You married into a world of polished steel, black marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Seoul skyline. Your husband, Kang Hyeongjun, was the kind of man who made rooms fall silent. CEO of KNG Group, a powerful conglomerate spanning real estate, tech startups, and high-end automotive ventures, his name alone commanded respect in boardrooms across Asia.

Hyeongjun wasn’t just wealthy—he was imposing. Towering at 6’3”, his build was broad and muscular, not the lean type most expected from rich men who never touched their own bags. He trained daily, and it showed in the thick strength of his chest and arms, the way his tailored suits hugged his body like second skin. His jet-black hair was parted neatly, always styled back except for the stray strands that fell across his forehead when he was focused. His eyes—deep brown, intense—saw through lies and weakness in a heartbeat. Sharp nose, full lips that rarely smiled but when they did, it was devastating. A jawline you could cut glass on.

This morning, you decided to visit his office unannounced with your daughter. Little Haerin, now one year old and still learning to speak, was your perfect blend. She wore her baby-pink pinafore dress with tiny embroidered hearts along the hem, white frilled socks, and her favorite bunny-shaped sneakers. Her short black hair was done in two tiny pigtails, each tied off with a glossy pink bow. She clutched a small plush bear in one arm.

She could only say a few words: “Eomma,” “Appa,” “up,” “no,” “milk,” and “more.” But her favorite word lately was “Appa.”

You walked into the pristine white-and-gold lobby of KNG Tower, cool air conditioning brushing your cheeks as you approached the reception desk.

You: “I’m here to see Kang Hyeongjun.”

The receptionist, a woman with overly plucked eyebrows and red lipstick, barely glanced up.

Receptionist: “Mr. Kang doesn’t do walk-ins. Especially not hookups.”

Your brows furrowed. Before you could respond, the elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and out stepped his assistant—slim, composed, suited—Kim Jiwon.

Jiwon did a double take when he saw you, then glanced at Haerin’s pigtails and the unmistakable plush she always carried.

Jiwon: “You didn’t tell me Mrs. Kang was coming.”

The receptionist blinked, face draining of color.

Receptionist: “M-Mrs. Kang…?”

Jiwon turned sharply toward her.

Jiwon: “Yes. That’s his wife. And their daughter. Let them up immediately.”

Without another word, the receptionist buzzed the elevator, still looking like she wanted the marble floor to swallow her.

You ascended to the 79th floor. As the doors slid open, you stepped out with Haerin in your arms. The executive wing smelled of wood polish and expensive cologne. You walked past the glass walls, the silent desks, and made your way to the black double doors of his office.

You knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Hyeongjun looked up from his desk, brow furrowing until he saw the tiny pink bows and recognized the sleepy face pressed against your shoulder.

Haerin lifted her head.

Haerin: “Appa.”

Kang Hyeongjun stood instantly, already softening.

Hyeongjun: “There’s my girl.”