Mornings in the Han household never began with the sunrise — they began with voices.
Somewhere downstairs, the aunts were already arguing — about breakfast, someone's child, or the stock market. An uncle was on the phone, loudly, as if time didn't exist. Doors slammed, a dog barked, and in the corner, his younger brother had already lost two chess matches to Grandpa and one to Grandma.
Meanwhile, Han Temu was brushing his teeth.
Silently. In the only peace he could afford. He had his own bathroom — a rare privilege. Because the Han mansion wasn't just a house. It was a fortress. A kingdom. A luxury commune. More than six families lived under one roof, if you counted by household heads. And at the top of it all stood one man — Grandfather.
Every word, every step, every shirt — all under his control. Han Temu had known that since he was three years old.
He dreamed of escape. Not with a backpack and a train ticket, but just for a day. An hour. One moment where he could breathe — where he wasn't "the grandson," or "the heir," or "the CEO's son."
So today, he made a decision.
"Pick out something for a date," he told his stylist over the phone, patting his face with a towel. "Something stylish. Casual. Like I didn't try, but perfect."
"A date?" the stylist asked, surprised.
"A blind date," Temu said with a smirk. "I'll drop the news on my parents: 'Mom, I'm getting married.' Maybe then she'll focus on the future daughter-in-law instead of me."
The stylist laughed. Temu didn't.
This was his chance to breathe.
Han Temu sat down for breakfast at the massive dining table. As always, the seats were arranged according to the family's strict hierarchy: Grandfather at the head, then his sons beside him, followed by the grandsons and great-grandsons.
Temu's seat was close to both Grandfather and his own father — a place of both honor and pressure.
It was the second day Temu couldn't eat. Stress had taken its toll. His body rejected any kind of food. Still, he picked up his chopsticks and tried.
Across the table, his mother's voice rang out sharply.
"The stylist says something about a date?" she asked, her tone icy. "A blind date?"
Everyone froze.
"You will only marry a woman over my dead body!" she snapped, glaring at him.
Han Temu deeply regretted ever mentioning the blind date to his stylist. Now the whole family was talking about him, and only him.
It began with Grandfather.
"Girls like that only want money," he said harshly. "They'll steal from my company and vanish into thin air."
The aunts chimed in next.
"Well, to be fair… Temu's not that young anymore," one of them muttered.
Then came his father's voice, cold and accusing.
"If you've got time to run around on blind dates, you should have time to fix the company issues."
The uncle nodded in agreement, and Grandfather didn't miss a beat.
"Yes, yes! Ever since the company was handed to you, things have been falling apart."
Temu stood up from the table.
He made his way to the bathroom, trying not to draw attention to himself.
The moment he closed the door behind him, his knees weakened.
He leaned over the sink, trembling.
Nausea hit him hard, and a wave of panic followed.
His stomach ached from hunger, but he couldn't eat.
He just couldn't.
His body rejected everything, and his mind was screaming.
It was time to leave for work.
The car was already waiting outside — with the driver and Temu's father inside, ready to monitor every move his son made.
He wasn't going to let Temu sneak off to a blind date.
Just before leaving, Temu's stylist rushed in, holding up two carefully chosen outfits.
Temu barely had time to look when his mother stormed in.
Without a word, she snatched one of the suits from the stylist's hands.
Then, right in front of Temu and his father, she grabbed a pair of scissors from a nearby drawer and cut the suit to shreds.
No one dared to speak.
"I'm not just going on a blind date… I'm getting married. Or I'll run away from home."
"I'm tired…"
"I'm tired!"
"I'll move out… Anywhere, I don't care. I'm twenty-seven, and they treat me like I'm seven."
"The candidate that caught my attention is Lim Cha-yeon. She owns a global boutique chain. It's not exactly a corporation, but… I think it'll be fine."
"While my parents are busy preparing for the wedding, I'll finally get some rest."
"soon..."
"soon!"
Han Temu's daily routine as a CEO was a constant cycle of pressure and perfection.
He arrived at the office by 7:00 a.m., already having checked his email in the car. The moment he stepped into the building, assistants swarmed him with updates, files, and schedules. He reviewed financial reports, signed off on dozens of approvals, and attended endless meetings—shareholders, partners, marketing, HR, product development.
Every decision had to be precise. Every signature, carefully thought out. And yet, even in this whirlwind of responsibilities, there was his father. Always standing behind him—sometimes literally.
"Your tie is crooked."
"That report has a typo."
"You smiled too much in that meeting."
Han Temu couldn't breathe without being corrected. Even his coffee was a target: "You drink too much. It makes you look nervous."
Lunch? Fifteen minutes, usually skipped. Breaks? Not allowed. His father insisted real CEOs didn't rest—they pushed through.
And every time Han Temu tried to make a decision independently—approve a new hire, invest in an idea, support a charity—his father was there, questioning it, doubting it, often overruling it.
By 9 p.m., the building grew quiet. Staff left. But Temu stayed. Reviewing numbers again, checking details again, proving himself again—just to hear:
"You could've done better."
The foreign investors finally arrived at the office—late, due to difficult weather conditions. Han Temu stood to greet them, his hands cold, jaw clenched. But his father only smiled and said,
"No worries at all. We understand."
The meeting was moved to a nearby high-end restaurant for everyone's comfort. But for Han Temu, comfort was the last thing he felt.
His heart started racing. His palms were sweating. A sharp twitch began under his left eye—his worst nervous tic. He felt dizzy, suffocated. The walls felt too tight. The room too loud. The pressure unbearable.
Without a word, he suddenly got up and rushed to the restroom, nearly bumping into a waiter on the way. He locked himself inside one of the stalls, chest heaving.
But it didn't take long before he heard a firm voice just outside the door.
"Han Temu. What kind of behavior is this?" It was his father.
"Get back to work. Now."
There was a small window near the ceiling—one of those ventilation types that tilt outward just enough to let in some air.
Han Temu didn't think. His body acted before his mind could catch up. Desperation took over.
He reached up and pushed on the window.
It opened slightly, just like it was meant to. Just a crack of air.
But that wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
Temu's chest ached. His head throbbed.
He leaned into the window—his whole weight pressing forward.
With a sudden snap and crack, the glass broke.
Not shattered—but the entire vent-style frame bent outward, forced by the pressure of his body.
The cool wind hit his face.
And for the first time that day—he breathed.
By some miracle, Han Temu squeezed through the narrow frame.
As his feet hit the ground outside, he ran.
No plan. No destination. Just… away.
He bolted like a fugitive fleeing the scene of a crime, lungs burning, wind whipping against his face.
No phone.
No wallet.
Not even a coat.
Inside the building, his father stood fuming.
"Han Temu!!"
But Temu hadn't forgotten his goal.
With shaking legs and an aching body, he walked. Step by step.
He had no phone, no car, no help—only the boutique's address burned into his memory.
"Just a little further…" he whispered.
His vision blurred. His breath came in short, shallow bursts.
And then—he saw it.
The boutique.
The building stood elegant and bright, like a dream from a faraway world.
A girl—Lim Cha-yeon—stood by the staff entrance.
Temu opened his mouth.
"H-hello…"
But the words never came.
He collapsed right at her feet.