The rain hammered against the windows of Mira's apartment as she threw clothes into her suitcase with shaking hands. Each folded blouse, each carefully organized file folder being packed away felt like another piece of her hard-won life being erased.
Ten years.
Ten years of swallowing her stutter until her throat bled. Ten years of practicing speeches in front of her bathroom mirror until the words flowed smoothly. Ten years of working twice as hard just to be seen as half as competent.
She grabbed the framed certificate from her wall—her college degree, earned through online classes when the thought of speaking in lectures made her physically ill. The glass trembled in her grip.
"You don't understand," she whispered to the empty room, her voice cracking. "You'll never understand what it cost me."
The knock at her door startled her so badly she nearly dropped the frame.
Through the peephole, Jae stood drenched in the hallway, rain dripping from his clenched fists.
When she opened the door, his gaze immediately locked onto the half-packed suitcase. His jaw tightened.
"Running away?"
Mira's hands balled into fists at her sides. "You call this running? After everything—" Her breath hitched. "Do you have any idea how many nights I stayed up rehearsing presentations? How many times I had to prove myself just to get a seat at the table?"
Jae stepped inside, rainwater pooling around his dress shoes. "I know—"
"No, you don't!" The words tore from her throat. "You didn't see me crying in bathroom stalls after meetings because my voice betrayed me. You weren't there when colleagues 'accidentally' left me off emails because they assumed I wouldn't speak up!"
She grabbed a folder from her desk, throwing it open to reveal years of speech therapy notes, marked-up presentations, painstakingly crafted responses to every possible question.
"This is what it took, Jae. This is what I had to do just to be heard."
His expression darkened as he picked up one of the notebooks, flipping through pages filled with her cramped handwriting—every possible variation of "good morning" practiced a hundred times, every potential stumble preemptively corrected.
Mira's chest ached. "And now? One press conference, one lie, and it's all gone. All that work—"
Jae caught her wrist as she gestured wildly. "It's not gone."
She tried to pull away. "You saw the news! They already believe—"
"I don't care what they believe." His grip tightened. "I know the truth. You know the truth."
Mira's knees buckled. The dam broke.
"Don't you see?" Her voice shattered. "The truth doesn't matter! It never has! No matter how hard I work, no matter how much I prove myself, one whisper from someone like Eun-ji and I'm back to being that mute little girl hiding behind the slide!"
Jae caught her as she collapsed forward, his arms wrapping around her shaking frame.
"I won't let that happen," he murmured into her hair.
Mira pressed her face into his soaked shirt. "You can't stop it."
His hands framed her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Watch me."
Outside, the storm raged on. But in that moment, for the first time in her life, Mira let someone else fight for her.
---
The morning after the storm, Mira stood outside the imposing gates of the Park family estate, her fingers clenched around the strap of her bag. The sprawling traditional hanok stood in stark contrast to the modern skyscrapers of Seoul, its curved eaves and wooden beams whispering of old money and generational power.
Jae had warned her about this meeting—his parents had seen the news, and they wanted to speak with her personally.
They probably want to make sure I'm not some gold-digging corporate spy, Mira thought bitterly.
A butler led her through the meticulously maintained gardens, past koi ponds and ancient pine trees, before stopping at a sliding door.
"They're waiting for you inside," he said, bowing slightly before retreating.
Mira took a steadying breath. Four words. Four beats.
She slid the door open.
The room was bathed in soft afternoon light, the scent of aged wood and tea leaves hanging in the air. Jae sat at the low table, his posture rigid, while his parents—dressed in understated but undoubtedly expensive hanbok—regarded her with unreadable expressions.
Mira bowed deeply. "Thank you for inviting me."
Before she could straighten, a soft gasp came from Jae's mother.
"Oh my," the older woman murmured, rising gracefully from her seat. She stepped closer, her sharp eyes scanning Mira's face. "It really is you."
Mira blinked. "I—I'm sorry?"
Jae's mother turned to her husband. "Do you remember? Jae used to talk about her all the time when he was little. The quiet girl who drew rabbits in the margins of her notebooks."
A flicker of recognition passed over his father's stern face. "Ah. The one who hated strawberry milk."
Mira's breath caught.
Jae's mother reached out, taking Mira's hands in hers. "You've grown so much," she said, her voice warm. "Jae would come home every day and tell me about you—how brave you were, how you never let the other children see you cry."
Mira's throat tightened. She glanced at Jae, who was staring fixedly at the table, his ears tinged pink.
"I… didn't realize he remembered me that well," she admitted softly.
His mother laughed. "Oh, he never forgot. Even when we moved abroad, he—"
"Mother." Jae's voice was quiet but firm.
The older woman sighed but released Mira's hands, returning to her seat. "Well, sit down, dear. The tea is getting cold."
The conversation flowed surprisingly easily after that. Jae's mother asked about her career, her family, even complimented her posture. His father remained mostly silent, though Mira caught him studying her with a thoughtful expression.
Then—
"Jae." His father finally spoke, setting his teacup down with deliberate precision. "The news."
The air in the room shifted.
Jae didn't flinch. "What about it?"
"You expect me to believe you'd risk our company's reputation for just anyone?" His father's gaze flicked to Mira. "Especially when the evidence against her is so… convenient?"
Mira's fingers curled into her skirt.
Jae's voice was ice. "The only evidence is fabricated."
"By whom?"
"Eun-ji."
His father exhaled sharply through his nose. "That's a serious accusation."
"And yet true." Jae pulled a tablet from his bag, sliding it across the table. "Digital forensics don't lie. The documents were altered from an IP address registered to Han Group."
His parents leaned forward to examine the data.
Mira sat frozen, her tea untouched.
After a long moment, Jae's father sat back. "I see." He turned to Mira. "You have my apologies for the inconvenience."
The words were stiff but sincere.
Jae's mother, however, was frowning at the tablet. "Eun-ji always was too clever for her own good." She looked up at Mira. "You must understand—this isn't just about business. Our families have been… intertwined for generations."
Mira nodded slowly. "I understand."
"Do you?" The older woman's gaze was piercing. "Then you'll also understand why we must ask—Jae, is there any chance of reconciliation with Eun-ji?"
Jae's teacup cracked against the saucer. "No."
His mother sighed. "Even for the sake of—"
"No."
The finality in his voice silenced the room.
Mira stood abruptly. "I should go."
Jae was on his feet instantly. "I'll walk you out."
They left his parents sitting in heavy silence, the weight of unspoken alliances and broken expectations hanging between them.
As they stepped into the garden, the first cherry blossoms of spring drifted down around them.
Mira stopped walking. "You never told me you talked about me."
Jae's hands were in his pockets, his gaze on the distant mountains. "There's a lot I never told you."
The wind carried the scent of pine and earth between them.
Somewhere in the house, a phone began to ring.