"It's been a very long night," I thought, lifting myself from the comforting embrace of the oversized hotel chair. My body stretched from side to side as I removed the thick black-rimmed glasses from my face and leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the cold papers sprawled across the mahogany desk.
With a deep breath, I scanned the cluttered surface for the cramped blue file I had finished moments ago. Sighing, I reached for it, pulling it from its burial ground among hundreds of unfinished contracts. Rolling my eyes, I let out a soft snicker before sliding it snugly into a drawer and sinking back into the leather chair.
"One down," I groaned, massaging my temple.
Clearing my throat, I rubbed the tiredness from my eyes. My fingertips brushed against a dark green folder—much larger than the one I had just put away—and dragged it closer. Summoning what little energy I had left, I pulled out its contents, sorting each agreement by date until neat stacks of paper lined the desk. My weary hand reached for the drawer handle, pulling it open to retrieve a black pen engraved in gold.
"Com amor," I whispered, tracing the delicate letters with my fingertip. My father, Ethan, had gifted me this pen on my eighteenth birthday. Smiling faintly at the memory, I lowered the pen to the dotted line and signed away another piece of my life.
Hours slipped by, and my thoughts wandered, clinging to the comfort of my own mind rather than the reality that it was nearly eleven o'clock and I still hadn't finished signing the contracts assigned days ago. "I'm so tired… maybe that's enough for now." I sighed, dropping the pen and resting my head on the cold desk.
The neon-blue digits on the bedside clock glowed in the darkness. "Ugh, I wish time would stop," I muttered, pushing myself up. Wrapping my floral black robe around my shoulders, I crossed to the bed and picked up my phone from the nightstand. The lock screen lit up with a photo of my mother—her arms wrapped around a three-year-old me, her smile radiant.
"With every year that passes, it feels like another part of me leaves with you, Mom," I whispered, tears welling as I traced her green eyes on the screen.
Memories flooded back—our first trip to the beach near her hometown, her laughter, her unwavering support. She was my rock, my biggest cheerleader, even when I doubted myself. She stood at every science fair, silently rooting for me as judges examined my prototypes.
Losing her at fourteen shattered me. The thought of never hearing her voice again, never feeling her embrace—it left a hole nothing could fill. She fought so hard, even when the diagnosis stole her curls and her strength. My father never let us see his pain, burying himself in work to survive the loss.
Life wasn't easy. Being underestimated because of who I am and the color of my skin was exhausting. When we moved back to Korea, the whispers and stares were relentless. People couldn't understand why a Korean man would love an Afro-Latina woman. Schools turned me away, until my father pulled strings to get me into a prestigious academy—a place where privilege bred cruelty. Bullies told me I'd never amount to anything but a two-bit whore. I cried myself to sleep countless nights, but Ethan, Sage, and Avery never let me fall apart completely.
Ten years later, after relentless work, my father and I built Park Group—a tech empire born from grit and brilliance. Our inventions thrust us into the spotlight, making us one of the world's largest tech conglomerates. Ethan graced Forbes' Top 50 Influential People list, while I stayed in the shadows. Being an Afro-Latina and Korean woman with an IQ of 162 and four PhDs didn't shield me from prejudice. People saw only my caramel skin, freckles, and blue eyes—a foreigner who didn't belong.
I jolted awake, realizing I had slipped beneath the beige sheets with my phone still in hand. The screen lit up: 1:03 AM.
"Ugh!" I groaned, about to set the phone down, when a sharp ding pierced the silence. "Who's texting me at 1 a.m.?" I snarled, flipping the screen toward me.
The irritation melted when I saw the sender: Avery.
AVERY: Happy Birthday! I hope you don't have plans because I got us tickets to see our favorite boys on Saturday. 💜💜💜
I laughed softly. Only Avery would buy LUNARE tickets for my birthday, knowing I'd probably drown in work.
ROWAN: Thank you, even though we probably can't use them. Love you.
AVERY: What do you mean? You never take time off, so this time I'm making you.
ROWAN: I have a lot of work, Ave…
AVERY: You'll still have that workload after the concert. You only turn 25 once!
ROWAN: Fine. But if Dad scolds me, I'm blaming you.
AVERY: He's the one who told me to buy them…
I smirked. "Sure he did."
The conversation drifted to flights, dinner plans, and Kael—the man Avery loved to hate. Her teasing made me laugh, even as exhaustion weighed me down.
"This project is going to kill me if I don't slow down," I thought, staring out at the city lights. "The last thing I want is a relapse."
I repeated my father's mantra—"Hospitality and efficient service are the heart of every successful company"—until my eyelids grew heavy.
"Happy Birthday, Rowan," I whispered, surrendering to sleep.