That night, she stepped onto the balcony.
Below—traffic like a silver ribbon. Above—the stars.
She held her phone in both hands and dialed.
Cha-yeon:
"Mi-seon."
Mi-seon:
"Yeah?"
Cha-yeon:
"Connect me to whoever's watching Officer Kang."
Mi-seon:
"Are you sure? That could cost you."
Cha-yeon:
"It's already costing me. I can't be someone's asset. Not to my husband. Not to the Han family. Not to the press."
Mi-seon:
"Alright. I'll send you the address."
...
Cha-yeon adjusted her earrings and stared at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back looked nothing like the girl from her childhood. A pearl-toned dress, straight posture, composed eyes. Everything was flawless. Too flawless.
The reception was hosted on a rooftop terrace of a luxury hotel. Temu's family had spared no expense — white tablecloths, soft garden lights lining the walkways, mellow string music, and tables stacked with delicate dishes. For the wealthy, it was just another evening. For Cha-yeon's family, it felt like being thrown into a silent test — of elegance, of control, of "belonging."
Guests were greeted with an arch of fresh orchids.
When Cha-yeon entered with Temu, all eyes subtly turned.
She walked beside him, carefully measured, like she was playing a role written for someone else.
Cha-yeon's family had arrived earlier and stuck to a quiet corner of the venue.
They looked uncomfortable in formal jackets and unfamiliar shoes, their expressions caught between awe and nervousness.
Aunt Yeon-hee was trying to start a conversation with a woman from the fashion industry, but the woman only nodded politely and walked away — her silence sharper than any insult.
Cha-yeon watched the room — the wives of chairmen, sons of executives, all floating through conversation like well-trained dancers.
Guest Woman:
"Have you ever had black caviar folded into a truffle omelet? Our chef insists on Tokyo-imported ingredients."
Another Woman:
"My kids won't touch boxed juice anymore. It's organic French smoothies or nothing."
Cha-yeon felt like the world was on the other side of thick glass — beautiful, distant, and untouchable.
Uncle Ho-sik:
"Do they have potatoes here? Or is everything just fancy and tiny?"
He poked at a canapé like it might bite back.
Aunt Yeon-hee leaned over to whisper:
Yeon-hee:
"Look at that lady's eyebrows… Are those even real? Is that normal?"
Cha-yeon (sighing quietly):
"She's a makeup artist. It's a trend."
Yeon-hee:
"Trend, my foot…"
Among trays of tuna bites, mini-burgers, and cheese tartlets, Temu's young nephew pulled out his phone, whispered something, then turned to Temu:
Nephew:
"Are you sure about her? I mean, she's… not one of us."
Temu (calmly):
"I never mistake people."
Cha-yeon overheard that. She didn't flinch, didn't show it — her back stayed straight.
But something deep inside her curled up like a wounded animal.
All she wanted was to be home, eating plain rice with her family, laughing at something dumb on TV.
Cha-yeon realized how far she'd come into a world that wasn't hers.
And how impossible it was to turn around.
Her relatives couldn't even figure out how to eat half the food — someone sprayed cream on their sleeve trying to cut a pastry, someone else bit into a fake fruit used as table decor.
Temu's mother approached her.
Temu's Mother:
"You look refined. But remember, here, silence is golden. The less you say, the more you're worth."
Cha-yeon (smiling faintly):
"Thank you for the wisdom."
Later, long after the guests were gone, Temu and Cha-yeon stood on their hotel balcony.
The stars above were sharp, cold, and endless. Between them — three meters of silence.
Temu set down a small plate of warm rice buns and handed her a soft wool blanket.
He had noticed her shoulders tighten.
Temu:
"You're cold."
Cha-yeon:
"You'll freeze."
Temu:
"Then we'll both be warm together."
Cha-yeon:
"No, take it. I'm fine…"
Temu:
"I insist."
Cha-yeon:
"Fine. But we're sharing it."
They fell quiet again. It was warm, but awkward.
The moment wasn't cinematic or graceful. It was full of interruptions and hesitations.
And somehow, that's what made it real.
Icy inside her whispered:
"So this is what the Elite feels like — clumsy, confusing, but not alive."