Page 49 of Tell Me Where It Ends
Mostly, I just wait.
But on the mornings he’s home, it’s different. I’ll wake up and find him at the kitchen counter, already working. Coffee in hand, laptop open, wearing that expression that probably gets him cast as the emotionally unavailable lead in every drama he does.
It’s a quiet, domestic scene that feels both deeply comforting and, for that exact reason, profoundly dangerous. Like I’m playing house in a life that doesn’t belong to me, and the eviction notice could come at any second.
One morning, my curiosity gets the better of me. I pad over to the kitchen island, peering over his shoulder. “What are you doing? Deciding which multi-million-dollar project to grace with your presence next?”
He doesn’t look up—just scrolls through a hospital website with too many tabs open and absolutely zero idea what he’s doing.
“Just checking transfer options,” he says, way too casually. “Seoul National’s private wing has better liver specialists. I think. Probably.”
I blink. “Why are you—?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “The nurse said long-term care might come up. Figured if things get worse, we should have a plan.”
We.
I just stare at him. Not because it’s a bad idea, but because Suho’s the last person on earth I’d expect to wake up and deep-dive into hospital logistics. And yet, here he is. No PR angle. Just a wildly unqualified man throwing himself at a problem like he can out-stubborn liver failure.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, slower this time, trying to catch up to him.
He finally glances at me. “I know,” he says. Then, without missing a beat: “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
He says it like this is normal. Likewe’renormal. Like this isn’t him quietly trying to make the world a little less terrible for me, one unasked-for hospital transfer at a time.
I wrap my hands around the mug, grounding myself in its warmth—just as my phone begins toscream on the counter, buzzing multiple times in rapid succession.
I get exactly one microsecond ofYikes, what now?before my soul leaves my body.
My name—again—is clickable and lethal.
I tap the screen before my stomach can even unclench.
[EXCLUSIVE] Yoon Min-hee’s Family in Tears: “She Has Abandoned Her Dying Father.”
The piece is pure tabloidcraft: a “concerned family source” (read: my brother) spinning the story into a martyrdom farce. He’s turned my father into a headline and me into the villain.
Rage sparks behind my eyes. Footsteps echo behind me, and I freeze. Suho leans against the counter, watching me tremble, the phone shaking in my hands.
“Your brother,” he says flatly. “What does he want now?”
I swallow, bitterness coiling like iron in my chest. “Apparently, nothing is private. Ever. And of course, I’m the bad daughter-villain.”
I shove the phone across the counter toward him, my hand trembling so violently it feels like my heart is vibratingalong with it. He reads the headline, and his composure cracks.
Instead of calming me, he curses—low, sharp—and vanishes into his home office. Moments later, his voice carries back:“I don’t care what it costs. I want it buried. Find the source.”
My phone begins to buzz relentlessly—notifications from news sites, a flood of DMs from strangers calling me a monster. The article is already trending.
The agency, however, is silent. And in this business, silence is never a good sign. It’s the sound of a guillotine being polished.
***
The call I’ve been dreading comes two days later. It’s Shin. His voice is stripped of warmth—flat, professional. The voice of a man delivering a death sentence.
“The board held a final meeting this morning,” he says without preamble. “The new article was the final straw. Min-hee… they’re terminating your contract.”
The words don’t land right away. “What?”