The morning's chaos shattered my sleep like a sledgehammer. My alarm blared at 7:00 AM—a brutal reminder that Paris was gone and Seoul was waiting. My head throbbed, a hangover of regret and anticipation. Today, I was to meet the Sungs. The thought felt like concrete on my chest.
I stumbled into the bathroom, shower running pure ice, hoping to wash away a lifetime of bad choices. Steam curled around the edges of my vision as I scrubbed, letting the water pound against my scalp like a defibrillator for my will to live. When I stepped out, I faced the mirror: Kang Yul, reluctant heir, playing at normalcy.
I tried a half‑smile. Silence stared back. I splashed cold water on my face, then dressed in the suit Grandpa had personally selected. The fabric felt stiff—an armor I'd learned to hate. I cinched the tie and checked my reflection: perfect on the outside, hollow within.
"Ugh. I wish I could wake up from this nightmare," I muttered, running a hand through my hair before grabbing my bag.
The drive to the office was a blur of honking horns and neon signs fading into the morning haze. I stared at the city outside—glass towers and construction cranes—wondering when it had all become so suffocating. Mr. Kim, Our Family driver of so many years, adjusted the rearview mirror and offered a silent nod.
"Sir Yul, are you all right?" he asked softly.
"Yeah," I replied, voice flat. "Just thinking."
He didn't press. Politeness was his signature.
Inside the elevator, the usual murmurs followed me. I heard two juniors whisper:
"That's him, right? Mr. Kang? So cold... but so handsome."
I swallowed hard. If they only knew how brittle my confidence was, how frayed the edges of my resolve.
"Ehem." My throat crackled as I cleared it. They jumped, eyes wide, scattering like startled birds.
"Mr. Kim, what time is the party tonight?"
"Eight PM, sir." His tone was gentle, like telling a child bedtime was approaching.
My office lay smothered in paperwork—contracts, spreadsheets, legal binders stacked high enough to teeter. Each document a reminder: every signature, every clause was another brick in the mausoleum of my freedom. I sank into my chair and tried to focus, but my mind kept drifting to the evening's fate.
It took two hours to clear half the pile, eyes stinging, coffee growing cold beside my keyboard. The day dragged on in repetitive loops—emails, calls, strategy briefs—until the sun crept toward dusk and I realized I was falling behind schedule. I called Mr. Kim and slipped into the back of the waiting sedan, the seat molding to my suit jacket as if reminding me where I belonged.
The Sung Grand Hotel rose before us like a palace carved from marble. Its broad façade gleamed under floodlights, columns framing a grand entrance where valets in midnight uniforms flanked the drive. A red carpet unfurled like a ribbon of fate.
I stepped out, chest tightening. My polished shoes clicked against the stone steps. Inside, crystal chandeliers dripped light across a sea of tuxedos and gowns. Waiters wove through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes, each bubble a celebration I didn't feel.
My grandfather waited near the stage, his posture as rigid as the statues lining the mezzanine. Beside him, Mr. and Mrs. Sung radiated poised confidence. Mrs. Sung's pearls caught the light, Mr. Sung's gaze sharp as a hawk's.
"You're late," Grandpa said, voice low but carrying weight. The frown between his brows was a verdict.
"Sorry, Grandpa. Office ran long," I lied, offering a perfunctory bow.
He nodded but didn't soften. "Mr. and Mrs. Sung, this is my grandson, Yul Kang."
I extended a hand with practiced ease. Mrs. Sung's grip was firm; Mr. Sung's nod was curt.
"I've heard so much about you," she said, lips curved in a polite smile.
"Likewise," I replied, voice steady.
But they only saw the heir, the merger, the legacy. They didn't see the late nights, the regrets, the man behind the name.
"Where is your daughter?" Grandpa asked, scanning the crowd.
"She tends to wander," Mr. Sung said, amusement in his tone. "Bit of a free spirit."
"A headache for me," Mrs. Sung whispered with a playful scowl.
At that moment, a hush rippled through the guests. All eyes swung toward the main doors.
She appeared like a vision—a woman in blush pink, hair cascading in soft curls, stepping forward with hesitant grace. Her dress whispered elegance, minimal jewelry accentuated her natural beauty. But it was her eyes that stole the room: wide, wary, and oddly familiar.
"There you are," Mrs. Sung said, half scolding, half relieved.
"Sorry, I got... sidetracked," Bo-ra mumbled, voice barely above the music.
Mr. Sung cleared his throat. "Chairman Kang, our daughter, Bo-ra."
My heart stuttered. Bo-ra—the name matched the face, but I could not place the memory.
"Pleased to meet you," she said, bowing slightly.
"Welcome," Grandpa replied, eyes kindling with pride. "She's stunning, isn't she?"
I stepped forward. "Ms. Bo-ra, I'm glad to finally meet you."
She lifted her gaze. Shock flickered in her eyes before she camouflaged it with a tight smile. She brought a hand to her lips, as if shielding a confession.
…and then I remembered.
"Wait," I said, voice taut. "You're the coffee shop girl. You spilled iced Americano on me."
Bo-ra's eyes went wide; color rushed to her cheeks. She stared down at her shoes.
"Please don't mention that," she whispered. "My parents don't know I snuck out."
I blinked at her. The chatter around us dimmed. "No way. Of all the people..."
Our parents excused themselves to join the stage presentation, leaving us alone. The grand hall's glow faded into the background.
She shifted, tugging at her sleeve. I cleared my throat.
"So," I began, trying for casual, "what do you do?"
She hesitated. "I... cook. It's my passion."
"A chef?" I probed. "In a professional kitchen?"
"More homegrown," she said. "I help run my mother's catering business. But I cook for myself too—always experimenting."
"That's impressive. Most people my age can't even boil water."
A genuine smile flickered across her lips. "What about you? What's your real job, Yul?"
I gestured around. "Heir to a dynasty. Paperweight collector."
She laughed softly—a sound I didn't know I needed to hear.
"I've seen your face somewhere else," I said after a pause. "Not just the coffee shop..."
Her breath hitched. "You're not one of those masked gamers at the Hongdae net café, are you?"
Silence. Then: "Guilty."
She took a steadying breath. "I've been playing online for years. My guild... they needed me during a raid. I snuck out to save the day."
"And I thought I had stress," I joked.
She tucked a curl behind her ear. "Don't laugh. It's serious business."
"Apparently so." I studied her face—the way the chandelier light danced in her eyes, the tilt of her jaw as she dared to meet my gaze.
A bubble of warmth rose in my chest that had nothing to do with champagne.
Bo-ra met my eyes, curiosity and something softer flickering there. Neither of us spoke. The marriage contract hung unspoken between us, but for the first time, it felt less like a trap and more like an unexpected crossroads.
To be continued...