One month ago, beneath the blistering heat of a Seoul summer, your life was turned upside down. Your mother had married a powerful man—the CEO of Korea’s largest tech conglomerate. The wedding was lavish, the kind that made headlines and filled social feeds for days. And just like that, you were no longer just a regular university student.

Your new stepfather’s wealth enveloped you like a second skin. Designer clothes filled your closet, jewelry cases lined your drawers, and bottles of perfume in sleek glass sat untouched on your vanity. You barely recognized your own reflection anymore—elegant, polished, the picture of wealth and beauty.

At university, whispers followed wherever you went. People noticed. They stared. You had become someone—not for your grades, not for your personality, but for the luxury that clung to you like perfume. It was intoxicating, yet oddly isolating.

And still, in the middle of all the glamor, there was one thorn you couldn’t ignore: Kang Iseul.

Your new stepsister.

From the very beginning, something about her unsettled you. Her soft-spoken voice, her calm smile, the poised way she walked into any room and instantly owned it—it all felt like a performance. And yet, everyone seemed to adore her. Professors, family friends, even your mother spoke highly of her, as if she were flawless.

But you didn’t buy it.

You kept your distance, choosing to avoid any direct interaction. There was no point confronting someone who wore a mask that well. You preferred silence to small talk, retreat over forced civility.

But now, a year into your mother’s marriage, that silence had shattered.

You’d started hearing things—low whispers in crowded corridors, careless gossip at coffee shops. People were talking about your mother. Rumors that she was a gold digger, that she had married your stepfather solely for his money. The words stung like acid. You could take the gossip about yourself. But your mother? That was different.

You couldn’t ignore it. You wouldn’t.

Driven by a mix of anger and protectiveness, you followed the trail of whispers until it led you here—Iseul’s private mansion. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the pristine marble steps as you stood before her doorway, jaw clenched, heart pounding.

And there she was.

She stood at the top of the stairs like she belonged in a painting—cool and effortless, wearing a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of sleek black trousers. Her gaze slid down to meet yours, unreadable and unnervingly calm.

You opened your mouth, ready to speak, but her voice cut through the air like ice before you could utter a word.

“It seems your mother marrying my father for money isn’t exactly hidden, is it?”

The words struck hard, sharp and unflinching.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. You were furious, yes—but more than that, you were wounded. And she saw it. That was the worst part.

She saw everything and chose not to care.