It was another lazy Saturday morning in Seoul, and Ga-young stood like a tragic heroine in the middle of her battlefield. To her right: a mountain of dirty dishes stacked so high they could qualify as a UNESCO heritage site. To her left: a mop leaning against its bucket like it was daring her to pick it up. And ahead, on the sofa, a Himalayan range of laundry glared at her—shirts and socks practically breathing down her neck.
For a brief, shining second, she thought she might lose her mind. She let out a shaky laugh, but halfway through, it twisted into a sob. She sniffled, holding a dish rag like it was her last shred of dignity.
Then—mercifully—her phone rang.
Her eyes widened as Min-jae's name flashed across the screen, saved as: Duke Dullsville.
She dragged in a breath, wiped her eyes, and answered.
"Hello, sir," she said, attempting professionalism, but her sulky tone came out like a soggy violin string.
Min-jae, sharp as ever, didn't miss it.
"You sound… occupied. Should I call you later?" His voice was smooth, almost too professional.
Ga-young immediately straightened up, layering sugar into her words.
"No, no—it's fine, sir. Did something happen? Do you need me for anything?"
"Yes, actually. Something interesting about the project came up. Call me when you're free and send me the address of the closest café to you."
Panic. She imagined Min-jae within ten meters of her house and her mother pouncing with a million questions. Absolutely not.
"No! I'll come to you instead."
He hesitated. "Are you sure? I don't want to trouble you."
"It's fine! Really. I'll be there in a few minutes."
Before he could argue further, the call ended.
Ga-young dropped the phone, and for the first time all morning, her face lit up like the sun. A divine excuse! She could escape the chores. She could flee the mop! She could abandon the laundry Everest!
Just on cue, Mrs. Choi stepped inside with a bag of groceries.
"Why are you smiling like that? Here, take this."
Ga-young took the bag solemnly. "Mother… I just got a call from work. Something urgent came up."
"Work? On a Saturday?!" Mrs. Choi screeched like a kettle on fire.
"I know, right?" Ga-young put on her most pitiful pout. "I wanted to stay and finish my chores, but it's just so urgent. You know how being a secretary is…"
Mrs. Choi slammed the groceries on the table. "What kind of boss makes you work this much? I don't like him already."
"I don't either," Ga-young sighed, dramatically clutching her chest. "But alas, duty calls. And my chores… they shall remain unfinished."
Mrs. Choi narrowed her eyes. "You sound way too happy about this. Are you trying to escape?"
Ga-young gasped, wounded. "Mother, how could you even think that? I would never."
"You spoiled brat!" Mrs. Choi shouted as Ga-young darted toward her room. "Don't think you've fooled me. I'm only letting you go because my friends are coming over!"
"Thank you, Mother! I love you!" Ga-young called, already pulling on her jacket.
Mrs. Choi muttered at the groceries. "I raised her too soft. Where do I even begin?"
It didn't take long before Ga-young bolted out the door before her mom could change her mind, slipping into her sneakers with the speed of an Olympic athlete. The sun hit her face, and she breathed in freedom. No mop, no dishes, no socks plotting her downfall.
---
By the time Ga-young reached Min-jae's apartment, she was a little breathless. Standing before his door, she caught her reflection in her phone screen—soap suds clinging to her cheek like a battle scar. She wiped it away, smoothed her hair, cleared her throat, and rang the doorbell.
The door swung open almost instantly. Min-jae stood there in a plain shirt and loose trousers, casual in a way that somehow made him look even more unapproachable. His faint smile softened the effect.
"Please, come in," he said.
Ga-young dipped her head in a small, awkward bow. Awkward, yes—but still better than scrubbing dishes. As she stepped inside, she blinked. The apartment looked brighter than before, more lived-in, as though sunlight had been invited to stay.
But her admiration didn't last. Her foot snagged the edge of his rug, sending her stumbling forward with a helpless squeak, arms flailing like a penguin on roller skates. Before she could kiss the floor, Min-jae caught her by the wrist and pulled her upright.
Heat flushed her cheeks, spreading all the way to her ears.
"Careful," he said, steadying her. "That rug has claimed victims before."
She cleared her throat, mortified. "Th-thank you, sir."
He nodded as though nothing had happened. "Sit down. I'll make coffee. Or would you prefer something else?"
"Coffee's fine," she managed.
A smirk tugged at his mouth as he walked to the counter. Moments later, he returned with two steaming mugs and set them down between them.
"Thank you," Ga-young murmured, wrapping her fingers around the warm porcelain.
Min-jae settled across from her, his tone shifting into business. "So, about the project."
"Yes, sir," she replied automatically.
"We've got everything in place—concept, Adore Enterprise, Mrs. Han Ok-sun. But I want to add an edge to it."
Ga-young leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. "An edge?"
"Yes. Namjoon's watching every move I make, carefully. He thinks he's drawing me deeper into his trap. If we sharpen our angle, we'll turn that trap against him."
Her brows knit. "That's smart. But wouldn't it be better if we first found out exactly what his trap is?"
He was about to answer when his phone buzzed sharply on the table. He frowned, rejected the call, and leaned back toward her.
The phone rang again.
"You should take it," Ga-young suggested. "What if it's important?"
His eyes lingered on hers, unreadable. Then he stood. "Excuse me," he said, voice clipped, and stepped away to answer.
Ga-young sipped her coffee, pretending not to listen. But his voice carried—lower, harsher, brimming with tension she had never heard from him before.
"…Yes, this is Min-jae. What happened?" A pause. His tone sharpened. "Which hospital? …I'll be there."
Her stomach sank. Hospital?
When he returned, the calm mask he always wore had cracked. Fear flickered beneath his eyes, raw and unguarded.
"Is everything alright?" Ga-young asked, setting her mug down, her own nerves pricking at his silence.
He didn't even meet her gaze. "You should go home. Something came up—I need to leave." His movements were hurried, restless, grabbing his keys from the shelf.
Before he could bolt, Ga-young caught his wrist. This time, it was deliberate.
"I'll drive you."
"It's fine," he said, his voice low but unsteady.
"You'll get into an accident rushing like this," she countered, prying the keys from his hand with surprising boldness. "You're too shaken to drive. Let's go."
Minutes later, they pulled up to the hospital. Min-jae barely waited for the car to stop before sprinting inside the VVIP ward. Ga-young stood outside the ward, her chest tightened.
Mrs. Hwan lay unconscious on the bed, her complexion pale against the crisp sheets. Beside her, Ye-seul knelt, clutching her mother's limp hand with both of hers, tears streaming unchecked. Chairman Hwan stood at the opposite side, his face expressionless yet you could see the grief in his eyes.
"Mother…" Min-jae's voice broke as he moved closer. Seeing her so still gutted him more than any blow. Ye-seul turned and collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
"Oppa…" Her voice cracked, drowning in tears.
He hugged her tightly, patting her head, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Mother will be fine," he whispered, though the words were more for himself than her.
"The doctor said…" Ye-seul hiccupped, shaking. "They said only a miracle could wake her."
The weight pressed against Min-jae's chest until it felt hard to breathe. Still, he forced himself to hold steady—for Ye-seul's sake. "She will wake up. She has to."
Just then, Ji-uk and Namjoon burst into the ward. Ji-uk rushed to the bedside, clutching the frame.
"What happened? Why is she like this?" His voice cracked, raw with disbelief.
Namjoon stood a step behind, silent. For once, his usual cold detachment had fractured, his eyes dark with something unsteady, unspoken.
Chairman Hwan spoke at last, his tone heavy, weary. "She's unconscious for now. The doctors… they don't know."
The words hit the room like a stone shattering glass.
Namjoon was the only one who truly heard them. He bowed faintly, then turned on his heel and left, his composure cracking as the door shut behind him.
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating—every breath, every sob, carrying the weight of a family on the edge of breaking.