Kim Min-Joon was not accustomed to waiting. His position in the world ensured that when he demanded something, it was delivered instantly and without question. Yet here, in his secluded, multimillion-dollar Jeju villa study, he was waiting. He tapped his pen impatiently against the mahogany desk, the silence amplifying his growing irritation. The 'draft' he had sensed had become a nagging itch, and the delayed data forensics report was an unacceptable oversight by his security team.
When the property manager finally arrived, flustered and bowing excessively, Min-Joon dismissed the man's apologies with a sharp glance. "The draft. Check the ventilation system in the master suite and the adjoining hall. I want it rectified before morning."
"Y-yes, Chairman, immediately," the manager stammered.
The manager retreated, but Min-Joon's professional anxiety had already shifted. His secure tablet chimed, signaling a prioritized, high-level communication. It was the forensics report from Mr. Park, his Chief Security Officer in Seoul, regarding the anomalous data event from the morning flight.
Min-Joon opened the encrypted file. He expected a technical explanation—a server overflow, a firewall hiccup. What he read was a clinical assessment of digital catastrophe.
The report detailed a massive, single, highly irregular financial transfer that had occurred between 8:45 AM and 9:00 AM, precisely when Min-Joon had experienced the "throttling." The transfer had been authorized, executed with a unique, time-sensitive temporary biometric access key, and had moved almost all of the liquid capital from his private, ultra-secure accounts into four separate, complexly masked offshore entities.
Temporary Biometric Access Key. Min-Joon reread the term, his mind calculating. He had only ever used his permanent thumbprint. He had only mentioned the process of the temporary key—the one requiring the codes, the flash drive, and the physical print—to one person: Seo-Yun, during their dinner the night before last.
His initial reaction was not panic, but cold, logical disbelief. Impossible. The security protocol was designed to be unbreakable. He picked up the desk phone to call Park, intending to tear the security officer apart for the incompetence of his report.
Before he could dial, the property manager's voice returned, strained and low, filtering through the intercom. "Chairman? Sir, I... I need to report something."
"Speak, man," Min-Joon snapped, his focus still on the betrayal of his security system.
"It's Madam, sir. I went to check the bedroom for the draft. The lights are on, but... she is not here. All her main luggage is untouched, but I found a cabinet door slightly ajar. A small, dark backpack is missing from the golf equipment storage."
The manager's words, though delivered hesitantly, were the final, crucial component that completed Min-Joon's horrifying equation. The numbers on the screen—the transferred billions—suddenly fused with the image of his missing wife.
The logical disbelief shattered, replaced by a crystalline, arctic rage. He set the phone down, not slamming it, but placing it with slow, deliberate precision. The sound was softer than the rustle of a silk tie, but the gesture held the weight of a thousand earthquakes.
He walked swiftly to the master bedroom. The room was untouched, a monument to their false life. He opened the closet. Her suitcases stood sentinel, filled with clothes she wouldn't need where she was going. He walked into the marble bathroom. The expensive face creams, the delicate perfumes—all still in place. Only the slightest hint of a strong, medicinal scent—perhaps the residue of the sleeping agent she had used—remained, unnoticed by a casual observer.
He returned to the study, his pace measured, his eyes devoid of any recognizable emotion. He was no longer a man reacting to betrayal; he was a machine calculating damage and enacting countermeasures.
He picked up the phone again, his voice now dangerously calm. "Mr. Park. Forget the data saturation. Initiate Protocol Hydra. Lock down all K.M. Holdings' assets globally. Issue an immediate freeze on all transfers made from accounts 788, 789, 790, and 791. Cross-reference the destination accounts with Han Joo-Hyuk's known banking associates. Check all private flight logs and charter boat manifests leaving Jeju Island tonight."
Min-Joon's mind was moving at the speed of a supercomputer. He had analyzed the data, identified the security breach (the temporary key), and realized the intent (the money). He did not yet know the details of the affair, but he knew the betrayal was orchestrated, malicious, and total.
He sat back in his chair, the glow of the tablet illuminating his face. The financial devastation was enormous, but temporary. His empire could withstand the loss. What he could not tolerate was the absolute disrespect—the cold, calculated manipulation of his "trust" and his systems.
Seo-Yun had called him arrogant, oblivious, and too focused on his money. She was wrong. He wasn't focused on the money; he was focused on control. And she had just stolen it.
He looked at the empty glass of water on his desk. He thought of her 'headaches,' her 'yoga classes,' the casual lie about the Jeju villa. It was a strategy, a long con, executed with a cunning he had underestimated.
His fury was not loud; it was deep, a silent, implacable commitment to vengeance. The woman who had been his wife was now his ultimate financial enemy. He would hunt her down, not to get the money back—the money was irrelevant—but to reassert the absolute control she had dared to violate.
Min-Joon closed the report. The next step was not to contact the police; the next step was to understand who she had been with. The name Han Joo-Hyuk echoed in his mind, pulled from a deep memory bank of potential rivals and threats. The photographer. The small, insignificant artist.
He leaned forward, pressing the speakerphone button for the manager. "Cancel the Jeju reservation. Arrange immediate return to Seoul. No press. And ensure every room in this villa is forensically swept. I want to know who was here tonight."
He knew the financial ruin was just the appetizer. The main course was the personal, psychological devastation that would be revealed when he confronted the identity of her lover—the truth that his perfect, controlled life had been tainted by the presence of a stranger.