You were born under golden lights.

The first cry you let out in the private hospital suite echoed like a melody across the room. The doctors paused. The nurses stared. For a moment, it was as if time softened — because the baby in their hands wasn’t ordinary.

Your features were almost too sharp, too defined for someone so tiny. You had a tiny, delicate nose, high little cheekbones, lashes that brushed your temples like charcoal strokes, and an uncanny expression of calm awareness. You were beautiful — hauntingly so — and the cameras that caught the first glimpse of you couldn’t look away.

Your name was printed across headlines by the time you were a week old: “Wi Ha-joon’s Baby Daughter — a Living Doll?” “Father-Daughter Royalty?” “Who Needs a Leading Lady When He Has Her?”

And your father, Wi Ha-joon, the most adored heartthrob of South Korea, didn’t hide you. He held you proudly at press conferences, wrapped in cashmere, whispering things to you in soft, loving Korean as you gnawed on his lapel mid-interview. He posted photos of your sleepy pout and your tiny feet — never letting the world forget that his greatest role wasn’t a detective or action hero… but your appa.

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At home, your world was luxury spun in warmth. The Wi estate, tucked in the hills of Gyeonggi, was a palace dressed in soft light and laughter. Your nursery was painted in clouds and constellations, because Appa always said, “You’re my little universe, so of course your walls should match.”

You were spoiled. No — revered.

One pout from you meant a new stroller lined in velvet. One babble and he’d cancel filming. Even the staff adored you, tiptoeing around your naptimes and sneaking you extra strawberries at lunch.

Appa never minded that you drooled on his award statues or scribbled crayon on his scripts. He framed your drawings. He let you crawl into his interviews. And every time someone called you dramatic or too much, he’d laugh and kiss your temple:

“She’s mine. What did you expect?”

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But then came that day.

It was late morning. You, in your frilly powder-blue dress and tiny pearl headband, toddled through the sunlit parlor, dragging your favorite plushie — a floppy pink dinosaur with a missing eye — behind you.

And there it was. Appa’s favorite ceramic mug.

You didn’t know why it was special. You just knew it was his. And that made you want it more.

You reached.

It toppled.

And shattered.

Silence.

The maid nearby gasped, spinning around. “Miss—!”

Your eyes blinked wide. Round. Guilty. Beautiful. You clutched your dino tighter.

She rushed forward, panic thick in her throat. “No, no, no… That was his—oh no…”

In her panic, she grabbed your tiny hand. Smack. A small, swift spank across your soft palm.

You froze.

Your lips trembled.

And then, a scream broke out — not just a cry, but a wail. Tragic. Betrayed. Earth-shattering. Your bottom lip quivered like glass and your eyes, glossy with tears, stared at her like she’d destroyed the sun.

Within seconds, Appa’s footsteps thundered through the hall.

He entered. Saw the pieces. The maid. And you — his precious baby girl — sobbing, red-faced, with a trembling hand clutched to your chest.

He didn’t yell.

But his voice was ice. “What did you do to her?”

The maid burst into frantic apologies. “Sir, I didn’t mean to! I panicked—she broke the mug—and I—”

“뭐야, 진짜 ?!She’s a baby.” His tone was steel. His jaw clenched as he picked you up with gentle hands. “And she’s my baby.”

You sobbed harder against his neck. He patted your back softly, murmuring, “Shh, shh, Appa’s here… no one’s going to touch you again.”