Han Myeoru woke up with a jolt.
His heart thudded violently, his breath was short and ragged. Cold sweat slid down his temples, soaking the white silk of his pillowcase. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. His mind was still trapped in that place — that winter six years ago — where snow fell quietly and the world around him had seemed to stop.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, eyes squeezing shut.
"Let's stop here, Myeoru. I cant continue this relationship."
"Jae-ha, please I'll do anything just do not leave."
"I'm sorry but I have to go."
The memory slammed into him again. The frost, the sting in her voice, the sight of her back disappearing into the white.
He reached out instinctively — but the only thing his fingers met was the chill of the morning air.
"...It's been years," he muttered hoarsely. "Why am I dreaming of you now?"
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and took a deep, shaky breath. The faint wheeze that followed reminded him what came next. He reached for his inhaler on the bedside table, took two measured puffs, and waited until his lungs loosened.
Outside his window, Seoul was already awake — engines humming, the skyline was painted with early gold.
But inside the penthouse, everything felt cold and devoided of life.
Han Myeoru, billionaire tycoon of **Morae Reum Entertainment (MRE)**, was not a man who believed in nostalgia. He didn't have the time for it — or the luxury. Yet, this morning, his past had chosen to haunt him anyway.
The glass boardroom on the 47th floor reflected Myeoru's discipline—clean, modern, and ruthlessly efficient. Executives filled the seats, tablets and reports spread before them. The large screen displayed charts for brand growth, album sales, and digital trends.
Myeoru, dressed in a charcoal suit, adjusted his cufflinks as his marketing director concluded her presentation.
"As you can see, audience engagement has increased 27% percent this quarter," Director Kim said. "Our artists have maintained first place in Japan and Thailand for five consecutive weeks. North America shows slower traction, however—"
Myeoru's gaze was sharp, cold, and unreadable.
"Numbers aren't the story," he said cutting her off. "We don't chase the market. We define it. I want next quarter's projections emphasizing sustainability and brand loyalty. Morae Reum doesn't just follow trends; we set them."
"Yes, sir," the director replied, scribbling notes frantically.
Another executive cleared his throat. "Sir, about Stardawn Media's collaboration proposal—"
"Declined," Myeoru said without looking up. "Their last three campaigns flopped. We don't associate with failure."
The room fell silent. No one dared challenge him.
Finally, he nodded once, dismissing the meeting. The board members filed out quickly, whispering as they went.
Myeoru ran a hand down his face. Even in a boardroom full of numbers and contracts, fatigue crept in.
Myeoru's office was a fortress of paperwork: contracts, sponsorship renewals, artist schedules, every detail demanding his signature. The skyline stretched endlessly beyond his windows, sunlight reflecting off Morae Reum Entertainment's sleek logo etched in the glass behind him.
Mina, his secretary, moved in and out like a shadow.
"Sir, today's schedule: meeting with the creative team at ten, Japan conference call at noon, and review of the new artist branding campaign before three."
"Cancel the creative team meeting," he said, flipping a file. "They can email me the presentation."
"Yes, sir," she replied, slightly frowning. "They've been preparing that pitch for weeks."
"I trust them," he said curtly. "They don't need me to babysit them."
She paused at the door.
"Also, a request for a private appointment — Ms. Choi Yurim, family law attorney."
He raised an eyebrow. "Family law? That's irrelevant to Morae Reum."
"She mentioned it concerns Ms. Yoon Jae-ha."
Myeoru's pen froze mid-signature. His chest tightened.
"Send her in at 9:15."
Ms. Choi Yurim entered with quiet poise. Navy suit pressed perfectly, leather folder close to her chest. She bowed at the CEO and went on with the mission.
"Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Han. I represent the estate of Ms. Yoon Jae-ha."
Myeoru gestured for her to sit. "Estate?"
"She passed away earlier this month."
The words hit harder than expected. For a moment, he said nothing.
Outside, Seoul was still working, oblivious to the shock inside Morae Reum Entertainment's CEO office.
"She… passed?" His voice faltered.
"Yes," Yurim replied calmly. "And she left instructions regarding her children."
Myeoru's brow furrowed. "Children? I have no children."
Her gaze didn't waver. She opened her folder, sliding a paper across the sleek desk.
"This is a paternity test, notarized. Ms. Yoon requested confirmation before her passing."
His eyes dropped to the sheet — and froze.
Four names. Four Han surnames.
Han Hari. Han Haru. Han Hamin. Han Hayeon.
For a long moment, he couldn't breathe.
"All… all this time?" he whispered.
"Yes. The court confirmed guardianship transfer to you, as their only surviving blood relative. They are six years old."
He ran a hand through his hair, disbelief curling tight in his chest. "She never—she never told me. How—why—"
"She had her reasons," Yurim said softly. "I'm only here to deliver her instructions. The children will arrive Thursday, June 27th. You are not required to attend the funeral. Custody and guardianship are automatic."
Myeoru stared at the folder, the names printed boldly: Hari, Haru, Hamin, Hayeon. Each syllable felt foreign on his tongue.
"You expect me to… raise them?" His voice cracked. "I don't even know them!"
"I understand this is difficult," Yurim said. "Shock is natural. But legally, it is unavoidable. You are their guardian. That is final."
She gathered her belongings and gave him a polite nod.
"If you need assistance with the transition, contact me. All necessary documents are inside this envelope."
Before he could speak, she left. The soft click of the door closed off his world.
The office was quiet. Morae Reum's iconic logo glimmered behind him, trophies and awards perfectly arranged.
He opened the black envelope she left. Inside was a funeral invitation and a short letter written in her neat, familiar handwriting.
Myeoru,
If you're reading this, I am gone. I kept the children from you because I thought it was best. They are Hari, Haru, Hamin, and Hayeon. Six years old. Beautiful, full of life.
Please be kind to them, even when it is difficult. You have always been alone perhaps now these kids will bring you warmth.
Love
Jae-ha
The letter slipped from his fingers, landing silently on the desk.
For six years, he had built walls around himself — walls of business, contracts, numbers, and schedules.
Now, four names had shattered them all.
He stared at the city below, Seoul sprawling endlessly, lights glimmering like stars trapped in concrete.
"Hari… Haru… Hamin… Hayeon." His voice trembled. "My… children."
He laughed quietly, bitterly. "Six years… and now… four reasons to start over."
Outside, winter wind pressed against the windows, howling softly. The same wind that had carried Jae-ha away all those years ago.
Only this time, she would not return.
And Myeoru — billionaire, tycoon, perfectionist — had no choice but to face the storm she left behind.