Chapter 1

The alarm rings, waking you up. It's 4:30, the same time you have been waking up at for the past 6 years. The bed is like a monster, grabbing you, refusing to let go, but you force yourself to stay awake because there is too much work and too little time. The penthouse is silent except for the occasional sound from the streets below.

It is torturous, but there isn't much of a choice. The cold runs through your body as your feet hit the marble. You drag yourself to the closet; this is probably the last moment of the day when you would get to be yourself before you have to put on a perfect mask.

You get dressed in a dark charcoal tracksuit without really thinking much before heading to the gym. The weights feel heavier than they should, and for a fraction of a second, your hands tremble before you force them up.

By the time you are done with your workout, your shirt is soaked.

By 6:40, you're showered, dressed, and reading documents on your tablet. Today is a dreadful day; you have to visit your parents. You are the CEO of the best law firm in Seoul; just that position means you don't have much time for yourself, but being the son of a campaigning politician is even more dreadful and tiring.

The car stops in front of the mansion; it sticks out like a sore thumb. The dining room smells of black coffee, and at the end of a long table is your father, and beside him is your mother, scrolling through the headlines.

The windows lead to a billboard with your father's face. He is running for the presidency, and a year from now, he could be looking down from the blue house. That thought frightens you.

"Good morning," I say with a practiced smile before taking my seat opposite my mother.

Like reporting to your manager, you begin.

"Three new clients this week, each a major corporation. The merger with Hanjin closed yesterday, and the case with the Hansong group was dealt with quietly."

The reply comes from your mother, as it usually does. "Is that all? The polls are still at 42%. If your father is going to become the president, then his son should be just as amazing."

Your father lifts his eyes then. They're the same color as yours, but there is no warmth in them.

"You looked tired yesterday," he says. "People notice these things. You know that people are always watching, don't you? We always need to be smiling irrespective of what we are actually feeling."

"It won't happen again," you reply.

It is annoying and painful to hear this from them time and time again. You haven't slept more than 4 hours the past week, trying to do things that would make you look good for them, and in return, you get told to do better?

Times like this are when the thought pops into your mind, what if I just....

Before I could finish it, your mother spoke, "We can come up with some excuse for those pictures. Don't let it happen again."

You nod. Just like you always do. Not like you would speak up against them.

The food tastes bland, and nothing ever excites you anymore. You live your life like you are following a script. Doing everything they want and still getting told to do more.

Almost as if sometimes you are nothing but a spectator in your own life. Having no control over anything you do.

Before you finish eating, your father stands, and the loud sound of the chair scrapes against the floor.

"Let's go, the media are waiting at the entrance," he says

Your mother walks toward you and brushes non-existent dust from your shoulder and says, "You know what all this pressure is for, don't you, sweetheart?"

The endearment wasn't out of love; it was there just for the show of it.

Being around them wasn't exactly fun, but being in front of the media with them made you anxious. All because of that one incident when you were younger, and now you absolutely dread the moment when you were with your parents in front of the media.

Your hands were shivering, and it felt like there was something in your chest preventing you from breathing properly. You wanted to show some sort of pain, but you didn't, more like you couldn't.

The camera flashes the moment you step onto the concrete. Reporters screaming your name.

You give them exactly what they are looking for: a professional smile. The one that you practiced in the mirror, as you can remember.

A professional nod occasionally proves to everyone that you aren't some sort of robot. Well, you lived like one, but they don't need to know that. To them and the rest of the world, you are the perfect son and the perfect lawyer with a perfect image.

* * *

You step out of the car at 8:30 p.m. into a private garage. After a long 14-hour day at the firm, going through depositions, strategy meetings, and a painful client dinner, you finally make it home. By the time you reach your penthouse, your tie is loosened, the top button undone. This was the most imperfect you looked the entire day; the only reason you allowed yourself to do that was that there was no one watching.

The door opens, you cross the entrance, reaching for the switches to lower the lights, making it dim and perfect for relaxing. There is silence, and for the first time in the day, there are no expectations surrounding you. All that was there was a glass of whiskey and the city lights.

Just as you are about to take the first sip of your drink, the phone on the countertop vibrates. You wanted to ignore it, but you couldn't, especially because it was your mother's secretary who was calling.

With annoyance, you answer it. "Yes?"

A polite voice replies. "Good evening, sir. Madam has requested that you come to the main house immediately. She says that it is of the highest importance and has already sent the driver to fetch you."

"Can it really not wait? I just got home," you say, your voice exasperated.

"She was quite insistent about it, sir." She knows you hate this, but she was only following orders.

"Fine, tell her that I will be there."

"The car will be there in 10 minutes."

The line goes dead.

It pissedpisses you off, but you don't really have much choice either. At the end of the day, they are your parents, and you, being the good boy, always listen to them.

You drag your hands through your hair before letting out a sigh.

It always feels bothersome to be summoned to the house you grew up in, like you are an employee. You want to say no, but it is too late. The car was already on the way, and resisting their demands was pointless; you have already learned that the hard way.

Reluctantly, you change into something a little more casual: a cashmere sweater and some.

The drive to the main house is shockingly calm. The city is settling down, and the streets are slowly emptying. The black Mercedes pulls into the courtyard, the house lined with low lights. The traditional house is unlike the modern houses that surround it.

The maid escorts you through the house into the annex study. The room is filled with books and ebony wood. The maid leaves with a sudden thud of the closing wooden door. Now it is just your parents and you.

Your father is sitting behind the massive mahogany desk. A table sitting on the desk, probably with details from the campaign. Your mother is standing behind him near the window that overlooks the garden, her hands folded, looking at the empty streets, almost lost in thought. There is some tension in her shoulders, which is unusual for her, but you look past it.

You bow out of habit. "Good evening, father and mother," you say before taking a seat on the chair across from your father. Your back is as straight as a ruler, and your hands are resting on your knees.

Without acknowledging your greeting, your father says, "There isn't much time to beat around the bush. We've finalized the deal."

You are confused. What deal is so important that they summoned me to the main house at night? But the confusion soon disappears when your mother speaks, "Jang Wonyoung"