Hana didn't plan to go into the library that night. But the house was too empty, too silent, and sleep was a distant memory.
She wandered the halls, drawn by the weight of something . . . unfinished.
The library door was cracked open. A sliver of lamp light spilled out, soft and golden. She pushed it wider, stepping inside.
Dust motes sailed through the air like little ghosts. The heavy scent of old books wrapped around her.
Rows of leather-bound volumes stood in silent silence, and a massive mahogany desk sat beneath the window. Papers were strewn as if someone had been searching—something she knew all too well.
Exactly where she would never go—until now.
The desk drawer clicked under her fingers, and inside she found it: an old leather-bound book, worn at the spine. No title. A lock. The keyhole looked small enough for a skeleton key.
Her pulse raced.
She'd seen similar diaries in her mother's room as a child—always locked, always off-limits. Her stepmother dismissed them as "childish relics." Her father never intervened.
Now, in the last remaining quiet of the night, she slid the diary into her bag, along with a small flashlight.
Everything felt electric—like lightning had run through her body.
In her room, she closed the door and flicked on the light. The diary lay on her bed, silent challenge beneath its cracked leather.
She knelt, unzipped her bag, and pulled out the key—an old antique she'd stolen from the desk's keyring days ago. It fit perfectly. The lock clicked.
Her heart pounded as she opened the first page.
September 15, 20XX
"Without me, this family would have nothing. My father refused to support him if he didn't marry me. And his parents? They gave me the estate, the trust so I would marry him . . . everything that underwrites this fortune."
Hana's breath hitched.
She never really knew her grandparents from the mother side, or how much a dynasty of wealth and influence they have.
But her mother's? Her mother had told her blank lies: that her husband built his wealth from scratch, that he'd loved her deeply. The diary said otherwise.
The next entry.
November 2, 20XX
"He still doesn't trust me. Every boardroom meeting, he looks at me like I'm an intruder. His heart belongs to that other family. He'd rather build a life with them than acknowledge my existence."
So that explained the mistreatment. The coldness. Her mother's desperate fight to maintain dignity while silently bleeding.
As Hana turned pages, the tone grew darker.
February 9, 20XY
"I found the letter today. The one I never should have discovered. My husband's letter to her, his other family. This confirms it: he promised her as a bride, but my family forced his marriage to me instead."
Her mother's words painted a clearer picture:
He never stopped loving her. Yuna is not only his mistress's child—but the heir of the one his heart belonged to.
The betrayal didn't stop.
Hana's fingers clenched the pages.
The accident.
Her mother's sudden collapse in the garden—perfectly healthy one moment, gone the next.
Everyone called it a heart attack. But she remembered her mother's strength—how she jogged every morning, ate well, rarely even caught a cold.
She hadn't been weak. She hadn't been sick.
And now, the diary whispered something far darker.
A suspicion unspoken.
Not just neglect.
But poison.
No autopsy. No questions. Her stepmother had cried loudest at the funeral while Hana could barely speak. It had all happened so fast, like someone wanted it that way.
By the time her mother wrote those entries, she had already sensed it—felt herself growing weaker, yet no one believed her.
Not even Hana.
December 1, 20XY
"I gave everything and got nothing. I taught her . . . my daughter, Hana—teach her to fight. One day she will be strong enough to claim what is rightfully hers."
It shattered something deep inside Hana.
Her mother hadn't just died.
She had been taken.
And those responsible were still in the house. Still smiling. Still lying.
The diary slipped from her trembling hands.
The world spun.
Later, Hana found herself back in the family library. She needed more.
Proof.
Evidence.
She remembered the safe, hidden behind a portrait in the study wall. Her father used it during business meetings. Sometimes she'd peek from the hallway.
Her fingers worked fast.
Click.
The key turned.
The door swung open.
Inside—ledgers, folders, stacks of real estate deeds, and business transfers.
She sifted through them quickly, and then froze.
A set of documents showed money being rerouted—Yang assets transferred through dummy corporations to the her stepmother and Yuna's name. Large amounts, repeated over the course of a year.
Even trust funds marked in her mother's name had been funneled elsewhere.
One company's name appeared over and over—B.M. Holdings, a firm supposedly dissolved before Hana was even born. Yet it was active. And the majority shareholder?
Her stepmother.