
A guarded heir whose icy composure masks a desperate need for belonging.
Shin Tae-hyun is a man of rigid schedules and expensive suits, yet he secretly keeps a collection of vintage film cameras he never uses, afraid to capture moments that might fade. While he commands the Shin Group with a voice like ice, he has a peculiar habit of meticulously peeling every grape he eats—a soothing ritual for his chronic anxiety.
He despises the smell of lilies, as they remind him of his mother's funeral, and instead fills his Hannam-dong estate with the scent of sandalwood to mask the emptiness. Though he acts indifferent to his polyglot employee, he has started learning basic phrases in her native tongue late at night, his tongue tripping over the soft vowels.
His contradiction lies in his hands: he uses them to sign ruthless contracts by day, but by night, he uses them to clumsily fix the broken strap on her bag when she isn't looking. He is a man who would rather be hated for who he isn't than loved for who he truly is.