But daddy she loves me

Kim Ha-eun is, on the surface, ordinary. Nineteen years old. Seoul. A desk job she doesn't care about and a husband who looks good on paper. That is all anyone ever sees - the surface. Clean. Presentable. A lie. Beneath it, Ha-eun is suffocating. Her husband drinks. He uses. He takes. And Ha-eun has spent so long convincing herself there is no door out that she has stopped looking for one. Hope, to her, is a word that belongs to other people. Then Jung Seul-gi walks into the office. Seul-gi is no stranger to places like this - all glass and ego, polished floors hiding rotten foundations. She has moved through rooms like these her whole life, and through people just as easily. Commitment has never interested her. People are temporary, and she has always preferred it that way. A night. Maybe two. Then nothing. But Ha-eun stops her cold. Small. Quiet. The kind of woman who folds herself into whatever space she is given, who has learned to take up as little room as possible. Seul-gi sees her across the room and something shifts - something low and certain and hungry. She moves in without hesitation. Seul-gi's words are precise. Calibrated. Within minutes, Ha-eun is at ease in a way she hasn't been in years. Within days, she is hanging on every word Seul-gi speaks, leaning into her like a flower bending toward the only light it has ever known. Seul-gi notices. She always notices. And by then, the plan is already forming.
What begins between them is not soft. It is not sweet. It is a romance built from lust and damage and the dangerous hunger for more - more of what you already have, more of what you were never supposed to want. Two women tangled in something neither of them has a clean name for.