Who are they? Why do they look so familiar? Where have I seen this person before?

—”Oh? That’s her. Hyun Seo-hae, Hyun Seo-hae! Hey, it’s Hyun Seo-hae! She’s the one. The Korean traditional dance freshman that everyone’s talking about.”

Ah. Now I remember.

It was when I was nineteen and still attending the National High School of Korean Traditional Arts.

—”Who? What are you talking about?”

—”You don’t know? She’s the daughter of Congressman Heo Ji-seop. Because of her, the Korean dance students have been performing Salpuri nonstop these days. People say it’s like bad luck has struck the department.”

—”Really? Apparently, she’s been winning all the competitions. And it’s not like she’s tall for a Korean dance major or has any extraordinary physical characteristics to make up for it, but she’s been winning awards left and right and beating all the top students. Of course, that’s going to piss people off.”

It was an unfair situation, but that’s often the case in the art world. The wealthier your family, the more you tended to stand out, and being well-connected-so called “riding the right line”-was also very important.

Of course, if you were careful with your expenses, it was surprisingly manageable even for ordinary families, so I had quite a few classmates from similar backgrounds to mine.

But overall, the majority of students came from wealthy families.

To be honest, I didn’t have much luck winning awards in competitions either.

And as for that top dancer, she came from such a privileged background that she stood out even among the gold-spoon crowd.

—”They say she’ll get into university easily just based on her awards.”
—”No wonder people are talking. Don’t her friends say anything to her?”
—”Even if she did, would she care? In a few years, all that’s going to be left is a flashy resume anyway. She’s not even subtle about it. Someone apparently asked her point-blank why she chose traditional Korean dance of all things. And get this – she said, “Well, I needed something for my business card. She said that since she was an only child, she had to marry well, and her parents wanted her to have a modest, graceful profession so that she could be a good match for a third-generation chaebol, and then she laughed and said, “Is this what they call collusion between politics and business?”

That junior from the rumors was now, ten years later, the principal dancer of the Hani Dance Company, standing on that stage.

I opened the brochure and flipped through the profiles. Most of the performers had only their names listed, but a few key performers were introduced with short biographies and photos.

Beneath her passport-style photo of a beaming smile were flashy credentials: a degree from the country’s top university and the title of the youngest principal dancer ever.

Heo Yeonseo.

So her name was Heo Yeonseo.

She once said that she needed a humble, graceful profession to help her marry into a chaebol family. Since she’d already achieved everything else at such a young age, I guess the only goal left was a chaebol husband.

A chaebol family.

A chaebol family. A chaebol family, huh… Without realizing it, I glanced at the man next to me.

If Heo Yeonseo was looking for a chaebol heir with the right credentials, wasn’t there one sitting right next to me?

Could this really be a coincidence?

Lost in this tangle of thoughts, time passed in fits and starts.

Before I knew it, the performance was over – I could barely remember seeing or hearing anything.

The artistic director who had directed the production, the heads of the two dance companies, and a few key performers with major roles all took their seats for the post-show interview.

Of course, Heo Yeonseo was among them.

Since it wasn’t an official performance but a media showcase for promotional purposes, the reporters were all gathered in the middle seats of the front row.

The side seat I had chosen was mostly empty.

The interview started routinely.

The artistic director spoke first, explaining the concept and intention behind the performance. Of course, he also made sure to thank Lee Seol-won, the CEO of Songwoon Art Hall, for supporting the traditional music festival and making it possible for such a niche play to be staged in a large theater.

But things changed a bit when the microphone was handed over to Heo Yeonseo.

“First of all, I think we should congratulate Ms. Heo Yeonseo.”

The moment the first question directed at her was spoken, camera flashes went off in rapid succession throughout the dimly lit audience.

Some reporters seemed to be trying to get a unique angle – one even went off behind me.

It must not have been a pre-arranged question because Heo Yeonseo looked at her colleagues with an uncomfortable expression, clearly caught off guard.

A reporter sitting behind me muttered to himself in a rather loud voice, “SW’s stock is going to go up. Good thing I bought in advance.

SW…?

A sudden shiver ran down my spine.

“They say there will be good news soon between CEO Lee Seol-won of Songwoon Cultural Foundation and Ms. Heo Yeonseo.”

Heo Yeonseo quickly collected herself. Then she replied with a smile.

“Thank you for your congratulations. Well, given the nature of this event, it’s a bit difficult to answer comfortably… But since both he and I are involved in the arts, we plan to continue working hard to promote the beauty of our country’s traditional art forms. However, today is a time dedicated to the traditional music festival that I’ve prepared for with all my heart and effort as a dancer, so I’d appreciate it if we could focus the interview on the performance rather than personal matters.”

Heo Yeonseo did not lose her composure in the face of such uncomfortable questions, perhaps because she had experience in dealing with various media interviews as a principal dancer.

But my own body temperature was dropping by the second.

It wasn’t just cold, it felt like my heart had frozen with a sharp jolt.

It had always puzzled me.

Why did Eun-sae choose death?

She was in a love that wasn’t reciprocated, carried a child in her womb, and yet she left this world without a single word – not even to me, her twin who shared the same umbilical cord.

I think I finally understand.

If Eun-sae had been forced to accept the brutal truth – that the man she had loved so completely, to the point of abandoning herself, now had an officially recognized fiancé, and that she had meant nothing in the end – then maybe… If that’s what it was…

Eun-sae.

How lonely you must have been?

How devastated?

How humiliated?

How much pain were you in?

I don’t think I could ever fully understand what you felt.

I can only imagine – that it must have been a pain so unbearable, so consuming, that wanting to die became actually dying.

Beeeeeep.
Suddenly, a piercing ringing filled my ears.

It was as if Eun-sae was screaming directly into them.

Overwhelmed by dizziness, anger, and a wave of indescribable confusion, I stared at Lee Seol-won in silence.

I thought he was here as the CEO of the Songwoon Cultural Foundation, attending a traditional music festival that the foundation had funded and organized.

But I was wrong.

This man was just here to see the performance of the woman he was going to marry.

So that’s what it was.

The reason they had chosen emerging artists like our orchestra and the Hani Dance Company – instead of established masters – for this traditional music festival… And the reason they had run TV commercials with the slogan “a new interpretation of traditional music”… It was all because this stage was supposed to raise the name of his fiancée.

He gave it his all because it was her moment to shine.

Lee Seol-won’s face, half hidden in the shadows, showed no particular emotion.

With features as cold and sharp as his, it was hard to read what he was thinking.

I wasn’t used to a face like that.

“Why are you crying now? You knew all along.”

Until he said those words, I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

Only then did I feel the sting of the tears streaming down my cheeks.

She knew?

Eun-sae knew – she knew everything… How could this man be so emotionless?

Did he really feel no remorse at all for what he had done to Eun-sae?

It was the first time I felt so deeply what it meant to use someone and then throw them away.

To use and throw away…

I was startled – even by the thought itself, by the fact that I was the one thinking it.

I had never in my life believed that such a thing was possible when it came to human beings.

It chilled me to the bone.

But the victim was Eun-sae.

To this man, Eun-sae was someone to be used and discarded-treated as nothing more than a mistress-while Heo Yeon-seo, the daughter of a political figure, was someone considered worthy of marriage.

Even the messages left on Eun-sae’s phone made this contrast painfully clear.

No man who truly respected her as a lover would have sent such a thing.

And now that man would go on living his life as if nothing had happened – because Eun-sae had quietly returned to the U.S. and died there with the child still in her womb.

With her “sordid past” buried with her, he would live on, completely untroubled, perfectly composed, playing the role of a decent man next to his new fiancée.

“Why…”
Eun-sae didn’t deserve that.

Was it just because she didn’t have a background as impressive as Heo Yeonseo’s?

Even so, did that give you the right to destroy her life so carelessly?

I was about to lash out, the words rising in my throat, driven by anger – when suddenly my instincts screamed a warning.

The only reason this man showed any reaction to me at all was probably because I had Eun-sae’s face.

To him, I was now Hyun Eun-sae.

But what if I told him the truth?

What if I said that Eun-sae had committed suicide and that I-Hyun Seo-hae, her twin sister-wanted to ask him about his past with her?

Would he still be honest with me?