GOOD TROUBLE

Untitled Episode

Ever since I was little, I’ve dreamed of standing beneath blinding lights, cameras flashing, the air trembling with my name. I’d smile, bow gracefully, wave at the crowd that adored me. Then the moment my hand wrapped around the microphone and my voice filled the arena the crowd would erupt. I’d be the next IU, the kind of K-pop idol who could make people cry with a single verse.

People would know my name here in Seoul, and beyond. Not as Kim Bora, the heiress of a chaebol family, but as Kim Bora, the singer who made it on her own.

And when I-

“Are you kidding me?”

Mum’s voice shatters my daydream like a grenade. So much for daydreaming. The door slams open, and reality hits me square in the face—along with the migraine already pounding behind my eyes. My head feels like a damn drum.

Why did Joon let me drink that much last night?

Right. He didn’t. He tried to stop me. But who am I if not Kim Bora, Seoul’s reigning party queen?

I groan, burying my face into the pillow. “What?”

The next thing I feel is the sting of her palm across my cheek. The sharp slap cuts through the haze instantly. For a second, I almost admire her precision. I lift my head, the side of my face burning, and meet her eyes—cold, furious, trembling at the edges.

And honestly? The look almost satisfies me.

It’s not the first time she’s slapped me. Probably won’t be the last.

A low laugh escapes me, sardonic and soaked in exhaustion. It echoes in the thick silence between us like a challenge.

“Go on,” I rasp, smiling through the ache. “That all you’ve got, Mum?”

Her jaw tightens, nostrils flaring—but instead of answering, she whirls away and snatches something off the dresser.

“Ji-ho? Really?”

Her voice slices through my pounding headache like a knife. She thrusts her phone toward me, the screen glowing bright with the headline splashed across every gossip site.

And there I am.

Me—mascara smudged, lips parted, stumbling into Ji-ho’s arms outside Club Nebula. Glittery, barely-there dress. Hair a mess. His hand slung low around my waist while he tries—very publicly—to kiss me.

“KIM BORA AND ACTOR JI-HO: CHAEBOL HEIRESS IN ANOTHER NIGHTCLUB SCANDAL.”

“Wow,” I mutter, squinting at the photo. “They didn’t even use my good angle.”

“Don’t play dumb, Bora!” Mum snaps, voice trembling with fury. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’re trending again—for all the wrong reasons! With him?”

“What?” I yawn, reaching blindly for the half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. “He’s cute. And he likes me.”

Her jaw locks. For a moment, I swear she might throw the phone at my head. Instead, she exhales sharply through her nose and mutters something about me being a disgrace to the Kim name. Then she spins on her heel.

“That’s it. I’m done.”

The door slams so hard the walls tremble.

I flop backward onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, the words rolling off my tongue like a tired sigh.

“Sure, you’ve said that before.”

What are they going to do this time? Lock me in the family’s private villa again? Confiscate my cards? Send me to therapy camp for “image rehabilitation”?

No. Dad wouldn’t risk the media finding out his precious chaebol daughter was being disciplined. The Kim name must stay pristine—even if their middle child is the stain they can’t wash out.

Maybe they’ll send my brother Bok to handle the mess again. Mr. Perfect Kim Bok.

At twenty-six, he’s already finishing his PhD in Business Management at SNU, perfectly groomed to take over the company. Smart, composed, scandal-free. Everything I’m not.

I don’t hate him, not really… but sometimes, when I see how our parents look at him—with pride, warmth, and something like relief—I wish they’d look at me the same way. Just once.

The silence stretches for a minute—peaceful, almost. Then the door flies open again.

I don’t even lift my head. “What now, Mum?”

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” she says, voice calm and clipped now—dangerous in its restraint. “The chauffeur is taking you to the airport.”

I blink, sitting up. “Airport? Where the hell am I going?”

She doesn’t answer. Just gives me that cold, deliberate look—the one that says she’s made up her mind—and leaves.

The sound of her heels fades down the hall, like a countdown.

I fall back on the bed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

Of course. They’re shipping me off somewhere again. Probably to one of Dad’s properties, hidden away from the press until the scandal dies down. I can already picture the statement they’ve released to the media—written by some PR manager pretending to be me, apologizing for my “reckless behavior” and announcing that I’m taking time to “reflect.”

Good thing classes start in a month. They can’t keep me wherever they’re sending me forever.

Or so I think.

Because I have no idea that Emerald University isn’t just a school—

It’s a cage made of glass and secrets.

And someone there already remembers the girl I used to be.