The torn pieces of his drawing trembled in Taesan's small hands. He pressed them together, trying to make them whole again, but no matter how much he tried, the jagged edges would never fit perfectly.
Just like him.
He didn't belong here. Not in this house. Not in this family. Not in their world.
A shadow loomed over the doorway, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Crying already?"
Taesan flinched, his head snapping up. Shinyu stood there, arms crossed, dressed in her signature elegance—ivory silk draped effortlessly over her frame, her expression unreadable beneath the dim lighting.
"Eo-Eommaa…" he cried.
Shinyu stepped into the room, her heels clicking against the polished floors, slow and deliberate. She didn't spare a glance at the scattered crayons, nor the ruined drawing clutched in his tiny fists. Instead, she let out a soft sigh, as if the mere sight of him exhausted her.
"What did you do this time?" she asked.
Taesan swallowed. He knew the answer didn't matter—she had already decided.
"It… it was Suji noona," he whispered hesitantly. "She took my drawing and—"
A sharp slap of skin against skin silenced him. It was on his face.
"I didn't ask for excuses, Taesan," she said, her voice smooth but laced with steel. "I asked what you did."
Taesan clenched his fists around the paper, his tiny fingers gripping it so tightly the edges crumpled. His cheeks imprinted with a red handprint.
Shinyu let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I thought you'd be smarter than this. Have I taught you nothing?"
Taesan's eyes teary and his voice was barely a whisper. "I—"
"Silence," she cut him off, her gaze finally meeting his. Cold. Calculating. "You think I don't know why your father brought you here?"
Taesan's lips trembled, but he forced himself to remain still.
Shinyu tilted her head, studying him like one would a piece of art with a flaw they couldn't quite place. "He pitied you," she continued, voice like silk laced with poison. "You were nothing more than a mistake. A burden he chose to take in out of guilt."
Taesan felt his throat tighten.
No. That wasn't true. His father had loved him. Hadn't he?
Shinyu reached forward and brushed a strand of hair from his face with a touch so deceptively gentle, it sent chills down his spine.
"But your father is gone," she whispered. "And all that remains… is you."
She pulled away, her lips curling into something resembling a smile—but it held no warmth. No kindness.
"Taesan."
He forced himself to look at her.
"You will never be his heir."
The words settled over him like a noose.
"Do you understand?" she asked softly, as if speaking to a particularly slow child.
Taesan nodded. He didn't trust his voice.
Shinyu straightened, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her dress. "Good." She turned towards the door but paused. "Suji is the future of this family. I suggest you stay out of her way."
With that, she left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Taesan remained frozen, his mother's words repeating over and over in his head.
He would never be his father's heir. He would never be a Jeon. He would never belong.
***
Dinner that evening was an elaborate affair, as always. The long dining table was adorned with imported silverware, polished wine glasses, and a meal fit for royalty. But Taesan could barely swallow past the lump in his throat.
Across from him, Suji sat with a glass of red wine in hand, swirling it absentmindedly as she glanced at him. "You're awfully quiet, Taesan," she mused. "Did Mother's little talk scare you?"
He didn't answer which made Suji smirk. "She did tell you, didn't she? That you'll never inherit a single cent of this empire?"
Taesan clenched his hands under the table.
Suji leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that only he could hear. "I'm the rightful heir, Taesan. You are just a bastard with a lucky last name."
His grip tightened around his fork.
Shinyu, who had been silent until now, set down her glass with a delicate clink. "Enough, Suji."
Suji feigned innocence. "What? I'm only reminding him of the truth."
Shinyu's gaze flickered to Taesan. "There's no need. He already knows his place."
Taesan swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat.
This was his life. He was not Jeon Taesan. He was just Taesan.
A mistake.
***
That night, Taesan couldn't sleep. He didn't understand anything properly, but he wasn't loved here.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mother's words circling in his mind like vultures.
"You will never be his heir."
"You were a mistake."
"Stay out of Suji's way."
His father had loved him. He knew it. And yet, here he was, treated like an unwanted guest in his own home.
They thought he was weak, but he wasn't.
He slipped out of bed, his small feet padding silently across the cold marble floor. His tiny hands reached for the matchbox he had stolen from the kitchen earlier that evening.
His mother had told him to stay out of Suji's way.
He would. But first, he wanted to see something burn.
He walked towards the fireplace in his room.
He stared at it for a long moment before striking a match. The flame flickered to life.
The next second, the huge portrait of Taewae was in flames. The fire licked the edges, devouring it greedily. The rich oil paints blistered and his father's once-proud face twisting into something grotesque before crumbling into blackened flakes. The wooden frame cracked, splitting with sharp pops as the heat consumed it whole.
Taesan stood motionless, watching as the flames grew, reaching higher, feeding on the legacy he was never meant to inherit. His father's image disintegrated before his eyes, reduced to nothing but ash and smoke curling toward the ceiling.
A strange satisfaction curled in his chest. If he couldn't have the memory, then no one could.
The fire cast flickering shadows across the room, dancing wildly against the pristine walls. His small hands clenched at his sides, the warmth searing his skin, but he didn't move. Not until the last remnants of the portrait collapsed into glowing embers.
The air was thick with the scent of burning paint and wood. He took a slow step back, his heart hammering in his chest. He wasn't afraid. Not of the flames, not of the consequences.
Taesan turned away, stepping into the darkness of his room. He had no place at this table, in this house, in their world.
But that didn't mean he would be nothing.
He crawled onto his bed, curling beneath the heavy covers. His mother's words rang in his head once more—cutting, cruel.
"You will never be his heir."
He knew that every smile, every gentle word, every act of kindness from them was nothing but a well-crafted illusion—a performance for the world to see. None of it was ever real or could have been.
————————— THE END