The tiredness was a physical thing, seeping into my bones.
I peeled off the expensive, constricting armor of the day—the charcoal wool pantsuit, the silk shell—and swapped it for soft, ridiculously overpriced cotton pajamas.
The cool fabric was a relief against my skin.
Padding into the vast, silent bedroom, my gaze snagged on the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of the dark, empty living room beyond.
'Eun Woo... he isn't back yet...'
The thought surfaced unbidden, followed by a quieter, more domestic one, 'I wonder if he ate dinner.'
I shook my head, a wry smile touching my lips.
Since when did I worry about Han Eun-Woo's dinner? Probably since I concussed him with a pan and we became legally-bound roommates.
The absurdity of my life was a constant, low-grade hum.
Besides, which fangirl doesn't care about her leads?
I slipped into the cloud-like embrace of the bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin. Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers brushed the sleek Samsvng stylus tucked into its side. I pulled it out, giving it an idle twirl.
'These things really are good,' I mused, making a few quick, pointless swirls on the locked screen. It was funny, in a meta sort of way.
Even the 'dirt-poor, struggling' female leads in every drama always had the latest sponsor phone with a fancy stylus.
No one with a secretary's salary in the real world could afford this.
Another little fiction I was now living inside.
Unlocking the phone, I bypassed the usual social media and opened a different app—a secure, password-locked notes app. The screen filled with my messy, frantic handwriting, a chaotic map of my new existence.
THE SCRIPT (REVISED).
Scrolling past the crossed-out items (Water Splash - DONE, Contract Signing - DONE), my finger stopped.
Father Visit Scene - HAPPENED (TIMELINE ACCELERATED).
I stared at the note. I'd written it after the café, my hands still shaking.
The script said it was a tragic backstory flashback, shown later to explain her debt. But it had happened now, in real-time, and it was worse. And the chilling postscript I'd added tonight:
*Note: According to original dialogue patterns, this event repeats. He will be back.*
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I hadn't stopped anything. I'd just paid for an intermission.
Swallowing hard, I scrolled down to the next major story beat, the one that should follow the father's initial pressure in the narrative structure.
My blood ran cold.
The stylus slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, bouncing soundlessly on the duvet.
There it was, in my own blocky capitals:
MINHYUK PROPOSAL SCENE - (POST-FATHER CONFLICT)
Ring. Surprise.
'I completely forgot about this scene...!'
The words seemed to bleed on the screen.
The garish balloons, the awkward banner, the pressure—I could see it all, a perfect, terrible scene playing out in my mind's eye.
It was textbook. It was exactly what a guy like him would do when he felt his control slipping, when he knew she'd discovered something.
"Yoon-ah…"
Her name was a breath, a plea, lost in the sterile quiet of the penthouse. I remembered her exhausted face in the convenience store, the quiet strength, the shame.
And I recalled the scene, on his knee, offering a ring like a gag, a shiny shackle to lock her back into his narrative.
I didn't know if it was happening right now. But the script said it would. And the script, for all its twists, was horrifically consistent about the patterns of its villains.
I slowly placed the phone face down on the nightstand, as if hiding the words could change their truth. I lay back, staring at the ceiling where the city lights painted shifting patterns through the window.
The night ended for Austra Law not with peace, but with a silent, chilling certainty, lying awake and listening to the silence of an empty apartment, haunted by a scene she feared was already unfolding somewhere in the dark.
"I wonder what you'll do now..."
* * *
The Same Night – Han Group Headquarters
The top floor of Han Group was a cathedral of silence at this hour, lit only by the pools of light from two desks and the low glow of the city beyond the windows.
On the plush sofa in Han Eun-Woo's office, two men were surrounded by a fortress of paper.
Kang Minjae let out a long, dramatic sigh and flung a financial report onto the coffee table, where it slid into a haphazard pile. "I'm done. My brain has officially resigned. I'm suing you for workplace exhaustion."
Han Eun-woo didn't look up from the contract he was annotating, his pen moving with precise, unrelenting strokes. "Are you refusing work, Executive Kang Minjae?"
"I'm refusing sanity! It's past midnight! Don't you feel even a little sorry for my poor, fatherless children at home?"
"You are not married," Eun-woo stated flatly, finally glancing up with a gaze that could frost glass. "Nor are you the father of any human children."
"My puppies are like my children," Minjae retorted, leaning back and stretching his arms. "And right now, they're probably weeping, wondering why their daddy loves spreadsheets more than chew toys."
Eun-woo let out a slow breath, the closest he ever came to an exasperated sigh, and returned to his document.
The sharp, insistent ring of Eun-Woo's private line shattered the quiet. The caller ID flashed a single, stark designation: P.I.
Eun-Woo's hand stilled for a fraction of a second before he picked up the receiver. "Yes."
He listened. His expression, usually an unreadable mask of concentration, began to change. His brows drew together. The pen in his other hand lowered until its tip just touched the paper.
"He did what?" The question was low, more a dangerous exhale than words.
Another pause, longer this time. His knuckles whitened around the receiver.
"Who… Austra?" The name came out laced with pure disbelief. His eyes flicked to the window, as if he could see the scene being described playing out on the streets below.
He listened to the rest of the report in utter silence, his face hardening into something cold and terrifying.
"I see," he finally said, his voice a controlled monotone that did nothing to mask the storm beneath. "Thank you. Keep me informed of any further… developments."
He placed the receiver back in its cradle with a soft, definitive click. The sound was absurdly loud in the silent room.
Kang Minjae had been watching the entire performance with keen interest. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That the investigator? The one looking into the secretary's… situation?"
Eun-woo didn't answer. He just stared at the phone, his jaw a rigid line.
Minjae's usual playful demeanor softened into something more serious. "Eun-woo," he said, his voice gentle but direct. "Why don't you just tell her you like her already? Especially now, after what you told me about that guy. She's clearly better off without him. A clean break."
"It's not like that between us," Eun-woo replied instantly, the words automatic, defensive.
His hand moved almost unconsciously, slipping beneath the collar of his crisp white shirt.
He pulled out a thin silver chain. At the end of it dangled a small, simple pendant—a little, tarnished silver acorn.
Minjae's eyes softened at the sight of the childish charm. He knew what it represented. A memory. A ghost. A different kind of chain.
"Come on," Minjae said, his voice quiet but insistent. "I may be aro-ace, but I'm not blind. I can see how you look at her. How you notice things no one else does. How you've had a private investigator tailing her toxic boyfriend for a week just to 'assess a potential corporate risk.'"
He made air quotes around the last phrase, a sad smile on his face. "That's not risk assessment. That's care."
Eun-Woo's fingers closed tightly around the tiny acorn, its edges biting into his palm. He looked from the pendant in his hand to the city lights, his internal conflict a silent scream in the lavish office.
When he still offered no reply, Minjae let out a quiet, understanding sigh. He didn't push further. Instead, he reached for the discarded financial report, pulled it back into his lap, and picked up his own pen.
"Fine," Minjae murmured, the only sound returning to the room the soft scratch of pen on paper. "We'll just work, then."
And they did, two powerful men buried in documents, one wrestling with the cold logic of numbers, the other with the terrifying, illogical warmth of a feeling he'd spent a lifetime trying to bury, now unearthed by a report of a raised hand in a café and an heiress's reckless, intervening grip.
* * * * *
The Next Day – Han Group Restroom
The air in the expansive executive-floor restroom was thick with the scent of floral hand soap and aerosolized hairspray.
Two junior associates stood side-by-side at the long marble counter, applying the final, delicate touches to their 'no-makeup' makeup looks.
Their conversation was a hushed, excited murmur that echoed off the tiles.
"Did you hear?" the one with the peach gloss whispered, blotting her lips. "Soo-jin from HR. She just got engaged!"
"Really? To who?" her friend asked, carefully sweeping mascara onto her lashes.
"To that guy from Strategy! The really tall, quiet one with the good jawline. Apparently, he planned this whole elaborate surprise at their apartment. Balloons, roses, the whole thing. Got down on one knee and everything."
A shared, wistful sigh. "A surprise proposal… That's so romantic. It's so rare these days, you know? Most men just stay boyfriends forever. They say they can't afford a wedding, or they're 'not ready.' But I heard him say that he just… knew. He wanted to marry her."
"She's so lucky," Peach Gloss said, a genuine pang of envy in her voice as she capped her lipstick. "I'm so jealous. To have someone look at you and just know they want to spend their life with you… to be chosen like that…"
"I know. Truly lucky."
With final, satisfied glances in the mirror, they gathered their sleek pouches, their chatter fading as they pushed through the heavy door and back into the world of spreadsheets and ambition.
Silence descended, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.
A moment later, the lock on the farthest stall clicked open.
A woman stepped out.
Her face was a serene, professional mask, utterly expressionless.
The lanyard around her neck swayed gently:
LEE YOON AH
SECRETARY TO THE CEO
HAN GROUP
She walked to the sink with measured steps, the click of her low heels the only sound.
She turned on the tap, the water rushing out in a cold, clear stream.
Methodically, she pushed up the sleeves of her blouse, baring her wrists.
She cupped her hands under the flow, the water shockingly cold against her skin.
Leaning over the basin, she splashed her face once, twice, the droplets clinging to her lashes and the fine hairs at her temples.
She didn't reach for a paper towel. Instead, she braced her hands on the cool porcelain edges of the sink and lifted her head, meeting her own gaze in the mirror.
The woman staring back had shadows under her eyes that even careful concealer couldn't fully hide. Her expression was still calm, but her eyes held a deep, still-water stillness, like the surface of a lake hiding everything beneath.
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her right hand.
She turned it, palm facing the mirror, studying it as if it belonged to someone else.
Her gaze zeroed in on the fourth finger.
There, resting just above the knuckle, was a ring.
It wasn't the large, large diamond from velvet box, just simple enough.
One that had buried a guilty, heavy secret at the bottom.
Smaller, more delicate, a thin band of silver with a single, tiny, modest stone.
She stared at it, the faint glitter of the tiny stone catching the sterile bathroom light.
Her lips, still damp, parted.
"…Lucky, huh…?"
The word was a soft, hollow echo in the empty room, devoid of the envy from the women before her.
It was a question, an observation, and a quiet, devastating verdict on the weight now resting on her finger.
She closed her hand into a loose fist, the ring a small, hard pressure against her skin, and finally reached for a towel to dry her face, the motion erasing all trace of the water, but not the new, invisible line etched around her finger.