Jae-Min's life had changed beyond recognition in the past few years. He was no longer the entitled, lazy heir of Mirae Group, not the pampered playboy he had once been. He had built himself into something unrecognizable, a man who had severed every tie to his old self, but in doing so, he had become a prisoner of his own transformation. His success, his financial triumphs, felt hollow, a reminder of the man he used to be—and of the man who could never have the woman he once adored.
At Goldman Sachs, he was praised for his sharp mind, his work ethic, and the impressive returns he generated for the firm. But no one knew the full extent of his earnings. No one knew how much he had tucked away, how much he had sacrificed to get here.
He earned well into the six figures, his bonuses and commissions large enough to keep him comfortably living without ever needing to dip into his savings. But he never touched most of it. The money, the accolades, the wealth—these were just symbols of the man he was trying to outrun, a reminder of the failures he had tried to leave behind.
Jae-Min had the largest bank account in Korea, not because of his own doing but because of his family. Mirae Group, the conglomerate he was born into, was a multitrillion-dollar empire—richer than most nations. His father, the chairman, owned vast swathes of industries, from construction to energy to entertainment. They controlled the economy, shaped policy, and moved markets with a single decision. And as the heir, Jae-Min was supposed to step into his role and lead the conglomerate into the next generation.
But Jae-Min had no interest in it anymore. The family legacy was something he could never inherit, not in the way his father had hoped. His father's world of boardrooms and power plays, of ruthless ambition and cold decisions—it was a world he didn't belong to. He had already disappointed everyone in his family by being the failure they always feared. And no amount of money, no amount of success at Goldman Sachs, could erase that.
He hadn't touched the black card.
That black card—his key to everything his family had to offer—was still sitting in a drawer in his apartment, gathering dust. A sleek, understated piece of plastic that carried with it the weight of the entire Mirae Group's fortune. It was a card that could buy him anything: luxury cars, private jets, yachts, and even the most exclusive properties around the world. His family had given it to him at eighteen, as a symbol of their trust, of his inheritance. They had told him to use it to make his life easier. But Jae-Min had never used it, not once.
The card was a symbol of everything he had rejected, everything he had worked so hard to escape. The wealth it represented was something that had been given to him by sheer birthright, not earned by merit. It was the ultimate reminder of how little control he had over his own destiny. How little worth he had, in the eyes of everyone who mattered. His father, his family—none of them saw him as someone capable of anything meaningful. They saw him as a joke. And that was the last thing he wanted to be.
So, he avoided it. He ignored the black card. He kept it locked away, like a painful secret he wasn't ready to confront.
In the early days of his transformation, Jae-Min had made a vow to himself: he wouldn't use his family's money to live. He wouldn't fall back on the privilege he had been born into. Every dollar he spent—every dime—he wanted to be something he had earned on his own. He refused to live the easy life, the one where he could just swipe the black card and pay for whatever he wanted. He didn't deserve that life.
Instead, he worked tirelessly. The hours at Goldman Sachs were long, but they were also his way of proving to himself—and the world—that he could be more than just the spoiled heir. He studied every night, reading financial reports, studying business strategies, improving himself in every way he could. He didn't need to use his family's wealth to live comfortably. He wanted to prove he could do it on his own.
But there was still the matter of the money he had inherited.
Despite his resolve to live frugally, despite his determination to never touch his savings, the numbers in his bank account grew at an astronomical rate. Every bonus, every paycheck, added to the pile of wealth he had carefully avoided touching. He kept it all, not for himself, but because it was the one thing his family could never take away from him. The wealth they had built, the empire they had created, was no longer his burden to carry. It was a reminder of his failure, but also of his resolve to never be the man he once was.
But still, the temptation lingered.
Every time he walked past the drawer where the black card was kept, his fingers itched to take it out, to use it for something he wanted. The thrill of spending money, of living without limits, was something he had once enjoyed. But now, it felt empty. It felt like a betrayal to everything he had worked for.
So he ignored it. He stayed disciplined. He stayed focused on his work, his studies, his career—everything that had become his new purpose. But deep inside, he knew it was only a matter of time before the weight of his wealth would catch up to him.
He wasn't like his family. He couldn't be. His father's legacy was one he could never carry, no matter how much money he earned.
And so, the black card remained where it was—untouched, unwelcome, a symbol of the life he had tried to leave behind.