Before she was chosen by the moon, she was discarded by blood.
Na Seunwoo did not discover her existence through guilt.
He discovered it through threat.
The envelope arrived on a Thursday.
Inside were photographs. Hospital records. A birth certificate bearing his name.
And a note written in elegant handwriting:
You have a daughter. Transfer the agreed sum, or the press receives everything.
He did not flinch.
He did not pale.
He simply closed the folder and poured himself another glass of whiskey.
Across the city, in a crumbling apartment that smelled of mildew and desperation, Park Mira held her six-year-old daughter's face in trembling hands.
"They're coming," she whispered.
Na Su Ae did not understand.
She only understood that her mother had not eaten in two days.
That her mother had been crying in the bathroom when she thought Su Ae was asleep.
Sooha was still growing inside her mother's womb then — fragile, silent, another secret.
Mira had not meant to blackmail him.
At least, not at first.
But men like Na Seunwoo did not respond to tears.
They responded to leverage.
And so she had used the only thing she possessed that carried his name.
A child.
—
When the black car arrived, it did not come with violence.
It came with finality.
Two men in suits climbed the narrow staircase and did not remove their shoes.
"Na Seunwoo will acknowledge the child," one said flatly. "The money will be transferred. You will sign a confidentiality agreement."
"And my other child?" Mira asked, one hand instinctively resting on her stomach.
The men exchanged a glance.
"That was not part of the arrangement."
Su Ae clung to her mother's dress.
She remembered the smell of perfume and salt.
She remembered her mother kneeling to adjust her shoes.
"You're going to live somewhere big," Mira said softly. "You'll be safe."
Children believe tone more than words.
Her mother's voice did not sound safe.
It sounded like surrender.
—
The Na estate gates opened without ceremony.
No reporters.
No announcement.
Just quiet acceptance of inconvenience.
Kim Jisoo stood at the top of the staircase like a queen assessing livestock.
"This is her?" she asked.
Su Ae bowed because her mother squeezed her shoulder.
"Yes," Seunwoo replied. "It's handled."
Handled.
That word would follow Su Ae for years.
She was not introduced as daughter.
She was not embraced.
She was placed.
A room in the east wing, far from the main halls.
Servants instructed to "provide necessities."
Her mother remained only three weeks.
Long enough to sign documents.
Long enough to realize she would not be allowed to stay.
The night she left, Sooha was still in her womb.
Su Ae woke to the sound of muffled crying.
She found her mother kneeling beside her bed in darkness.
"I can't fight them," Mira whispered, kissing her daughter's forehead again and again. "But you must survive them."
"Where are you going?" Su Ae asked.
Her mother did not answer.
By morning, she was gone.
No goodbye.
Just absence.
—
The Na household did not scream at her.
They dismantled her quietly.
At breakfast, she was seated farthest from the head of the table.
When she reached for food before Yoori, Kim Jisoo's fork tapped sharply against porcelain.
"Wait."
When guests visited, she was dismissed entirely.
"Go study."
"Go upstairs."
"Do not wander."
At school, her surname protected her.
At home, it suffocated her.
The servants whispered without lowering their voices.
"She looks like her mother."
"That woman had no shame."
"Seductive types always ruin families."
Su Ae learned to lower her gaze.
To walk softly.
To eat quickly and without enjoyment.
Na Seunwoo did not strike her.
He did not need to.
Indifference is sharper than violence.
Once, when she was seven, she gathered the courage to approach him in his study.
"Father," she said quietly.
He did not look up from his paperwork.
"Yes?"
She hesitated.
The word felt foreign in her mouth.
"I got first in my class."
A pause.
A page turned.
"…Mhm."
That was all.
She stood there for several seconds longer before realizing she had already been dismissed.
—
When Sooha was born, the estate grew colder.
Another illegitimate child.
Another mistake.
This one sickly from the beginning.
Doctors came and went. Voices hushed. Diagnoses whispered.
Cancer.
Kim Jisoo did not hide her disgust this time.
"Your mother breeds weakness," she told Su Ae one afternoon, voice smooth as silk. "And you inherited her body."
Su Ae was nine.
She had not yet understood that bodies could be insults.
She would.
Food became comfort.
Comfort became weight.
Weight became mockery.
"She's growing wider."
"She will embarrass the family if anyone ever marries her."
"She should eat less."
She did eat less.
Then more.
Then secretly.
Because hunger of the heart does not obey discipline.
This way she put on more weight and became obese.
—
The curses began subtly.
"You are lucky we kept you."
"Without this house, you would be nothing."
"Remember your place."
Her place.
Not daughter.
Not sister.
Asset.
Liability.
Contingency.
Yoori was already married by then — radiant at eighteen, draped in silk beside Kang Mincheol, whose wind obeyed him like a trained beast.
When Yoori visited, the house brightened.
When Su Ae entered a room, it dimmed.
Not intentionally.
Just naturally.
Yoori was not cruel.
But she was distant.
And distance can wound just as deeply.
—
The Luna ceremony happened when Su Ae was five.
But she did not meet him that night.
The marks appeared across the city like twin crescents carved by fate.
In the Beom estate, seven-year-old Beom Taehyun stood beneath silver light, electricity crawling across his skin.
In the Na estate, Su Ae collapsed to her knees in the servants' corridor, clutching the sudden heat behind her ear.
The elders declared it divine alignment.
The Na family declared it salvation.
Kim Jisoo's expression changed overnight.
The discarded child had become valuable.
"Prepare her," she ordered.
"Teach her posture."
"Fix her speech."
"She will not embarrass us."
For the first time in her life, Su Ae was groomed.
Not loved.
Polished.
—
She saw Beom Taehyun for the first time two years later.
She was seven.
He was nine.
The Beom delegation arrived in black vehicles that hummed faintly with restrained power.
The estate air changed before he even stepped inside.
Charged.
Alive.
Su Ae stood behind Kim Jisoo in a pale dress that clung awkwardly to her round form.
She felt too soft.
Too much.
The doors opened.
And he entered.
Beom Taehyun was not beautiful in a gentle way.
He was sharp.
Composed.
Still in a way that did not belong to children.
Dark hair falling neatly across his forehead. Eyes like stormclouds seconds before lightning splits them open.
The room adjusted around him.
He did not smile.
He did not look curious.
He simply existed.
And the space made room.
When his gaze finally moved and landed on her—
The crescent behind her ear flared.
So did his.
The air crackled.
A faint spark leapt between them.
Someone gasped.
Su Ae forgot to breathe.
He looked at her fully.
From her round cheeks.
To her lowered eyes.
To the way her fingers twisted nervously in her sleeves.
Not with disgust.
Not with warmth.
With assessment.
She felt weighed.
Measured.
Found… uncertain.
"Is that her?" he asked calmly.
Her.
Not name.
Not title.
Just confirmation.
"Yes," Na Seunwoo answered smoothly. "Na Su Ae."
Taehyun stepped closer.
The electricity intensified.
She wanted to step back.
She didn't.
His hand lifted slightly.
Not touching.
Just hovering near the mark behind her ear.
It pulsed.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Children do not understand fate.
But they understand disappointment.
And something in his expression — brief, flickering — felt like it.
"You're quiet," he said.
She swallowed.
"I— I try to be."
A pause.
Then—
"…Mhm."
That sound again.
Neutral.
Dismissive.
Unmoved.
He turned away first.
The current snapped.
The air cooled.
And Su Ae understood something instinctively.
He was powerful.
He was chosen.
And he did not want her.
Behind her, Kim Jisoo's hand gripped her shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Stand straight," she hissed under her breath. "You belong to him now."
Belong.
Again that word.
Su Ae lifted her chin.
Across the hall, Taehyun glanced back once.
Only once.
Not with affection.
Not yet with cruelty.
But with something far more dangerous.
Distance.
And the moon watched silently from above.
Because fate had done its part.
What they would do with it—
Was where the tragedy would begin.