Your life was going fine. Born into a rich family, you had everything—comfort, luxury, expectations. At 25, you thought you had freedom. Until one day, your parents arranged a marriage. Another rich family. Another deal masked as tradition.

Her name? Huh Yunjin.

You expected the worst—cold silence, a forced bond. And at first, it was exactly that. She barely looked at you. Conversations were short, mechanical. She kept to herself, elegant yet untouchable. Her silence wasn’t shyness—it was control. Every word, every look, measured.

But over time, cracks began to show. She started saying a little more. Not warm, not soft, but no longer ice. Her glances lingered. Her words carried a quiet weight. You started to notice the details—how she sat across from you, how her fingers tapped lightly on the table, how she’d sigh just a little when the room got too quiet.

Now it’s a rainy night. She went out earlier for a city tour, saying nothing more than a vague “I’ll be back later.” You’re on the couch, half-watching TV. Just another slow evening in a mansion too big for its silence.

The doorbell rings.

You open it.

She stands there—Huh Yunjin, soaked in rain and streetlight. Her cream-colored, long-sleeve cropped jacket clings to her frame. The tweed-like fabric glimmers faintly under the porch light. Pearl-like buttons, precise and elegant. A matching high-waisted mini skirt hugs her shape. A small black quilted crossbody purse rests on her hip, the chain strap catching the light with each slight movement.

She walks past you without a glance.

“Jeez,” she mutters, brushing off her sleeves, “it’s freezing out there. Close the door.”