If someone had asked me how much a cup of coffee cost, I would have answered confidently: "₩60,000."
That's how much our housekeeper billed for our Honduran beans aged in whiskey barrels and slow-roasted over Japanese charcoal.
I had no idea people drank iced americanos for ₩4,000 from convenience stores.
Honestly, I thought convenience stores were just for… you know, convenience.
"Miss Chae Ah, I've drawn a bath for you," said Nari, my personal maid, knocking softly on the bedroom door.
I was already lying spread-eagle on the floor of my 60-pyeong room, silk robe untied, staring at the ceiling like a deflated balloon.
"Cancel it."
Nari peeked in. "But it's rosemary oil today. You said it helps with emotional balance."
"My emotions are perfectly balanced," I sighed, rolling over. "They're just… bored."
She didn't argue. She'd seen me like this before — in a dramatic spiral about existential boredom. It was my specialty.
I'm Yoon Chae Ah, the only daughter of Yoon Dae Guk — the formidable Chairman of Yoon Group.
Luxury conglomerate. Billion-dollar family. Diamond heiress.
I didn't hate the nickname. I was fond of diamonds. But I hated the way they said it. Like I was a glass doll wearing ₩10 million heels, trapped behind imported curtains in a luxury cage.
Well… it's true.
I have three passports, five black cards, and my own line of limited-edition handbags named after me.
I can charter a private jet to Paris in two hours.
But I've never taken the subway. Never eaten convenience store tteokbokki. Never had a roommate to fight over ramen with.
I've never even boiled water by myself.
"Would you like to review your M&A portfolio with Tutor Jung?" Nari asked, hopeful.
I groaned and rolled farther into the rug. "If I see another chart about vertical integration, I might actually combust."
"Miss, your father arranged those lessons—"
"I know," I snapped, then softened. "Sorry, Nari. I just… don't want to be a product anymore."
Nari frowned. "You're not a product."
I gave a hollow laugh. "Aren't I, though? Groomed since middle school to be the next CEO, media-trained before puberty, monitored by security like a national secret?"
That's what being Yoon Dae Guk's daughter meant. I wasn't just a daughter — I was a business legacy.
I sat up, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to my chest. "Nari. I want to be normal."
"…You want to suffer?"
"Yes," I said, eyes gleaming. "But voluntarily."
She smiled faintly. "Miss, you've never even had instant noodles."
"Exactly!"
I stood dramatically, robes flowing like a villainess in a drama. "Nari. I want to go to university."
"You already have private business instructors—"
"No, a real university. With professors who don't know I'm rich, and students who think I'm… just another freshman. I want to ride the subway. Eat kimbap. Burn my tongue on cafeteria stew!"
Nari looked genuinely worried now. "What brought this on?"
I hesitated. What had brought it on?
Maybe it was the influencer video I'd seen yesterday. A girl around my age, giggling with friends on campus, crying about a bad grade, eating tteokbokki at a roadside stall at midnight.
Or maybe it was the lonely silence echoing through the hallways of the Yoon mansion, even though there were always staff around.
Or maybe I was just tired of being treated like a business asset waiting to be married off.
Whatever it was, the desire felt real. And it was growing.
"I'm serious," I said, crossing my arms. "I'm applying to Daehan University. Business Administration."
Nari looked like I'd told her I was joining the circus. "Does Chairman Yoon know?"
"He doesn't need to," I sniffed. "I'll handle it."
The next afternoon, I was hunched over my laptop in the library wing of the house — one of them, anyway — chewing on a pen cap and muttering, "What even is a 'self-introduction essay'?"
Apparently, applying to university meant I had to write about my passions, goals, and struggles.
What was I supposed to say? "I'm passionate about not being suffocated by generational wealth?"
I stared at the blinking cursor.
Then typed:
"My name is Yoon Ah Ra. I may not have much, but I believe in sincerity, hard work, and learning from experience. I want to grow not through privilege, but through challenge."
Technically a lie, but emotionally true?
——
Convincing myself was the easy part.
Convincing Chairman Yoon Dae Guk — aka Appa — was like submitting a business proposal to a lion.
"You want to go where?" he said, lifting his gaze from his tablet at the breakfast table.
"To Daehan University. I already passed the essay review and interviews."
"You're already being educated."
"I mean real education, Appa. With people. With mistakes. With… cafeteria stew."
He narrowed his eyes. "You want to lower yourself to live among common students? Wear knockoff shoes? Drink expired milk?"
"Is milk… supposed to expire?" I asked blankly.
His jaw tightened.
"It's not about lowering myself," I said quickly. "It's about being real. I'm twenty. I've never even opened a bank account by myself. How can I inherit a company when I don't even know what normal looks like?"
There was a long silence.
Chairman Yoon slowly placed his chopsticks down and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms.
"You will not go as Yoon Chae Ah," he said flatly. "It would be a media circus. Yoon Group can't afford gossip about the heiress playing pretend on campus."
"I know. That's why I applied under an alias. No one will know."
He tilted his head. "You're serious."
I nodded. "Completely. I won't use the family name. I'll live off a modest allowance. I won't flash cards or call for a driver."
"You'll be miserable."
"Probably," I grinned. "Isn't that part of the charm?"
He said nothing.
But I saw the flicker in his eyes — surprise, worry, pride, and that tiny glint of affection he never voiced aloud.
He sighed, long and sharp. "You can go. Under conditions."
I held my breath.
"One: you maintain top grades. Two: you do not reveal your identity. And three—" his voice lowered, "—you keep your black cards, access codes, and security team active at all times. Covertly."
I blinked. "Wait… seriously?"
"You'll need backup. This world isn't kind, even to normal girls. Especially to normal girls who were never taught to boil water."
I laughed. "So… you're saying I can go?"
"I'm saying: don't make me regret it."
I stood up and gave a deep 90-degree bow, nearly knocking over my juice.
"Thank you, Appa."
He raised an eyebrow. "You'll last two weeks."
"I'll last four years."
He smirked, just slightly. "Prove it."
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart fluttering.
I had the same resources. The same cards. The same penthouse bedroom and hundred-million-won wardrobe.
But I wasn't going to use any of it.
I was going to be normal.
Not because I had to…
But because I chose to.
And for the first time in twenty years… I felt free.