Chapter 2 : The Weight of Silence
The iron gates creaked as they opened, revealing a massive mansion. Yeri pressed her forehead against the cool window of Yunjun's black sedan, watching the mansion grow larger as they got closer. Its windows shone like cold, unblinking eyes in the late afternoon sun.
She had packed only a single suitcase, though no one had told her how long she would be staying. Yunjun hadn't spoken since they left the city, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. The silence between them felt dense and stifling.
When the car stopped, he didn't look at her. "Get out," he said, his voice cold and lacking warmth.
Yeri's fingers fumbled with the seatbelt clasp. The moment her shoes touched the marble pathway, she felt it—the heavy weight of the place. The air smelled artificially clean, like lemon polish and money. There was no trace of the earthy warmth she was used to.
A man in a sharp black suit appeared at the door. "Welcome home, young master," he said, bowing slightly. His eyes flicked to Yeri with barely concealed curiosity before returning to a neutral expression.
The first week passed in a blur of exhaustion.
Yeri quickly learned that in this house, she existed in a strange limbo—not quite a guest, not quite staff. Yunjun had told the household nothing about who she was or why she was there. The servants whispered behind their hands when they thought she couldn't hear.
Her days began before dawn. She would wake to find a list of tasks slipped under her door—polish the silver, scrub the terrace tiles, organize the library. The work was menial but endless, meant to keep her moving until her muscles ached and her fingers grew raw.
Yunjun observed her with cold detachment, always appearing at unexpected moments. She would turn a corner and find him leaning against a doorframe, watching her with those unreadable dark eyes. Sometimes he would deliberately knock over a glass just to see her clean it up, his lips curling when she didn't react.
But his sister Soojin was even worse.
"Careful, country mouse," Soojin purred the first time she found Yeri dusting the family portraits. The older girl trailed a perfectly manicured finger along the piano, checking for dust. "That vase you just polished? Ming dynasty. Worth more than your entire village."
Yeri kept her head down, breathing evenly. She had learned this lesson young—being still was safer than reacting.
Soojin's cruelty was more inventive than her brother's. She would "accidentally" spill tea on freshly laundered sheets, forcing Yeri to wash them again. She would schedule conflicting tasks and then scold Yeri for not completing her work. Once, she locked Yeri in the wine cellar for hours, claiming she had forgotten about her.
Through it all, Yeri never protested. Never cried.
But her eyes—
Yunjun caught himself staring at them when she thought no one was looking. In the moment before she noticed him, her guard would drop. In those unguarded moments, her dark eyes held oceans of emotion—not anger, not even resentment, but something much more unsettling. A quiet, enduring sadness that seemed to reach into his chest and squeeze.
Yeri was carrying a heavy breakfast tray up the grand staircase when her foot caught on the uneven edge of a Persian rug. Time slowed as the tray tilted—porcelain teapot sliding, delicate china plates wobbling, silverware clattering against the marble steps.
The crash echoed through the silent house like gunfire.
For one awful moment, Yeri simply stood frozen, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Then she dropped to her knees, gathering shards with trembling fingers. A thin line of blood welled where a piece cut into her palm, but she didn't seem to notice.
Soojin appeared at the top of the stairs, her silk robe fluttering. "Useless," she sighed, examining her perfect nails. "That was mother's favorite set. Do you have any idea what you've just done?"
Yeri's shoulders hunched slightly, but she kept cleaning in silence. A drop of blood smeared across the white marble.
Yunjun, who had been watching from the shadowed hallway, felt something primal twist in his gut. He had wanted to punish her, to make her feel even a fraction of the anger burning in his chest for months. But this—this silent suffering, this quiet dignity in the face of cruelty—was not what he had expected.
"Enough," he found himself saying, stepping into the light.
Soojin turned, surprised. "She broke—"
"I said enough." His voice was sharper than he intended.
Yeri didn't look up, but he saw how her breath hitched. He saw the single tear that escaped before she could blink it away, tracing a lonely path down her cheek.
That night, Yunjun lay awake staring at his ceiling. The image wouldn't leave him—Yeri's bloody hands, the way her teeth had sunk into her lower lip to keep it from trembling, the sound the china made when it shattered.
For the first time since bringing her here, he wondered if he had crossed a line he couldn't justify. The thought settled like a stone in his stomach, heavy and uncomfortable.
Down the hall, Yeri sat on the edge of her narrow bed, staring at her bandaged hand. The house was so quiet she could hear the grandfather clock ticking three rooms away. She missed the sound of crickets through an open window, the distant laughter of neighbors, the comforting creaks of a home that had been lived in.
Here, even the silence felt expensive.
She lay back, pressing her palms against her burning eyes. Just a little longer, she told herself. Just until she figured out what game Yunjun was playing. Because this—the cruelty, the mind games—had to be a game.
Didn't it?
To be continued....
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