"Are you proud of yourself?"
Father didn't yell. He didn't throw his cup of tea across the room or dramatically disown me like the chaebol fathers in dramas.
He just asked that one, calm, terrifying question while looking at me like I had personally set fire to the stock market.
"I mean…" I fiddled with the edge of my sleeve. "I didn't intend to get drunk. It just… sort of… escalated."
"Escalated?"
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, expression unreadable. We were in his study, that scary place where even the carpets looked judgmental. The huge wall of business awards glared at me like they knew I failed a stockholder report just by existing.
"Let's review," he said slowly. "You drank soju like it was apple juice, tried to pick a fight with a classmate, nearly fainted in front of strangers, and then a man—who you barely know—had to carry you out of a bar."
"Technically, he just helped me stand. I don't remember being carried."
"And then your bodyguard had to step in and nearly got tackled by said classmate," he added with a pointed look.
I winced. "Yeah… that part's on me."
"I told you attending university would lead to trouble. But no. You insisted."
He stood up, walked over to the window, and stared out like a villain preparing to fire someone.
"I'm not going to stop you," he said after a long silence. "But since you want to live like an ordinary person… go live like one."
I blinked. "Wait. What?"
"No staff. No Do Gyu. No daily deliveries from the chef. You'll move into the Yoon Luxe penthouse. Alone."
My mouth dropped open. "The hotel?"
"Yes."
"Well… it's a penthouse. That's not exactly 'ordinary.'"
"I've also frozen your home access and canceled your driver. You'll have to manage on your own. Think of it as character development."
My jaw dropped further. "Are you punishing me with a… luxury exile?!"
"It's not exile."
"I'm being banished to a penthouse in Myeongdong!"
"It's character development," he repeated.
I groaned. "This is rich-person gaslighting."
—
When we arrived at Yoon Luxe Hotel, the valet rushed toward me like a starstruck fan. "Miss Yoon! Shall I—"
I waved him off with a stiff smile. "No need. I've got it."
"Ah, but—your bags, Miss—"
"I can carry them." I gripped the handle of my rose gold suitcase and immediately regretted it. It was heavier than it looked. Who packed this? (Answer: Me. I packed this. With three different hair dryers and an emergency cheese board set.)
By the time I reached the private elevator to the penthouse, I had already broken into an unladylike sweat. I mashed the floor button and exhaled as the doors closed behind me.
"Okay," I told myself in the mirror. "You are an independent woman. You know how to… microwave things. Sort of. You are capable of sorting your own laundry. Kind of. You will survive this."
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened to reveal the penthouse suite—and holy designer sandals, it was gorgeous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the space like a hug from Seoul itself. Everything was sleek: golden accents, warm ambient lighting, and marble that probably cost more than a car. A freestanding tub gleamed in the bathroom like it had never known the disgrace of bath bombs.
It smelled like fresh linen and money.
"This doesn't feel like punishment," I whispered.
But I was alone. No Na Ri to gently wake me up with matcha. No chef-prepped breakfast trays with gold-dusted croissants. No Do Gyu lurking in the shadows like a ninja butler.
I dropped my bags in the center of the living room and turned around slowly. The silence pressed against me. No bustling footsteps. No intercom beeps. Just… nothing.
Being truly alone was weirder than I thought.
My stomach rumbled. Right. Dinner.
I padded into the kitchen, found the induction stove, and stared at it like it had offended me. So many buttons. So many symbols. I opened the fridge—fully stocked, thank God—and pulled out some pre-cut bulgogi and rice.
"I can do this," I muttered, channeling every K-drama housewife I'd ever admired.
After thirty minutes, I had only managed to get the rice cooker to blink. The meat sat raw and judgy in its pack, and my pride lay crumpled on the marble counter.
I gave up and ordered from a restaurant downstairs.
So much for surviving on my own.
—
The next morning, I decided to redeem myself through laundry.
I'd never touched a washing machine before—why would I? Our housekeeper Na Ri usually just whisked my clothes away and returned them crisp, fragrant, and folded with military precision.
But today, I would become That Girl™.
I sorted the clothes by color. (Okay, I Googled what "delicates" meant for ten minutes first.) I found the detergent in the cleaning cabinet, carefully measured what I thought was a capful, and loaded the drum with my softest loungewear and pajamas.
"So far, so good," I said, clapping my hands like a preschool teacher encouraging herself.
I pressed the buttons.
Nothing happened.
Pressed them again.
A beep!
The machine roared to life, screen flashing "Super Eco Bubble Mode," which sounded impressive and safe. I did a little victory dance right there on the bathroom floor. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all.
Ten minutes later, something started to feel… off.
A low hum turned into a rumble. Then a slosh. Then a gurgle.
"Wait… what's that—"
Foam. Everywhere. Suds started leaking from the bottom of the machine. First just a little, then like it was auditioning for a role in a disaster movie.
I shrieked and dove for towels.
"No, no, no—this is not part of the plan!"
The foam spread like gossip. It slithered across the bathroom tiles and into the hallway like it had personal goals. My socks got wet. My sweats were damp. The floor was a warzone of bubbles.
I scrambled to stop it, grabbing a saucepan from the kitchen and scooping suds like my life depended on it.
"This is how I die," I gasped dramatically. "Not from embarrassment or scandal… but laundry!"
The washing machine beeped again—an ominous, unfeeling Error 04: Door Locked. It taunted me. I pressed every button like I was disarming a bomb, but nothing worked.
"Open up!" I shouted, slapping the door like I was interrogating a suspect. "Release my cashmere!"
My back ached. My arms burned. My hair was wet. I had managed to soak my entire upper body by slipping on a rogue foam patch and crashing into the sink.
This wasn't exile. This was humble pie—served cold, soapy, and humiliating.
—
Two hours later, I had finally scooped up most of the mess and called hotel maintenance anonymously to handle the machine.
I lay spread out on the cool marble floor like a tragic heroine after a duel.
The penthouse smelled like detergent and defeat. My phone buzzed somewhere under the pile of wet towels, but I was too weak to care.
"Why didn't I just take Na Ri with me," I mumbled into the tile.
But no.
I had wanted to prove something.
To my father.
To myself.
To the country's tabloids who said I was nothing but a pampered heiress with no spine.
Laundry had proven me right. I was spine-less. Jelly. Slime. A human mop.
But I still had tomorrow.
Right?