The mansion was still and quiet as the morning sun crept through the large windows, casting soft light across the dining room. The table was set with an extravagant array of dishes—freshly baked bread, steaming bowls of soup, delicate slices of fruit, and various Japanese delicacies. It was an attempt to evoke the kind of warmth and connection that Hiroto once hoped to share with Eunji.

But the warmth was missing.

Eunji walked into the room, her steps measured, her face an impassive mask. She was dressed neatly, her posture as perfect as always, her appearance flawless as ever—yet there was a coldness to her that seemed to chill the air. She barely acknowledged the servants who stood at attention, offering her food with polite smiles.

Hiroto, sitting at the head of the table, couldn’t help but watch her closely. His heart sank with each step she took, the distance between them growing more pronounced. He had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that time would soften the barrier she had put between them. But now, as she sat down across from him, he could feel the weight of her silence pressing down on him like an unspoken sentence.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice tentative, uncertain of how to approach her after everything that had transpired.

Eunji didn’t respond. She picked up her chopsticks and began to eat, her movements precise, deliberate. Her gaze was fixed on her plate, never once meeting his eyes. Hiroto watched her, the words he had been rehearsing in his mind suddenly feeling too heavy to say.

"I know you’re angry," he began softly, the ache in his voice betraying the sincerity of his words. "But please, Eunji, just—"

"I’ll come for meals," Eunji cut him off, her voice icy, her words calculated. "But don’t expect anything else. Don’t expect me to call you ‘Father.’ Don’t expect me to call you ‘Uncle.’"

She took another bite of her food, chewing with mechanical precision. Her tone had no warmth, no affection, just cold, deliberate detachment. She wasn’t looking for a connection; she wasn’t looking for anything from him at all.

Hiroto’s chest tightened, and the air between them grew even colder, if that was even possible. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. What could he say? Could he make her understand? Could he fix any of this?

Eunji’s eyes flickered for the briefest of moments, but she quickly turned her gaze back to her meal, her expression unreadable. Her heart was a fortress now, and Hiroto had no key.

"I’ll never forgive you," she added quietly, her voice low but firm. "You made me into someone I’m not. You took away my life. And now you expect me to be something I’m not."

Hiroto’s hands clenched around his chopsticks, his mind racing with a thousand things he wanted to say, a thousand apologies he wanted to offer. But none of them felt enough. None of them could undo the damage he had done.

Eunji’s words were like sharp blades, cutting through the silence. She didn’t need to raise her voice to make him feel every ounce of the pain she carried. It was there in the way she refused to acknowledge him, in the way she treated him as though he were a complete stranger—someone she could never trust, never love, never forgive.

"I won’t pretend to care anymore," Eunji continued, her voice devoid of emotion, as though she had long since given up on this facade of family. "I’ll sit with you for meals. But that’s it. Don’t expect anything more. I’m here for me, not for you."

She finished her food with the same cold efficiency, as though she were simply going through the motions, just as she had learned to do in every other part of her life. Hiroto watched her, every word she spoke digging into his chest like a nail being driven deeper and deeper. He couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t change anything.

As Eunji stood up from the table, she didn’t spare him a second glance. She didn’t say goodbye, and she certainly didn’t apologize for the way she had cut him off. She just walked away, her footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of the mansion, leaving Hiroto alone with his regret.

He sat there, staring at the empty space where she had been, feeling the sting of her rejection in every inch of his body. He had lost her—his daughter, the one person he had hoped to build a future with, to heal the wounds of the past. But now, all he had left were the shattered pieces of a family he had destroyed.

Eunji had made it clear: She was done. She would never forgive him, and she would never see him as anything more than a stranger who had stolen her life.

Hiroto slumped in his chair, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He had made his bed, and now, he would have to lie in it.

But the question lingered, gnawing at him, even in the silence of the room: Could he ever make it right? Or had he lost her forever?