Hana wasn't proud of it — following someone on their day off wasn't exactly noble behavior — but ever since Jin entered their household as a driver, something about him had gnawed at her curiosity.
It wasn't just the way he carried himself. It was the quiet authority in his steps, the clipped way he spoke, the way even her father unconsciously shifted when Jin was nearby. He might wear a crisp black uniform, but everything about him screamed aristocracy.
So she followed him.
She stayed a good distance behind, slipping through alleys and keeping close to hedges when he looked over his shoulder. He was careful, but not careful enough — not for her.
After all, Hana had been watching people all her life, reading expressions, surviving among liars.
Jin walked away from the mansion's district, out past the outer streets, into a more secluded area near a park rarely visited by the public. There, near a fountain cloaked in rusted ivy, he paused.
Just as she was about to step closer, a sleek black Rolls-Royce — matte, tinted, with a single-digit license plate — glided silently to a stop beside him.
Hana's heart dropped.
Single-digit plates were practically a symbol of royalty. Only the most elite families — the kind that made international headlines when they moved money — had them.
She watched, stunned, as Jin casually opened the door and slipped into the backseat without even looking around.
The car pulled away as if it had never been there, disappearing down the road like a phantom.
Hana stood frozen behind the tree, her breath catching in her throat.
He's one of them. One of the ultra-wealthy . . .
It made sense now — the effortless way he composed himself, the veiled disdain in his eyes when people acted foolishly, the aura of someone used to command. No matter how well he dressed down, he could never hide that quiet confidence, that presence.
But why was someone like him pretending to be their driver?
That night, Hana told herself she would confront him.
Not out of anger — not yet — but to gain leverage. To figure out what kind of game he was playing in their house.
She didn't know what he was hiding, but whatever it was, she would be the one to uncover it, and use it to her advantage.
She got her chance unexpectedly.
It was late. The mansion was asleep. Hana had gone downstairs for water, but as she passed the garden-side hallway, she heard a voice — Jin's — low, serious, speaking on the phone just beyond the glass doors.
She froze, pressing her back against the wall, and listened.
"Yuna is going to celebrate her birthday soon. I want the finest gifts in the world for her," Jin said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "No, don't mention my name. I don't want her to find out yet . . . I don't want to scare her. When the time is right, I'll tell her everything — that I'm pretending to be a driver just to get close to her."
The words stabbed through her like cold steel.
So that was it.
It wasn't just that Jin was hiding something.
He was doing it . . . for Yuna.
Even he, the one person she thought might look at her differently, had fallen for that fragile, sugary voice and those wide, innocent eyes. Even he believed Yuna was worth pretending for.
Hana didn't wait to hear the rest. Her throat burned and her vision blurred as she turned and hurried up the stairs. Her feet moved on their own. Her chest felt too tight to breathe.
Why is it always her? Why was it that Yuna always stole everything from her?
That night, she lay in bed crying silently into her pillow, her heart aching in places she didn't know still had feeling left. Her mother's death, her father's coldness, her reputation . . . she had endured it all. But this?
This was the cruelest cut of all.
Later, past midnight, she crept out of her room to get a glass of water, her legs unsteady, her eyes swollen. The hallway was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the sconces.
And then — a noise behind her. A soft shift. A whisper of movement.
Before she could turn around, she felt a hand against her back.
She barely had time to gasp before she was pushed.
Her body hit the stairs — not stone, thankfully, but carpeted wood. Still, the tumble was violent. She twisted, rolled, her ankle catching hard on the third step. Pain exploded through her leg as she landed at the bottom, breathless.
The world spun, her vision swimming.
And just before everything went dark . . .
She thought she saw a figure at the top of the stairs.
Jin.
He pushed her . . . but why?
That question echoed in her mind as pain throbbed through her bruised body. No matter how many times she replayed the moment, no matter how desperately she tried to make sense of it—there was only one reason she could think of.
Yuna.
Yuna told him before. Lied to him. Twisted the truth the way only she could—soft voice, trembling lashes, that helpless act she wore like a second skin. She told him Hana had hurt her. That she almost push her down the stairs. Maybe she cried, said she was scared, and Jin . . . Jin had believed her.
So easily.
Hana bit down hard on her lip as tears welled in her eyes, this time not from pain—but from betrayal. He hadn't even asked her if it was the truth. Not a single word. To him, whatever Yuna said was the truth.
He promised to take revenge for her.
And Hana? She was just the villain in someone else's story. Again.
How silly . . . how utterly foolish of her to think that Jin might just be on her side.
Then she lost consciousness.