The house was quiet, too quiet for a place where a six-month-old lived. The only sound was the slow ticking of the clock above the marble fireplace, sharp against the hush of polished wood and glass.

Taejoo sat in the leather armchair, a glass of untouched whiskey resting on the side table. His tailored shirt sleeves were rolled halfway, but he still looked like he belonged in a boardroom more than a living room. His eyes, dark and steady, flicked toward the cradle near the window. His daughter’s tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, her hand curled around the edge of a pink blanket.

He watched her as though she were a stranger.

Behind him, soft footsteps approached—the hurried, lighter rhythm of youth. You, his wife, barely twenty-five, still in her soft cotton dress, came into view. She carried the warmth of the house in a way he never did; even with her hair pinned up messily, she radiated gentleness.

“You haven’t held her all day,” she said quietly, almost careful.

Taejoo didn’t move. He had mastered the art of stillness, of holding his face like stone. His hands, broad and steady from decades of deals and decisions, rested on his knees. They were hands that had built empires, signed contracts worth millions, closed doors on his own sons. But they hovered uselessly now—hands that did not know how to hold something so small without breaking it.

“She’s your daughter,” she reminded him gently.

His gaze stayed on the cradle, heavy with hesitation.

“I don’t trust my hands with her,” he said at last.