Chapter One.
1525 Words
The rain came down in sheets, cold and merciless. Each drop stung against her skin as she stood barefoot in the middle of the street, her thin dress clinging to her trembling body. The storm roared above, thunder splitting the sky, but the voices around her were louder—sharper, crueler, unforgettable.
“Why were you even born?”
“You ruined everything.”
“You’re nothing.”
Their words carved into her like open wounds. Faces blurred in the downpour, but the hatred in their eyes burned clearer than lightning. She reached out, trembling fingers seeking warmth, seeking anyone who might pull her out of the chaos. But every hand she reached for slipped away.
Her chest tightened. Breathing hurt. The world spun with rejection and shame. Her knees buckled as the storm raged on, lightning flashing above, illuminating her aloneness.
And then—
The sharp blare of an alarm shattered the memory.
⸻
Zara’s eyes snapped open, heart pounding violently against her ribs. Her cheap plaster ceiling came into focus—the uneven cracks above her cramped studio apartment in Seoul. Dampness clung to her skin, though there was no rain here. Only sweat. Only the residue of another nightmare.
The faint scent of wet asphalt drifted through the half-open window. Outside, the city pulsed with life, but in here, silence pressed down on her chest.
Zara dragged a shaky hand across her face and muttered under her breath, voice hoarse:
“F***ing hell… again.”
Her phone buzzed violently on the nightstand, snapping her out of her haze. The screen lit up:
Yoonie❤️.
She answered on the third ring.
“Don’t you dare ignore me, Zara Park!” Ji Yoon’s voice came through, half-scolding, half-playful. “Big day today. Ten a.m. interview. Don’t tell me you’re still in bed.”
“I’m up,” Zara lied, throwing an arm over her eyes. “And I’m not messing this up, Yoonie. I need this job.”
He sighed, the sound soft but full of concern. “Z…”
“No, I’m serious,” she cut in, her voice firmer than she intended. “Rent’s due next week, my scholarship barely covers textbooks, and I can’t keep surviving on instant noodles forever. I have to get this. I need something stable. Something that makes me feel like I’m finally moving forward.”
There was a short silence on the line before Ji Yoon spoke again, gentler now. “You know you don’t have to do all of this alone, right? You have me. And my parents — they love you like their own. You’re family to us, Zara. You don’t always have to fight so hard.”
Zara’s chest tightened. She knew he meant well, but the thought of leaning on them made her stomach knot. She hated feeling like she owed anyone, hated the idea of being someone’s responsibility.
“I know,” she said softly, forcing her voice steady. “But I need to do this, Yoonie. For me.”
He hesitated, then sighed in defeat. “Alright. Just… don’t skip breakfast. You’ll need the energy.”
A small, tired smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks. I’ve got this.”
She hung up, but the words clung to her—rent, bills, food. A constant loop she couldn’t escape.
Scholarship or not, life in Seoul wasn’t kind to broke students. Her part-time shifts barely covered utilities, and even then, there were nights when dinner was nothing but instant noodles and water.
She turned on her side, staring at the worn sketchbook lying on her desk. Its pages were filled with drawings of gowns, streetwear concepts, and style combinations she’d been dreaming up for years. A quiet ache twisted in her chest.
One day, she’d make it.
One day, her name would be printed on magazine covers.
But today?
Today, she was interviewing for a maid job.
Life’s sense of humor was brutal.
⸻
Fifteen chaotic minutes later, Zara was rushing out the door—hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, mismatched socks stuffed into worn sneakers. A piece of toast clung stubbornly between her teeth as she locked the door, muttering curses at her tangled earphones.
The hallway smelled faintly of fried oil and damp walls, a reminder that dreams didn’t start in luxury—they started here, in cramped spaces where survival came before ambition.
By the time she reached the street, Seoul was already buzzing. The morning air was damp and heavy, the sky a soft gray curtain. People rushed past with coffees and briefcases; the city didn’t slow down for anyone.
Zara shoved her earbuds in and checked her phone. 9:47 a.m.
Her stomach knotted. If she missed this interview, she’s practically dead.
The pedestrian light flashed red, but impatience won. Zara sprinted across anyway, hoodie flapping behind her. Halfway through, the low growl of an engine roared from the corner.
She froze.
A sleek black Lamborghini Aventador surged forward, headlights slicing through the misty morning. The car screeched to a halt inches from her knees, tires screaming against wet asphalt.
Her toast slipped from her mouth, splashing into a puddle.
Adrenaline shot through her veins, heat rushing up her spine. She slammed her hand on the hood.
“Are you f*ing blind?!” she shouted, voice sharp enough to cut through the noise of Seoul traffic. “Do you even know how to drive, or are you compensating for something with this overpriced tin can?!”
The tinted window lowered slowly, revealing a man behind the wheel.
Sharp suit. Crisp white shirt. Black hair styled to perfection. He was the kind of man sculpted for glossy magazines—but his expression was colder than steel.
He didn’t apologize. Didn’t even flinch.
His gaze met hers, dark and unreadable, like he was looking through her, not at her.
Zara’s jaw dropped. “Oh, wow. So you almost kill me and I’m the problem?!” Her voice carried down the street. “Get out of the damn car, you arrogant bastard!”
The man didn’t move. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Without a word, he rolled the window back up.
The Lamborghini purred and pulled smoothly around her, gliding away like a predator too refined to acknowledge prey.
Zara stood there, dripping toast remnants at her feet, cheeks flaming with anger and humiliation. “Unbelievable!” she yelled after it, throwing up both middle fingers. “F*** you, Mr. Midlife-Crisis-on-Wheels!”
Pedestrians stared. An old woman tsked loudly. Zara yanked her hood up, muttering under her breath, “F***ing Seoul men.”
⸻
By the time she reached the mansion, her lungs burned from the sprint and her throat felt dry despite the drizzle. She stood frozen before the gates, the towering glass-and-steel structure looming above her like something out of another world.
Even the hedges looked like they’d been designed by God’s personal landscaper.
She pulled her hoodie tighter, feeling painfully out of place. “What the actual f***…” she whispered.
Inside, she was greeted by Ms. Lee, the warm-faced housekeeper whose kind smile eased Zara’s nerves slightly. But sitting in the luxurious living room, surrounded by chandeliers, marble floors, and perfectly polished leather couches, Zara felt small. Invisible.
Her bag sat in her lap as she muttered, “It’s just cleaning, Zara. Not brain surgery. You scrub floors, get paid, go home. Easy.”
Minutes dragged by. Silence pressed in. Restless, she wandered down a hallway lined with elegant portraits of serious-faced ancestors. Every corner screamed money. Old money. Untouchable money.
Then she heard it.
A muffled sound. A soft moan. Then another—sharper, tangled with ragged breathing.
Zara froze. Her chest tightened.
Someone… was in pain. Or at least, that’s what she thought.
She crept closer, sneakers silent against the marble, pressing her ear against a heavy mahogany door. The sounds became clearer—breaths, gasps, soft cries that made her cheeks burn even as confusion rooted her in place.
“What the hell is going on in there…” she whispered.
The door swung open.
Zara stumbled forward, nearly colliding with the man filling the doorway. Her breath hitched.
It was him.
The Lamborghini. The arrogant stranger.
“You!” she blurted, voice echoing down the corridor. “You’re the psycho who almost ran me over! Do you seriously not know how to drive?!”
Her hands flew wildly as she unleashed her frustration, words tumbling out faster than thought. “You roll your window down, glare at me like you own Seoul, and don’t even apologize? You rich people are all the same!”
The man didn’t interrupt. Didn’t react. His gaze was steady, unreadable—a quiet, dangerous kind of power that made her anger feel like sparks against ice.
Before she could say more, a soft voice cut in.
“Master,” Ms. Lee said gently from behind. “Your interview is ready. Miss Park has been waiting.”
Zara froze.
Master?
Her gaze snapped back to him. The arrogant driver. The man she’d just screamed at without filter.
Her stomach plummeted like a stone.
- Writer
