The drive takes forty minutes.
I know because I watch the clock on the dashboard, green digits ticking forward while Seoul transforms outside my window. First the airport roads, then highways stacked three levels high, cars weaving between lanes with a speed that would cause accidents back home. Then the city proper—neon signs and cramped streets and people everywhere, walking fast, heads down, purpose in every step.
And then we turn off the main road.
The buildings thin out. Trees appear. Walls start lining the streets—not fences, walls. Tall. Stone. Topped with security cameras that track our car as we pass.
My mother hasn't spoken . She's watching out her own window, fingers twisting the strap of her purse.
"Almost there, ma'am," the driver says.
She nods.
We turn again, and suddenly there's a gate. Black iron. At least twelve feet tall. A guardhouse beside it with two men in uniforms who approach the car before we've even stopped.
The driver rolls down his window. Words are exchanged in Korean. One of the guards looks into the backseat—at my mother first, then at me. His face reveals nothing. He steps back, says something into a radio, and the gates begin to open.
We pull forward.
The driveway is long. Lined with trees that look like they've been here for a hundred years, branches trimmed into perfect shapes. The grounds stretch out on either side—gardens, a fountain, what looks like a separate building half-hidden behind hedges.
And then the house.
No. Not a house.
I don't know what to call it. Mansion feels too American. Estate feels closer. It's modern—all clean lines and glass and dark wood—but massive. Three stories at least, sprawling wide across the manicured lawn. A fleet of cars is parked near what must be a garage. Black. Silver. One red one that looks like it costs more than a year of college tuition.
My mother breathes out slowly.
"It's... big," she says.
I don't respond.
The car stops in front of the main entrance. The driver exits, rounds the vehicle, opens my mother's door first. She steps out, wobbles slightly on her heels. I follow, and the air hits me—cool, clean, carrying the faint scent of flowers I don't recognize.
An older woman is waiting at the door , she was wearing a Black dress. Hair pulled back so tight it looks painful.
"Mrs. Brooks," she says. Her English is precise, each word carefully formed. "Welcome. I am Head Housekeeper Park. I manage the household staff."
My mother extends her hand. The woman looks at it for a moment, then shakes it briefly.
"And this is your daughter."
The housekeeper's eyes move to me, i meet her gaze and don't look away.
"Amara," my mother supplies. "She goes by Mara."
I don't correct her. I haven't gone by Mara since middle school, but now isn't the time.
"The Chairman is waiting in the main sitting room," the housekeeper says, already turning. "Follow me."
We follow.
The inside of the house is somehow worse than the outside. Marble floors so polished they reflect the chandeliers above. Art on the walls that looks old enough to belong in museums. A staircase that curves upward like something out of a period drama. Everything is immaculate. Everything is cold.
Our footsteps echo.
I count doors as we pass. Four. Five. Six. All closed. All identical. The hallway seems to stretch forever, and I'm suddenly aware of how wrinkled my clothes are, how flat my hair has gone from the flight, how out of place we look in this house that has probably never seen a suitcase held together with safety pins.
The housekeeper stops at a set of double doors. Knocks once.
A voice from inside. Deep. Korean.
She opens the door.
"Chairman Kang," she announces. "Your guests have arrived."
# Chapter Two: The Estate (Block Two)
The sitting room is bigger than our old apartment.
I think that, then immediately hate myself for thinking it. But it's true. The space opens up around us—cream-colored sofas arranged around a marble coffee table, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a garden, shelves lined with books that look like they've never been touched.
And in the center of it all, a man rises from his seat.
Chairman Kang.
He's tall. That's the first thing I notice. Taller than I expected, with broad shoulders beneath a suit that's clearly been tailored to his body. His hair is more gray than black, swept back from a face that's handsome in a severe way—sharp jaw, sharp cheekbones, eyes that take in everything and give away nothing.
He's looking at my mother like she's the only person in the room.
"Elena." His voice is lower in person. Softer than I expected. He crosses to her in three strides and takes both her hands in his. "You're here."
My mother's whole body changes. Shoulders dropping. Tension leaving her spine. She looks up at him and something in her face goes young and open in a way I haven't seen in years.
"I'm here," she says.
He leans down. Kisses her forehead. Gentle. Almost reverent.
I look away.
The housekeeper has vanished. The double doors are closed. I'm standing three feet from my mother and this man, and I have never felt more invisible.
"And this must be Amara."
I look back. He's released my mother's hands and turned to face me. Those assessing eyes—I see where the power comes from now,Just certainty. The absolute confidence of a man who has never been questioned in his own home.
"Mara," my mother corrects softly. "She prefers—"
"Amara is fine."
The words come out flatter than I intended. My mother's face tightens. But Chairman Kang just nods, studying me with an expression I can't read.
"Amara, then." He gestures toward the sofas. "Please. Sit. You must be exhausted from the flight."
We sit. My mother beside him on one sofa. Me across from them on another. A woman in a uniform appears from nowhere with a tray—tea, small pastries arranged in neat rows, cloth napkins embroidered with a letter K.
"The boys will be joining us for dinner," Chairman Kang says, pouring tea for my mother first. "They had classes today, but they should be back within the hour."
The boys.
His sons.
My future stepbrothers.
My mother has told me almost nothing about them. Twins. Nineteen—one year older than me. Students at some university I've never heard of. That's it. Every time I asked for more, she changed the subject. Like if she didn't talk about them, they wouldn't be real.
"I'm sure they're looking forward to meeting us," my mother says.
It sounds like a question.
Chairman Kang's hand pauses on the teapot. Just for a second. A hesitation so brief I almost miss it.
"They're... adjusting to the idea," he says carefully. "It's been just the three of us for a long time. Change is difficult."
My mother nods like she understands.
I take a sip of tea I don't want and say nothing.
The conversation moves on. Chairman Kang asks about the flight. My mother answers. He mentions the wedding plans—small, private, next month. My mother agrees with everything he says. Yes, that sounds lovely. Yes, whatever you think is best. Yes, yes, yes.
I watch them.
He touches her constantly. Small things—a hand on her knee, fingers brushing her shoulder, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She leans into every touch like she's starving for it.
Maybe she is.
I try to remember the last time someone touched her like that. The last time anyone touched me like that.
I can't.
The tea grows cold in my cup. The pastries sit untouched. My mother laughs at something Chairman Kang says, a real laugh, bright and unfamiliar, and I realize I don't know her at all.
Somewhere in the house, a door slams.
Chairman Kang's expression flickers.
"That would be the boys," he says.
Footsteps in the hallway, Getting closer.
My mother straightens her spine.
I set down my teacup and wait.
The double doors swing open.