Chapter 13 - I FINALLY FACED MY HUSBAND IN COURT
The first time I saw Jihoon again, he was sitting across a courtroom.
Six months had passed.
My ribs had healed enough that I could move comfortably most days, though sudden twisting and deep breaths sometimes still reminded me of the injury.
I had completed months of physical rehabilitation.
I had attended therapy.
I had begun working with Haedam's governance and compliance teams.
I had also filed for divorce.
The criminal proceedings concerning the assault were moving separately.
Jihoon wore a dark suit.
No tie.
His hair was neatly styled.
He looked thinner.
For a second, I remembered the man who had once brought me soup when I had a fever.
The man who laughed when I burned rice.
The man who asked me to marry him beneath the cherry blossoms at Yeouido.
Then I remembered the marble floor.
The money.
Nari smiling from the sofa.
I sat beside Director Jang.
Across the room, Jihoon looked at me.
His expression changed.
I couldn't tell whether it was shame or disbelief.
Perhaps both.
His attorney approached before the hearing began.
“Ms. Han.”
I looked up.
“My client would appreciate a private conversation.”
“No.”
“He wishes to apologize.”
“He can do that through his counsel.”
The attorney hesitated.
“He wants you to know he regrets what happened.”
I stared.
“Does he regret hurting me?”
“Of course.”
“Or does he regret that I didn't remain poor and silent?”
The attorney had no answer.
I turned away.
When testimony began, the prosecutor presented the medical evidence.
The emergency treatment records.
Photographs documented after the incident.
The preserved security footage.
Testimony from paramedics.
Statements from household staff.
And the recording of Nari's conversation before the confrontation.
Jihoon's defense argued that the incident occurred during an emotionally charged dispute.
That he had been manipulated by false information.
That he had acted without fully understanding what he was doing.
I listened.
I had spent months preparing myself for this.
Still, the effort to explain his choices as something that merely happened to him made me sick.
Then I was called.
I walked slowly to the witness position.
I had rehearsed what I wanted to say.
But when the questions began, I discovered that simple truth required less preparation than elaborate lies.
“Did you steal the company documents?” the prosecutor asked.
“No.”
“Did you authorize their transfer?”
“No.”
“Did you consent to any physical violence?”
“No.”
I swallowed.
The room was silent.
“Did your husband offer you money afterward?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Eight million U.S. dollars.”
“And how was the offer described?”
I looked toward Jihoon.
For the first time, he looked away.
“He told me it was one million dollars for each broken rib.”
The room went very quiet.
I heard someone inhale sharply.
The prosecutor waited.
“Did you accept the settlement?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I took a careful breath.
“Because he wanted me to sign a false account of what happened.”
“What account?”
“That my injuries resulted from an accidental fall.”
I looked toward the judges.
“That wasn't true.”
The questioning continued.
Some questions were difficult.
I answered carefully.
When I didn't remember something clearly, I said so.
When I wasn't certain about another person's motives, I didn't speculate.
I had learned the difference between testimony and revenge.
The court did not need me to sound dramatic.
It needed me to be accurate.
Then Jihoon's attorney asked:
“Ms. Han, did you intentionally conceal your wealth from your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted a marriage based on affection rather than money.”
“Do you accept that your concealment damaged his trust?”
I thought carefully.
“I accept that I should have discussed my identity with him before marriage.”
The attorney looked pleased.
Then I continued.
“But that does not justify violence.”
Silence.
He tried another question.
“Was your husband under extreme pressure from business losses?”
“I don't know his emotional state that night.”
“Did you know he had concerns about confidential company information?”
“Yes.”
“Did you cooperate?”
“I asked for an investigation.”
“And he refused?”
“Yes.”
The attorney paused.
I looked directly at the court.
“My husband had every opportunity to check the facts. He chose not to.”
When my testimony ended, I returned to my seat.
Director Jang squeezed my hand.
“You did well.”
I shook my head.
“I told the truth.”
She smiled.
“That's what I meant.”
During the proceedings, evidence also emerged concerning Nari's fabrication of the file-transfer allegations.
Her financial dealings with Daewon were examined in a separate investigation.
The cases did not resolve in one dramatic afternoon.
There were hearings.
Additional evidence.
Witnesses.
Legal arguments.
Delays.
But eventually, Jihoon was convicted in connection with the violent assault and related conduct.
The court imposed a custodial sentence.
His appeal rights remained intact.
Nari faced separate charges involving falsified documents and her role in the broader scheme.
Daewon faced prosecution arising from fraudulent transactions and efforts to interfere with shareholder rights.
Not every allegation was proven exactly as investigators initially suspected.
Some claims were withdrawn.
Others supported by stronger evidence.
The legal process was slower and more complicated than revenge stories make it look.
But it mattered.
Because facts had consequences.
Outside the courthouse, reporters crowded behind barriers.
Cameras flashed.
Questions flew.
“Chairwoman Han, are you satisfied?”
“Will Haedam acquire Myeongseong?”
“Do you forgive your husband?”
I kept walking.
Then one reporter shouted:
“Was eight million dollars enough?”
I stopped.
Director Jang looked at me.
I turned toward the cameras.
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Then:
“There is no price for a person's right to be safe.”
The crowd quieted.
I continued.
“And money never gives someone the right to hurt another human being.”
I turned away.
That was all I wanted to say.
That evening, Grandfather waited at home.
He had prepared dinner.
Or rather, Mrs. Oh had prepared it while he supervised and criticized the amount of salt.
When I entered, he stood.
“How was it?”
I sat carefully.
“Hard.”
He nodded.
“Do you regret testifying?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“Grandfather?”
“Yes?”
“Will this ever stop hurting?”
He took my hand.
“Not every memory disappears.”
I swallowed.
“Then how do people move on?”
He considered.
“Perhaps moving on doesn't mean forgetting. Perhaps it means the memory no longer decides what you do tomorrow.”
I thought about that.
Then smiled faintly.
“Father would have liked that answer.”
Grandfather looked toward my father's photograph.
“Yes.”
His eyes filled.
May you like
“He would have been very proud of you.”
For the first time in months, I believed it.
