Jisoo slammed the door behind her as she entered the towering estate. The echo rang across marble floors, bouncing between walls that had never felt like home.
The scent of orchids lingered in the air—elegant, cold, suffocating. Just like everything in this house.
She didn’t bother calling out. No one here waited to greet her. No one ever had.
In the main sitting room, Madam Seo—principal of Hyeonhwa High and queen of icy gazes—sat poised on a velvet chair. A silk blouse hugged her shoulders, hair pulled into a perfect bun, not a strand out of place. She didn’t look up from her tablet as Jisoo stepped in.
“You’re late,” she said flatly.
Jisoo dropped her bag to the floor. “Club meeting went over time.”
A lie. She wasn’t even part of a club anymore.
Madam Seo tapped once on her screen. “I received a call from the vice principal. A confrontation in Class 2-B? Someone said you caused a scene.”
“I didn’t,” Jisoo said, her voice tight. “She humiliated me in front of everyone.”
Madam Seo finally looked up. “Then perhaps you should stop giving others the chance.”
Her words were like stone. Sharp. Heavy. Meant to bruise.
Jisoo stood there, her fists clenched. “That girl—Jiyun—she acted like I was beneath her. Like I was nothing.”
“Then don’t act like nothing,” Madam Seo replied smoothly, returning to her screen. “You represent me. I’ve given you every tool to succeed. Don’t waste it.”
Jisoo’s throat burned. “You say that like I should be grateful.”
Madam Seo didn’t flinch. “You should be.”
The silence that followed was colder than any slap.
“You’re not even my real mother,” Jisoo said quietly.
She hadn’t planned to say it. But it came out anyway.
Madam Seo stilled. Her expression didn’t change, but her voice dropped. “And yet I raised you. I clothed you. I put you in the best school. I gave you my name. Don’t confuse inconvenience with kindness, Jisoo.”
There it was. The truth dressed in elegance. She was never wanted. Just tolerated.
“You only care when I embarrass you,” Jisoo muttered.
“No,” Madam Seo said. “I care when my name is attached to someone acting like a child.”
Jisoo turned sharply and left the room, blinking back heat in her eyes. She hated crying. Especially in this house. Especially in front of her.
Upstairs, her room was flawless. A vanity with gold trim, expensive curtains, every item placed like it was part of a magazine spread. But it was just a shell. Pretty and hollow.
She sat down in front of her mirror. Her reflection stared back: perfect liner, glossy lips, flawless skin. The kind of girl people envied. But today, none of it mattered.
Because she wasn’t the one they looked at. Jiyun was.
Jiyun, with her plain hair and quiet face. Jiyun, who spoke like she wasn’t afraid of anything. Jiyun, who made her feel—just for a moment—small.
And that burned.
Jisoo opened her drawer and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over her gallery. She scrolled until she stopped on an old image—Areum, standing in front of the scholarship board, a slip of paper in the background.
A cruel smile curled on her lips.
“If she wants to play hero,” Jisoo whispered, “then she can fall like one.”
She had spent her whole life being perfect, wearing someone else’s expectations like armor. But now?
She didn’t want to play perfect anymore.
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