Chapter 1-A Funeral Procession for the Rich
Nobody arrived before Imha Park.
They waited for her.
Winter rain poured endlessly over Seoul, drowning the city in silver light while black luxury cars stretched across the entrance of the Haneul Estate like a funeral procession for the rich. Camera flashes flickered violently against the storm. Politicians disappeared behind marble pillars. Socialites laughed too loudly beneath crystal chandeliers. Somewhere inside, an orchestra played softly enough to sound expensive.
Then her car arrived.
A midnight-black Maybach rolled to a stop before the grand staircase, and the atmosphere shifted instantly.
Silence.
The chauffeur opened her door carefully, almost respectfully, as though even one careless movement around Imha Park could become dangerous.
She stepped out in black silk and diamonds, untouched by the chaos surrounding her. Her dark hair fell perfectly against bare shoulders while silver earrings caught beneath the flashing cameras like shards of ice. Beautiful—painfully so—but distant in a way that made people nervous.
Men admired her.
Women copied her.
Nobody truly knew her.
Online, they called her The Ice Princess of Cheongdam.
Tonight, she looked colder than winter itself.
Imha climbed the marble stairs without looking at the cameras once, her expression unreadable despite the hundreds of eyes fixed on her. But hidden beneath the elegance was exhaustion—the kind born from years of pretending wealth could replace freedom.
Upstairs, away from the music and champagne, her name was spoken quietly beside a man standing alone near the ballroom windows.
“Imha Park is here.”
Vincent Harlow finally looked up.
Dark eyes.
Sharp suit.
The kind of calm that usually belonged to dangerous men.
Their eyes met across the ballroom for less than a second.
It was enough to ruin both of them.
Imha didn’t look away first.
To concede—even silently—was a lesson Imha Park had never learned.
She crossed the ballroom with slow, deliberate grace, the sharp rhythm of her stiletto heels echoing against the marble floors as conversations dissolved in her wake. Guests stepped aside instinctively, parting like black water before a storm.
Everyone moved for Imha Park.
Except him.
Vincent Harlow remained near the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the rain-drowned skyline of Seoul. One hand rested loosely around a glass of amber whiskey. Calm. Unbothered.
As though fear was something men like him inspired, never felt.
“They’re terrified of you,” he said quietly as she approached.
His voice carried smoothly beneath the orchestra, absent of the suffocating politeness she heard from everyone else.
Imha stopped directly in front of him, her expression an unreadable sheet of ice.
“They should be,” she replied coolly. “And you’re standing in my space.”
A faint smile touched Vincent’s lips.
It wasn’t warm.
It was worse.
Amused.
He stepped closer, close enough for the scent of rain, winter air, and expensive cologne to blur together between them.
“Enjoy the space while it lasts, Imha.”
Her gaze sharpened instantly.
Vincent lowered his voice, dark eyes locking onto hers without hesitation.
“By tomorrow morning, your father’s empire belongs to my family.”
Silence stretched tightly between them as the orchestra continued somewhere in the distance.
Then he delivered the final blow.
“And eventually,” he murmured softly, “so will you.”
