Six years later.
Much had changed—especially her relationship with Han Sanghyun.
At first, their weekly dinners were stiff and awkward. He attempted to make conversation, and she responded politely, her tone neutral, distant.
It was clear Sanghyun wasn't used to initiating conversations. He was one of the heads of the Four Pillars—men like him didn't chase conversations; others chased his attention. In his world, people tries to impress him, flatter him, or extract something from him. Small talk didn't come naturally.
But he came every week, without fail, even though his usual schedule kept him working late into the evenings. To make room for their Friday dinners, he had to put in extra hours on the days before—shifting meetings, reorganizing deadlines, and pushing himself harder just to free up that one evening.
Areum could see it clearly—in his mana field, the subtle exhaustion clinged to him no matter how composed he appeared.
Tired and stretched thin, yet still threaded with sincerity. He was trying. Genuinely. He wanted to get to know her. He cared.
And that softened her—slowly.
One evening, noticing how drained he looked, she poured him a cup of tea. Wordlessly, she slid the cup toward him.
Sanghyun stared at the cup for a beat too long.
For him, the offering meant more than just a beverage. It was a gesture—a small but undeniable olive branch. A moment of warmth.
A chance to connect.
He accepted the cup like it was made of gold.
Tea tasting wasn't new to him. In the upper circles, it was considered one of the refined hobbies. He had been trained to identify blends, flavor notes, and proper brewing temperatures since his youth.
But this tea was... different.
Areum had given him a cup of lavender tea.
On the surface, it seemed simple. But the lavender had undergone mutation from growing in a mana-rich environment. The lavender plant now held a soft, subtly purple glow and could accumulate and circulate mana on its own, even without the help of the crystal grids.
The cup itself was carved from clear quartz crystal, its surface etched with geometric symbols that draw in the ambient mana directly into the tea, amplifying its effects.
Before under going mutation, lavender was already known to calm the nervous system, lower stress hormones, and promote slow, deep breathing.
Now, the effect was immediate and profound. Its energetic and medicinal properties had been amplified several times.
Sanghyun carefully examined the clear yellow liquid, noting the faint, otherworldly shimmer of purple glowing just beneath the surface. For a moment, he blinked, unsure if he was hallucinating.
He lifted the cup, the steam curling upward in slow, gentle wisps, carrying with it a floral aroma that was both calming and strangely invigorating. He took a sip.
The warmth spread instantly across his tongue, silky and smooth. The taste was subtle yet unmistakably potent—floral, slightly sweet, with an earthy undertone that seemed to anchor his awareness to the present. As he swallowed, a gush of calm swept over him.
He exhaled without realizing he'd been holding his breath. His shoulders eased. His jaw, tight with tension, slackened without him realizing. His spine relaxed against the back of his chair. The tension he'd carried into the room—the kind Areum had seen in the sharpness of his mana threads—melted away.
His thoughts, once noisy and scattered, quieted into stillness.
The tea didn't just relax him. It grounded him. It was as if a thread had dropped from the base of his spine and tied him to the earth, anchoring his thoughts, slowing his breath, and steadying his mind.
He blinked, surprised. "What is this?"
"Lavender," Areum replied simply.
Sanghyun gave her a sideways glance. "That's not just lavender."
She smiled faintly but said nothing. There were things she wasn't sure he was ready to hear yet. And truthfully, she was also curious. She wanted to observe how normal people reacted to spiritual plants. At the moment, Sanghyun was her most convenient test subject.
From that night on, everything shifted.
The awkward tension lessened. Their conversations became easier, more natural. Their weekly dinners expanded into something more fluid—sometimes twice or even three times a week, depending on their schedules.
They no longer just ate together. Sometimes they went out. A quiet picnic in a remote forest. A private tour of a museum. A rented-out rooftop garden café. He always chose secluded venues—booked entirely or far from the public eye, far from paparazzi or nosy socialites.
Other times, they didn't do anything at all. Sanghyun would simply come over, loosen his tie, drape his jacket on the couch, and settle in with his laptop while sipping tea in the living room.
He claimed it helped him focus. "This place feels different," he said once, glancing around her condo. "My brain slows down here. In a good way. I can actually think."
Of course it felt different, Areum thought. The condo was saturated with mana. Every inch of it. The crystals, the plants, the geometric grids—everything worked together in harmony to create a living system optimized for health, rejuvenation, clarity, and creative flow.
Given enough time, the effects can go even deeper. The environment had the potential to influence human DNA itself.
The weeks Sanghyun visited more often than usual were always the ones where he seemed especially drained. Areum didn't need to rely on her Sight to know.
She could see it in the dark circles under his eyes and the way he ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to smooth out thoughts that refused to settle. Sometimes his tie was loosened, his collar undone, and he would sit on her couch in silence—eyes closed a little longer than usual, tension clinging to him like a second skin.
On those days, she would pass him the teapot without a word.
Whenever she asked what was weighing on him so heavily, he would just smile, gently pat her head, and tell her not to worry—that everything was fine.
Only a three-year-old would believe that. Areum gave him a deadpan side-eye.
He smiled faintly but didn't respond.
Then, one evening, he forgot to silence his phone.
While he stepped out to smoke—a habit Areum sincerely wished he'd quit—his phone buzzed on the table. She reached over, intending only to move it aside, but paused when the screen lit up.
Multiple missed calls from "Yoon Sera," followed by a barrage of text messages:
[Where are you?]
[You said you'd be at the office.]
[Why haven't you called?]
[If you have time for someone else, do you not have time for your children?]
[Don't you dare ignore me.]
Areum frowned.
If she remembered correctly, Yoon Sera was the legal wife—Sanghyun's arranged marriage partner—and the mother of the protagonist, or rather, her half-sister, Han Soyun.
After discovering that Sanghyun had a hidden lover and an illegitimate child, Yoon Sera developed a deep sense of distrust and fell into a pattern of obsessive control. She constantly questioned him, called to check his whereabouts, cried, and threw tantrums. The emotional instability created a volatile environment for their children—especially Han Soyun, who, as a result, developed deep-seated trust issues. It was part of the reason she kept her distance from the male lead, Ryu Haejin, at the beginning of the novel.
Areum felt a prickle of unease. She could only hope Yoon Sera's paranoia hadn't worsened simply because she was still alive.
When Sanghyun returned, wiping his hands on a cloth, he noticed the expression on her face.
"What's with that look?"
Wordlessly, Areum pointed to the phone still vibrating on the table. He paled slightly, snatched it up, and turned it off with a muttered curse under his breath.
"It's rude to peep," he said, avoiding her gaze.
"You left it face up," Areum replied dryly. "And it was practically screaming."
He sighed, finally meeting her eyes.
"It's complicated."
"I can see that."
A pause stretched between them.
Then, Areum asked quietly, "Why didn't you just tell her the truth? That my mother drugged you. Technically, you didn't cheat."