If Hana had a penny for every time someone told her to "act more like Yuna," she'd own her own conglomerate by now.
Scratch that.
She'd own her father's entire company and buy out the spa memberships of every aunt who ever called her "too wild."
But today, she had other goals.
She was going to make the new driver smile.
Just once.
Even if it killed her.
It started with a peach.
A very unfortunate, traitorous, slippery peach.
She had been watching Jin from the balcony again — like the self-aware creep she was slowly becoming — and decided she was going to "accidentally" run into him with a friendly gift. Something casual. Approachable.
Friendly-but-not-flirty. Classy.
Like a peach.
Who the hell gives a man a peach?
But that was all the kitchen had, and she wasn't about to storm back in and demand they hand her a seduction fruit.
She practiced the line in her head. "Hi, I noticed you working hard lately, and I thought you could use something refreshing."
Totally normal. Totally casual.
Totally not desperate.
She held the peach in her hand like a peace offering as she made her way across the driveway where Jin was waxing the Mercedes.
In broad daylight. Shirtless.
Did he always have to look like he walked out of a Calvin Klein billboard?
As she approached, her heel got caught on a loose stone.
Her body tilted.
Her hand flailed.
The peach — her one and only weapon of flirtation — launched through the air like a grenade.
It hit him.
Square in the back of the head.
Splat.
She froze.
He turned slowly, expression blank as usual, except for the unmistakable splat of peach juice sliding down his neck.
". . . Was that on purpose?"
His voice was deep. Stoic. Unbothered.
Hana's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "No! I mean yes. I mean— I had a peach and I was walking and I—"
He blinked once.
Then turned back to his room to change without another word.
She wanted the ground to eat her alive.
But instead, she walked back to the house with peach juice on her fingers, pride leaking out of her pores.
Later that night, she found herself in the garage.
Again.
This time with zero peaches and slightly more dignity.
He was organizing the tools, as quiet and composed as ever.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Do you hate me or are you just naturally . . . emotionally vacant?"
He didn't look up. "I'm here to do my job."
"Which is driving around the girl who can't parallel park?" she scoffed. "Because that's not me."
Still no reaction.
Silence stretched so long she thought he might have left the room.
Then finally: "She's not like you."
Ah.
There it was.
The invisible slap to the face.
"She's kind," he added. "You're . . . ill-mannered."
"And you think that's a bad thing?" she snapped.
He finally looked at her — really looked. His eyes weren't cold this time. Just calm. "No. But I hate ill-mannered women."
Hana didn't respond. She couldn't. Because something about the way he said it made her chest ache.
She wasn't sure when it became a habit — this late-night lurking in the garage, pretending she had questions about the car or needed a ride to nowhere.
But he never scolded her for it.
He never accommodate her, either.
Sometimes she left food near the driver's seat. Coffee. A bento. Once, a neatly wrapped sandwich in the shape of a bear.
He never mentioned it.
Never thanked her.
But he threw them.
All of them.
But when it was Yuna who handed him the food, Hana caught the faint curve of a smile on his lips as he wiped the sauce from his mouth — gentle, effortless . . . almost tender.
It was unbearable.
Still, his devotion to Yuna was crystal clear.
When Yuna got a scratch on her finger? He rushed to get her a Band-Aid, almost tripping in haste.
When Hana twisted her ankle during a business meeting and limped all the way to the car?
He opened the door. That was it.
Didn't even ask if she was okay.
"You're strong," he had said flatly. "You'll be fine."
The worst part?
He looked happy around Yuna.
Not a big smile — but there was a warmth in his eyes when he glanced at her, like she was a porcelain doll he had to protect.
Once, Hana caught them laughing together over a stupid riddle book Yuna brought from her school days.
Hana watched from behind the column like a pathetic ghost.
All she had ever wanted was someone to laugh with like that.
One night, she walked into the garage with a small container of soup and found him asleep in the backseat of the Rolls.
His head tilted slightly. His lashes long against his skin. His expression completely peaceful — no walls, no armor.
She almost dropped the soup.
She sat there on the passenger side quietly, not waking him.
Just watching.
For once, she didn't want anything from him.
Not his attention.
Not his love.
Just a moment where he wasn't thinking of someone else.
But even then, when he stirred and blinked himself awake, his first question was:
"What's wrong? Why are you here? Is Yuna okay?"
That was when she knew, he had no space for her in his heart even after everything she did.
She left the soup there and walked out.
No words.
No peach this time.
Just silence.
And a slow-building obsession with a man who had already given his heart to someone else — someone who had already taken everything from her.