Chapter 1: The Ice Queen
I am not cold like winter.
Winter numbs. Winter dulls pain until you forget where it began.
I burn.
The boardroom doors swing open. A conversation stops halfway through. One director lowers his pen; another straightens the papers in front of him, though they are already aligned. At the far end of the table, someone reaches for a glass and changes his mind.
Nobody asks me to wait.
My heels cross the marble floor. I place a folder on the table, take my seat, and open it to the first page.
The room settles.
I turn to the first report.
The director sitting opposite me clears his throat. "The revised figures are not yet complete, Miss Astar. We were hoping to have another day to—"
I raise my eyes.
He stops.
"Tomorrow."
One word. No discussion.
He nods and writes something in the margin of his copy. The director beside him looks down at the folder in front of him. I turn another page.
The meeting continues.
Nobody asks for another day.
ASTAR Group headquarters does not reach for the sky; it claims it.
Ninety-nine floors of steel and glass rise above the city. From the executive floor, the streets below look like lines drawn across a map. Cars move between buildings, traffic lights change, and thousands of people continue their evenings without knowing how many decisions made here will affect their lives.
At 6:47 p.m., I stand before seventeen screens.
Tokyo. Singapore. London. Frankfurt. New York.
Markets move. Production figures change. Shipping schedules fall behind. A contract disappears from one report and reappears in another under a different name. I move between the screens, checking the figures against the reports sent by each division.
My phone rests against my ear. My reflection appears faintly in the glass, disappearing whenever a chart changes.
"Takahashi-san."
"Yes, Miss Astar."
"Fifteen percent isn't growth."
A pause.
"We have made progress despite the difficult market conditions. The team expects—"
"Your competitors faced the same market."
Silence.
I enlarge the Tokyo report. Three missed production targets. Operating costs up eleven percent. Production down four percent. Two lost contracts.
"Which of these figures did you expect me to overlook?"
"We are working to recover the contracts."
"Negotiations don't recover contracts."
He starts to explain again. I turn to the next page.
"I expect twenty percent. You have until Friday."
"Twenty percent by Friday may be difficult to achieve."
"Then replace the people who made it difficult."
The line goes quiet.
I check the delivery figures again.
"Tomorrow. Revised plan."
"Understood, Miss Astar."
I end the call.
The Tokyo report remains on the screen. I mark the missed targets for review and move to the next division. Munich's restructuring proposal is waiting, along with an acquisition assessment that has already been delayed twice.
I haven't felt anything in years.
The thought comes and goes while I read the figures. I adjust one entry, reject another, and send the acquisition team a request for the missing valuation documents.
Once, I knew other words.
Softer ones. Dangerous ones.
Once, I smiled without checking who was watching.
That girl is dead.
I killed her myself.
A legal settlement appears in the review queue. The proposed amount is excessive, the conditions are vague, and the ownership section leaves several subsidiaries undisclosed. I read the document again, checking the clauses that have been marked for approval.
Then I close it.
"Reject it."
The legal team receives the instruction through the internal channel.
A confirmation appears.
Reason for rejection?
I type:
Incomplete ownership records.
Then I add the conditions for resubmission. Complete ownership details. Transparent liability terms. No undisclosed subsidiaries.
I send it back.
My calendar is crowded. Board calls, an acquisition review, a security meeting, and a dinner that has already been postponed twice. I move one meeting by fifteen minutes and leave the rest untouched.
Three knocks sound against the door.
"Enter."
Min-jun steps inside with his tablet. Rebecca follows him, stopping near the door. Min-jun checks the room before speaking.
"Miss Astar, the media has assembled outside. Approximately two hundred journalists and at least a thousand civilians."
I look up from the calendar.
"What's happened?"
"Private information concerning your family has been circulating online. Several outlets have published it as fact. Some are using photographs that appear to have been altered."
"Which outlets?"
Rebecca gives me a list.
I read the names. Twenty-three major outlets have published something. More are repeating the claims through their own accounts.
"What has been verified?"
"Nothing that supports the stories," Rebecca says. "The photographs contain inconsistencies. We haven't established where the original material came from."
"What are they asking?"
Min-jun glances at his tablet.
"They're asking about your brother. Some want to know why he has been kept out of public view. Others are repeating claims about your family and demanding confirmation."
I place the tablet on the desk.
"Preserve every original post, image, timestamp, and account record. Don't allow anyone to delete the evidence before we have copies."
Min-jun begins entering the instruction.
"Flag every outlet that has presented unverified private information as fact. Send formal demands for correction and removal. Any unauthorised photograph taken inside restricted property receives a six-month suspension from access. Anyone who directly approaches my family after being warned will face a longer restriction."
"Understood," Rebecca says.
"Have legal prepare notices for the outlets that continue publishing fabricated claims. I want the source of every photograph traced. No assumptions, no shortcuts, and no public statement until we know exactly what happened."
Rebecca nods.
"Should we activate the underground route?" she asks.
I look at her.
She adjusts her grip on the tablet.
"No. I'll take the main entrance."
Min-jun's expression shifts. "Miss Astar, the crowd is already—"
"They have gathered outside my building. They haven't been invited inside."
"The exposure could—"
"Let them take their photographs."
I pick up my coat.
"If I leave through an underground passage, they'll have their headline before I've reached the car. I won't change my movements because someone has decided to turn a rumour into a public spectacle."
Min-jun closes his tablet.
"Prepare the convoy. Keep the security corridor clear, but don't touch anyone unless they cross the marked boundary or threaten the team. Record the entire departure."
"Yes, Miss Astar."
"Send the instructions to the security supervisor."
They leave.
I check the time.
6:53 p.m.
The next report is still open on my screen. I save it, close the remaining files, and place the phone in my coat pocket.
The thought comes again as I reach for the door.
What if I'm making things worse?
I stop for a moment.
There is no answer waiting in the room. No report can tell me what a person should do when the people they care about become targets. I straighten my sleeve and walk out.
The private elevator descends without stopping.
When the doors open, noise spills into the lobby.
Cameras flash through the glass. Journalists stand behind the security line, microphones raised. People crowd the entrance with their phones held above their heads. A security guard turns sideways to prevent someone from pushing past him.
I step out.
The nearest conversation breaks off. A man lowers his microphone, then raises it again when I approach. A woman takes a step backwards and nearly bumps into the person behind her.
"Miss Astar!"
"Can you confirm the reports about your family?"
"Is the information about your brother true?"
"Why have you kept him away from the public?"
"Are you hiding something?"
The questions come from different directions. A microphone reaches across the security line. One of the guards moves it back without touching the journalist holding it.
I keep walking.
My heels strike the marble. The security team moves ahead, opening a path to the entrance. Cameras follow me through the glass doors, flashes reflecting off the polished floor.
Outside, the crowd presses towards the boundary.
"Miss Astar, just one question!"
"Is your family in danger?"
"Will you respond to the allegations?"
I do not turn.
A man at the front keeps shouting until the person beside him pulls his arm down. Another journalist steps forward, then stops when the security team closes the gap.
I reach the curb.
Seven vehicles wait in formation. At the centre is a matte-black Jesko Absolut. Its surface reflects the building lights in narrow silver lines.
I open the driver's door and get in.
The security team takes its positions. The other vehicles start their engines. Through the windscreen, I can still see the cameras pointed towards me.
I fasten my seat belt.
The engine starts.
The gates open, and the convoy moves into the evening traffic.
I keep my eyes on the road. The city passes beyond the windscreen, traffic lights changing above the lanes. My phone vibrates once, then again. I leave it untouched until we reach the residence.
The media remained outside ASTAR Group headquarters long after the convoy had disappeared.
Some journalists continued recording the entrance. Others gathered around their editors, checking the photographs they had taken. A few had already posted short clips of Selen walking through the crowd.
The footage spread quickly.
One channel replayed the moment she stepped through the doors. Another focused on the security team clearing a path. A third used a photograph of her beside the black car, adding a headline about her refusal to answer questions concerning her family.
The comments multiplied beneath the posts.
Some called her arrogant. Others praised her composure. Several accounts repeated the same claims that had brought the crowd there in the first place, despite having no new evidence.
A journalist standing near the outer boundary looked at his phone.
"Have you seen this?" he asked his colleague.
"What?"
"The photograph has been taken down."
"Which one?"
"All three versions from that account."
His colleague refreshed the page. The post had disappeared, but screenshots were already circulating elsewhere.
"Someone is cleaning it up."
"Or someone has told them to."
Neither man knew who had originally supplied the photographs. Neither knew whether the person responsible was watching the coverage.
Behind them, a security officer spoke quietly into his radio. He watched the last vehicle turn out of sight before returning to the entrance.
The crowd had not received an answer.
It had received a photograph.
For the media, that was enough to begin another round of speculation.
Twenty minutes later, I drive through the outer gate.
Security verifies the convoy before allowing the vehicles inside. I park, step out, and wait while the final vehicle clears the entrance. The gate closes behind it.
Upstairs, the private elevator opens onto the residence.
I check the access panel. No unexpected entry. No failed verification. The outer perimeter report shows no unfamiliar movement near the private floor.
I remove my coat and place it over the back of a chair.
The media reports are waiting.
Legal has begun sending notices. The security team is tracing the accounts responsible for circulating the photographs. I read the first batch of results, reject two incomplete reports, and send the remaining files back for verification.
The same claims appear under different headlines. The same photographs circulate through different accounts. Some posts have been removed, but copies remain. A few outlets have changed their wording without correcting the original claims.
I mark them for follow-up.
At 9:18 p.m., the operations report arrives. Tokyo has submitted a preliminary response. The revised supplier plan is attached.
I read the delivery history.
The proposed supplier has missed two delivery dates.
I close the report.
"Find another supplier."
The instruction goes to the operations team. A confirmation appears a moment later.
Understood.
I return to the media investigation. Two accounts have been flagged for closer examination. One appears to be connected to an internal administrative account. The other is external, and its ownership has not yet been established.
At 10:04 p.m., Min-jun calls.
"Miss Astar, we have an update."
"Go on."
"The first suspicious account is linked to an internal administrative account. We're checking the access history. The second account is external. We haven't confirmed who controls it."
"Did either account access the original files?"
"The logs show an attempted export."
"Was anything exported?"
"We're still verifying that."
"Preserve the original logs. Make copies for the investigation, but don't alter the source records. Restrict the relevant access permissions without notifying the suspected employee."
"Should we question them?"
"Not yet. I want the complete access history first. If you alert them before we understand what happened, you may lose the evidence."
"Understood."
"Keep the investigation separate from the media response. The people tracing the accounts should not be sharing their findings with the teams handling the outlets."
"I'll arrange it."
The call ends.
I save the report and look at the two account records. One leads somewhere inside the company. The other ends at an external account with no confirmed owner. The attempted export is the only connection between them so far.
I leave the file open and move to the next report.
The clock has passed ten.
I read two more pages before standing. The window reflects the room behind me, the desk, the open reports, and the woman looking back from the glass.
I lift a hand to my face. My fingers touch my cheek, then fall.
A woman who cremated her heart and built an empire on the ashes.
I look down at the city again. The buildings remain lit, traffic continues below, and somewhere beyond the glass, people are still repeating stories they cannot prove.
I return to the desk.
There are more reports waiting. I open the next one and begin reading.
Soren
I hear the elevator before I see her.
The sound comes from the private entrance, followed by the familiar sequence of the lock disengaging. I close my book and look towards the door.
She's late.
I check the time on my phone. Then I put it down, get up, and walk to the kitchen.
The water is already chilled. I take a glass from the cabinet, fill it, and carry it back to the living room. I place it on the small table near her usual chair. The glass makes a soft sound against the wood.
I look towards the entrance again.
When she comes home, she usually goes straight to her office. Sometimes she removes her coat first. Sometimes she doesn't. If there is work waiting, she can spend hours without noticing anything else.
I know better than to interrupt her when she's on a call.
I also know she forgets to drink water.
I return to the kitchen and check the food. It has been sitting covered for a while. I move the plate closer to the warmer and turn it on. The clock on the wall keeps ticking.
My phone lights up with another notification. I glance at it, then put it face down.
The door opens.
I hear her heels first.
She walks into the residence with her coat still on. Her phone is in one hand, and she looks at the screen before placing it on the table. She doesn't notice the glass immediately.
I pick it up and bring it to her.
"Here."
She looks at the glass, then at me.
"Thanks."
I wait until she takes it. She drinks a little, sets it down, and looks towards the office.
"Food's ready," I say.
"Later."
I already expected that answer.
I don't argue. I take the coat from the back of the chair when she removes it and hang it properly. She has left it on the nearest surface before, only to find it creased the next morning. I put it where it belongs and return to the kitchen.
The plate is still warm.
I bring it out and place it on the table.
"At least eat something."
She looks at the food.
"I will."
I sit down before she can return to the office. She glances at me, then at the plate. For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
Then she pulls out the chair.
I look down at my book to hide my relief.
She eats quietly. I don't ask about her day. I saw enough of the news reports to know what happened outside ASTAR Group, and I don't want to repeat the questions strangers have been asking all evening.
I did not like seeing her face surrounded by cameras.
I liked the headlines even less.
Some of them were about our family. Some used photographs that I didn't recognise. One account had posted a picture that looked familiar at first, until I noticed the details that were wrong.
I had saved the links before they disappeared.
I haven't shown her.
She has enough to deal with already.
"Did you see the news?" she asks.
I look up.
"Some of it."
She takes another bite.
"They're making things up," I say.
"I know."
That's all.
I look at her hands. She is holding the fork, but her phone lights up again beside the plate. She glances at the notification and puts it face down without opening it.
I want to ask whether someone has threatened her. I want to ask whether the people outside the building followed the convoy. I want to ask why anyone would drag our family into their stories.
Instead, I push the water closer.
She takes another sip.
After she finishes, I collect the plate. She reaches for it, but I have already picked it up.
"I'll take it."
She doesn't argue.
I carry the dishes to the kitchen, rinse them, and leave them in the rack. When I return, she is standing near the office entrance, looking at the reports on her tablet.
I know that look.
"You're going back to work?"
"Just a little."
I glance at the clock.
"That's what you said yesterday."
She looks at me.
I shrug and move past her towards the living room. I don't want to start an argument. She has enough people telling her what to do.
I take my book and sit down where I can see the office entrance.
The door stays open.
I try to read, but the same paragraph keeps appearing in front of me. I turn a page and realise I haven't understood a word. I close the book and look towards her.
She's standing at the desk now, reading something on one of the screens. Her fingers move across the keyboard. Another screen lights up, and she turns towards it.
I get up.
The water glass is still on the table. I take it into the office and place it near her hand.
She looks at it.
"Drink."
Her eyes move from the glass to me.
I don't say anything else. I return to my chair.
A few minutes later, I hear the glass being lifted.
I open my book again.
The office is too bright, so I move my chair slightly away from the nearest screen. I can still see her from where I sit. She hasn't changed position much. Every now and then, she pauses to read a line twice before continuing.
I wonder if she knows how tired she looks.
I don't tell her.
She wouldn't thank me for saying it.
The screen nearest me goes dark.
I look up. Her hand is resting against the panel.
"Does that bother you?" she asks.
I shake my head.
"No."
She turns back to her work.
I return to my book, but I don't leave.
The pages turn slowly. The clock moves past eleven. Somewhere outside, a vehicle passes along the road below. The sound fades, and the residence becomes quiet again.
I read a few more pages before noticing that she has stopped typing.
She closes the file on the screen and pushes her chair back.
"Finished?" I ask.
"For now."
I look at the other reports still open on the desk.
"That's new."
She gives me a brief look.
I smile and lower my eyes before she can tell me to stop.
She walks towards the window. The city lights reflect across the glass, and I can see her standing there without turning around. For a moment, she doesn't move.
I wonder what she's thinking.
I don't ask.
When I was younger, I used to follow her around the house. She would tell me to go back to my room, and I would wait until she left before following her again. She always knew. She never needed to turn around to catch me.
Things are different now.
She has more responsibilities than I can understand. People wait for her decisions. They call her at all hours. Even when she's home, part of her attention seems to be somewhere else.
But she still turns off the screen when its light falls on my face.
She still notices when I haven't eaten.
And when I bring her water, she drinks it.
I close my book and place it beside me.
"Are you going to sleep?" I ask.
"In a while."
I nod.
I know better than to believe her.
I get up, collect my book, and carry it towards the door. Before leaving, I look back. She has turned away from the window and is looking at the desk.
The reports are still there.
"Good night," I say.
She looks at me.
"Good night, Soren."
I walk towards my room.
At the entrance, I stop and look back once more. She is still standing beside the desk, but she hasn't opened another file.
I leave without saying anything.
Selen
The door closes softly behind him.
I look at the empty chair where he was sitting. His book is no longer there, and the water glass stands beside my hand.
I pick it up.
The city stretches beyond the window. Somewhere below, the stories are still being repeated. Tomorrow, there will be more photographs, more questions, and more people pretending that a rumour becomes true if enough accounts share it.
I set the glass down.
The phone lights up.
Another message from Min-jun. The investigation is continuing. The internal account remains under review. They haven't identified the external account.
I read the message and lock the screen.
For once, I leave the reports unfinished.
Soren came home and waited for me. He brought me water, made sure I ate, and sat beside me without asking for anything in return.
Tomorrow, the world can have its questions.
Tonight, I close the office door.
Because myths don't bleed…
Do they?