The late-morning sun was warm but not stifling as Ashling wandered out to the small front yard, curious about the neighborhood. She'd been looking at the row of hedges along the white fence when she spotted a woman in a wide-brimmed hat, bent over a small patch of leafy greens in the yard next door.
The woman glanced up and met her eyes. Ashling smiled automatically. "Good morning."
The woman straightened slowly, resting her hands on her hips. "You must be the new wife," she said in careful but warm English.
Ashling hesitated, then decided not to complicate things. "Yes, I'm Ashling."
The woman's lined face softened. "I'm Mrs. Kim. I grow my own vegetables. Here—" She disappeared behind the hedge for a moment, then returned with a woven basket brimming with lettuce, tomatoes, and green onions.
Ashling blinked. "Oh, I can't possibly—"
Mrs. Kim waved off the protest. "It's nothing. Fresh is better. You cook?"
"Sometimes," Ashling said, smiling. "But if I make something with these, I'll bring you some."
The older woman chuckled. "We'll see if it's good first."
Ashling laughed with her, accepting the basket. "Thank you, Mrs. Kim."
They chatted for a few minutes — about the weather, about how quiet the street was — until Mrs. Kim made her promise to come by on Saturday to help with kimchi-making.
By the time Ashling turned back toward the house, the basket felt oddly heavy in her arms — not from the vegetables, but from the warmth of the welcome. She didn't realize how much she'd missed that easy, neighborly kindness.
Before she stop herself she heard herself say,: "Would you like a fresh cup of coffee Mrs. Kim?
A few minutes later, they were seated side by side on the porch, sipping from mismatched mugs. The conversation flowed easily — about the weather, the quiet street, the best place to buy fresh fish in the neighborhood.
The café was too cheerful for this kind of conversation.
Sunlight bounced off polished tables, the smell of fresh pastries hanging in the air, and somewhere in the corner, a singer crooned about love like it was easy.
Bo Rang spotted him first, raising a hand like they were old buddies meeting for brunch instead of co-conspirators in a legal mess. Young Sik, already halfway through an almond croissant, just smirked.
"You look well-rested," Bo Rang said as Young Kwang dropped into the seat opposite them.
"You forged my signature," Young Kwang said flatly.
Bo Rang grin didn't falter. "Good morning to you, too."
"Don't play dumb." He leaned in. "You signed me up for that marriage app. Without asking. Without telling me. And now I'm stuck in a one-year contract with a complete stranger."
Young Sik tore off a piece of pastry, popped it in his mouth, and shrugged. "Not a stranger anymore. She's your wife."
"She's—" He cut himself off, glancing around at the tables nearby. "Do you even realize the legal mess this is?"
"We realize you've been dodging your mother's blind dates for the past three years," Bo Rang said. "We just… streamlined the process."
Young Kwang's jaw tightened. "Streamlined?"
"Look," Young Sik said, brushing crumbs from his hands, "you get a year without your mother parading heirs' daughters in front of you, and if you last the full term, you get a million dollars."
"I don't need a million dollars."
Bo Rang smirked. "We know. But if you don't want it, we'll take your half."
That made Young Kwang pause. "What?"
"It's in the terms," Young Sik said casually. "We're your sponsors. You finish the contract, the bonus splits three ways. You, her, us. Easy money."
Young Kwang stared at them, incredulous. "You're telling me you dragged me into a fake marriage because you wanted to make half a million?"
"Each," Bo Rang corrected, eyes glinting. "And before you say it — no, we don't need it. But watching you play house for a year? That's priceless."
He sat back, running a hand over his face. "You two are unbelievable."
"By the way," Young Sik added, "we looked her up."
"Of course you did."
"Girl's not exactly hurting for cash," Bo Rang said, sipping his coffee.
Bo Rang leaned forward, grinning. "Besides, if you think she's in it for the money, maybe you'll work harder to prove you're worth staying married to."
Young Kwang glared at both of them. "Get out of my sight."
"See you at the wedding anniversary," Bo Rang said, raising his cup in a mock toast.
When Young Kwang pulled into his driveway, he was still grinding his teeth over Bo Rang and Young Sik's smug faces. The worst part wasn't even the money grab — it was the fact that they'd been so damn confident they'd "done him a favor."
He stepped out of the car, fully prepared to stew in silence, but the sight in front of his house stopped him cold.
Ashling was standing at the low white fence, chatting animatedly with Mrs. Kim, his seventy-year-old neighbor who rarely spoke to anyone under the age of sixty. The older woman was laughing — actually laughing — at something Ash had said, and Ash was holding a basket of fresh vegetables like she'd just been handed a gift from an old friend.
Her hair caught the late-morning light, that odd pair of earrings glinting again, and for one disorienting second, she looked like she'd belonged here all along.
Young Kwang didn't move. He wasn't ready to admit it — not to her, not to himself — but Bo Rang smug parting words followed him up the driveway.
Play house for a year.
It was supposed to be a joke. So why did it suddenly feel like a warning.
Ash spotted him before he reached the porch. "You're back," she said, excusing herself from Mrs. Kim with a warm squeeze to the older woman's hand.
Mrs. Kim waved at him — waved — before tottering back toward her own house, still smiling. That alone was unsettling; Mrs. Kim had barely said ten words to him in the last year, and most of those had been about trash pickup schedules.
Ash held up the basket. "Mrs. Kim grows her own vegetables. She said we should have these for dinner. Apparently, she's making kimchi this weekend and expects us to come by."
Us. The word landed heavier than it should have.
He opened the door for her, watching as she carried the basket inside like it was a prize. "You've been busy making friends," he said.
"Neighbors," she corrected, setting the vegetables on the counter. "It's called being polite."
He loosened his watch strap, glancing at the clock. "And how many other neighbors do you plan on charming before this is over?"
Her eyes danced. "All of them, if it makes my year here easier."
The word year sat between them like a reminder neither could avoid. He wanted to tell her that wasn't the plan — that as soon as they found a loophole, she'd be gone — but somehow the image of her at the fence, hair catching sunlight, didn't line up with the idea of her leaving.
Instead, he reached for the basket, inspecting the produce like it had personally offended him. "You cook often?"
"Often enough," she said, rinsing a tomato. "Why? Planning to complain about free dinner?"
He almost smiled. "Depends on whether it's edible."
Ash gave a mock gasp. "For a billionaire, you have very poor survival instincts. You should never insult the person making your food."
He leaned on the counter, watching her move around his kitchen with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be temporary — a formality. Not… this. Not someone Mrs. Kim liked. Not someone who filled the space between his walls with the scent of garlic and fresh vegetables.
"Fine," he said finally. "Dinner's on you tonight."
She looked over her shoulder, smiling like she'd just won something. "Deal."
It was almost noon when the doorbell rang.
Young Kwang opened the door to find Kim Bo Rang and Shin Young Sik grinning like idiots.
"You're alive," Bo Rang said, stepping inside without an invitation.
"You didn't get stabbed in your sleep," Young Sik added cheerfully.
Young Kwang shut the door behind them. "You two have three seconds to explain why I shouldn't kill you."
"Because you love us," Bo Rang said. "Also, we brought cinnamon rolls."
They followed him into the kitchen — and froze when they saw Ashling at the counter, pouring orange juice into two glasses.
Bo Rang shot Young Sik a look that said She's even prettier in person.
Ashling turned, offering a polite smile. "Hi. You must be the friends who ruined his life."
Bo Rang choked on his coffee. Young Sik grinned. "Guilty."
They introduced themselves, and within minutes, both men were seated at the table like they'd known her for years. Bo Rang complimented the garlic rice; Young Sik asked where she was from.
"Manila," she said. "But I'm also an American citizen. My dad's Irish."
Bo Rang's eyes flickered briefly to Young Sik — just enough to say yep, she's the one — before turning back to her with an easy smile. "Manila's beautiful."
Young Kwang watched the exchange, suspicion crawling up his spine. His friends were too comfortable. Too friendly.
"You're awfully quiet," Ashling said to him.
"I'm just wondering why you're talking to my enemies," he replied flatly.
She laughed, the sound light and unbothered. "They seem harmless enough."
Harmless, he thought grimly, was the last word he'd use for Bo Rang and Young Sik. Especially since they now knew exactly what they stood to gain if the marriage lasted a year — and they knew more about his "wife" than they were letting on.