The room was suffocatingly quiet, steeped in the deepest shade of Vanta Black—a reflection of Frin Waller’s cold, unreachable world. At twenty-one, the Korean-American heir stood motionless by the floor-to-ceiling glass, his dark brown hair neatly styled in a sharp two-block cut. His small almond-shaped eyes were fixated on the city below, his perfectly aligned, naturally pinkish lips pressed into a tight, indifferent line. Clad in a dark brown long-sleeved top and tailored Vanta Black trousers, he looked every bit the distant, untouchable phantom his family had groomed him to be. ​Behind him, the heavy door clicked open. Herisha stepped inside carrying a tray, her long raven hair falling over her shoulders and her doe eyes downcast. At twenty, she bore the quiet grace of a woman who accepted her fate, dressed modestly in a cream silk blouse. She was his wife in name—a transactional bond forged solely to salvage the Waller empire from ruin. ​"Frin, you haven't eaten," Herisha said softly, setting the tray down. ​Frin didn't offer a glance. His face twisted into pure, unadulterated disgust at the sound of her voice. "Get out," he cold-shouldered her, his tone dripping with malice. "Your presence alone makes me sick." ​Herisha swallowed the lump in her throat, bowed her head without a word, and retreated into the hallway. ​The moment the door latched shut, Frin pulled out his phone. The icy armor melted instantly as the screen lit up with a call from Stephanie—his childhood best friend, the only person who held his heart. Stephanie, twenty, with her charming smile and stylish honey-brown waves, was his sole light in a marriage that felt like a prison. ​"Frin?" her warm voice echoed through the speaker. "Are you free? I made your favorite." ​"I'm on my way," Frin murmured, his voice softening into something almost gentle, turning his back on his wife to run to the only woman he ever loved.

The storm battered the cliffside villa as Zahne stood trembling at the door, fleeing debt collectors after her parents' death. With her was Zryn, her boyfriend of two years. They had met in college when she spilled coffee on his shoes, bonding instantly. But Zryn was an orphan who lost his parents in a fire, leaving him terrified of abandonment. Seeing her crisis triggered his defense mechanism; believing she would leave once her life was fixed, he coldly gave her a blanket, directed her to the guest room, and retreated to the rainy balcony to stand guard. Mudslides cut off all signal the next morning. Zahne panicked—her bank frozen, she had 48 hours to upload a document or face ruin. As Zryn made tea, he coldly asked, "When were you planning to tell me when you're leaving?" When Zahne cried out that she loved him, Zryn broke, confessing that watching her heal only to leave would destroy him. He then told her the only cellular signal was two miles up a dangerous cliff. Zahne was left crushed between immediate financial ruin and Zryn’s deep fear of loss.