The conference room on the 42nd floor of Yoojin Group’s headquarters was so quiet, I could hear my own heartbeat. Or maybe it was the coffee crash. Hard to tell these days.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched behind the board, showing off a breathtaking slice of Seoul’s skyline—but no one cared. Not today. Every single person in this room was staring at the presentation screen like it owed them money.

“…and this three-month recovery in overseas partnerships was only possible thanks to her initiative, foresight, and relentless problem-solving,” the junior exec stammered.

I recognized the tremble in his voice. Poor guy was probably up all night practicing his pitch in the mirror. Been there. Survived that.

“Please join me in recognizing the person who led the Daejin Recovery Project—Deputy Manager Yoo Ra-yeon.”

A beat of silence. Then applause.

I stood, slow and steady, like this wasn’t the highlight of my year—or the one thing keeping me from torching this company and walking straight into the nearest ramen shop forever.

I gave them the look: calm, neutral, professional. Not a hair out of place—except all of them. My messy wolf-cut was tied back in a lazy bun, the same way it had been since Monday. My white shirt was neatly tucked into tailored black pants, but I still wore my old sneakers. Comfortable. Silent. Rebellious.

That’s me in a nutshell.

I adjusted my glasses and smiled, just enough to look charming but not too desperate.

“Thank you. But really, let’s give credit where it’s due: caffeine, three all-nighters, and mild workplace trauma.”

The room laughed. Even the department heads chuckled, though I caught a few giving me that look—the one that says, 'You’re too young to joke like that, but we’ll let it slide because you’re useful.'

Director Han clapped the loudest. “You did brilliantly. This deal could’ve buried us.”

I bowed a little. “I try my best to disappoint people less than expected.”

More laughter. More praise. I felt my cheeks heat, not from pride—but exhaustion. The kind that wraps itself around your bones and settles in like bad wallpaper.

Eventually, the meeting ended, and people filed out. Chatter followed them into the hallway, little murmurs with my name sprinkled in.

“She really saved the department.”

“She’s going places. Fast.”

“Yoo Ra-yeon? She’s practically already the CEO.”

The doors closed. I was alone.

The smile slipped from my face like a mask that didn’t quite fit anymore.

“Practically the CEO,” I muttered under my breath, letting the words hang in the sterile air.

I let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh.

“I’m getting high on deadlines.”

It wasn’t a joke. Not really. The grind had started to feel… addictive. Like the only thing keeping me upright. If I stopped moving, I might unravel.

I pulled out my phone and opened the front camera. My reflection stared back at me—tired, sure, but something about her looked… alive. Like she had a secret.

“Maybe I should grow my hair out,” I whispered, brushing a strand aside. “Something elegant. CEO-worthy.”

I tilted my head, made a face. “Ugh. Still not happening tomorrow.”

I slipped the phone away and grabbed my laptop, humming softly as I made my way to the elevator. My sneakers squeaked against the marble floors. I let them. It felt honest.

The elevator dinged open. Lobby lights. Soft chatter. The scent of polished floors and overpriced coffee.

Then—buzz.

A message lit up my phone.

No name. Just one line: “Meet me outside in the parking lot.”

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling like I was praying for strength.

“Can I have one good day?” I muttered, jabbing the elevator button for the basement.

The Yoojin Group’s underground parking lot looked like a luxury car showroom. Black sedans lined up like corporate soldiers. But one car stood out—a deep purple sedan. Gaudy. Flashy. Expensive.

Of course.

Standing in front of it like a Vogue cover come to life was Yoo Si-ah.

My step-sister. The other daughter. The one who got a childhood made of piano lessons and praise, while I got spreadsheets and side-eyes.

She was every bit the image of control. Long black hair in perfect waves. Cream silk blouse, black blazer, pencil skirt. Her heels clicked with purpose, like punctuation marks in a sentence she hadn’t said yet.

We hadn’t spoken face-to-face in months. That wasn’t a coincidence.

I stopped a few feet away, hands in my pockets, and gave her a smirk I didn’t feel.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Perfection. What brings you down to the land of fluorescent lights?”

She didn’t blink. “Don’t do that. It makes me sick.”

I tilted my head. “Oh? Am I making you sick now? What an honor.”

She took a step forward, heels sharp against concrete.

“Our grandfather wants to have dinner before his surgery,” she said, cold and clinical. “You’re invited.”

I scoffed. “You’re forgetting something, Si-ah. I’m the first daughter. I don’t need an invite. I’ll show up when I feel like it.”

She smirked, just barely. “Of course. You’re always the first daughter. Even when you didn’t know about Grandfather’s surgery?”

My heart dropped. Just a little. But enough.

She saw the flicker in my eyes. I hated that.

“You’re just waiting for his funeral, aren’t you?” she added, voice low. “So you can take the CEO title.”

The way she said it… like she’d been holding it in for months. Maybe years.

I let the silence stretch. Then smiled—slow, sweet, and dangerous.

“Good. Glad to know you’re reading my mind. You’ve always been the better daughter, haven’t you, Si-ah?”

I gave her a sarcastic thumbs-up and turned to walk away.

Behind me, she called out in a voice as sharp as her heels.

“See you at dinner, unnie. ”

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t need to.

I sat in my cabin, door shut, blinds drawn.

The world outside kept spinning—footsteps, phone calls, elevator chimes—but inside, everything slowed to a thick, aching stillness.

My fingers hovered over the screen of my phone.

Grandfather.

The contact glared back at me, like it knew how long I’d been staring.

Just click.

It’s not that hard.

But the hesitation wrapped itself around my wrist like chains.

What would I even say?

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

And the memories came.

Twenty Years Ago

Yoo Family Estate – Banquet Hall

I was seven. My legs dangled off a too-tall dining chair, my chin barely clearing the polished mahogany table. My mother had braided my hair into two tight plaits that morning. I’d begged her to let me wear my sparkly shoes. She said yes.

It was supposed to be a special night.

But the moment we walked into the Yoo family’s grand estate, I knew something was wrong. The air was too cold. The smiles too thin. The silverware too quiet.

My mother—Yoo In-hye— sat beside my father with her back straight and eyes soft, trying so hard not to shrink beneath their stares. She wore her best hanbok, the pale pink and lavender one she saved for sacred days. She looked beautiful.

But they looked at her like she was dirt under crystal.

Across the table, uncles, aunts, and great-grandparents sipped their wine like it was holy water—slow and judgmental. They spoke in calm, deliberate tones, each sentence laced with a bitter kind of politeness.

“So… you didn’t go to university, In-hye-ssi?”

“Oh, I see. Your parents run a gukbap stall? That’s… quaint.”

“She must be very humble, to marry into a family like ours.”

Each word was a needle. I didn’t understand them all, but I felt every one.

My mother smiled through them—tired, practiced, too polite. And my father?

He just sat there. Silent. Letting them slice her open word by word.

Then came Grandfather. Yoo Dae-gun.

He sat at the head of the table like a statue carved from judgment, fingers tapping slowly against the table.

“You chose poorly,” he finally said. Just loud enough for everyone to hear. “And now you expect us to bow our heads too?”

The entire table went silent.

My mother didn’t speak. She simply lowered her head, folding her hands in her lap. I reached up instinctively and held her sleeve. She didn’t look down. But her hand covered mine.

She was shaking.

That was the last time I saw her wear that hanbok.

My eyes flew open.

The sharp scent of printer ink and leftover coffee grounded me back in the present.

My mother tried too hard to fit into this family. She bent herself backwards until her spine cracked, smiling through insults, bowing to people who crushed her pride just to feel taller.

So I did the opposite.

I tried too hard to distance myself from them.

No more family dinners. No more shallow smiles. No more playing nice. If they thought I would become my mother, they were dead wrong.

And I would never let my worth be stolen by them.

I am the daughter of the Yoo family.

The heir.

And whether they like it or not—I’ve worked my ass off to be the next CEO.

Every sleepless night. Every time I bit my tongue until it bled in a boardroom full of men waiting for me to fail. Every meeting where I knew I was the best, and still had to smile like I wasn’t a threat.

I still remember the day everything fell apart.

The day my mother died.

She was out buying groceries, trying to make seaweed soup in advance for my birthday. She always started early. She said good food needed love, and love took time.

I never tasted that soup again.

She got into a car accident on her way home.

I was still at Halmeoni’s house, my mother’s side of the family. I waited for my father to come pick me up, to tell me what happened, to bring me home.

He never came.

Weeks passed. The silence from the Yoo house was deafening.

Then, one morning, Halmeoni sat me down at her tiny kitchen table, her hands trembling as she poured barley tea.

“Your appa… he’s remarrying.”

I laughed. A dry, bitter laugh only a child in denial could make.

“That’s not funny, Grandma.”

She didn’t laugh.

I didn’t believe it until I returned to the Yoo mansion.

It wasn’t a house in mourning—it was a celebration.

Balloons. Lights. Platters of food.

My grandfather raised his glass in a toast.

My father stood beside a new woman—Yoo Shin Min-ah. Beautiful. Quiet. Rich in all the ways my mother wasn’t.

And next to her… a little girl.

Small, perfect, dressed like a doll.

Yoo Si-ah.

She held my father’s hand like she belonged there.

Like I hadn’t just lost my entire world.

Like my mother never existed.

Like I never existed.

I stood there in my wrinkled black dress, my mother’s comb in my pocket, and grief in my lungs.

No one even looked at me.

That day, I stopped being a child.

That day, I promised myself—I would never let them forget who I was again.

Buzz.

My phone vibrated violently on the desk.

Unknown number.

I frowned, hesitating. Spam?

Still… I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Yoo Ra-yeon?”

“…Yes?”

“This is from Samil University Hospital. A family member was brought in—critical condition. You were listed as a primary contact.”

My heart paused.

“…Who?”

A pause.

“We’ll explain everything when you arrive.”

Click.

Silence.

Samil University Hospital smelled like antiseptic and too many bad memories.

I had barely parked my car when my legs betrayed me—jogging, then running toward the entrance like I could somehow outrun the sinking feeling in my chest. My palms were slick with sweat, despite the freezing AC blasting from both my car and the hospital vents.

Why was I nervous? This wasn’t supposed to shake me. I hated them—didn’t I?

I slammed my hands onto the reception desk, breathless.

“Excuse me. I got a call… Someone from this number—”

The nurse blinked at me, calm and clinical. “Your name, ma’am?”

“Yoo Ra-yeon.”

Her fingers tapped across the keyboard. “Yes. Mr. Yoo Dae-gun. He was brought in under critical condition. The surgery scheduled for next month… it’s happening now.”

I froze. “Now?”

She nodded. “He insisted on seeing you before the procedure. Specifically requested you.”

My heart did something strange. Twisted? Sank? Whatever it was—it hurt.

I should’ve called him. I should’ve answered. I should’ve just said something.

I hated them. I’ve always hated them. But right then, in that too-white lobby, a single tear slipped from my eye before I could stop it.

I wiped it away quickly. “What room?”

“421.”

I didn’t wait for more. I took off down the hallway, my sneakers echoing across polished floors like drumbeats.

I didn’t knock.

The door swung open—and I froze.

A doctor stood by the bed, injecting something into the IV line. My grandfather lay still, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, monitors beeping steadily beside him.

“You have fifteen minutes,” the doctor said, glancing at his watch. “After that, we’ll be moving him to the ICU.”

I nodded.

When the door closed, I didn’t sit in the fancy chair beside his bed. I dropped to my knees. Somehow that felt more honest.

His hand reached out—bony, weak, but warm. It wrapped around mine like it had been waiting.

“It’s me,” I whispered, unsure why my voice cracked. “Grandpa.”

“Aigoo… aigoo… who is crying?” he rasped, struggling to speak.

I bit my lip. “I’m not crying. You're hallucinating.”

He gave a breathy chuckle. “Still so sharp. Just like your mother.”

At the mention of her, something inside me cracked wider.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I should’ve… I don’t know. Called? Visited? Anything.”

“Why would you be sorry?” he murmured. “It’s me. I should’ve… I should’ve done more. Protected you. Treated you better.”

His hand squeezed mine. “You’re beautiful. Strong. My Ra-yeon.”

A sob rose in my throat, but I choked it back.

“You did well. In everything. Even when I didn’t support you. Better than Min-jae ever was.”

He smiled—barely. But it was there.

And that’s when I knew.

He thought this might be the last time.

A knock at the door pulled me back to reality. A nurse.

“I think I should go now,” I said, standing. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he simply nodded, eyes filled with something I couldn’t name.

I left the room slowly. Quietly. Like if I made too much noise, it would make it real.

Then I sat on the bench outside and cried.

Ugly, chest-heaving tears. The kind you only let out when no one’s watching. The kind you convince yourself you don’t feel, until they break out of you like a flood.

I had always told myself I didn’t need a family.

I had survived without their love. Without their validation. I worked my ass off for years to prove I didn’t need them.

But now?

Now, I wanted him to live. Just for a little longer.

So he could see me take over his company with pride, not bitterness.

So he could see me—not Yoo Min-jae’s shadow. Not some forgotten child.

Me.

A sudden shift on the bench made me look up.

The doctor from earlier sat beside me, posture straight, eyes solemn. “Your grandfather’s been moved to the ICU. Surgery begins as soon as the president arrives.”

“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “My dad and stepmom are probably on their way.”

He nodded, then hesitated—like he didn’t want to say the next part.

“It’s an open-heart procedure. Aortic valve replacement. At his age… with his history…” He paused, choosing his words. “There’s a significant risk. Even with advanced monitoring, his chances of surviving are… less than thirty percent.”

Thirty percent.

That number lodged itself in my throat like a stone.

I nodded numbly, unsure what else to do. He looked at me—too kindly, too gently. Was it sympathy? Pity?

I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

I didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Yoo Min-jae. My father.

Flanked by his perfectly composed wife, Shin Min-ah. They didn’t even glance at me as they passed. Just swept forward like a wind too cold to touch.

My father paused, eyes on the operating room doors. “You have a new project with Taesung Group,” he said. “You should head home. Review the proposal.”

I blinked.

That’s all?

No mention of Grandpa. No are you okay, no how are you holding up.

Just work.

I gave him a look and rolled my eyes. “Noted, sir,” I muttered, walking away before I said something I’d regret.

I made it to the parking lot, my heart still tangled up in my ribs.

As I slid into my car, a flash of movement caught my eye.

Another car had just pulled up. Deep navy, glossy, and clearly expensive.

The door opened—and out stepped Yoo Si-ah.

Perfect as always. Impeccable hair. Elegant blouse.

Beside her?

Chairman Kang Ji-hoon. CEO of Daejin Group.

My brows furrowed. Why the hell is he here?

Rival company. Rival bloodline.

My fingers curled around the steering wheel.

Something about that pairing made my stomach twist.

But not today.

Not now.

I started the engine, pushed every emotion deep inside me, and drove home.

Tonight, I wouldn’t cry.

Tomorrow… I might start a war.

The next morning, the first thing I did—before even rolling fully out of bed—was check my phone.

No messages.

No updates.

Just a dry notification center and a silent screen. Nothing about Grandpa.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Should I go check on him? But then I remembered the meeting—ugh. Let me survive that first.

I stretched lazily, letting out a dramatic groan… until my eyes caught the time.

8:32 a.m.

What the actual hell?!

“Sht, sht, sh*t—!” I scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over my own feet as I bolted to the bathroom. Mr. Han was going to roast me alive. He hated tardiness more than he hated my casual outfits—which was saying something.

Showering in record time, I stepped out with water still dripping from my hair. I wrapped myself in a towel, practically wrestling with my closet before yanking out a wrinkled white shirt and loose blue baggy jeans. No time to iron. No time to regret my life choices.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

Ra-yeon, you look like a tired intern. But let’s pretend it’s a look.

I tried to tame my wolf-cut hair into a bun, which turned into a tug-of-war with an invisible force of chaos. I finally gave up halfway, letting the strands fall as they pleased.

“Whatever. If Mr. Han says anything, I’ll just say it’s 'Gen Z chic.'”

I tossed on my glasses, grabbed my laptop bag and sneakers, and bolted out the door like I was fleeing the law.

Just as I was two turns away from the office building, my phone rang.

President Yoo.

My father.

Ugh.

I tapped the Bluetooth.

“Hello?”

His voice came through cold and precise. “He’s still unconscious. Doctors say it’ll take two or three days for him to wake up—if he does.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Oh… I see.”

A pause.

Then, of course, he shifted gears without missing a beat.

“Mr. Taesung’s son is arriving from the U.S. today. Go pick him up.”

I blinked. “What?”

“He’ll be head supervisor for the Taesung project. Go. Bring him to the office.”

I gritted my teeth. “Can’t literally anyone from the staff do that? Why me?”

“He’s the heir to Taesung Group. We’re welcoming a future chaebol, not a supplier. Yoon Group’s successor should go in person.”

I nearly scoffed. If you’re so obsessed with hierarchy, maybe act like a father once in a while.

But I didn’t say that. Instead, I hung up.

Because, unfortunately, this wasn’t just a father talking—it was President Yoo. The man standing between me and the CEO title.

If he wanted me to personally roll out the red carpet, I’d do it.

For now.

“Ughhhhhh,” I groaned into my steering wheel before switching directions toward the airport.

If this Taesung Min-jun guy turned out to be a snob, I swear I’d personally throw him back on the next flight to L.A.