Have you ever watched one of those scenes? Where the lead character—the good one, the one who tries so hard—gets publicly humiliated?
Maybe they're cornered by a debt collector in front of their friends. Maybe their secrets are spat out by a jealous rival at a party.
And you're sitting there, screaming at the screen,
"No! Stop it! I'll fight them! Just let me in there, I'll fix everything!"
That used to be me. Every single time.
But now… now that I'm really here?
Not behind a screen, but sitting on a hard plastic stool in a convenience store that smells like fried food and regret, the woman I wanted to help sitting right next to me, the ghost of her humiliation still hanging in the air between us like a bad smell.
And I'm realizing the brutal, obvious truth that every viewer forgets: you can't just fix everything. Some hurts are too deep for a quick pep talk.
Some problems, like a parasitic father, can't be punched.
They can only be… managed. Paid off. Endured.
And the person left holding the bill isn't just broke; they're broken in a way that no amount of my fangirl fury can glue back together.
I turned my head to look at her.
Yoon-ah was taking small, careful sips of the soda, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the grimy window. The neon light from the store sign painted her profile in soft blues and reds, making her look younger, more fragile.
My chest tightened. I'd charged in like a knight in a pantsuit, but all I'd done was turn her private pain into a public transaction. I'd forced a solution that felt as dirty as the problem.
"I'm sorry," the words left my mouth before I could stop them, quiet but clear in the humming silence.
She turned slowly, her eyes meeting mine. They were still shadowed, but the outright shock had receded, replaced by a weary clarity.
"I… it wasn't my place," I continued, stumbling over the apology. "To interfere like that. To just… throw money at it. I made it worse. I'm sorry."
For a long moment, she just looked at me.
Then, something shifted.
A faint, sad, but utterly genuine smile touched her lips. It was the first real expression I'd seen on her face since the café, and it was aimed at me.
"No," she said softly, shaking her head. "You have nothing to apologize for, Director Law." She took a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the cold bottle.
"Instead… I am the one who should be thanking you," Yoon-ah said softly, her voice gaining a thread of steadiness. "You saw something… ugly. And you didn't look away. You stepped in. Most people would have just looked away."
I shook my head, the praise feeling undeserved. "Anyone would have—"
"They wouldn't," she interrupted gently, but firmly. "They don't."
The silence stretched again, but it was a fraction less suffocating. I fumbled for something to say, something that wasn't another awkward apology or empty reassurance.
"You know," I started, my voice tentative. "You… ugh, this is going to sound weird. And I know we haven't really talked or had a... nice first or second or any impressions but," I took a breath, deciding to just go for it.
"You remind me of a character. From a movie I saw ages ago, back when I was studying abroad. I was feeling pretty lost myself, and I just clicked on it."
I risked a glance at her. She was listening, her head tilted slightly, her expression open with quiet curiosity. It gave me the courage to continue.
"She wasn't the flashy heroine. She was quiet. She worked a tough job, had people in her life who just… took from her. She had every reason to be bitter, to just give up." I gestured vaguely with my bottle.
"But she wasn't. She just… kept going. She'd get knocked down, and she'd get back up. Not with a big speech or a dramatic revenge plot, but just by making the next right choice, by being kind even when she had no reason to be. She built her life brick by brick, all by herself, in the middle of all that noise."
I looked directly at Yoon-ah then, hoping she could see the sincerity in my eyes. "I remember sitting there thinking, 'She's amazing.' Not because she was powerful or rich, but because she was so… resilient. So quietly, incredibly strong. I wanted to be like that. Or at least, I wanted to see someone like that win."
I let out a small, self-conscious laugh. "Sorry, that's probably a strange thing to say. I just mean… I see that in you. That same quiet strength. And it is amazing. You shouldn't have to be that strong, but you are. And the fact that you are… it's the most impressive thing I've seen in this city."
I braced for her to find it odd, to shut down. But instead, her eyes grew slightly shiny. She looked down at her hands, a faint, complicated smile playing on her lips—not sad, but touched, and perhaps a little seen in a way she hadn't expected.
"Hehe... A movie character, huh?" she murmured after a small chuckle, almost to herself. Then she met my gaze again.
"Thank you for saying that, Director Law. That's… a very kind thing to compare me to." She paused, then added, her voice even softer, "No one has ever said anything like that to me before."
A sharp, electronic chirp cut through the fragile quiet.
Yoon-ah flinched, her hand diving into her bag. She pulled out her phone, the screen's light illuminating the lingering tension on her face. She read the notification, her professional mask instinctively snapping partway back into place.
"It's… a reminder from the office," she said, her voice regaining its efficient edge. "The late audit team needs a file."
"Right," I said, standing up, the plastic stool scraping loudly. The real world was calling us back to our cages. "Should we head back?"
"Yes," she agreed, standing as well. She began to gather her things, then paused, her brow furrowing. "Oh, Director Law, about the cash… how much was it? I need to—"
"Ugh, don't worry about it," I cut in, waving a hand with a dismissiveness I didn't feel. "Seriously. Just… heiress pocket change. It's nothing."
The last thing I wanted was for her to feel indebted to me over that scumbag.
"Still," she insisted, her voice firming with that stubborn resilience I'd just praised. "I want to pay you back. It's a principle."
Crap. Panic fluttered in my chest.
If she started paying me back in installments, it would hang between us forever, a constant reminder of her shame and my clumsy intervention.
I had to shut this down.
My mind raced, and the words tumbled out before I could vet them. "Well, if you really want to pay me back," I said, the idea forming as I spoke, "instead of money, just… help my fiancé do more work."
I saw her blink in confusion.
I barreled on, stepping closer and placing my hands on her shoulders, trying to inject my words with a cheerful, conspiratorial energy that felt utterly bizarre given the circumstances.
"In fact," I said, my voice dropping to a stage whisper, "don't ever go away from him! Stay together! Spend more time with him if you can. Be an amazing, indispensable team! That's all you need to do, okay? Consider us square."
Yoon-ah stared at me, utterly bewildered. My request—no, my demand—was so bizarre, so antithetical to the typical jealous-fiancée trope, that it short-circuited her polite insistence. She just stood there, holding her bag, looking lost.
"I… Thank you," she finally managed, the words clearly not matching the chaos in her eyes.
"Great! Come on, let's go," I said, dropping my hands and turning toward the door, desperate to escape my own awkwardness.
I pushed through the glass door, the night air a cool relief.
As we started walking back toward the imposing silhouette of Han Group, the night seemed to press in closer.
The brief sanctuary of the convenience store was behind us, and the real world, with all its complications, waited ahead.
I broke the silence, my voice low. "You know he'll be back," I said, the words tasting bitter. "People like him always come back for more. They're like black holes—they're never satisfied."
Beside me, Yoon-ah's steps didn't falter this time. She simply bowed her head a fraction, her gaze fixed on the cracked pavement beneath our feet.
"I know," she said, the acceptance in her voice quieter, heavier, and more devastating than any despair.
I stopped under a pool of yellow light from a streetlamp and turned to face her.
'Yoon-ah,' I thought, her name feeling both foreign and right on my tongue. My voice was stripped bare, just me and my hope for her. 'I really hope… I hope you can stand up to him someday.'
She finally looked up too, meeting my gaze, a realization showing on her face.
In that shared, silent look under the humming streetlight, I sent my wish out into the universe: that the next time he came back, she wouldn't just endure.
She would stand.
Then, wordlessly, we turned and continued our walk toward the glittering tower, two women carrying the weight of the night—one holding a fragile, furious hope, the other carrying the immutable weight of a truth she had lived with for years.
* * * * *
Five Hours Ago...
The soft click of the key in the lock was the loudest sound in the world.
Lee Yoon-ah pushed open the door to her apartment, the weight of the day settling on her shoulders like a leaden cloak.
Silence. Darkness.
She stepped inside, letting the door sigh shut behind her, sealing her off from the city.
She stood for a moment in the entryway, just breathing in the familiar, empty quiet.
With a weary sigh, she shrugged off her blazer and hung it neatly on the coat rack, placing her bag beneath it. The routine was a small comfort.
'Did I turn all the lights off this morning? Why is it so dark today?' she thought, a faint frown touching her brow as she peered into the living room's deeper gloom.
She was always meticulous but today had been… disorienting.
She walked toward the light switch by the archway, her hand reaching out in the dark.
Her fingers found the plastic toggle. She flicked it up.
Light flooded the room.
And so did the spectacle.
"SURPRISE!"
Her breath hitched.
Balloons—dozens of them in clashing shades of red and silver—bobbed against the ceiling.
A clumsily hung banner stretched across the far wall, its glittery letters spelling out CONGRATULATIONS! in a cheerful, garish script.
The coffee table was littered with the remains of what looked like takeout, two empty wine glasses, and a single, sad-looking bouquet of roses still in its plastic wrapper.
And in the center of it all, standing with his arms slightly spread as if awaiting applause, was Ri Minhyuk.
Yoon-ah's mind went blank, then scrambled to process.
Shock was the first wave—a visceral jolt at his unexpected presence.
Then, confusion—Why? What is this? The decorations were all wrong. The 'congratulations' banner made no sense.
The scene felt like a badly staged play.
"Minhyuk-oppa?" Her voice was thin with bewilderment. "What… what is all this?"
He took a step forward, then another, closing the distance between them with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
It was the polished, charming smile, but tonight it looked strained at the edges, desperate. He stopped just inches from her, his cologne—the one she'd bought him last year—smelling suddenly cloying.
He didn't answer her question. Instead, he reached into his pocket.
Her heart, which had been numb with fatigue, gave a single, hard, painful thump.
He didn't pull out a phone. He sank down onto one knee.
The world tilted. The garish balloons seemed to blur.
He looked up at her, the rehearsed sentimentality in his eyes at war with a flicker of something else—panic, maybe. A last-ditch effort to reset the board.
"Lee Yoon-ah," he said, his voice thick with manufactured emotion. He opened the small velvet box in his hand.
The ring inside caught the overhead light, sparkling coldly against the cheap satin. "Would you… make me the happiest man alive?"