The tension from the Lee dinner table was a world away from the sleek, air-conditioned penthouse overlooking the city. Here, the air smelled of expensive perfume and ambition.
Yuna was sprawled on a cream-colored Italian leather sofa, one hand scrolling absently through her phone, the other gesturing along to a pop song only she could hear through her wireless earbuds. The setting sun cast long, golden beams across the polished marble floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Her mother, Mrs. Choi, watched her from an armchair, her lips pressed into a thin, dissatisfied line. She saw not a woman relaxing, but an asset languishing. With a swift, impatient movement, she plucked the phone from Yuna's hand.
Yuna yelped, pulling out an earbud. "Eomma! What are you doing?"
