Chapter 1
The villa was deep in the mountains.
Beyond a rusted white fence, thick trees grew close together. Through the bare branches stripped of leaves, a red log cabin could be seen.
Kang Ryun pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of his coat and put it between his lips. Click. His Dunhill lighter flicked open, and the tip of the cigarette glowed red.
Hoo. The scenery before him was instantly clouded with pale smoke. Staring at the view through indifferent eyes, Kang Ryun finally spoke.
“Is this Oh Hwabaek’s house?”
His low, husky voice flowed out. Dry yet pleasing to the ear, it matched the frigid winter air so well that white breath visibly drifted from his lips.
Secretary Yoon, who had quietly approached him at some point, answered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fitting, for an artist—this place feels like it’s straight out of a fairy tale.”
“He built this villa for his sick wife. Now, he lives here with his daughter. His wife passed away thirteen years ago.”
A flat laugh slipped from Kang Ryun’s mouth.
“Passed away. The backstory is perfectly tragic, too.”
He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and walked toward the gate in the fence. Dry leaves crunched and broke beneath his shoes.
When Kang Ryun stopped in front of the gate, his secretary pressed the old doorbell. A simple chime rang out twice, then a deep, middle-aged man’s voice came through.
“…Who is it?”
There was a faint edge of caution in the voice.
A tragic artist who once dominated an era before vanishing in disgrace—
the man who had painted the piece Kang Ryun needed to secure Huayang Group.
It was Oh Yeontaek, the painter.
“It’s been a while, Master Oh.”
Kang Ryun leaned closer to the lens attached to the intercom and lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile.
Everything had started a week ago, at Chairman Cha Junseong’s birthday party.
It was meant to be a quiet family gathering, just as Chairman Cha had wanted. In the garden of the mansion, where everyone had gathered, the harp played Handel’s B major softly in the background.
“I changed the will.”
Kang Ryun froze in the middle of cutting his steak.
His sharp eyes snapped to his father, the man who had just dropped that absurd statement.
The warm atmosphere—though never exactly cheerful—instantly iced over.
“Are you serious?”
“When have I ever made a joke about my will?”
“Ah, you’re always serious. The problem is you keep changing it.”
Kang Ryun countered coldly, lifting one corner of his mouth in a smile. He set his utensils down and dabbed at his lips with a napkin.
Everyone at the table, except for Chairman Cha Junseong, held their breath and watched.
The only two people who could speak in that moment were Kang Ryun and Chairman Cha Junseong—father and son.
“So, what’s the new clause?”
“Finish your meal first.”
“I’ll wait. Take your time.”
“And you?”
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
At Kang Ryun’s signal, the servants swiftly cleared his plate. In the brief bustle, Madam Bang quietly approached him.
“Shall I bring you some tea?”
“Not tea—just a cup of coffee, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
At his plain response, the servants moved efficiently once more.
Before long, a cup of warm, freshly brewed coffee was placed before him. Kang Ryun took a sip and locked eyes with Chairman Cha. The chairman’s gaze was sharp—so clear and fierce that one wouldn’t believe he’d been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.
Kang Ryun. The only child of Chairman Cha Junseong, and the undeniable successor to Huayang Group.
Half of Huayang was already his. His mother Yoo Chaei’s shares, the stakes his maternal family Yeonho Group held—everything tilted in his favor. If he were to call a shareholders’ meeting at this moment, the chairman’s seat would change hands.
Junseong found this fact deeply unpleasant.
He was still alive. Terminal. Lung cancer. Will—none of those words could kill him yet. He still believed that he alone should be the center of this household. With that raw sense of authority and envy, he spoke to Kang Ryun.
A cutting tone dripped from his lips.
“You look so smug.”
The words dripped with jealousy and disapproval. One of Kang Ryun’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he faced him.
“Who knows.”
“A man who can handle himself so well—why bother with trivialities like my will?”
“Because that triviality is the cleanest solution.”
“What?”
“Following your will is the quickest and cleanest way. You know how important appearances are for this position.”
“You insolent bastard.”
“Can’t deny whose blood runs in me.”
“You—!”
Chairman Cha glared at his son murderously. In response, Kang Ryun only raised the corner of his mouth again and took another sip of coffee. He hadn’t said anything untrue. The only reason he hadn’t called a shareholders’ meeting yet was because his father was still alive.
There was no need to pick a fight with his father’s fragile ego and authority. He would win, anyway.
The tension at the table grew heavier under their clash. The faint sound of cutlery clinking had long vanished. Only the gentle notes of the harp lingered in the suffocating air.
As the music swelled toward its climax, someone finally spoke.
Cha Jin Taek—Chairman Cha’s only brother and Kang Ryun’s uncle.
“Brother, please calm down. He is, after all, your only son.”
“If a brat like him is my blood, then I’ve lived my life all wrong.”
“Brother.”
Cha Jin Taek’s voice was gentle, his expression warm and harmless to anyone who looked at him.
Kang Ryun’s gaze turned cold as he looked at his uncle.
Five billion won. That was how much Cha Jin Taek had embezzled through the gallery his son ran—fifty billion won funneled away behind everyone’s back.
He shifted his eyes back to his father, who was now openly chatting with Jin Taek as if nothing had happened.
Seeing his father’s complete lack of caution, Kang Ryun lifted one corner of his mouth again.
A toothless, clawless tiger, playing into a fox’s whisper.
After buttering his brother up for a while, Cha Jin Taek finally asked the question.
“So, Brother, what’s the new clause in the will?”
At that, Kang Ryun let out a short laugh.
What a joke.
At his sudden laugh, everyone’s eyes turned to him.
He met Jin Taek’s gaze and shrugged his shoulders.
“My apologies.”
“Ahem.”
Embarrassed at being mocked so openly, Jin Taek cleared his throat awkwardly and turned his head. Then Chairman Cha Junseong spoke.
“Oh Yeontaek’s eleventh painting.”
His tone was resolute.
“Whoever brings that to me will inherit Huayang.”
Everyone held their breath.
Only the harp’s melody floated across the heavy table.
Sunlight drifted through the windows of the second-floor study, making the floating dust shimmer slowly.
It was a peaceful, even cozy scene—except that the cherry wood shelves lining the walls weren’t filled with books, but with Oh Hwabaek’s artworks.
Kang Ryun walked slowly, examining each painting in turn, then spoke.
“My father really is shameless, isn’t he?”
“…”
“He’s the one who put you in this position.”
Each painting differed in size and color. But at the bottom right corner, they all bore a serial number and the same name: Oh Yeontaek. Sitting in a single armchair at the center of the study, Oh Yeontaek cast an uncomfortable look at Kang Ryun.
“If you knew all that, why come here unannounced?”
“If you’d given an answer when my secretary came, I wouldn’t have had to trouble myself to come in person.”
An awkward silence settled between them.
Finished with the paintings, Kang Ryun turned to a small framed photo set beside one. It was a picture of Oh Yeontaek and a little girl, presumably his daughter.
Kang Ryun picked up the frame and looked back at Oh Yeontaek.
The old artist stared him down with a stiff expression.
“Your daughter’s adorable. Must be an old photo.”
“Stick to talking about my paintings.”
“I see you know exactly why I’m here. That’s good.”
Oh Yeontaek frowned, glaring at Kang Ryun, who only lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug before setting the frame back down. He slowly sat opposite the old artist on another sofa.
The sunlight was warm enough that Kang Ryun’s expression softened into something almost lazy. He gestured to his secretary. At the signal, Secretary Yoon, who had been waiting by the door, stepped forward and handed Oh Yeontaek a document envelope.
As Oh Yeontaek opened the envelope, Kang Ryun began to speak, his tone slow and deliberate.
Here’s the continued translation, keeping Kang Ryun and Seoyeon unchanged:
As Oh Yeontaek opened the envelope, Kang Ryun spoke slowly, his voice unhurried.
“It’s the contract. The conditions are all there. I’m sure you’ll find them generous enough.”
Oh Yeontaek’s eyes scanned the documents, his brows furrowing deeper with every page he flipped.
“You think you can buy anything with money, don’t you.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘compensation.’” Kang Ryun let out a soft laugh. “A fair price for a fair deal.”
Oh Yeontaek closed the envelope with a snap and glared at him.
“Not that one. I’ll never hand over the eleventh painting.”
Kang Ryun’s fingers drummed lightly on the armrest. He looked at the older man as if studying him.
“That painting is worth more than your daughter’s future?”
Oh Yeontaek’s shoulders stiffened.
Kang Ryun’s cold eyes curved slightly, as if satisfied to see the old man’s reaction.
“You know exactly who I am, Master Oh. If you refuse, I’ll have to find another way. But I’d rather keep this civil, out of respect for your name.”
Oh Yeontaek’s hand clenched around the envelope.
“I don’t care what your father promised you. That painting stays with me until I die.”
Kang Ryun leaned back in the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. He watched the old artist’s stubborn face with an unreadable expression.
“You misunderstand. My father didn’t ‘promise’ me anything. He made it a condition. I don’t care about his throne—but that painting is mine.”
The words came out so calmly that they were more terrifying than any threat.
Oh Yeontaek opened his mouth to say something, then shut it tight again. His eyes were bloodshot.
Kang Ryun glanced at Secretary Yoon, who quietly stepped forward and placed a second, thinner envelope on the table.
Kang Ryun spoke again, his tone like silk over steel.
“That’s for Seoyeon.”
Oh Yeontaek’s eyes twitched at the name.
Kang Ryun smiled faintly.
“Your daughter will live well. She’ll never have to worry about her future. This is the last time I’ll ask nicely.”
Oh Yeontaek looked at the envelope on the table as if it were something filthy.
“You devil…”
“Call me whatever you want,” Kang Ryun said, standing up. He buttoned his coat slowly, his every movement unhurried. “But don’t pretend you don’t know how the world works. You can’t protect both—your painting or your daughter’s life after you’re gone. Pick one.”
He turned away from the seated old man.
As Kang Ryun stepped past the shelves lined with paintings, he paused, just for a moment, and turned his head slightly.
“I’ll be back, Master Oh. I always get what I want.”
And with that, he left the study. Behind him, the faint sound of the old painter’s breathing grew rougher and rougher.
Outside the villa, Kang Ryun stopped on the porch for a moment. He pulled out another cigarette, lit it, and exhaled slowly into the crisp winter air.
He glanced up at the window of the study.
“Seoyeon.”
Her name left his lips in a whisper, carried away by the wind and the thin trail of smoke.
