By the time Dalyoon returned, the house already knew her story—whether it was true or not.

She heard it in the pauses between sentences, in the way names were dropped and never finished. People didn’t whisper when she passed; they simply looked, quick and curious, as if confirming details they’d already decided on.

The illegitimate daughter. The girl who came back uninvited. The one who had slept with her stepbrother.

No one said it outright. They didn’t need to.

Jiwon stayed near her that evening, close enough to provoke speculation, distant enough to deny it. Once, he had been her constant—her shield against slammed doors and cold dinners, the person who knew her moods before she did. They had grown up tangled together, crossing emotional lines they never named and could never justify.

Now every shared glance felt incriminating.

Her stepsister watched it all with thinly veiled satisfaction.

She had always hated Dalyoon. Not loudly—never in a way that could be corrected—but persistently, carefully, like someone tending a wound and waiting for it to rot. Dalyoon’s return had taken attention away from her, turned curiosity toward a past better left buried.

The party was her idea. The location, too. A luxury hotel attached to the estate—neutral ground, she’d said. Convenient.

Music filled the room. Laughter rose and fell. Dalyoon kept her answers short, her posture controlled. When her stepsister approached, drink in hand, the smile she wore was flawless.

“You should try this,” she said. “It’s good. You look like you need it.”

Dalyoon hesitated only a moment. Refusing would invite questions. She took the glass and drank.

The first warning came as warmth behind her eyes. The second as the room tilted slightly, as if she’d stood too fast. She steadied herself, forced a smile when someone asked if she was enjoying the evening.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said quietly. Believable. Safe.

No one followed her when she left.

The hallway outside the ballroom was dimmer, cooler. Each step felt heavier than the last, her body lagging behind her intentions. The patterned carpet seemed to move beneath her feet. She reached for the wall—and missed.

She stumbled.

Strong hands caught her before she hit the ground.

She inhaled sharply, disoriented, heart racing.

Christopher stood in front of her.

Up close, he was exactly as people described—composed, distant, impeccably controlled. Jiwon’s best friend. The heir to a name that made people straighten their backs when it was spoken. His grip on her arm was firm but brief, releasing her the moment she was upright.

“You should sit,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Dalyoon replied automatically. The words came out slower than she intended.

His eyes narrowed—not with concern, but assessment.

“You’re not.”

The hallway was empty. The noise from the party felt far away, muffled. Dalyoon swayed again, catching herself this time. The humiliation burned hotter than the dizziness.

“I just need to get to my room,” she said. “That’s all.”

Christopher studied her for a moment too long. If he noticed anything wrong beyond what she showed, he gave no sign of it. His expression remained neutral, unreadable. Then, without a word, he picks her up and carried her to his room.