That night, Hana didn't sleep.
She read everything again, pages spread across her desk. The deeper she went, the more nauseous she felt.
Her father hadn't just turned his back on her mother.
He had sided with the woman who likely orchestrated her slow, quiet death.
And Yuna—smug, vicious, spoiled Yuna—was the result. She didn't just benefit. She thrived from the theft.
Her mother had written her final thoughts in pain and suspicion, but she had also written hope.
Hana.
She was the last piece in her mother's fight. And now she had the tools to finish it.
She had nothing to hold onto here; there was no one she could truly rely on, and with every passing day, the absence of support became more suffocating, making it clear that she couldn't afford to remain in a place where even her movements felt constrained and aimless.
What she needed—desperately—was help; and although it pained her to admit it, that help would have to come from her grandparents on her mother's side, the very people she had avoided thinking about for years because of the silence and distance that had grown between them after her mother's mysterious death.
The moment she set foot in England, she would seek them out—not just for comfort or a place to stay, but because she needed answers, and she believed, perhaps naively, that they held the key to unlocking the truth behind the tragedy that had haunted her since childhood; it was a truth buried under years of grief, secrecy, and whispered stories left unfinished, but one that she could no longer run from.
=====
The ballroom glimmered with soft golden light as strings of violins played over the murmurs of high society. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting fractured light across the polished floor. Every corner of the prestigious Angel's Hope Charity Gala was soaked in glamour.
It was supposed to be a night of goodwill, hosted by the prestigious Angel Foundation, where celebrities and elites mingled under the guise of generosity. But Hana knew better.
It was also a battlefield.
Her stepsister, Yuna, stood at the center like a porcelain doll in a floor-length silver gown. She smiled gently, demure, the very image of charity's darling. Cameras flashed with every turn of her head.
Hana lingered near the side of the hall, her dress simpler by choice—black silk, elegant but unassuming. She hadn't come for attention. Only to observe.
But eyes were already shifting her way.
Whispers.
"There she is—the troublemaker daughter."
"Didn't she get caught stealing design credits last year?"
"She looks so bitter standing alone."
She ignored it all, focusing instead on the charity display near the stage—auction items, sealed donations, and art pieces donated by select sponsors.
One piece caught her eye: a sculpture of a phoenix rising from obsidian glass. It was her mother's favorite symbol—rebirth, resilience. She hadn't seen this piece in years.
Her fingers reached toward the tag. Her family's foundation had donated it.
Her mother's name wasn't mentioned.
Of course.
The spotlight suddenly shifted. Applause rang out.
"And the award for the highest individual contribution and charitable initiative of the night," the host declared, "goes to none other than Miss Yuna Yang!"
The crowd erupted. Yuna stepped forward, eyes shimmering with tears she'd rehearsed.
"I never expected this," she said into the mic, voice shaking slightly. "I only wanted to make my late aunt proud. She inspired everything I do."
Late aunt.
Hana's jaw clenched.
You mean my mother.
Yuna stepped off the stage, greeted by hugs, compliments, and photographers. She'd donated a rare music box collection—family heirlooms from the Yang estate.
Hana recognized them. They used to sit in the sunroom, in her mother's glass cabinet.
How had Yuna even gotten them?
As Hana moved forward to confront her, a woman in a red blazer intercepted her.
"Excuse me," she said. "We have to ask you to step outside."
"What?" Hana frowned. "Why?"
"There's been an incident."
They led her to the gallery hallway outside the ballroom. A table had been overturned. Framed auction items lay shattered on the floor. One envelope—containing a donation pledge from a major sponsor—was missing.
"We found this in your bag," said the woman in red.
A uniformed guard stepped forward, holding out a small envelope. Hana stared at it.
"No," she said. "I didn't put that there."
Her voice was calm, but her heart pounded.
A crowd had begun to gather at the hallway entrance.
Yuna, now flanked by her entourage, tilted her head, all innocence.
"Hana," she said softly, "did something happen?"
"You're behind this," Hana hissed.
Yuna blinked. "Me? I was just on stage, remember? And besides, you're the one caught with the envelope."
Click.
A reporter's camera snapped the moment.
Another angle: Hana standing rigid, flanked by security,
Yuna's sympathetic expression glowing under the soft gallery lights.
A headline would write itself.
Ex-Heiress Accused of Theft at Charity Gala.
"I didn't do this," Hana said louder this time, addressing the room.
More faces stared at her. Unreadable. Cold. Curious.
She took a breath.
"I would never steal. Someone planted this."
But no one stepped forward.
No voice defended her.
The weight of silence crushed her lungs.
The event organizers murmured about calling the authorities. Hana's fingers dug into her clutch until her knuckles turned white.
"I'll leave," she said quietly. "This is a mistake. You'll see."
She turned, walking through the parting crowd. No one stopped her. Not even her father. Not even Jin. He just looked like she was a stranger.
Outside, the air was crisp and quiet. Hana leaned against a pillar, trying to breathe.
Framed. Again.
It was like watching a play she couldn't escape from. One where Yuna wore the halo, and she—the villain's horns.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from one of the servers she'd helped once, a girl named Mira.
Check the west stairwell. I saw someone leave the envelope under the sculpture table. It wasn't you.
Hope flared—sharp and fleeting.
She dashed back inside through a side entrance and reached the west stairwell.
There, half-hidden beneath the stairs, was a CCTV unit.
She snapped a photo of the camera's ID code, heart racing. If it caught anything—if—she might still be able to prove it.