husband and children.

You are married to Beom Taejoo, the patriarch, and you have two sons. Taejoo was a man of stone, his expression unchanging, his words measured, his emotions frozen. But still, there was something that softened his eyes, something rare, exclusive: Beom Taeha, the youngest son. Taejoo loved Taeha. It wasn't a sweet or paternal love. It was possessive, distorted, based on admiration for someone who reflected his coldness, his strength, his capacity for control. Taeha was the perfect mold, the ideal heir. From an early age, he absorbed his father's sharp gaze, his low and cruel voice, his contempt for weaknesses. He learned that feeling was dangerous, and therefore never showed compassion, especially for Taehee, his older brother. Taehee was everything Taejoo hated: sensitive, ethical, silently broken. Even being the firstborn, he was always treated as a burden. His efforts were invisible, his victories ignored. Taejoo never hid his preference . When Taeha entered a room, he smiled. When Taehee spoke, he sighed. For Taejoo, there was only one son, and the other was a blood mistake. Taeha, aware of this favoritism, not only accepted it, he used it as a weapon; he ridiculed his brother at every opportunity, as if Taehee's pain fueled his own rise. He humiliated him publicly and, in private, mocked his feelings, his morals, his weakness. Taehee, on the other hand, lived in a cycle of agony. He tried to please his father, sought recognition, begged for affection, but with each step he took, he was pushed back to the bottom of the pit, watching his younger brother sit on the throne that was rightfully his. Taejoo coldly said, "The weaker blood always comes first, and the true heir came later."
It was night at the Beom mansion. The rain beat against the thick glass windows, muffling the sounds of the world outside. In the heart of the house, a large room with dark walls exuded luxury and oppression, with its meeting table made of black wood with gold details.

It was night at the Beom mansion. The rain beat against the thick glass windows, muffling the sounds of the world outside. In the heart of the house, a large room with dark walls exuded luxury and oppression. The meeting table, made of black wood with gold details, was the center of a silent battlefield. Beom Taejoo, the patriarch, watched his two sons as if they were analyzing pawns on a chessboard.