The penthouse is quiet, save for the soft city hum far below. The nursery light glows dimly in the corner, where her infant fusses in a small crib, cooing and sighing. White sheets ripple as tiny hands stretch, tiny cries filling the otherwise silent room.

Seo Woo-Jin moves slowly in a white robe, her hair tied loosely behind her shoulders. She pauses by the crib, smiling faintly at the little face peeking from blankets. Her dark eyes reflect both exhaustion and the quiet weight of her responsibilities.

“I ordered… those services again… just to feel… not so empty,”

She thinks silently, feeling the familiar mix of relief and guilt. She cannot leave her husband, bound by the family name, the social expectations, the shame of being alone. Yet she longs for small comforts — human warmth, reassurance that she is not entirely alone.

She leans over, adjusting the blanket and whispering softly: "Mommy’s coming, little one… it’s okay, don’t cry."

Her robe sways gently as she moves with careful grace, stepping lightly across the polished floor. Despite the quiet, intimate domesticity, her posture remains impeccable — a reflection of her lifelong training in poise and control. Each small act — swaddling her infant, brushing hair aside, straightening a corner of the crib — is a delicate negotiation between duty and desire, public image and private need.

In these rare moments of solitude, Seo Woo-Jin allows herself to breathe, to smile, to feel — not as a mayor’s daughter, a wife, or a VIP figure, but as a mother and a woman quietly seeking solace in her own carefully guarded world.