He turns back, swirling the glass, the lamplight catching the reflection. His smile is cool, utterly dismissive. “Elara, you always were dramatic.” He takes a sip, savoring the taste beforedismissing my entire life’s work, my integrity, my fear. “Go upstairs. Dress properly. We have guests tonight.”
His calmness chills me more than any denial would. He doesn’t even bother to pretend. There is no surprise, no anger, only weary annoyance that I’m making noise before his performance. He knows I know, and he simply doesn’t care. My fury means nothing to him.
“I won’t dress up for your parade of thieves,” I whisper, the fire in my lungs shrinking into a hollow, empty ache.
He sets his glass down with a precisethunk. “You will do what you are told,” he states, his voice low but sharp enough to cut. He looks me up and down—my thick coat, my angry eyes—and then turns back toward the doors with a sigh. “Look, Elara, this is a very important night, okay? Don’t ruin it for me.”
I’m about to retort when he raises a perfect, elegant hand and claps once. The study door swings open and two familiar hulks step in—Chul and Haneul, Papa’s trusted shadows. I’ve grown up with them at the edges of every argument, every threat; they are the muscle behind Papa’s silver tongue, his favorite intimidation tools, and I hate them with the kind of hatred that tastes like metal.
Papa’s smile never wavers. He inclines his head toward me, polite and poisonous. “Please, gentlemen. Escort my dear daughter to her room, and bring her down only when she’s fully dressed and ready to be social.”
Translation, loud and clear: Keep her locked away until she behaves.
I hold his gaze until my vision blurs with fury. He holds mine back, unruffled, the smile still carved on his face.
“This way, ma’am,” Chul says, stepping forward and motioning to the doorway.
They mean what they say. Both men move with that slow, casual readiness that doesn’t need words, the kind of readinessthat can turn into force in a blink. I could resist. I could scream. But it would be stupid. No one is coming to save me.
I know the look on my father’s face when he’s annoyed: cold, small, and dangerous. I remember what resistance costs in this house.
So I keep my head high and follow them down the corridors, the marble swallowing the sound of our footsteps, until we reach the door to my room. They open the door and usher me inside before slamming it shut behind me. The sound echoes like a verdict.
Tears sting my eyes, but I take a deep breath and look around.
My room is exactly as I left it. Clean. Too clean, so I know the staff comes here to clean regularly. I haven’t lived in this room for years.
The walls are still painted that soft blush pink I begged for when I was fifteen, back when I thought color could make me feel safe. The white canopy bed sits perfectly made, lace curtains falling like spiderwebs around the edges. My childhood vanity gleams under the chandelier light, a neat row of old perfume bottles, frozen in time. Framed photos of a smiling girl I hardly recognize line the shelves. It was me, before I understood what being a Chang really meant.
It’s a room for a daughter my father once pretended to love.
I left this room years ago, the same way I left the name that built it.
I shake off the rush of nostalgia that creeps up my spine and stride toward the closet, yanking it open. My breath catches. Hanging right in the center, surrounded by soft silk pastels, is a dress I’ve never seen before. Midnight blue. Sleek. Expensive. And completely wrong.
Of course. My father always plans ten steps ahead. Even for my rebellion. Even for my humiliation.
“What a jerk,” I mutter under my breath.
I snatch the dress off its hanger and pull it on, the satin whispering against my skin as I tug it into place. When I turn to the mirror, I freeze. The neckline plunges far too low, and when I try to pull the hem together to cover my cleavage, it only makes the fabric cling tighter.
A bitter laugh escapes me. “What kind of bastard picks out a dress like this for his daughter?”
My reflection doesn’t answer, just stares back at me—angry, ashamed, and burning with defiance. I want to yank the dress off and run back to my cold little apartment, to the museum’s fluorescent hum and the honest dust on the canvases. But Papa would make a spectacle of that. He would drag me back, humiliate me publicly, and make me perform contrition. So I tuck the panic down, smooth the skirt with hands that are suddenly too shaky, and step out.
Chul and Haneul fall into step beside me like twin sentinels. They nod once when I appear; the motion is automatic and polite, the sort of courtesy that always tastes like a threat. We take the winding steps down, and the hallway opens into the dining room.
I’m ushered in and seated at the long mahogany table. The guests are men I don’t recognize—foreign, powerful, the kind who wear perfectly tailored suits but whose eyes gleam with something darker.
At the head of the table, my father presides like a conductor. He smiles in his usual practiced way and lifts his glass in a tiny, approving motion as if I’ve performed exactly as planned.
“Ah,” he says, loud enough for all the guests to hear. “Elara. You look…magnificent.”
The words are a trap dressed as a compliment. But I remain polite. “Thank you.”
My chair is cold. The dress clings. I tuck my hands in my lap and force a smile I can feel cracking at the edges.
Papa nods at me and begins the ritual: polite chatter, toasts, a laugh. There are lines about art, about philanthropy, about potential buyers flown in from Europe. I hear the phrases now with a different ear—code I have seen in manifests, hints of shipments and routing, of crates that will never be registered in museum records but will disappear into private hands.
