Even after that day, Lee Sun-ok couldn't stand the sight of the boy.
The mere thought of him breathing under the same roof made her skin crawl.
To keep from provoking his mother's temper, Tae-young had Dongha moved to a separate guesthouse used by the servants.
But that arrangement didn't last long.
Less than two years later, Lee Sun-ok was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and left the mansion for the hospital.
That was the last time she ever set foot in the main house.
Though she was his mother, Tae-young accepted her fate with cold resignation.After all, the woman had spent her entire life covering up her husband's affairs and cleaning up the messes of his illegitimate children.
If anyone deserved such retribution, it was her.
Six months after hospitalization, she was transferred to a high-end hospice.
A month later, she closed her eyes for the final time.
After the funeral, Dongha returned to the main house.
Their father, Yoon Jae-sang, stayed abroad, claiming to oversee new production facilities.
Even when he came back to Korea, he spent his time at country villas. There was no reason to object.
The mansion now belonged to Tae-young.
Under his older brother's care, Dongha finally had his own sunny, comfortable room—and received the education he'd never been given before.
Even as an heir of one of the country's largest conglomerates, Tae-young soon learned that raising a human being was far more troublesome—and expensive—than raising a dog.
Dongha had been so severely neglected in his early years that he could barely speak.
He didn't understand how to express himself, nor how to connect emotionally with others.
By age eight, he was enrolled in elementary school but couldn't adjust to normal life.
So Tae-young hired a team of specialists—therapists, tutors, and counselors.
Music, art, and movement therapy. Of those, only dance worked.
Whenever it involved motion, Dongha's eyes lit up.
He especially focused whenever children his age were dancing.
Through those therapy sessions, they began attending performances and recitals.
And one spring day, when Dongha was ten, he returned home from a school ballet competition and finally spoke to his brother for the first time.
"I want to do ballet."
The words were clear. Not a single syllable stumbled.
Tae-young froze, unable to believe what he had just heard.
"Dongha… what did you just say?"
"I want to learn ballet."
Three years of effort condensed into one miraculous moment.
A rush of pride, warmth, and something dangerously close to joy swelled inside him.
At last, he understood why parents would pay any price to see their child succeed.
He didn't know if he could call what he felt love, but he wanted to give the boy everything he asked for.
"Alright. Let's do ballet. I'll make it happen.
Anything else you want? Tell me."
"…"
Dongha only shook his head. That was enough.
Tae-young's heart filled with quiet determination. If ballet was what it took, then ballet it would be.
From that day, what had begun as brotherly pity grew into something deeper—an affection bordering on paternal love.
Three years later, thanks to Tae-young's support, Dongha was admitted to Gangrim Arts Middle School, majoring in ballet.
To be honest, Tae-young wasn't particularly curious about the dancing itself.
What mattered was that the once feral child now had structure and purpose.
Every time Dongha returned from practice, the wild gleam in his eyes softened, and that was enough.
When things finally seemed stable, Tae-young followed his father's wishes and entered a strategic marriage with Jung Jihee, the second daughter of The Korea Daily's CEO.
He had no romantic expectations.
Marriage, to him, was simply the safest option.
He assumed affection would follow eventually, and life with Jihee—calm, intelligent, and compliant—was tolerable enough.
But a decade later, even as he approached forty, there were still no children.
Perhaps that was why his attachment to Dongha deepened into something more complicated—beyond the love of an older brother.
Jihee must have sensed it too.
When Dongha entered middle school, she doted on him as if he were her own son, filling the void neither she nor her husband could.
Then one day, Dongha dropped a bombshell.
"Hyung, I want to quit ballet. I'm going to a regular high school."
"What? Why? Did something go wrong at the recital?"
"…"
A year later, it happened again.
"Hyung, school's meaningless to me. I'll just take the GED."
"What? You can't just—hey! At least finish school!"
"…"
For the first time, Tae-young understood the pain of a parent watching their child spiral out of control.
Money couldn't fix this.
No matter how much he scolded or reasoned, Dongha wouldn't listen.
He left early, came home late, and said nothing about where he went.
Tae-young didn't dare shout. He just watched, hoping the boy would come back to himself.
But then, one day, he saw it again—
That raw, untamed light in Dongha's eyes.
The same look he'd had the day they first met.
He feared he was losing him.
Yet before he could act, another storm hit—
Their father, Yoon Jae-sang, suffered a sudden stroke.
It happened faster than anyone expected.
But in the chaos, Tae-young's early decision to climb from the bottom up through the company saved him.
He'd earned his position the hard way, and that gave him legitimacy.
Still, moving from an executive to the head of an empire was a transformation of its own.
He had to survive layers of scrutiny, envy, and betrayal before he finally gained the board's recognition.
Five years later, the Samho Group was his.
And while Tae-young consolidated power, Dongha had passed his GED, finished military service, and enrolled at Korea Modern Arts College, majoring in practical dance. He was now close to graduating.
The stronger Tae-young's grip on the company grew, the more he found himself thinking about Dongha.
The boy had never been studious, yet he passed every test.
He'd proven his business instincts through successful music projects in Samho Entertainment—projects that even outsiders praised.
The talent clearly ran in the bloodline.
What if… Dongha became his right hand?
No matter how loyal the executives seemed, Tae-young trusted none of them.
They were relics of his father's era, more interested in maintaining status than progress.Every board meeting felt like a battle of persuasion.
He didn't want yes-men. He wanted someone his.
And there was only one person who truly fit that description.
So when he loosened his tie after another draining meeting, his thoughts inevitably drifted—to Dongha.
A month ago, over dinner, they finally talked.
The boy who once barely reached his shoulder now towered over him.
That pale, sculpted face, the foreign sharpness of his features—he was no longer the weak child from the storage room.
"Dongha, what will you do after graduation?"
"Graduation? I'll keep choreographing and performing with my crew."
"Stop dancing. Come to the company. Help me out. I can't do this alone."
"…"
The silence cut sharper than any argument.
Dongha's cold gaze said everything.
Tae-young knew it was selfish—wanting him close, under his wing.
For years, Dongha's very existence had been kept secret from the public.
If he officially joined Samho Group, the scandal would spread like wildfire.
A hidden son. An illegitimate heir.
The tabloids would devour them.
The market was already cutthroat; competitors would weaponize any weakness.
Still, that stubborn boy had called him out of nowhere a week ago.
"Hyung, remember what you offered? About joining the company through open recruitment. Is that offer still valid?"
For a brief, dangerous moment, Tae-young felt something close to triumph.
But beneath that was confusion—because Dongha never did anything anyone told him to.
Then, as quickly as he'd asked, Dongha set his own condition:
He would choose the department for his internship.
Reckless. Defiant. But fine. Tae-young could handle that.
He'd already learned how to move pieces before the board ever met.
And so, in the week that followed, he gave a new directive to HR: launch a revamped onboarding program for the new interns.
Officially, it was to "support emotional integration."
Privately, it was to make sure Dongha had a partner—someone who could humanize him.
He hadn't expected, however, that the snare he'd set would catch his own brother.
Now, watching from the back of the auditorium, Tae-young could only smirk.
Dongha was sitting beside a girl—half mesmerized, half undone—and for the first time in years, his expression wasn't cold.
So, little brother… the trap worked. You finally found someone who makes you forget yourself.