The evening city lights shimmered like scattered stars across Seoul's skyline. Atop one of its tallest buildings, an exclusive business gala was unfolding in the grand ballroom of The Orion Tower. Polished marble floors, golden chandeliers, and the soft sound of violins created an atmosphere of elegance—where power whispered louder than words.
Damian Lee stood near the glass walls, dressed in a midnight-black suit that matched his sharp aura. His presence alone commanded the room. He held a glass of champagne, untouched, scanning the crowd with cool disinterest. The party was his idea, but the joy in it wasn't.
"Mr. Lee," his assistant, Eric Han, approached. "Your mother's guests are arriving. The delegation from Han Group is here."
"Let them wait," Damian replied flatly.
Behind the walls of gold and crystal, appearances mattered. This was no mere celebration—it was a chessboard. And every move tonight counted.
---
On the other side of Seoul, Hara threw a silk shawl onto her vanity in frustration. Her mother stood behind her, arms folded.
"You're being childish."
"I'm being real," Hara snapped. "He doesn't like me. I don't like him. So why pretend at some stupid party?"
"You're going," Madam Seo said with finality. "Do not embarrass me. We've invested too much in this arrangement."
"And what about what I want?"
"Hara," her mother's voice hardened, "you were born for this. And if you ruin it, I swear—"
Hara didn't wait to hear the rest. She stormed out, slamming the door behind her, seething with a mix of rage and helplessness. She wasn't a chess piece. She wasn't someone to be displayed on Damian Lee's arm.
She wouldn't go. Not tonight.
---
Blocks away, in a much quieter street, Hena wandered through a small public art gallery—one of the many hidden gems she'd discovered since arriving in Seoul. The soft lighting and gentle murmurs of a few art lovers created a calm so unlike the noisy city.
She admired a painting of a couple, she admired how he was standing and shielding the girl from the rain. He was always holding an umbrella which makes them more cute.
"Excuse me, we're closing up soon," a woman said gently behind her.
"Oh—sorry," Hena said, stepping away from the painting.
As she turned walked down the hall, she took a wrong door, distracted by her thoughts. The next moment, she found herself stepping into a much louder space—dim lighting, murmured conversation, sparkling glasses.
Hena blinked. Had she stepped into another gallery room?
A waiter passed, offering champagne. The room buzzed with tailored suits and expensive heels. Before she could figure out what was happening, the doors behind her closed, and she was swept into the ambiance of wealth and whispers.
---
Damian caught her from across the room.
At first, he thought it was Hara.
Same face. Same eyes.
But not the same.
This woman wasn't wearing designer couture or red lips. She had a simple ivory dress, soft curls that fell naturally, and a nervous yet curious gaze that flitted across the room like someone not used to being seen.
She wasn't demanding attention. She was quietly existing within it.
That was not Hara.
He moved before he realized it.
---
Hena turned just in time to see a tall man approaching her. Something about him made her chest tighten. He had the look of someone who didn't speak often—but when he did, people listened.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said, stopping in front of her.
"I—" Hena blinked. "I think I came through the wrong door. I was at the gallery next door…"
Damian narrowed his eyes. "What's your name?"
"Hena," she said slowly, unsure of how much to reveal.
He looked at her again. Up close, the resemblance was even more startling. But no... the softness in her eyes wasn't something Hara could fake.
She reached into her bag, fumbling for the bracelet, as if to anchor herself.
Damian noticed the shake in her hand. She didn't belong here—and yet, she wasn't out of place either.
"You should leave," he said, more gently this time.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," he said, before he could stop himself.
She turned back, surprised.
Damian looked away for a brief moment, then asked, "Who are you really?"
Hena met his eyes. "Just someone looking for answers."
And then, before anything more could be said, his assistant returned. "Mr. Lee. The delegation insists on meeting you."
Damian looked torn for a fraction of a second. Then he turned to Hena. "Go through the side exit. Eric will show you."
Hena nodded.
As she walked away, Damian felt a shift in his usually guarded composure. There was something about her—familiar yet completely different.
He watched her go.
For the first time in years, something in his chest stirred.
---
Outside, Hena exhaled deeply, the cold air a welcome relief from the suffocating ballroom. She still clutched the bracelet in her hand.
Who was that man?
And why did he look at her like he'd seen a ghost?