His matte-black vehicle glided to a stop before the vast Kim estate, and the air was thick with rain and pine. The iron gates screeched open wide, welcoming the heir home in a great beast's yawning jaws.
Kim Ha-joon did not move right away. His hand stayed draped over the steering wheel, eyes locked on the illuminated mansion ahead. It had been weeks since he'd last been there—on purpose. Each visit was the same: lectures, chastising, and endless talk of marriage. Marriage to a woman he merely endured with toleration.
But he released a deep breath, shutting off the engine. "Let's just get this over with," he growled.
As he stepped out, the wind caressed his face with a cool touch, the gentle whisper of the pines surrounding the estate. His slick shoes struck the driveway, dull and with a monotonous thud, echoing softly past the marble pillars.
His mother occupied the front steps, as he had expected. Arms folded. Thin lips. The precursor to the storm.
Man, she's angry again.
Ha-joon smoothed his jacket, running his hand through his dark hair. He did not even attempt to smile. Why bother with a pretense?
"Don't 'Mother' me," she snapped before he was even able to say hello. "Do you know what time it is? Or did your secretary forget to remind you how to be mannerly?
He pushed his hands into his pockets, his face unresponsive. "If you brought me here only to nag, I can go. I do have work—"
"Enough." Her voice sliced through the air like a knife. "You'll do no such thing. You're staying. And you'll mend what you've damaged with that helpless girl you've been neglecting."
His jaw tightened. "You mean Park Choon-hee? The one who thinks boiled water is a meal?"
Mrs. Kim's nostrils flared. "Don't you ever talk about your bride-to-be like that. She adores you, Ha-joon. You will learn to love her."
He almost laughed. "I'd rather learn to love tax audits."
Her glare sliced, the same one that used to bring him to his knees as a child—but he wasn't a child anymore.
She spun about on her heel. "Come with me."
He did not protest. He was too tired to. The mansion lay shrouded in an oppressive silence, its extravagance rubbing in his face. Each step was like walking deeper into a gold cage.
Why in the world am I here? he begrudged. Ah yes. Because Mother cannot bear to think that her son does not wish to marry a marionette.
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Aira shut the door behind her and leaned on it, her back pressed against the cold wood. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she fought to calm her breathing.
The air in the storeroom was thick—used perfume, cleaning chemicals, and something metal. Her hands trembled.
Tears began to sting at her eyes before she could fight them back. She hated it—hated being weak once more.
"Come on, Aira," she whispered, voice breaking. "You've been strong all these years. Don't start now. It's just a dress."
Her gaze flickered to the mirror across the room. The reflection staring back at her wasn't one she recognized. The black lace clung too tightly to her body; the short skirt barely covered her thighs. The same type of uniform she swore she'd never wear again.
But here she was.
And it wasn't just a dress. It was a memory. A curse stitched in silk.
Her throat tightened. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses from the main room seeped through the walls, faint but mocking.
Aira closed her eyes—and the memories came.
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[Flashback—16 years ago]
"Mommy, I'm hungry…"
The voice of a six-year-old echoed through the marble halls of a house once full of light, now choked with silence.
Little Lui Chloe—her name before she changed it—stood barefoot, clutching her rumbling stomach. The satin ribbon on her dress hung loose, stained with dirt.
Two days ago, her father had been arrested. The mansion emptied overnight—no guards, no servants, no warmth. Just her mother, locked away, drowning in tears and pills.
Chloe knocked gently on the bedroom door. "Mommy, please. I'm hungry…"
No response. Only the muffled tears from the other side.
She walked into the kitchen, her little feet on the cold floor echoing. The counters were too high, the refrigerator too heavy. But then she noticed something—a sandwich, half-wrapped in plastic, on the trash.
It was moldy. It was sour-smelling.
Her stomach knotted in agony.
She unwrapped it before pulling it free. Her tiny hands shook as she took a bite. It was bitter and wrong, but hunger was crueler than distaste. She struggled to swallow.
Having eaten, her throat dry with thirst. The sink was too high, the water too high up.
Then she recalled the fountain pond outside.
She drew her tired feet to the door, the cold doorknob solid beneath her fingers. The front gate was open. The outside world was too big, too empty.
She stooped next to the fountain, hands held around the cold water to drink. The water tasted metallic. But it was enough.
And then she sensed something—the thrill of being watched.
On the other side of the road stood a man in a black trench coat, the night wind blowing through his hair. He smiled. The kind of smile that seemed kind, but wasn't.
Out of politeness, she smiled too.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar and a lollipop.
"Do you want candy?" he shouted softly.
Her eyes widened. She nodded.
"There's more in my car," he said to her, his voice low and seductive. "Come with me. Take as many as you wish."
Her gaze jerked back to the house. Dark. Quiet.
She stepped off the curb and grasped his hand.
The last thing she recalled was the acrid scent of cologne and the glint of headlights off black paint as the car door clicked into place.
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[PRESENT]
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Aira! Are you all right?" Lisa's indistinct voice called through the storeroom door. "You've been in there forever! Madam Wong's coming—she'll murder you if she finds out you're slacking!"
Aira sneezed hastily, keeping her voice low. "I'm all right."
She opened the door, and Lisa's expression softened at once. "You've cried again."
"Just allergies," Aira fibbed.
Lisa scowled but remained silent.
Aira appeared, pulling at the lace at her throat. Black maid's uniform was suffocating against her skin, every seam a torture of the life she longed to escape. Madam Wong had insisted on heels—"They make you more desirable to the clientele." Each step was agony, but she persisted.
Her workday had begun.
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At the Kim Mansion
Mrs. Kim's heels clicked loudly down the hallway in quick, precise cadence as she escorted her son out. "You will spend tonight with that girl, Ha-joon."
He exhaled sharply, his tone icy. "You mean the one who can't boil noodles without burning down the house?"
"Watch what you say," she snapped. "That girl will be married to you whether you like it or not.".
He smiled thinly. "Then YOU marry her, then."
"Enough!" she spat, spinning toward a door and flinging it wide. "You'll do as I say."
She shoved him through the door before he could say a word and slammed it shut and locking it afterwards, locking him alone in the room.
"Mother," he growled between his teeth, rattling the handle. "You've lost your mind."
Footsteps creaked away behind him—soft, slow, intentional—He wasnt alone. A whiff of faint floral perfume lingered in the air, sickly to the point of revulsion.
He didn't need to turn around to know she was there.
Of course. Park Choon-hee.
He clenched his jaw, staring at the locked door as if he could somehow make the thing incinerate itself.
"Ha-joon," she whispered. "I—I came to see you..."
He said nothing.
"You don't have to be so harsh," she continued, her voice shaking. "I'm trying, can't you see that?"
He turned, finally looking at her. His eyes were dull, expressionless. "I don't hate you."
Her face lit for a brief, expectant moment.
"I just don't feel anything for you."
The flicker of light in her eyes was extinguished instantly.
There was a length of silence between them, heavy and suffocating. He turned away, dragging a hand down his face.
"Guess I'm on God's shit list," he muttered to himself. "Because what the hell is my life?"
For a brief, bitter moment, he almost laughed—but even that was a luxury he couldn't indulge in.