Back in her room that night, Hana pulled off her dress like it was a weight dragging her down. She collapsed onto her bed, eyes burning with exhaustion.
Then her phone rang again.
Mira had sent another message.
It was Yuna's stylist. I saw her sneaking around earlier—silver clutch. Might be worth checking.
So it had been planted.
Hana stared at the ceiling.
This wasn't just sabotage. It was a system.
A network of subtle erasure.
They wanted her gone.
Her name ruined.
Her legacy erased.
But even if she had the evidence to prove her innocence—so what?
Would anyone actually believe her, even with the truth staring them in the face?
She doubted it.
Jin and her father would probably just use their connections to make everything disappear, all to protect Yuna's image.
So why bother?
She'd be gone in a few days anyway.
====
Another gala, another drama.
Apparently, the rich had to attend every glittering event out there if they wanted to stay relevant and secure new business collaborations.
And of course, Hana was stuck in a pickle right now.
Hana ran. Her heart slammed in her chest like a war drum as she spotted Yuna—her stepsister—stumbling at the top of the grand marble staircase, clutching her ankle, eyes wide with shock.
Time slowed for a lightning-struck second: the polished banister gleamed, the world tilted.
Without hesitation, Hana leapt forward, grabbing Yuna's elbow, yanking her back from the brink.
The gasp she drew pulled everyone's attention: glittering guests at the gala, servers frozen mid–champagne pour, eyes snapping to Hana.
For a split second, they saw the heroine: a rescue in motion, a breath held, the near-fall averted.
Then Yuna collapsed to the floor with a thud, clutching her ankle, groaning—not from pain alone, but from shock, humiliation, and something darker.
A hush ripped through the crowd. Yuna's mother rushed forward, face pale but voice cold: "What have you done, Hana?" Her words cut through the static of silence—sharp, accusatory, loaded. "Get her away from Yuna!"
Hana's breath caught. "She tripped—" she began, but was drowned out by a flurry of questions and wild theories.
Whispers echoed: Did Hana push her?Was it intentional?How else could she have fallen?
The staircase glimmered with marble steps, every inch now tainted in rumor.
A couple of staff members hurried to Yuna's side, kneeling, fussing—seemingly to help, but their glances at Hana were wary, suspicious.
"I—I merely saved her!" Hana protested, voice trembling. "I pulled her back—" Her words thudded against the glass walls of accusation.
Every eye bore down, and the air vibrated with the unsaid: Show us proof you didn't push her.
Yuna burst into tears, clutching her leg, wincing sharply. "Mom—" she whimpered. "It's not Hana's fault."
"Yuna, you're too nice. Everyone saw her that she pushed you," Her stepmother hissed.
Drama fueled, blame assigned.
She made sure the guests were watching; she feigned concern while painting Hana as the villain.
Hana swallowed past the burning in her throat. Panic threatened to derail her. This wasn't just about a fall—every terrified gasp, every side‑eye, every frightened whisper created a cage around her.
She had no proof, no witnesses . . . except. Yes, except.
Her gaze snagged on Jin, standing at the edge of the sea of people. His jaw was clenched. His palms were clenched into fists.
And as she looked closer, Jin rounded on his cell phone—and dialed. Immediately.
Jin's actions spoke louder than words: he was calling someone, and Hana felt scared.
Backup to suppress, blame deflect. Hana's shoulders shook. She had no press agent. No alibi. No one to call.
Tonight, she stood alone in a room full of assumptions.
She swallowed hard. "Yuna," she forced herself to speak, though her voice trembled. "I swear to you—I didn't push you. You should know that."
Yuna's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she clutched Hana's hand. "I know you didn't mean for me to fall . . . right?" Her voice was soft, almost trembling. "It's just—your timing was so sudden. One second I was fine, then I slipped, and you were suddenly there to catch me . . . Like always."
She let out a fragile laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe I'm just overthinking it. You're always looking out for me . . . Aren't you, unnie?"
Another murmur rolled across the crowd. It was contagious—everyone now looked on Hana as the manipulator, or maybe the manipulator's patsy. The staircase incident became the pivot around which perceptions spun.
Hana's vision blurred. She needed—had—to do something. Her gaze locked with Jin again. He gestured subtly: glare, phone tucked, nod—conditional.
No support, no trust. Just pure hate for her.