—#[skiptime: later that night: Ji-yeon’s pov]:

My bedroom was a pool of cool moonlight, a quiet sanctuary in the dark. Then, with a harsh click, the overhead lights blazed on, shattering the stillness.

Annoyed, I glanced over my shoulder. My mother stood in the doorway, her hand still on the switch.

“What’s wrong, honey? Why are you sitting in the dark?” Her voice was all soft concern.

The question grated. I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned my gaze back to the single object illuminated on my vanity: a large, cream-colored teddy bear. I sat with my arms tightly crossed, staring at it as if waiting for it to confess a secret.

I didn’t need to look to know she was walking toward me. I felt her presence settle beside me, her worried eyes tracing my line of sight to the bear.

“Why are you staring at it like that?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“What do you see there?” I finally spoke, my voice flat, my eyes never leaving the toy.

The question hung between us. I could sense her confusion as she looked from my rigid profile to the bear and back.

“It’s… your favorite soft toy?” she ventured, her tone hesitant.

A short, bitter scoff escaped me.

Favorite soft toy? Is that all they see?

I turned fully toward her then, the movement sharp. “It’s not just a soft toy, Mom,” I said, my voice low and tight, each word sharp with a frustration she clearly didn't understand. My brows drew together. “It’s the first gift Jungkook ever gave me.”

The understanding finally dawned on her face, her own brows tensing in response. But I wasn't done.

"Didn't you see what Y/n had around her neck today?" My voice was taut, sharper than I meant it to be. The jealousy was a bitter taste I couldn't swallow. "That beautiful, custom necklace. From Jungkook."

I just couldn't stand it.

"For me, a child's soft toy. For her, a bespoke jewel?" The scoff that left my lips was laced with venom as I glared back at the bear.

A heavy minute of silence pressed down on us, worse than any argument. Then, my mother tried to soothe. "Honey, it's okay—"

"Don't even start!"

I whipped my head toward her, my gaze sharp enough to cut her words short. "Dad knows I love Jungkook. He's always known. Yet he's handing him over to that insufferable sister of mine on a silver platter!"

My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palms. "And don't give me that helpless act—that the Jeons only want the heiress. Spare me! If it's all just business, then why does it matter which Kang daughter he marries?!"

As my anger threatened to spill over, she reached out, placing a calming hand over my white-knuckled fist. "Honey, relax. You know your father loves you the most—"

"And what good is that love to me?" My voice was ice, cutting her off again. I turned my furious gaze fully on her. "If he can't give me the one man I want most, what use is his 'love'?"

She fell silent, her expression troubled, eyes dropping to her lap. I jerked my hand from her grasp, leaving her holding empty air.

"I won't be like you," I said, the words quiet and deadly. "I refuse. You became Mrs. Kang, but you never became Su-jin Kang. Y/n's dead mother is still seen as his first, legitimate wife. People still respect her ghost. And her daughter? She's the 'real' blood. And me?"

I let the sentence hang, unfinished. She could fill in the silence herself.

Illegitimate. The dirty blood. The words the world whispered, the title I was forever fighting to erase.

The silence from her was heavy, but it only fueled the fire inside me.

I stood up abruptly from the bed and strode over to the vanity. I glared at that stupid, innocent-looking bear for a long moment, all the frustration and hurt crystallizing into a single, sharp point of rage.

Then, I grabbed it harshly by the arm and hurled it to the floor.

“And Jungkook?” My voice trembled with a raw, seething hurt. “He still looks at me and sees the pathetic nine-year-old girl he met at Y/n’s mother’s funeral. The girl who got bullied at school. He looks at me with pity, Mom. Empathy. Nothing more!”

I turned back to face her, watching her eyes widen in shock at the sight of the discarded toy on the plush rug. Her reaction felt trivial against the storm in me.

“Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked?” I pressed, my voice dropping to a fierce, heated whisper. “The years I’ve spent carefully crafting this image—the sweet, misunderstood victim in this family. For everyone. For him. I thought… I let myself hope that he kept delaying the wedding because he didn’t want her. But after what Dad said today…”

I shook my head, the betrayal a fresh, bitter wound. “I can’t believe he’s actually going through with it. I hate that he’s choosing her.”

She said nothing, just watched me with that troubled, helpless look that suddenly felt infuriating.

“I won’t just sit here and want him,” I declared, the resolution hardening my voice into something cold and determined. “I will take everything from her that should have been mine from the start. The title of heiress. The man. All of it. I am not going to be like you.”

[End of ji-yeon’s pov]

///

—#[meanwhile at the party]:[Y/n’s pov]:

I had stayed by Jungkook's side the entire evening like a silent, elegant shadow. But while he engaged with investors, my mind was miles away, trapped in my father's breakfast pronouncement.

The announcement of our marriage date.

For three years, I’d ached to hear those words. Now, the mere thought made my chest tighten, each breath feeling thinner than the last. It was a cruel irony, the dream arriving just as I’d woken up from it.

The people in this glittering hall saw the perfect picture: the stoic heiress beside the brilliant heir. They saw a power couple. A merger. They saw a woman who had it all.

The reality was a private, silent hemorrhage.

My gaze was locked, unseeing, on the pale gold liquid in my champagne flute. I was so far inside my own head that I didn't register the crowd shifting behind me until a sudden, solid bump jolted my arm.

The glass slipped from my fingers. Not with a dramatic shatter, but with a sickening glug as its entire contents emptied directly onto the front of my silk dress—a sleek, one-shouldered emerald green.

"I'm so sorry!" a flustered voice apologized.

I didn't look at them. I just stared down at the dark, spreading stain soaking into the delicate fabric, a shocking cold against my skin.

Before I could even process it, Jungkook’s voice cut through the murmur beside me. "Are you alright?"

I glanced up. He had already placed his own glass down, excusing himself mid-sentence from a group of executives. With swift, efficient movements, he summoned a server, took a handful of linen napkins, and knelt down.

He didn't hand them to me. He began dabbing at the stain himself, his brow furrowed in concentration.

I stood frozen, watching it happen. The great Jeon Jungkook, on one knee, publicly tending to a spill. It was the kind of gesture that would have once made my heart stutter. A scene straight out of my old fantasies.

His voice was practical, low. "It's just champagne. But the sugar will make it sticky. You'll need to rinse it with cold water in the ladies' room before it sets."

I couldn't speak. Not because I was touched, but because I was struck by the devastating precision of his performance.

This—the quick action, the apparent concern, the public display of care—was all part of the facade. For three years, I had mistaken this meticulous maintenance of our "couple" image for hidden affection. I'd woven a love story from threads of duty.

He wasn't being caring. He was protecting an asset. Ensuring the Kangwon heiress, his fiancée, didn't appear stained or disheveled at their own announcement party. The alliance had to look flawless.

He rose, his expression smooth and composed once more. The perfect fiancé, playing his part to the letter. And I was just another prop in the scene, my dress ruined, my illusion shattered, standing silently in the wreckage of my own foolish hopes.

And then, it happened.

I finally lifted my gaze from the stain and looked around.

The entire scene had drawn eyes. I met the stares of the crowd, not with shock or embarrassment, but with a cold, new clarity. Their faces were etched with open envy.

How lucky is that stone-faced woman, their silence seemed to whisper, to have a man like him tend to her so devotedly.

Lucky? Yes.

If I hadn't heard his phone call last night, I would have believed it, too. I would have been standing right beside them, lost in the same beautiful lie.

My father’s command echoed in my mind. You and Jungkook will be the center of attention. This was the show. Every glance, every gesture was a calculated move to dazzle the investors, to sell the fairy tale of two empires uniting into one unstoppable force.

And in the center of it all, I was just a prop. A mannequin in a stained silk dress.

I took a quick step back, breaking the intimate circle of his care. His expression flickered, a slight, almost imperceptible surprise at my withdrawal. But I kept my face perfectly neutral, making it seem like nothing more than a practical next step.

“You’re right. I should go and wash it off.”

My voice was flat, devoid of the warmth or gratitude the moment supposedly called for. My stoic mask, the one they all mocked, was now my greatest shield. It made me unreadable. And the man who had never bothered to truly look at me couldn’t possibly see the fracture beneath it.

He didn’t speak. He just rose slowly to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine, as if trying to solve a silent puzzle.

Finally, he gave a soft, slow nod. “Let me escort you to the door. I’ll wait outside until you’re done.”

He stepped closer again, his hand settling with practiced ease on the small of my back. The touch was light, respectful, the very picture of a gentleman guiding his partner.

It was all so graceful. So perfectly performed. And it felt like a brand.

My eyes flicked to the side. The investors from earlier were watching us, their smiles broad with approval. They were savoring the spectacle, the powerful heir doting on his poised fiancée.

A perfect snapshot of the alliance.

Everyone was enjoying the show. Everyone but me.

“No need,” I said, my voice low enough for only him to hear. I met his gaze squarely. “I can manage it myself.”

His brows drew together, not in anger or surprise, but with a faint, troubled crease. It wasn’t about the broken script; it looked like something else, a flicker of something I couldn't or didn't want to…name.

I didn’t linger to decipher it. I took a deliberate step back, breaking the contact of his hand on my waist.

“Excuse me,” I said, turning to offer the investors a thin, polite smile. As I’d predicted, none of them saw through it. To them, it was just the unflappable heiress attending to a minor mishap with cool efficiency. They nodded graciously, and I walked away.

A few minutes later, I pushed through the door of the ladies’ lounge. For once, luck was on my side, it was empty.

I leaned back against the closed door, letting the silence swallow me. My eyes fell to the ruin of my dress, to the precise area his hands had dabbed with such efficient care.

A deep, silent ache throbbed in my chest. The cruelest part wasn’t his deception. It was my own heart’s stubborn betrayal. Even now, knowing everything, I still loved him. That truth was a ghost that haunted me, relentless and shaming.

Fifteen years. I’d spent over half my life loving him. First, the brilliant, untouchable boy. Then, the formidable man he became. Every version of him was perfect in my eyes.

Except for one flaw.

I pushed off from the door and walked to the line of marble sinks, stopping before the broad, unforgiving mirror. I looked at my own reflection, the carefully styled hair, the impeccable makeup, the emerald pendant against my throat.

Me.

I was the flaw. The misplacement in the perfect narrative of his life. The piece he never chose but was forced to accept, a duty etched into the contract of his birthright.

And yet, he tried so hard to make us look perfect. For the cameras. For the world. He polished the lie until it shone.

But did polishing a lie ever make it true? The reflection in the mirror held no answers, only the silent, stoic face of the woman who was slowly drowning in the gilded space between the performance and the truth.

I stayed in that silent room longer than I’d planned. It was the only space where I could breathe without a hundred eyes tracking my every move, measuring my worth against the alliance I represented.

I turned the faucet, letting cold water run over the silk, watching the champagne stain blur and fade. I waited, patting it dry with paper towels, buying time. For what, I wasn't sure. Just… not to go back.

Finally, after nearly half an hour, I forced myself to leave.

When I walked back into the gala hall ten minutes later, the air had shifted. It was no longer just a buzz of polished conversation; it felt charged, tense. A low hum of competition had replaced the easy mingling.

I paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room. Everyone seemed… sharper. Anxious, yet buzzing with a strange excitement. Whispers cut through the music like blades.

Then I caught it. Two women at a nearby cocktail table, leaning in over their wine.

“With the Kim Foundation Group here, everyone else is just playing for second place,” one said, her voice carrying a mix of awe and resentment.

The other shook her head. “Just wait. The day the Kang and Jeon alliance is formally sealed, that changes everything. They’ll become Kim’s only real competition overnight.”

My feet rooted to the floor. They hadn’t noticed me, so they continued, their words slicing through me.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” the first woman replied, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Jeon Jungkook is a genius, but he needs the right kind of weight behind him. Who better than the Kangs? The heiress might be an ice queen, but the combined power? It’s a strategic masterstroke. Working together, they could actually take their rival down one day.”

Take their rival down.

The words landed like a physical blow.

All these years, I’d accepted the alliance as a given, a merging of legacies, a strengthening of two houses. I was fed the lines I needed: unity, legacy, shared future. No one ever mentioned a specific target. No one ever said I was a weapon.

The real reason for this arrangement… is the Kims?

My stomach churned. I was the heiress, the future of Kangwon, and yet I’d been treated like a chess piece in a game I didn’t even know we were playing.

My marriage wasn't just a business alliance; it was a declaration of war, and I was the standard-bearer.

And Jungkook… he wasn’t just fulfilling a family duty. He was acquiring a strategic partner. The stepping stone he needed to reach the next tier of power, to challenge a giant.

That’s why he never backed out. Not out of any reluctant affection, not even out of simple obligation. It was a cold, hard strategy. I wasn't just a burden he had to tolerate; I was an asset he needed to acquire.

The beautiful, hollow pendant around my neck suddenly felt like a collar. And the gala hall, with its glittering lies, felt like a war room.

For a long moment, I was frozen. My eyes locked on a single, meaningless point on the polished marble floor, my fingers curling so tightly into the green silk of my dress I feared it might tear.

The world didn't just stop, it shattered into a silent, ringing hum. In that vast room of nobility and power, I felt like the punchline of a joke everyone knew but me.

Seconds bled into minutes. Finally, I forced one foot in front of the other. My gaze stayed fixed on the ground, on the blur of my own steps. I didn't look up. I didn't care where I was going.

The glittering crowd, the music, the opulence, it all faded into a meaningless, noisy backdrop. Inside, there was only a vast, hollow numbness.

A scream built in my chest, a raw, silent pressure pushing against my ribs. But when it reached my throat, it lodged there as a painful, airless knot. I had no voice, not even for this.

I kept walking, blind to my surroundings, until my shoulder collided solidly with someone.

The impact jolted me. Before I could even glance up or murmur an apology, my balance vanished.

My heel skidded on the slick floor. Here we go, a detached part of me thought. Another spectacle. Another stain on the perfect facade.

After the emotional fall, this physical one seemed almost fitting, a public confirmation of my inner collapse.

I stopped trying to fight it. I closed my eyes, bracing for the cold hard contact, focusing every shred of will on keeping my expression neutral. If I was going to fall, I would do it with dignity.

But the impact never came.

Instead, a strong, steady arm caught me around the waist, pulling me back from the edge. My body leaned into a solid, unfamiliar form. The grip was firm, secure, halting my descent entirely.

Then, a voice, low and calm, close to my ear.

“Careful.”

~