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.