That evening, the house buzzed with excitement—but none of it was for Minah.
Her foster parents and Sana were dressed to the nines, heading out for Sana's lavish pre-wedding gala. Laughter echoed through the hallways, designer perfume lingered in the air, and the sound of heels clicked across polished floors.
Minah wasn't invited.
As always, she was only called upon to run last-minute errands—zip up a dress, hand over forgotten earrings, clean up a spilled bottle of foundation. She was invisible until she was useful.
And then, the front door shut behind them.
Silence.
For the first time in a while, Minah had the entire house to herself. No footsteps, no sneering remarks, no cold commands.
She let out a quiet sigh of relief as she reached her room and dropped her purse onto the bed. Her fingers moved to open it, hoping to retrieve the small comforts she always kept inside—lip balm, tissues, the old photo—
Her hands froze.
The photo was gone.
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Oh no..." she thought, panic rising in her throat. She dug through every pocket, flipped open her wallet twice, three times—but it wasn't there.
Her mind flashed back to earlier. The car. It must've fallen then.
She reached instinctively for the folded piece of paper Hyun Soo had given her. Her thumb hovered over the encrypted number.
She hesitated.
And then... she let her hand fall.
It was just a photo. An old one. If it was gone... maybe it was fate.
Minah set the paper gently back into her drawer and walked to her closet. She changed into her soft cotton pajamas, simple and worn from years of comfort. As she pulled off her blouse, her eyes caught the mirror.
A bruise—faint, but there—on her upper arm.
Her fingers grazed it lightly. The memory of that night still pulsed beneath the skin.
Without a word, she took out the tube of topical cream Jaewook had given her. She uncapped it and applied it slowly, methodically. The cold touch of the ointment was oddly grounding.
Afterward, she sat on the edge of her bed.
She didn't cry. Not like she used to.
She had cried enough growing up—over betrayals, abandonment, and invisible wounds. Somewhere along the way, she stopped expecting kindness. Pain had become her normal.
And that... was the saddest part of all.
_____
The next morning, Minah returned to the office like she always did—quiet, composed, invisible.
But today… the air felt different.
As she stepped into the building and made her way to her desk, no one greeted her. No one whispered about her. No one even made eye contact.
Instead, all eyes were on the flat screens lining the hallway walls.
BREAKING NEWS: H&G Company Faces Financial CollapseFraud Allegations Surface – Bankruptcy on the Horizon
Minah's gaze flickered toward the screen. The bold headline glared back at her. The anchor's voice echoed through the open space, talking about shell companies, misused funds, and anonymous whistleblowers.
Her fingers paused over her keyboard.
H&G… her foster family's company.
The one that used her, discarded her, and treated her like a burden they had no choice but to carry.
She stared at the screen a moment longer.
But she felt… nothing.
No sadness. No panic. Just a quiet emptiness. Maybe even a hint of cold satisfaction.
They deserved it.
Every bit of it.
She wasn't even their real daughter. Just a girl taken in out of obligation—used like a spare key for their social image and household chores.
Now, the empire they guarded so viciously was crumbling. Publicly.
She returned her focus to the computer screen in front of her. Her fingers began typing again with mechanical precision.
But the silence in the office had shifted.
Her coworkers were watching now—stealing glances, whispering without words. The headlines were no longer just news. They were connected to her. To the mute girl in the back corner they always overlooked.
But Minah didn't acknowledge them.
She kept typing.
Because silence was no longer her weakness. It was her armor.
_____
A few hours later, Minah quietly rose from her desk. The office was still tense—eyes still subtly watching her, as though she might erupt, or float, or shatter.
But she didn't do anything dramatic. Just walked calmly to the vending machine near the break room.
She tapped the buttons for her usual tea. The soft clunk of the can dropping echoed louder than usual.
Just then—her phone buzzed.
A message.
From her foster mother.
"The company's in trouble. I have no choice but to marry you off to someone else. He said he's crippled. He also said he only wants you as his wife—otherwise your father and I might not be able to find jobs again. He promised us work if you agree. No blacklist. You'll get a call from him soon."
Minah stared at the screen.
There were no greetings. No apologies. Not even a fake "How are you?"
Just a cold transaction.
Her silence used once again to buy their future.
She didn't cry.
She just stood there, holding her tea, letting the numbness crawl up her spine.
Not even an hour later, the silence shattered.
Two uniformed officers entered the office floor, moving swiftly and with authority. Gasps rippled through the staff.
Behind them was a man in plainclothes—sharp-eyed, confident, and composed.
Kang Ho.
Without hesitation, the officers approached the glass office at the end of the hall. The boss sat inside, smugly reviewing files like nothing had happened.
One of the officers opened the door.
"Park Daejin," he announced, loud and clear, "you're under arrest for the sexual harassment of an employee. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in court."
The boss's face went pale.
"What?! This is a mistake—who said that?!"
He stood up, but it was too late. The handcuffs clicked around his wrists.
Kang Ho stepped forward, followed by two officials from the prosecutor's office. He held up a sealed envelope.
"We have multiple testimonies and security footage. You'll be investigated further downtown."
The entire office froze, stunned.
Minah, still by the vending machine, calmly sipped her tea. No expression. No reaction.
Just quiet vindication.
Her silence had never been louder.