Daræy's P.O.V
When I was nine, my parents' marriage shattered. My mother discovered that my father had another wife and two sons. That revelation broke her, and she decided she could no longer live with such a man. She wanted to return to her homeland in Africa, and she wanted to take me with her. But my father had other plans. As his first son, I was his legacy, and he wasn't about to let me go so easily.
What followed was a bitter custody battle that tore my world apart. My parents fought relentlessly over me, dragging me into a storm I didn't understand but felt suffocating nonetheless. My father was no ordinary man; he was a multimillionaire business tycoon in Korea—a man of immense power and influence. He practically controlled the country. The custody battle wasn't just a family issue; it became a national spectacle. My face was on every news channel, and people across the country debated whether the law would remain impartial or bow to the "king" of the land.
Everyone believed my father would win. He had everything—money, influence, and unwavering confidence. But in an unexpected twist, the court ruled in favor of my mother. However, the final decision was left to me.
There I was, standing in the middle of a packed courtroom, all eyes on me. The judge's voice cut through the silence:
"Take your time, young man. Who would you prefer to live with—your mother or your father?"
I looked at my mother, her eyes filled with hope and desperation. Then I turned to my father, who offered me a reassuring smile—a smile that silently promised everything would be okay. My heart was torn. I thought about how much my mother had already suffered. If I chose her, would her life be in danger because of my father's wrath? Would she be happy knowing I wasn't?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I made my choice. "My dad," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
The room erupted, and just like that, the battle was over. My father had won. I turned to see my mother one last time, and for the first time in my life, I saw what true pain looked like. Her tears spoke of heartbreak and loss. Regret consumed me instantly. I wanted to take back my words, to run to her, to tell her I was sorry. But before I could move, I was pulled away.
When we returned home, the man who had smiled at me in court disappeared. My father's true colors emerged. The warmth in his expression was replaced by coldness. The caring facade dissolved, leaving behind the ruthless businessman he truly was. I wasn't his son anymore; I was his heir, his project, his product.
My life changed overnight. My father recognized my quick adaptability and sharp mind, traits I had inherited from my mother. He pushed me relentlessly. By the age of ten, I was immersed in a whirlwind of lessons—business, languages, etiquette, everything. I mastered five languages: Korean, Mandarin, French, Spanish, and English, and my Japanese was coming along.
At eleven, I became a constant companion on his business trips. One night, I'd be sleeping in the luxurious comfort of a five-star hotel in Shanghai; the next, I'd be in Tokyo, or flying through the night on my father's private jet. My life became a dizzying rollercoaster, filled with meetings, negotiations, and never-ending demands.
But no matter how far I traveled or how many achievements I earned, I couldn't escape the two words that haunted me: My dad. Those words had sealed my fate two years ago. Every time I thought back to that moment in the courtroom, bitterness welled up inside me.
Since my mom left, my birthday has never been celebrated. It's as if my existence wasn't something worth acknowledging. I often wondered—does my dad even love me? Does he care at all? Honestly, I stopped seeing him as a father long ago. He became my boss, someone I worked for, someone I needed to please.
Was this all I was born to do? To take up his legacy? If I did, would he even be proud? Could he ever be proud? Even employees who work hard get rewarded eventually, but me? Nothing. It felt like he resented me, like I was just another cog in his well-oiled machine.
With all these questions eating at me, I couldn't help but think about my mom. Where was she? What was she doing? Why hadn't she called me? Not even once. Did she hate me, too?
The thoughts consumed me, day and night, until I felt like giving up. But then, one day, I received an anonymous call. It didn't last long—just a few seconds—but those few seconds gave me something I hadn't felt in years: hope.
And then, when I turned thirteen, something unexpected happened. My dad handed me his credit card and said, "Get yourself whatever you want. It's your birthday." I was stunned. For a moment, I thought, Oh my God, he actually cares.
I didn't even care about buying anything. Just the fact that he remembered my birthday was enough to make me happy. It was more than I'd ever expected. I went out and bought a few things, but really, I was just basking in the warmth of that fleeting moment.
But when I returned home that night, my happiness shattered.
I walked in to find my dad sitting at the dining table with his second family—his wife and his two other sons. They were eating together, laughing, enjoying each other's company. It wasn't a business dinner or a formal meeting. It was a family moment. And for a second, I thought, Is this what I've been missing all these years?
I wanted to join them. I wanted to be part of whatever that was. But my dad looked at me and said, "Haven't you eaten? Go upstairs and freshen up."
No introduction. No acknowledgment. Nothing. It was as if I didn't belong there. I was just supposed to accept this new reality and move on, no questions asked.
The months that followed were torture. I watched how he cared for them, how he played with his sons, how much they mattered to him. He laughed with them, hugged them, and made time for them in ways he never did for me.
And then it hit me: If I don't matter to him, why am I even here?
I wanted to run. Run far, far away from this house, this life, this emptiness. I wanted to find my mom, to ask her why she left, why she never looked back, why she never called. I wanted to understand if I mattered to anyone at all.
But running away from your past isn't easy. It's not easy at all. Running away from the king of this land is near impossible. In fact, it is impossible. The only escape is if he lets you go, and we all know that's never going to happen.
This torture went on for three years—three years of hell. I was angry. I was furious. Nothing good came out of my relationship with my father's second family. I may have lived with them, but I was no more than a stranger. They showed me what a family could be—the happiness, the love, the warmth—and at the same time, they made sure I knew I would never have it.
I taught myself: if this is how they'll treat me, then there's no use in trying anymore.
One night, I went out without permission. I got drunk and stumbled home after curfew. My dad was furious. He hit me, calling me a stupid child.
"What right do you have to say such things to me?" I scoffed. "Alright, let's have it your way. I'll tell you everything that's on my mind."
And I did. I let it all out. The hatred, the anger, the bitterness. I told him exactly how I felt. We went back and forth, yelling and tearing each other apart. At the end of it, I said the words that sealed my fate:
"Just hand me over to my mom. Give everything you have to your sons, and please, for God's sake, don't call me back until they are both dead, and there's no one else left to inherit your legacy."
The next morning, my bags were packed, and my ticket was bought.
"Here you go," he said coldly, handing me the ticket. And I didn't wait.
For any other pleasant tries, I didn't look back. I didn't even say goodbye. To me, my dad died a long time ago.
And ever since then, I no longer look at people the same way. To me, there's always something hidden, always a secret buried beneath their words. There's always a tongue-twister in every story they tell.
But now, meeting Tess, I wonder—could someone truly be that honest? Could someone truly sing with their whole being, without a hint of deceit?
Maybe she's the exception. Maybe she's the truth I've been waiting for.