Legal Hearts

Morning in the Yoon household does not begin with chaos. There are no frantic footsteps, no blaring alarms, no misplaced belongings.

It begins with precision.

At exactly 5:30 AM, my alarm chimes—a soft, controlled sound, not an urgent blare. My eyes open immediately, as if I had been awake even before it rang. I never snooze my alarm. That is an indulgence for the undisciplined.

I sit up smoothly, swinging my legs over the side of my king-sized bed. Cold marble meets my feet. The temperature does not bother me.

The room around me remains immaculate, untouched by the messiness of life. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one side, offering a breathtaking view of Seoul's skyline bathed in the pale hues of dawn. Despite its grandeur, the space is devoid of warmth.

The walls, a soft ivory, bear minimalist gold detailing—elegant, restrained. A custom-built bookshelf stands against one side, housing legal journals, philosophy books, and law textbooks, all arranged in perfect alphabetical order. Across from it, a glass desk sits spotless, save for a neatly stacked set of case studies and handwritten notes in my precise, controlled script.

Everything has its place.

Everything is controlled.

With the same methodical precision that governs my life, I move through my morning routine.

I stride into my private en-suite bathroom, where the scent of expensive, unscented soap fills the air. The water is hot, nearly scalding, but I do not flinch. I lather quickly, efficiently—there is no indulgence in this process, only function. By the time the mirror begins to fog, I am already toweling off, stepping into my walk-in wardrobe.

The navy-blue blazer of Seonghwa Girls' Academy awaits me, pressed to perfection. Gold embroidery lines the cuffs and lapels—a mark of excellence and power. The pleated skirt falls precisely at regulation length—no more, no less.

As I fasten the last button, I catch my own reflection.

Sharp green eyes stare back—calculating, unreadable to anyone who dares to look too closely.

The Yoon estate is as grand and lifeless as ever.

The halls stretch wide and empty, the faintest echo of my footsteps resounding as I descend the grand staircase. The air carries the scent of freshly cut flowers, meticulously maintained by the household staff—though I hardly notice.

I pass by portraits of my father, Yoon Jisung, lining the hallway. Each one captures him in different stages of his career—a rising legal star, a respected lawmaker, a man of influence.

To the world, he is untouchable.

To me, he is simply absent.

My mother is even more so.

The dining hall is pristine, as though untouched since the day it was built. A long mahogany table stretches across the room, yet only one seat is set—mine.

The household staff stands at a distance, waiting in silence. They know better than to disturb me.

"Good morning, Miss Saehwa," my personal attendant, Madam Choi, greets me with a deep bow. "Your tea is prepared."

A fine porcelain cup sits before me, steam curling elegantly from within. Black tea. No sugar. No milk.

I lift the cup, the warmth pressing against my fingertips. The taste is rich, bold—uncomplicated, just as I prefer it.

"Your schedule for today is as follows," Madam Choi continues, reading from a tablet. "The ranking results will be officially released at eight. Your first mock trial of the term is at ten. Student court hearings begin after lunch, and your meeting with the debate team is scheduled at four."

A perfectly structured day.

I merely nod. Nothing is unexpected.

"And..." Madam Choi hesitates for half a second, which is half a second too long. "Your father has requested that you attend a dinner function this weekend. A gathering of legal and political figures."

A meaningless event, filled with pretentious conversations and carefully concealed power plays.

"Decline it," I say simply, taking another sip of tea.

Madam Choi does not move.

"He was rather insistent this time," she adds carefully.

I set my cup down, the faintest clink echoing through the empty space.

"Then remind him that I do not waste time on things that do not serve me," I say, voice calm, unwavering.

Madam Choi lowers her gaze, nodding. "Understood, Miss Saehwa."

Outside, the morning air is crisp, the sky an unbroken stretch of pale blue. A sleek black sedan waits at the entrance, engine humming softly. The driver, as always, opens the door the moment I step forward.

Sliding into the back seat, I retrieve my tablet, scrolling through the latest legal articles and case studies.

The cityscape blurs past my window, towering buildings and neon-lit signs blending together in a sea of motion.

At a red light, I catch my own reflection in the tinted glass.

A reflection of someone perfect.

A reflection of someone willing to do anything to stay at the top.

A reflection of someone who has already sacrificed too much to turn back now.

The light shifts to green, and the car rolls forward, but my gaze lingers a moment longer.

"Miss, we're here."

The driver's voice breaks the quiet. Without a word, I turn away from my reflection and step out of the car.

Seonghwa Girls' Academy looms before me, its towering gates a perfect blend of elegance and authority. The morning sunlight strikes the gold-lined emblem above the entrance, casting a sharp gleam across the polished iron. Beyond the gates, the school stands pristine, its corridors already filled with students dressed in navy and gold, their voices murmuring in hushed, calculated conversations.

The moment I step through the gates, the energy shifts. Conversations lower, whispers stir, and the ever-present undercurrent of competition sharpens.

I don't acknowledge any of it.

My presence alone is enough to command attention.

The courtyard is alive with movement—students gathering in tight-knit circles, exchanging information about upcoming debates and trial simulations. A few cast lingering glances in my direction, eyes filled with admiration, envy, or quiet calculation. I am used to it. At Seonghwa, power isn't just respected—it is studied, analyzed, and either imitated or resented.

My steps are precise as I ascend the front steps, passing through the grand archway that leads into the main building. The air inside is crisp and cool, the polished marble floors reflecting the morning light streaming through the towering windows.

I am expected to stand among Seonghwa's greatest graduates.

No, I will surpass them.

As I move toward the rankings, a new presence catches my attention.

A girl.

Her uniform is immaculate, her dark brown hair neatly tied back, framing soft, intelligent eyes—eyes that meet mine in a fleeting moment of unspoken acknowledgment.

It isn't curiosity. It isn't admiration.

It is awareness.

I hold her gaze for a second longer, then turn away.

I don't slow my pace. I don't let the moment linger.

And yet, as I move forward, a single thought surfaces.

This school is filled with people I have long since learned to ignore.

But something tells me Yeon Hyerin won't be one of them.

I breathe out softly. "How interesting," I murmur, barely above a whisper, before turning away.

A transfer student—it's been a while since Seonghwa accepted one. Almost ninety percent of applicants are rejected, no matter how impressive they think they are.

So what makes her different?

The thought drifts in, lingers, then fades. If she's worth noticing, I'll know soon enough.

"Saehwa," a familiar voice hums beside me, light and measured. "Are you actually interested in the new student?"

Jung Nari.

Rank #2, always a step behind. A friend, if I cared for such things.

Between us, words like that don't hold much weight. She has her purpose, as I have mine.

I glance at her, just briefly, before offering a small, practiced smile. "As if she's anything special."

I don't wait for her response. "Come on, Nari. Let's go."

And yet, as we walk ahead, I can still feel it—that quiet, steady presence.

Not intrusive. Not overwhelming.

Just enough to be noticed. 

As I step into class, a flicker of movement catches my attention. On instinct, I glance back.

There she is.

Yeon Hyerin stands just outside the classroom, her gaze shifting between the plaques on the wall, scanning the numbers carefully. A slight crease forms between her brows—subtle, but noticeable.

Lost.

I nearly laugh at the sight. Seonghwa Girls' Academy is no ordinary school, but it's not a maze. She must be new to this kind of place, the kind where people like her don't belong.

Still, the way she carries herself—shoulders straight, steps unhurried—tells me she won't ask for help.

My eyes drift for a moment, just briefly. Her long brown hair rests neatly against the collar of her blazer, a shade that complements the navy of her uniform. Proper, polished, fitting into the school's aesthetic more than I expected.

Cute.

The thought passes through my mind as easily as a breath. Fleeting, insignificant.

I take my seat by the window, placing my bag down with practiced ease. The classroom hums with quiet conversation, the kind that never holds real weight—students exchanging information, gauging where they stand before the rankings are posted.

I ignore it.

Instead, I glance at the doorway just as Yeon Hyerin finally steps inside. She scans the room once before moving toward an empty seat near the back, her posture composed, deliberate.

She doesn't rush, doesn't hesitate.

Interesting. Most transfers, especially ones without a name attached to their existence, enter places like this either timid or overcompensating. She does neither.

Her presence settles into the classroom with ease, but I can tell she feels the eyes on her. Whispers barely masked behind textbooks, quiet looks exchanged as if studying an unfamiliar factor in an otherwise predictable equation.

She doesn't react.

She knows but refuses to acknowledge them.

Not bad.

Jung Nari leans in slightly, voice low enough that only I can hear. "I wonder how long she'll last."

Her tone is amused, but beneath it, there's genuine curiosity. Transfers are rare for a reason—most don't survive the pressure.

I exhale, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. It doesn't matter how long she lasts. If she's insignificant, she'll disappear before I even need to acknowledge her.

If she's not—

Well.

I suppose I'll find out soon enough.