San didn't need to know what was inside the box. There was no room for doubt. She kept her eyes on Haerin: the rosy color in the young woman's cheeks had vanished instantly, replaced by a faint, feverish pallor. She wasn't smiling — she wasn't doing anything except staring at the velvet case. But San noticed how Haerin's fingers tightened around the folds of her dress, how her nails slowly pressed into her palms.
Do-Hyun slid the box toward her with the tip of his fingers, slowly, as if savoring the effect. The black velvet absorbed the light, making it look as though the object was swallowing the air around it.
"You already know what it is," he murmured, certain of the answer before she could even speak.
Haerin didn't move. Not frozen — just… detached from her own body. Her shoulders remained perfectly straight, but San saw the subtle tension beneath the surface, the way each muscle fought to hold the mask in place, a mask that was seconds away from slipping.
He opened the box with deliberate precision. Inside, a ring sparkled under the dim lighting — a diamond too large, too ostentatious, crafted to impress rather than please. An emblem of possession, not a symbol of love.
"We didn't get the chance to finish this conversation at the gala," he continued, shooting a sharp glance toward San. "So I decided to finish it with your father. He fully supports us, as I expected. He's a man of his word. Just as my family has honored ours."
San's attention sharpened to a razor's edge. It wasn't hard to decipher the undertones, but she was trying to grasp the extent to which their families were intertwined — and how she might exploit it against Junghan.
"I thought you understood, Do-Hyun. I'm not ready to marry yet."
"Everything is already arranged. Our two families complement each other perfectly. Your political influence. Our real estate power. It's an ideal partnership. Everyone knows this marriage is the logical path. And Haerin… I've known you forever. I care about you. You have no reason to worry. With me, you'll be respected. And above all… protected."
The last word was pointed directly at San — his gaze sharp, confident, a silent warning meant to establish dominance.
San decoded it instantly. And dismissed it just as quickly.
"I'll provide you with the best bodyguards. The best life. As long as you become a loyal and obedient wife."
The word obedient hung in the air.
San knew it too well — but unlike Haerin, she obeyed by choice. Always by choice. She was a free agent who bent to a will only when it served her interest. Still, something in the way he said it stirred irritation deep inside her. The reaction was almost invisible: a tightness in her jaw, a pulse hitting too sharply at her temple.
Nothing Do-Hyun could notice.
Nothing Haerin could guess.
But San felt it, and she hated it.
"I already have San. I don't need any other bodyguards," Haerin cut in, her voice soft but leaving no room for debate. "I have no complaints about her work. Or her attitude."
San, standing a few steps behind, felt something shift within her. Her neck tensed the way it did before striking a target. Except this time, there was no violence in her intentions.
Because Haerin never opposed anyone.
And San was not someone who needed to be defended.
Yet both of those truths were collapsing at the same time.
"I'll find you someone better," Do-Hyun insisted. "She may be competent but…"
He paused, his eyes settling on the bodyguard.
"She's not one of us. She surely doesn't understand the subtleties of our world or our country. Your father would probably agree with me if I brought it up."
It wasn't an innocent remark.
It wasn't even a veiled threat.
It was pressure — direct, deliberate — a reminder that anything that didn't fit could be replaced, erased, reassigned.
Haerin slowly lifted her gaze. Her politeness didn't waver, not even a fraction.
But San saw something in the precise angle of her neck, in the fragile tension of her fingers — something that looked like… defense.
"But that's a topic for later," Do-Hyun concluded.
He retrieved the velvet case and delicately took Haerin's hand. He lifted the ring between them, its diamond gleaming like a verdict waiting to be pronounced.
He squeezed her hand gently — a gesture San registered instantly.
"Be my wife, and every door will open for you and your father. We need each other."
He paused, his fingers closing gently around Haerin's.
"Our families have built so much together," he added. "You know what happens when a single piece goes missing, don't you? Everything collapses. I don't think your father can afford that. And besides, I'm the best match you could hope for. Haven't I always been by your side?"
He tightened his hold — just a slight pressure — but San noticed it instantly.
"At the gala, you asked for time. And normally, I would've been patient. But your father's election is approaching, and our marriage will seal everything our parents built together. The heirs of the Han and Seo families will finally become one."
Every sentence carved itself into San's mind like a blade being sharpened. She didn't miss a single detail — every intonation, every calculated pause, every misplaced smile.
Do-Hyun was the kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice — a man who believed his words shaped the world around him. A dangerous flaw.
A useful one.
Because by revealing his intentions, his alliances, his certainties… he was giving San something far more valuable than a speech: weaknesses.
Angles of attack.
Pressure points.
Evidence to exploit when the time came.
He thought he was impressing her. He thought he was convincing. He thought he was in control. But in the controlled silence where San stood, a thought formed — clear, cold, precise:
Without realizing it, he was already helping her build the very thing he feared most.
The downfall of Seo Junghan.
Haerin still hadn't answered. Do-Hyun kept her hand trapped, patient on the surface, though his thumb pressed subtly into the delicate skin of her wrist — a reminder that she was expected to yield. That resistance was not an option.
"Haerin," he murmured, "you understand this marriage is… inevitable."
The diamond rested between them like a verdict.
San remained perfectly still, perfectly silent, perfectly professional. But beneath that façade, something had shifted. The same faint irritation she had felt at the gala, when she'd seen him squeezing Haerin's wrist.
An annoyance at this spoiled, self-important boy.
She forced herself to refocus.
Junghan.
The mission.
That was all that mattered. And yet, her eyes kept drifting toward Haerin's hand — still clasped in his.
The heiress inhaled slowly, a breath that sounded like a collapse barely held back. Then, in a voice almost too soft, she said:
"May I have a moment? I'd like to freshen up."
Do-Hyun gave her a knowing smile and nodded. He knew he had her — waiting a few more minutes changed nothing.
Haerin withdrew her hand very slowly, without brusqueness — but in the narrow space between their fingers, San caught a tiny flicker of resistance. Perhaps the last she could afford before surrendering completely.
She rose from her seat. Her fingertips brushed the table lightly for balance — a gesture so graceful, so silent, it could've gone unnoticed.
But San had seen the tension in her neck, the rigidity in her shoulders, the microscopic tremor she tried to suppress while adjusting her dress.
San followed her with her eyes all the way to the bathroom door, not moving an inch until Haerin disappeared inside.
The café fell back into an almost artificial calm — too pristine, too controlled.
A kind of calm San knew well. The kind that always came right before movement.
She didn't move. Nothing in her posture betrayed the burning attention she was directing at the scene. But her eyes stayed fixed on the door where Haerin had vanished — a fraction of a second too long.
And Do-Hyun noticed. He straightened his jacket, as if slipping back into a role he had momentarily dropped. Then his gaze slid toward San.
"She still needs to learn to accept her place, you know," he said, with a softness far too sweet to be genuine. "Haerin is intelligent, but… sometimes she forgets her responsibilities."
San didn't answer.
Silence was part of her role.
Part of her cover.
But mostly: there was no reason to answer a man who believed speaking meant dominance.
Do-Hyun crossed his arms, satisfied to occupy the space she allowed him.
"It's normal that this escapes you," he added. "You're not from here. You have to grow up in our world to understand its rules."
He was provoking her. Establishing hierarchy. Searching for a crack in her impeccable calm.
He found none.
She simply looked at him — not aggressively, not submissively — with a flat, clear, almost translucent expression. The look of a predator analyzing an insect.
"Let me give you a piece of advice, Miss Kawada. Haerin is extremely sensitive. Don't let her cling to you. Don't let her believe she could ever escape her condition. When someone spends time with people… like you, they tend to forget the world they belong to."
He spoke of Haerin like a possession. Like an object that would eventually be put back in its rightful place. And his eyes drifted deliberately from San to the bathroom door.
He spoke of Haerin as if she were property. Like an object out of place, meant to be put back where she belonged sooner or later.
And his gaze slid, deliberately, from San's face to the door behind which Haerin had retreated.
"We make a beautiful couple, don't you think?"
"It's not my job to judge Miss Seo's personal life," San replied.
Do-Hyun burst into laughter.
"Of course not! Your duty is to look after her," he said, regaining his composure. "Be careful not to overstep your position."
His words slid over San's still silhouette. She disliked the way he addressed her — disliked having to endure it — and she felt the tips of her fingers tingling. Under normal circumstances, one wrong look and she would've slit his throat without hesitation.
He straightened slightly, adjusted his jacket, then glanced toward the bathroom door where Haerin had disappeared. His smile faded instantly, replaced by a discreet flicker of irritation.
"She's taking a while," he noted in a voice too soft to be harmless.
San didn't answer. She was staring at the door as well — but not for the same reasons.
Do-Hyun tilted his head.
"Go get her."
San slowly turned her head toward him, her jaw tightening.
"Do as I say, Miss Kawada," he added gently. "That's what you're here for, after all. Everyone should stay in their place."
For a fraction of a second, she considered staying right where she was. Letting him stew in his impatience. Letting him feel powerless.
But the image of the gala surged abruptly. Haerin, alone in a crowded hallway, fingers trembling around a glass. Her breath hitching. Her eyes blurred with panic, looking for an exit no one else noticed.
No one except San.
She didn't even look at him. She pivoted toward the door — a precise, silent movement.
Not for him.
Never for him.
For Haerin. Because she knew exactly what could happen when a young woman's breath collapsed behind a closed door and no one came to check. And because her cover required her to stay involved in Haerin's life — at least on the surface.
The door closed behind her with a muted thud, shutting out the muffled hum of the café.
The silence that enveloped her wasn't neutral. It was heavy, dense, saturated with a held breath.
"Miss Seo?" she called softly.
No answer.
San advanced, her steps absorbed by the smooth floor. She checked each stall with practiced precision — a glance under the door, a controlled breath, careful listening.
The third stall was locked.
San stopped in front of it.
Not too close — just the right distance not to invade, yet close enough to react at the slightest sound.
"Haerin," she murmured, dropping the formal title. "Are you alright?"
She pressed her palm against the door — not to force it, just to signal her presence.
"Open. »
« You can tell Do-Hyun I'm coming. He didn't need to send you someone to fetch me."
A line spit out under her breath — a defensive reflex. It wasn't hard to understand Haerin was used to being summoned. But not for herself… for others.
"I came for you, not for him."
Silence. A heavy one, stretching into long seconds. Until the lock finally shifted and Haerin's pale face appeared in the narrow opening.
"I wasn't having a crisis, if that's what worries you."
"I'm not worried," San replied sharply. "I'm monitoring. It's my—"
"job," Haerin cut in, brushing past her. "I know."
She was on the verge of implosion — San could feel it with ease. For someone who spent her life observing from the shadows, Haerin's entire body was screaming. Yet she insisted on pretending everything was fine, as if her entire existence wasn't slipping beyond her control. And, in truth, it had never belonged to her.
It was a feeling San understood. She'd made that choice the day she left the hospital twenty-one years earlier. The day Akio removed the bandages from her neck and she saw, for the first time, the scar cutting across her skin. Her life no longer belonged to her; taken by a man she didn't know, for reasons she didn't understand. Stripped of a past, but given a future that pushed her to wake up each morning.
Vengeance was a powerful engine.
San's fingers brushed her scar instinctively. A reflexive gesture — but one that caught Haerin's eye.
Her gaze drifted over the pale, thin mark, almost invisible under the café's light… and San felt something shift in the air.
A tiny variation, like a held breath.
Haerin halted mid-step. Barely — just enough for San to realize she had exposed a weakness.
The heiress's gaze rose slowly to hers.
"Where did it come from?" she asked, curiosity laced under her voice.
San locked her expression instantly. She withdrew her hand — not abruptly, not nervously, just… too quickly to be natural.
"It's nothing," she said. "A memory."
"A memory that marked you for life."
"We all have our demons. And you should go face yours."
She wished her tone had been cold, even cutting — especially since the man who had given her that scar slept under the same roof as she did. But her voice had softened in a way she hadn't intended.
The confusion in Haerin's eyes deepened, veiled now with a kind of quiet resignation.
"Are you going to say yes?"
The question destabilized them both for a split second.
"You know he has no right over you," San said, her voice steady. "You can refuse. You can decide for yourself."
A smile curved Haerin's lips. Beautiful. Perfectly controlled. And utterly empty.
"Everyone has a right over me," she replied, tragically elegant. "Such is the privilege of my position."
The word lingered between them.
Privilege.
It sank into San's mind like a slow blade. She felt it turn, scrape, anchor itself in that corner where she stored the phrases she couldn't stand. She should have let it drift away like all the meaningless social niceties she'd heard since arriving.
But she didn't.
The word followed her.
Privilege, when Haerin left the room, her face carved in marble.
Privilege, when Do-Hyun, glowing with smug satisfaction, slid the ring onto the heiress's finger.
Privilege, when Haerin bowed her head, bending like one accepts a sentence wrapped in gold.
And when they finally stepped outside, when the bright daylight wrapped around them, San felt that word vibrate at the back of her skull.
They walked toward a nearby park — meticulously maintained, yet strangely unable to reflect the sun. As if even the trees had learned to stand in the shadow of powerful families.
And the word returned once more.
Privilege.
Her prison had a very elegant name.
Do-Hyun walked with a calm gait, hands clasped behind his back, as if presenting his kingdom.
"You'll see," he said. "This park is often visited by the most influential families. It's… a good place to be seen."
San followed a few steps behind. Far enough to be ignored. Close enough to see everything.
Do-Hyun placed his hand on the small of Haerin's back — a light touch, but one carrying unquestionable authority. And Haerin absorbed it. She had been absorbing it all her life.
San felt a flicker of irritation. Not toward Haerin — not entirely. But toward this world where Haerin had learned to confuse obedience with survival.
She didn't truly understand.
How could someone allow themselves to be diminished to this point? How could one bend beneath a yoke they never chose?
San had been forged in violence, shaped by a man she hadn't chosen either. But the moment the bandages fell, the moment she saw the scar on her neck — she swore she would never bow again.
Haerin, on the other hand, continued to live inside a cage whose bars she polished herself.
And then, suddenly, as if something inside her brushed against breaking point, Haerin turned her head slightly. Just enough to look for someone.
Just enough to look for her.
Their eyes met for a single second before Haerin immediately looked away, as if caught in the act.
Do-Hyun, of course, noticed nothing. He never noticed anything that didn't feed his sense of importance. He resumed his monologue, then pulled Haerin by the wrist — a gesture intended to seem protective, though it was nothing but a disguised grip. San saw the heiress's muscles tense — and she observed quietly, noting every detail, every weakness, every gesture she could one day turn against Junghan and his perfect associate.
But one thought resurfaced beneath the word still circling in her mind.
Privilege.
And for the first time, she wondered if Haerin might be the one suffering the most.
They walked along the park's main path, lined with modern lanterns and immaculate flower beds. The place was designed to inspire calm, but San saw only sight lines and blind spots. Areas of exposure, areas of retreat. A terrain like any other.
"The conferences will pile up in the coming weeks," Do-Hyun explained. "Father insists we make more public appearances. The media love harmonious couples who draw attention. With my projects and your beauty, voters will flock to us."
"It'll take more than a façade to win people over, Do-Hyun. They want substance, not an image. And I'm not sure your company is very popular at the moment."
Despite his smile, the young man clenched his jaw. He shot a quick look at San, who missed nothing of the exchange.
"Such things happen," he continued. "Public opinion must be handled with care."
"Manipulated, you mean?"
This time, Do-Hyun grabbed her arm, stopping her dead in her tracks.
Haerin had struck a nerve. She glanced down at the hand holding her.
"What I do with my business, and how I run it, is none of your concern. I'm not marrying you to hear your opinion — don't forget that. You're mistaken about your role if you think your views are required. No one asked you to validate my decisions. Only to stand at my side."
San stepped forward — one step, nothing more. She could have broken his grip in under a second. A press behind his elbow, a twist of the wrist. She could have put him on his knees and made him spit apologies.
But just as she moved to close the distance, a hand rose.
Haerin's hand.
A tiny gesture, almost graceful. A palm raised just slightly. Yet San stopped instantly — as if someone had slid a blade between her ribs.
Haerin didn't want her to intervene. Her arm was still trapped in Do-Hyun's hold, but her eyes — sharp, clear, lucid — locked with San's.
Don't move.
Not a plea. A command. And San understood.
It wasn't submission — it was control. Haerin refused the humiliation of being rescued in front of him. Refused to let San's intervention strip away what little she still possessed: her dignity, her posture, her mask.
San froze. Slowly, she drew her foot back, returning precisely to her initial spot, as though she had never moved at all. As though her body hadn't already calculated ten ways to make Do-Hyun pay.
The young man cast her a cold look, devoid of any empathy. Then, once he was certain San wouldn't intervene, he gradually loosened his grip. He turned back to Haerin and inclined his head.
"I'm sorry," he said — with a tone that resembled a justification more than a sincere apology. "And you're right, the company is going through a… delicate time. We don't have allies everywhere. But that's what comes with climbing to the top."
He gave her a syrupy smile, wildly at odds with his earlier gesture.
"The important thing is what our two families will build together."
Haerin nodded faintly — almost imperceptibly — and resumed walking.
Do-Hyun matched her pace as if nothing had happened. As if the world had simply resumed its orderly, polished course.
San walked behind them, at the same distance as before — not too close, not too far — perfectly transparent. But she no longer listened to Do-Hyun's smooth, calculated tone, nor to the subtle tensions in Haerin's posture she had learned to recognise. Her gaze swept the park discreetly, methodically, reading it like a map: slowly, precisely, absorbing details no one else noticed.
That was when something caught her eye. A dark flicker, almost insignificant, near the park entrance.
A black car.
Unmarked, unremarkable, parked as casually as decoration. And yet San's internal rhythm shifted at once. She recognised the too-matte paint, the slightly altered silhouette, the specific way light rolled across the hood. Nothing ostentatious. Nothing threatening for a passerby. But for her — enough.
It wasn't a civilian vehicle.
She slowed subtly, just enough to create a barely noticeable gap between her and the pair ahead. Even with the engine off, she could hear it — a familiar echo, a mechanical signature only members of the clan could recognise.
Her clan.
They weren't here for her — she knew that immediately — but to observe.
Observe whom? The couple? The dynamic? The upcoming marriage?
The idea slid into her mind with surgical clarity: someone, from the very top, was interested in what was unfolding here. Someone was monitoring Haerin's role, Do-Hyun's behaviour, and perhaps even how San carried out her orders — as though the delicate balance between the two families was about to shift.
She kept walking, assessing quietly.
The wind rustled through the trees, carrying away Do-Hyun's empty words about public relations, upcoming events, the importance of "a couple who inspires trust."
Haerin nodded without truly listening, her shoulders tense like a wire about to snap.
San, eyes half-closed, focused on the car. The tinted windshield reflected the light in a way too deliberate, almost studied — as if the silhouette inside — for she had no doubt there was one — was staring back.
Controlled surveillance.
Perfectly executed.
The message was simple: She was no longer alone on the field. And if the clan sent someone else, it was never without reason.
No emotion crossed her face. She merely adjusted her pace, returning precisely to her position behind Haerin and Do-Hyun, as though nothing had changed.
The park remained peaceful, almost too calm, bathed in a soft light that never quite reached the ground. Everything seemed perfectly in place.
But for San, one certainty took shape:
She watched Haerin.
She watched Do-Hyun.
And now, someone was watching all of them.