Chapter 3: What the Trust Actually Says
I read the declaration twice, although the first sentence was enough.
It said I had taken confidential documents from Daeho’s study. It said Sora had caught me. At the bottom, beneath a line for my signature, was a sentence stating that I had made the admission freely.
Han lowered the packet when my hand began to shake.
“I won’t sign it.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“Does he get to keep me married to him until I do?”
“No,” Han said. “His lawyer has made an offer with a condition. That isn’t the only way this marriage can end.”
I looked toward the window. The hospital room reflected faintly in the dark glass: the bed, the packet, Han standing beside me.
Daeho had told me to sign the divorce papers the next day. He had not said he expected me to sign away the truth with them.
“Tell his lawyer I reject the declaration,” I said. “Not the divorce.”
“I’ll make that distinction clear.”
Han slid the papers back into their folder. She didn’t tell me that Daeho would come to his senses. I was grateful for that.
The next morning, a nurse helped me sit upright while Han arranged several documents on the rolling tray. Each breath still caught against my ribs. Even shifting a page required me to move slowly.
“These came from the family office,” Han said. “I’ve checked the copies against what they have on file. We can go through them a little at a time.”
The first document named my father’s trust. I had known about it for years without reading more than the pages Han had once urged me to read. Back then, anything with Haneul’s name on it had felt like a door that would lock behind me if I stepped through.
Han pointed to a section near the middle.
“Your father left you the controlling voting interests. The trust has administered them while you stayed out of the process. To begin exercising those rights, you have to establish your identity through the documents the trustees require and give them formal notice.”
“So yesterday’s announcement didn’t do it.”
“No. It said exactly what you authorized: that you asked us to begin.”
I thought of the photograph on the family office’s verified page. Daeho had seen it. He knew my name now, but the photograph had changed nothing about who could cast a vote.
“And after they verify me?”
“The trustees complete their review and acknowledge the change under the trust’s terms. Then we can discuss the interests you’re entitled to direct. That still would not appoint you to a job at Haneul.”
I looked up at her.
“You called me Chairwoman Seo.”
“I did,” Han said. “I was glad to hear your voice, and I got ahead of myself. I’m sorry.”
I remembered lying on the mansion floor when she had said it. For a few seconds, I had imagined a name powerful enough to make what had happened smaller. In daylight, with the papers in front of me, I was relieved there were steps no one could skip on my behalf.
“Even if I exercise every vote my father left me, an office has its own process,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And I haven’t agreed to seek one.”
“No.”
I signed an instruction authorizing Han to start gathering the identification and family records the trustees had requested. The pen felt heavier than it should have. Beside my signature, I wrote the date carefully, refusing to let the shaking in my hand make it illegible.
Han took the page and set it aside to dry.
“That’s enough for now.”
“There are more documents.”
“They’ll still be here after you rest.”
My grandfather arrived just before lunch carrying a paper bag of peeled tangerines. The nurse checked with me before letting him in. He waited near the door until I asked him to sit.
“I used to bring these when you were little,” he said, placing the bag on the tray.
“I remember. You always peeled too many.”
“I still do.”
He glanced at the trust documents without touching them.
“Han said you were reading.”
“I’m beginning the process.”
He nodded. He didn’t congratulate himself or ask what I would do with the votes.
For a while we ate tangerine slices and spoke about whether the rain had stopped. Then he folded the empty bag into a small square and held it between his hands.
“I thought about coming to see you,” he said. “Over the years.”
“You could have.”
“I knew you didn’t want to come back.”
“That wasn’t the same as not wanting to see you.”
He looked down at the bag.
“No,” he said. “I understand that now.”
Before my wedding, we had argued at his gate. He had asked how I expected to live without the family behind me. I had heard a warning that he would never believe I could. Neither of us had tried very hard to ask what the other meant afterward.
“I don’t know how to make up those years in a hospital room,” I said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m glad you came. I can mean that and still be angry.”
“I know.”
He didn’t ask me to forgive him. I could stay in the room with him because he let my answer remain unfinished.
When he stood to leave, he told me Han had the address of a place where I could stay after discharge. He had arranged it as I’d asked, without telling anyone else where I would be.
“Can I bring tangerines there?” he asked.
“Ask me when I get there.”
“I will.”
By midafternoon, I had slept and woken twice. Han returned with a receipt book and the clear sleeve containing Daeho’s cashier’s check.
Seeing it again brought back the weight of it landing on my dress. Eight million dollars, offered as if someone could calculate how much pain I ought to accept.
“I’ve kept it separate from your other belongings,” Han said. “I want to record exactly what came into my custody and when. We’ll keep the check secure while we get advice about its treatment.”
“I haven’t accepted it.”
“I know. We’re documenting it, not depositing it.”
She noted the check’s identifying details and photographed both sides in front of me. Then she placed the sleeve in a labeled envelope, signed across the seal, and showed me the record of when I had given it to her.
“Does keeping it make it look like I agreed to anything?”
“We’ll preserve your account alongside it,” she said. “Including what Daeho said when he dropped it. We won’t let a check speak for you.”
I watched her put the envelope away. The amount could pay for care that many people would struggle to afford. I had thought about that since the hospital admitted me. But it could not tell anyone whether an accusation was true. It could not make my ribs whole.
Han opened a fresh page in her notebook.
“I’d like to ask about the house. Was there a camera in the room?”
“I don’t know. There’s a security system, but I never paid attention to what it covered. There are cameras at the entrances and along some hallways.”
“Do you still receive alerts?”
“I used to. I might still be listed on the household account.”
Han did not ask me to log in. She asked me to describe what I knew: the approximate time Sora accused me, when Daeho came into the room, and when I managed to call her. Where I was uncertain, she marked it as uncertain, just as she had done with my account at the hospital.
“The records may show very little,” she said. “I still want to request that they be preserved.”
“Ask through his lawyer?”
“I’ll send a written request to his counsel and the security provider. Neither request guarantees we’ll get anything. It puts them on notice that the records matter.”
I pictured the people who worked in the mansion: the housekeeper who knew which stair creaked, the night porter who let deliveries through the gate. I had not seen either of them during the assault. They answered to Daeho, and I didn’t know what losing that work would cost them.
“Don’t ask anyone there to get us a copy,” I said. “Not secretly.”
“I won’t.”
“If somebody knows something, I want them to be able to decide what they can safely say.”
Han wrote that down too.
She sent the requests from the chair beside my bed. I listened while she read each one back before sending it. The letter asked that relevant video, entry records, and access logs from the previous night be preserved. It did not claim the cameras had captured an assault or that I knew who had handled the system.
Afterward, Han closed her laptop.
“There are other ways to give your account,” she said. “You don’t have to wait for a recording to decide whether you want to report what happened.”
“I know. I’m thinking about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking you to do today.”
My phone lit up on the tray between us.
At first I thought it was another message from Sora. Instead, the alert bore the name of the household security service. My account had apparently remained active.
Archive access requested. Administrator approval pending.
A second line showed that the request concerned records from the previous night. No person’s name appeared.
“Don’t open anything yet,” Han said.
I showed her the screen. She photographed the alert with its time visible, then asked me to leave the phone as it was.
“Could your request have triggered that?” I asked.
“I asked for preservation, not access. I don’t know who made this request.”
She reopened her laptop and sent a follow-up to the provider, asking it to retain the access log as well as the records named in her first letter.
The provider’s response came while Han was still beside me. She read it once without speaking.
May you like
“What does it say?”
“It confirms they received the preservation request.” She scrolled down. “But part of the household archive is scheduled for automatic deletion tonight.”
