The doorbell rang.
Sharp. Clear. Too formal.
Ji-Ah's fingers froze above the piano keys.
Ha-Joon was already on his feet.
"Go to your room," he said quietly, tone leaving no space for questions. "Lock the door."
She stood immediately. "Yes, sir."
"And don't come out," he added. "The manager from our other company—Hanryeon Foods. I didn't inform him you're here."
Her eyes widened a fraction. "Understood."
She bowed quickly and slipped out.
At least—that's what he thought.
Ji-Ah made it halfway down the hall before stopping dead.
My laptop.
Her shoulders sagged.
She'd left it on the living room table. Wide open. Very visible. Very incriminating.
"…Great," she whispered.
Moving as quietly as humanly possible, she padded back toward the living room, sticking close to the wall like a criminal in her own house.
Voices drifted in.
Do-Hyun's, relaxed and amused.
Nisa's, calm and warm.
And a new one—deep, smooth, confident.
Ji-Ah peeked just enough to see them.
Ha-Joon sat upright on the main sofa, expression stern as ever—but she noticed it immediately.
His shoulders were lower. Less rigid.
The man seated across from him was unfamiliar.
Manager Hoseok.
Mid-Twenties, neat charcoal suit, silver-rimmed glasses.
His hair was combed back carefully, smile easy but sharp—the kind of man who knew numbers and people equally well.
"…profits are up eighteen percent this quarter," Hoseok was saying pleasantly. "Hanryeon Foods hasn't seen growth like this in years."
Ha-Joon nodded once. "Consistency was the issue. We fixed that."
Nisa smiled politely. "Stability builds trust. Customers notice."
Do-Hyun leaned back, grinning. "Also helps when the food doesn't taste like regret."
Nisa elbowed him lightly. "Do-Hyun."
Hoseok laughed. "Speaking of food—everyone's been asking about the chef. Whoever's been handling the main kitchen lately?.''
''They love her cooking."
Nisa blinked. "Ah… thank you so much."
Ji-Ah, crouched behind a decorative pillar, silently clutched her chest.
HER.
She needs Nisa to see her.
She mouthed silently at Nisa:There My laptop.
Nisa's eyes flicked—just briefly—to the side.
She caught it.
Her lips twitched.
A smile bloomed slowly, knowingly.
Ji-Ah beamed like she'd just won an award, then immediately remembered she was trespassing and ducked lower.
Ha-Joon, meanwhile, looked… almost relaxed.
Still stern. Still unreadable.
But his jaw wasn't clenched.
His posture wasn't rigid.
He even leaned back slightly as Hoseok continued talking.
"…efficiency has improved across departments," Hoseok went on. "Your structure works, Chairman Ha."
"Results matter," Ha-Joon replied calmly.
Ji-Ah crept another step closer, eyes locked on the table.
Her laptop sat right there.
So close.
Do-Hyun glanced down suddenly. "Hm?"
Ji-Ah froze.
Nisa coughed lightly. "Do-Hyun, didn't you say you wanted juice?"
Do-Hyun blinked. "I did?"
"Yes," she said smoothly. "You did."
"…Right. Juice. Vital," he muttered, standing up.
Bless her.
The moment he turned, Ji-Ah lunged—snatching her laptop, hugging it to her chest like a rescued child.
She mouthed THANK YOU at Nisa again.
Nisa smiled sweetly, eyes sparkling.
Ji-Ah retreated silently down the hall, heart pounding, barely holding in laughter as she disappeared into her room.
Behind her, the conversation continued—calm, professional, controlled.
And for the first time that day, Ji-Ah realized something important.
Ha-Joon wasn't always tense.
He just rarely let anyone see when he wasn't.
--
Ji-Ah shut her bedroom door softly and leaned her back against it for a second, breathing out.
"…Okay," she murmured. "Laptop retrieved. Life intact."
She crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and opened her laptop. The screen glowed to life.
First things first.
Her files.
She clicked through folders quickly—slides, drafts, edits, backups. Everything was still there. Untouched.
She sighed in relief, shoulders finally dropping. "Thank goodness…"
Then she froze.
One new email.
Sender: UnknownSubject:(no subject)
Her stomach tightened.
She stared at it for a full second, finger hovering over the trackpad.
Don't click it, a small voice warned.
She clicked it.
The screen changed instantly.
A folder opened on its own.
Photos.
Her breath caught.
The first image—The gate of Ha-Joon's mansion.
The second—Her stepping inside, helmet in hand.
The third—A wider shot of the house, taken from a distance. Clean. Clear. Intentional.
Not media photos.
Too quiet. Too isolated.
Her hands went cold.
Then text appeared beneath the images.
"You live where you shouldn't."
"Chairman Ha-Joon has something that belongs to me."
"Shares. Control. His company."
"If he refuses—"
The words paused.
Then the last line loaded.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"—I will take you instead."
"You won't hear me coming."
"And no one will find you in time."
Ji-Ah slammed the laptop shut.
The sound echoed too loudly in the room.
She sucked in a sharp breath, chest tight, vision blurring—not with tears, but with fear so sudden it made her dizzy.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed the laptop flat against the bed, as if it might open again on its own.
"…No," she whispered.
Her heart hammered violently now, every beat loud in her ears.
Someone knew.
Not just about Ha-Joon.
About her.
Where she slept. Where she walked. When she arrived.
She wrapped her arms around herself, forcing her breathing to slow.
In. Out.
Don't panic.
But for the first time since moving into the mansion—
Ji-Ah felt truly, terrifyingly watched.
-
Hoseok had already left.
The house had settled into an uneasy quiet, but Ji-Ah was still standing upstairs, laptop clutched tightly to her chest like it might disappear if she loosened her grip.
A threat.
Because of Ha-Joon.
Her fingers trembled as she closed the laptop properly this time, holding it there for a second longer than necessary before finally lowering it.
"…Get it together," she whispered to herself.
She forced her feet to move.
Down the stairs.Into the kitchen.
The warm light hit her first.
Do-Hyun stood behind Nisa, arms loosely wrapped around her waist, completely in her space and very unapologetic about it.
Nisa was laughing, trying to stir something while he clearly made that impossible.
"Stop that," Nisa said, swatting his arm lightly.
"I'm helping," Do-Hyun replied, grinning.
"You're blocking the stove."
"Emotional support."
At the dining table, Ha-Joon sat silently, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed—but his eyes missed nothing.
Ji-Ah stopped just inside the doorway.
For a split second, no one noticed her.
Then she moved quickly.
She set the laptop down on the counter, just out of direct sight, then walked straight toward Nisa.
"I'll do it," Ji-Ah said, a little too fast. "Don't worry."
Nisa blinked, surprised, then smiled gently. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Ji-Ah said, already reaching for the spoon. "I'm just… finishing."
Do-Hyun raised an eyebrow but didn't argue.
He guided Nisa away, and the two of them sat at the table instead.
Do-Hyun leaned back in his chair, cheerful as ever.
"So," he said brightly, "what's cooking?"
Ji-Ah didn't turn around.
"Almost done," she replied.
Her voice sounded steady.
Her hands were not.
Every time she lifted the spoon, it shook slightly. When she stirred, her grip tightened too much.
The metal clinked faintly against the pot—too sharp, too frequent.
She didn't talk.
Didn't mutter.Didn't complain.Didn't insult anyone under her breath.
Ha-Joon noticed immediately.
He watched her closely now—the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she flinched when the spoon tapped the pot, the way she avoided looking at anyone.
"This isn't like you," he said quietly.
The words were simple.
They landed hard.
Ji-Ah stiffened.
"What's wrong?"
The question was calm. Direct. Unavoidable.
She froze.
Then—too quickly—she turned, set the food down on the table with a sharper motion than intended.
"I'm okay," she said.
The bowl slid slightly.
Ha-Joon's gaze dropped—not to the food.
To the laptop on the counter.
"Really?" he asked.
Ji-Ah felt her throat tighten.
She nodded. "Yes."
He held her gaze for a long second, expression unreadable.
Then he looked away.
The room stayed quiet—but the tension didn't lift.
And Ji-Ah stood there, forcing her breathing to stay even, knowing one thing for certain:
Whatever had sent that message wasn't finished.
And somehow—
She was now standing right in the middle of it.