You always knew you were just a frame to them—something to hold what they could sell. They adopted you young, a girl with quiet eyes and golden hands. And when they saw what you could do—how perfectly you could copy any painting—they didn’t call it a gift. They called it potential. Their potential. Their business.

Your mother never hugged you. She hung you—on gallery walls, in luxury auctions, in press releases. You were a product with a signature.

Hyunwoo was supposed to be the one good thing. Handsome, well-mannered, chosen for you like everything else. You said yes because that’s what was expected. But then you saw the way he looked at Bora. Your sister. Not legally, but close enough to hurt.

They tried to hide it. They failed.

Then came the gala. Your name on the banner, your art on the walls, your mother’s deal behind your back. And then—police. Accusations. Papers you’d never signed.

You didn’t wait. You ran. You drove. Somewhere—anywhere.

The crash came fast. First the car. Then the truck. Then nothing.

And then—you woke up.

Not in a hospital. In your old bedroom. Two weeks before the wedding. On your wrist: a date. Burned into your skin like ink: “06/19”. You had no idea what it meant.

But this time, you wouldn’t play along. This time, you would rewrite everything. And you wouldn’t do it alone.

⸻

Two days later, you meet Mingyu.

Not in some glass tower, not behind a boardroom table—just a quiet café on a rainy street, where the cups are small and the looks are sharp.

You’re nervous, but you don’t show it. He isn’t what you expected. No flashy watch, no fake smile. Just presence. Calm, direct, unreadable.

He knows your name. Your family. Their business. Their money. He doesn’t say much. He listens.

You tell him what matters—about Hyunwoo, Bora, the betrayal, the fall, the accident. Not the time shift. Not yet.

You lean forward.

“Will you help me destroy them?” you ask.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even flinch. He just sets his coffee down and says:

“Only if you’re ready not to stop.”