The drive back from the Shilla Hotel felt longer than the entire evening combined. Ji-eun sat in the passenger seat of Min-ho's sleek black sedan, the city lights streaking past like forgotten promises. The midnight-blue gown still clung to her skin, luxurious and foreign, but the magic it had carried inside the ballroom had already begun to fade. She kept her hands folded in her lap, careful not to crease the silk, as though treating the dress with too much familiarity might shatter the illusion.
Min-ho drove in silence at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. Every few minutes his gaze flicked toward her, searching her profile for clues. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable, but it carried weight—unspoken questions, unvoiced fears.
When they finally reached the narrow alley leading to her hanok, he killed the engine and turned to face her fully.
"Thank you for coming tonight," he said softly. "I know it wasn't easy."
Ji-eun managed a small smile. "It was beautiful. The chandeliers, the music… I've never seen anything like it."
"But?" he prompted gently.
She exhaled, shoulders dropping. "But I felt like I was wearing someone else's life. Everyone there knew exactly where they belonged. I kept waiting for someone to ask what I was doing there."
Min-ho reached across the console and took her hand. His thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles. "You were there because I wanted you there. Because being with you makes every room feel less empty."
Ji-eun looked down at their joined hands—his smooth and steady, hers still faintly marked by pencil lead and coffee stains. "Seo-yeon belongs in those rooms. She knows how to smile at the right people, how to hold a champagne flute like it's an extension of her arm. I… I don't even know which fork to use for salad."
A quiet laugh escaped him. "I hate those forks. They're pretentious."
She met his eyes then, searching for any trace of pity. There was none—only warmth, and something deeper that made her chest ache.
"I'm not asking you to change," he continued. "I don't want polished perfection. I want you—the girl who sketches bridges at dusk, who worries about her brother's fever, who laughs at my terrible attempts at humor."
Ji-eun swallowed. "And what if that girl can't keep up? What if your world pulls you back?"
He squeezed her hand. "Then we find a new world. Together."
The words hung between them, fragile and luminous. For a moment, Ji-eun let herself believe they could be true.
She slipped out of the car, the night air cool against her bare shoulders. Min-ho followed, walking her to the gate. Under the soft glow of the streetlamp, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"Sleep well, Ji-eun-ssi," he murmured. "I'll text you tomorrow."
She nodded, throat too tight for words, and slipped inside.
The hanok was dark and quiet. Her mother had left a small lamp burning in the hallway. Ji-eun tiptoed past Soo-min's room, pausing to listen for his steady breathing, then continued to her own small space. She hung the gown carefully on a hanger—borrowed from the stylist—and changed into her worn cotton pajamas. When she finally slid beneath the quilt, the silk dress still carried the faint scent of Min-ho's cologne and the gala's orchids.
Sleep came slowly, fractured by memories: Seo-yeon's cool appraisal in the powder room, the way heads turned when Min-ho introduced her, the electric brush of his hand at her waist during their dance. And beneath it all, the quiet terror that this happiness was borrowed time.
Morning arrived with pale sunlight filtering through paper screens. Ji-eun rose early, helping her mother prepare breakfast while Soo-min slept. The simple routine grounded her—rice steaming, kimchi sliced thin, miso simmering on the stove.
"You came home late," her mother observed, stirring the pot without looking up.
Ji-eun hesitated. "There was a charity event. Min-ho invited me."
Her mother's spoon paused. "Min-ho. The man from the river?"
Ji-eun nodded, cheeks warming. "He's… kind. And lonely, I think."
Mrs. Park set the spoon down and turned fully. Her eyes, lined with years of worry, softened. "Kindness is rare, especially among the wealthy. But kindness can still hurt when worlds collide."
"I know," Ji-eun whispered.
Her mother reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Ji-eun's ear. "Be careful with your heart, my girl. Some doors open easily but close with force."
Ji-eun hugged her mother briefly, drawing strength from the familiar scent of laundry soap and home.
At the coffee house, the day passed in a comforting blur. Customers came and went; the espresso machine hissed; the scent of fresh grounds filled the air. Ji-eun moved through her tasks mechanically, but her mind kept drifting back to the gala—to the way Min-ho's eyes had found her across the crowded room, steady and certain.
During her break, she checked her phone. A message from Min-ho waited:
*Thinking about last night. You were the most beautiful thing in that ballroom. Lunch tomorrow? Somewhere quiet. No forks required.*
She smiled despite herself and typed back: *Only if there's tteokbokki.*
His reply came almost immediately: *Deal. I know the perfect street cart.*
The promise of tomorrow settled something restless inside her.
But across the city, in the gleaming offices of Han Group, the afterglow was already fracturing.
Seo-yeon sat in a private lounge at a luxury hotel, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone with deliberate calm. Photos from the gala had begun circulating on private social channels—discreet shots of Min-ho with an unknown woman on his arm. The captions were polite but pointed: *Han heir brings mystery guest. New alliance on the horizon?*
She tapped one image and zoomed in on Ji-eun's face. Soft features, shy smile, no designer label in sight. Seo-yeon's lip curled.
Her assistant, a young woman named Hye-jin, hovered nearby with a tablet. "Shall I proceed with the background check, Ms. Lee?"
Seo-yeon set the phone down. "Quietly. I want everything—family debts, employment history, any skeletons. And find out where she works. A coffee shop in Insadong, I believe."
Hye-jin nodded and slipped away.
Seo-yeon leaned back, eyes narrowing. She had played the long game before. Patience was her sharpest weapon.
By late afternoon, whispers had begun to spread in narrower circles. A board member's wife mentioned "the barista girl" over tea. An investor chuckled about "Min-ho's little charity case." None of it reached Min-ho directly—not yet—but the ripples were forming.
That evening, Ji-eun returned to the river bench out of habit. The sky was bruised purple, the air carrying the first bite of winter. She sat with her sketchbook open but untouched, pencil idle in her fingers.
Footsteps approached. She looked up, expecting Min-ho.
Instead, a woman in a tailored coat stood a few paces away—tall, elegant, face half-shadowed by the streetlamp. Seo-yeon.
Ji-eun's stomach dropped.
"Park Ji-eun-ssi," Seo-yeon said, voice smooth as silk over steel. "I thought I might find you here."
Ji-eun closed her sketchbook slowly. "How did you know?"
A small, knowing smile. "Min-ho has habits. Predictable ones, when he's distracted."
Ji-eun stood, clutching the book to her chest like armor. "If you're here to warn me off, save your breath. I already know I don't fit."
Seo-yeon tilted her head. "Oh, I'm not here to warn. I'm here to inform."
She stepped closer, heels clicking softly on the stone path. "Min-ho is under tremendous pressure right now. The merger with my father's company isn't just business—it's survival for Han Group. Board members are restless. His father's health is failing. A stable partnership would silence them all."
Ji-eun lifted her chin. "And you think marrying you is the answer?"
"I think practicality is the answer," Seo-yeon corrected. "Love is romantic. Legacy is permanent." She paused, eyes flicking over Ji-eun's simple coat and worn sneakers. "You're sweet. Genuine. I almost envy that. But sweetness doesn't pay hospital bills or secure futures."
Ji-eun felt heat rise in her cheeks. "You don't know anything about my life."
"I know enough," Seo-yeon replied. "Your father's medical debts are substantial. Your brother needs specialized care. Min-ho could solve all of that with a single phone call. But he won't—because he's trying to protect you from his world. Noble, but naive."
Ji-eun's hands trembled. "If you're trying to make me feel small, it's working. But it won't make me leave."
Seo-yeon's expression softened into something almost pitying. "I don't want to hurt you. I want to save you both pain. When the board forces his hand—and they will—he'll choose duty. He always has."
She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a slim envelope. "This is a copy of your family's outstanding medical bills. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. If you ever need help… discreetly… my card is inside."
Ji-eun stared at the envelope but didn't take it.
Seo-yeon placed it on the bench. "Think about it. Not for me. For them."
She turned and walked away, coat swirling like a dark wing.
Ji-eun stood frozen until the sound of heels faded. Then she sank back onto the bench, legs weak. The envelope sat beside her like a coiled snake.
Tears blurred her vision. Not from anger, but from the cruel accuracy of Seo-yeon's words. Duty. Legacy. Survival. They were the same chains that had kept Ji-eun tethered to her small life for years.
When Min-ho finally arrived twenty minutes later, breathless and apologetic, he found her staring at the river, envelope unopened in her lap.
"Ji-eun?" Concern sharpened his voice. "What's wrong?"
She looked up at him—really looked. The worry in his eyes, the way he immediately reached for her hand. For a moment, she wanted to tell him everything: the confrontation, the envelope, the fear clawing at her chest.
Instead, she slipped the envelope into her bag and forced a smile.
"Just tired," she said. "Long day."
He studied her, unconvinced, but didn't push. Instead, he sat beside her, shoulder brushing hers, and let the silence wrap around them like a blanket.
Ji-eun leaned into him, just slightly, drawing warmth from his presence. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she would decide what to do with the truth Seo-yeon had left behind.
But tonight, she let herself pretend the world beyond the river didn't exist.