The dashboard screen lit up with notifications:
12 Missed Calls (Mom)
Jisu 💎: "Eclipse Club TONIGHT. Taehyun asked about u 👀"
Yoonmi 🏛️: "Dinner with the Park family. 8 PM. Be presentable."
Soyeon groaned. "Park family" meant Park Jungwoo, the thirty-two-year-old tech mogul her mother worshipped. "A self-made man! Not some trust-fund playboy!" Yoonmi's latest obsession.
"Hard pass," she muttered, typing a reply to Jisu: "Eclipse it is. But if Taehyun tries to 'claim' me, I'm dumping champagne on his head."
As she merged onto Sheikh Zayed Road, the city's skyline mocked her. Burj Khalifa, The Dubai Fountain—all monuments to excess, just like her life. What would Appa think of me now?
---
Across town, in the penthouse office of NexGen Tower, Park Jungwoo stared at a spreadsheet, his TAG Heuer ticking like a metronome of stress. The numbers didn't lie: his AI urban-planning project was bleeding cash.
"Revise the algorithm," he ordered his team, voice colder than the office's arctic AC. "Or find new jobs."
The executives scurried out. Alone, Jungwoo loosened his Brioni tie, revealing the faded scar on his collarbone—a relic of childhood fights in Seoul's Gangnam backstreets. His phone lit up:
Minho: "Hyung!!! Eclipse Club for my bday??? Pls say yes or I'll tell Mom u work too hard 👵🏻"*
Jungwoo's lips twitched. His twenty-two-year-old brother was his kryptonite.
Fifteen years ago, a tiny Jungwoo had huddled in a roach-infested apartment, stitching his school uniform after bullies tore it. His adoptive mother, Park Soojin, had knelt beside him, her hands rough but gentle. "Education is your sword, Jungwoo-ya. One day, you'll build an empire."
Now, he typed: "Fine. One hour."
Minho replied instantly: "YESSSS! P.S. Wear something NOT black 😜"
Jungwoo eyed his all-black wardrobe. This is why I avoid clubs.
---
At 10:15 PM, the Eclipse Club pulsed with bass-heavy EDM and the shrieks of Dubai's glitterati. Soyeon, in a backless silver Versace dress, held court at the VIP booth, Clase Azul tequila in hand.
"To Minho's birthday!" Jisu cheered, her platinum ponytail swinging. "And to Soyeon dodging another mom-approved suitor!"
Soyeon laughed, but her eyes scanned the room. Kang Taehyun, Dubai's most notorious playboy, was making his move—flashing his Rolex Daytona as he swaggered toward her.
"Soyeon-ah," he purred, sliding beside her. "You look… expensive."
She smirked."And you look desperate."
Before Taehyun could retort, the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Park Jungwoo entered.
Dressed in a charcoal Tom Ford suit (still black, despite Minho's plea), he moved with the lethal grace of a panther. The club's neon lights glinted off his jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
Soyeon's breath hitched. Who's that grouchy Adonis?
Jungwoo's gaze swept the VIP section—and locked onto her. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. Disdain? Recognition?
Then Minho bounded over: "Hyung! Meet my friends—this is Kim Soyeon!"
Jungwoo's bow was polite but icy. "Ms. Kim."
Soyeon extended a hand, dripping with Cartier diamonds. "Charmed. You must be the 'self-made legend' my mom worships."
A muscle twitched in Jungwoo's jaw. "And you must be the heiress who parties while her company's stocks plummet."
The air between them crackled.
Jisu whistled. "Damn. Someone call 911—we've got a chemical burn in progress."
As Jungwoo turned to leave, Soyeon called after him: "Nice suit. Does it come in 'human emotions' or just funeral chic?"
The crowd gasped. Jungwoo paused, then glanced back—his lips curving in the barest smirk.
"Better than 'spoiled brat' couture," he said, and vanished into the crowd.
Soyeon's cheeks burned. Oh, it's on.
To be continued…