The first rays of morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting streaks of gold across the pristine interior of the luxury apartment. So-yeon stirred awake on the sofa, her body stiff. As she sat up, a blanket—one that hadn't been there when she fell asleep—slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her waist in a soft heap.
Her silk nightgown was slightly rumpled, and her long, dark hair fell in disarray around her pale face. Her large, doe-like eyes, still heavy with sleep, instinctively scanned the room. It was empty.
The silence was deafening.
Her gaze fell on the neat, geometric pattern of a prayer mat folded meticulously in the corner. The faint, clean scent of sandalwood—the lingering trace of his morning prayers—still hung in the air, a ghostly reminder of his presence.
"Left without a word," she muttered into the stillness, her voice husky. Her fingers unconsciously clutched the fabric of the blanket he had draped over her, her perfectly manicured nails contrasting with the soft material.
The sleek, modern coffee maker hissed to life, its sound a welcome intrusion on the deafening silence. So-yeon's slender fingers, tipped with a perfect manicure, rested on the cool marble countertop. Her mind, however, was miles away, already drafting emails and strategizing for a merger that would solidify her company's dominance. This was her world—one of control, spreadsheets, and undeniable success.
A key turned in the lock.
Her spine straightened almost imperceptibly, but she didn't turn. The sound of the door opening and closing was followed by the soft thud of a briefcase being set down. She felt his presence before she saw him, a shift in the atmosphere of the apartment.
Ryan stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his tall frame filling the doorway. His eyes, the color of dark earth, swept over her, from her disheveled hair to her silk nightgown, before landing on the coffee maker. A whole, silent conversation seemed to happen in that single glance.
"What are you doing in the kitchen?"
His voice was flat, devoid of the warmth one might expect from a husband greeting his wife. It was the same tone he might use with a colleague—polite, distant, efficient.
He thinks I'm trying to be a doting wife. The very notion was an insult. A bitter taste filled her mouth, sharper than the brewing coffee.
"Don't flatter yourself," she replied coolly, her voice carrying the crisp authority she used in boardrooms. She finally turned to face him, the silk of her nightgown swirling around her legs. The morning light caught the determination in her large, doe eyes. "I was making coffee for myself. And for your information, I run my company remotely most mornings. I don't have the luxury of idle time."
She saw his jaw tighten slightly. Good. Let him know she wasn't some helpless woman waiting for his approval.
His gaze flickered past her to the sofa, where the blanket he'd draped over her last night was still crumpled. "And about the blanket," she added, her voice laced with a sharp, dismissive sweetness. "I didn't need it. I wasn't cold."
It was a lie, and the unconscious way her fingers brushed against the fabric of her nightgown, as if seeking the ghost of that warmth, betrayed her. But pride was a shield she had mastered long ago.
Ryan didn't call her out on it. Instead, he let out a quiet breath, a sound of pure exhaustion. "I see," he said, his tone making it clear that he saw right through her. "Then I won't trouble you any longer."
He walked past her, not towards their shared bedroom, but towards the guest room, closing the door with a soft, final click.
The fight hadn't even begun, and yet, So-yeon felt the sting of defeat. She was the CEO of a rising empire, a woman who commanded respect with a single look. So why did she feel like a trespasser in her own home?
Alone again in the kitchen, the only sound was the frantic pounding of her own heart, trapped in a gilded cage of her own making.