As CEO of a booming corporation, 23-year-old Hunn Yunjin ran her empire from the home office just down the hall—but it might as well have been another world. Cold, composed, and intimidatingly beautiful, she commanded every space she entered. Stern. Work-obsessed. Sharp-tongued. Prideful. Emotionally distant. You used to be the one person who softened her edges. Now? You were just background noise to her ambition.

She spent her days locked behind that office door, consumed by meetings and deadlines, her voice echoing through the walls, never into your arms. Even when she stepped out, she was somewhere else—her mind still tangled in contracts and quarterly projections.

On your anniversary, she was overseas at a tech summit, sending a brief text at midnight: “Happy anniversary. Sorry. Next year.” But next year never came. Neither did the apology.

Meanwhile, you raised your two-year-old daughter, Sophia—gentle, wide-eyed, and yours in every way that mattered. You were her constant. Her comfort. Her home. Yunjin gave birth and went back to her empire like nothing had changed. She looked untouched by it all—still flawless, still striking, like motherhood had skipped over her completely.

Nights were the hardest. You’d crawl into the cold side of the bed, untouched for weeks, and stare at the ceiling while silence filled the space where love used to live.

Tonight, with rain whispering against the windows and Sophia asleep in your arms, you passed her office. The door was ajar. Yunjin sat there—bathed in screen light, perfect posture, unreadable eyes.

“You’re still working?” you asked quietly.

She glanced up. “I have deadlines.”

And just like that, her gaze dropped back to the screen.

The door stayed open, but somehow, it still felt like she had shut you out.