The morning after dinner, the Kang residence felt too quiet. Even the refrigerator hum seemed louder than usual. Young Kwang sat at the breakfast counter, mug of black coffee cooling between his palms, replaying the night over and over.
Ashling had been flawless — calm, poised, wielding chopsticks like she'd grown up at a Korean table. His mother had noticed. Of course she had. Omma noticed everything. But instead of being appeased, she was… intrigued. And to Kang Young Kwang, intrigue was more dangerous than disapproval.
His phone buzzed against the counter. He didn't have to look at the screen to know who it was. He answered anyway.
"Omma."
Her voice was soft, but iron wrapped in silk. "She is composed. Clever. But clever is not enough."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You didn't call just to insult her."
"I called," she said smoothly, "to remind you of your duty. You are not a boy anymore, Young Kwang. You carry our name, our face, our bloodline. A woman who arrives with no last name, no family—"
"She has a family," he interrupted, sharper than intended.
There was a pause, the kind only a mother could weaponize. "Then why does she hide them?"
His grip on the phone tightened. He thought about Ashling's vague answers at dinner — father retired from shipping, mother managing businesses, siblings who loved the spotlight. It was enough detail to sound plausible, but not enough to pin down. He had sensed it too: the shadows around her words.
"You don't trust her," he said finally.
"I don't know her," Omma corrected. "And until I do, I cannot approve." Her voice lowered, sharp as a blade. "Find out what she is hiding. Or this marriage ends before it begins."
The line clicked dead.
He stared at the phone, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His mother had never been subtle.
Across the kitchen, Ashling padded in barefoot, hair still damp from her shower. She wore a loose white tee tucked into linen pants, the picture of casual calm. She poured herself coffee, stirred in sugar, and said, "Your mother called."
It wasn't a question.
He shot her a look. "Eavesdropping?"
"Thin walls," she said lightly, taking a sip. "She doesn't trust me."
"She has reason not to."
Her lips curved faintly. "Because I won her at chopsticks?"
Because you're hiding something, he almost said. Instead he shrugged, letting silence stretch.
Her phone buzzed then, vibrating across the counter. Manila number. She sighed, bracing herself, and answered.
"Mama."
"Ashling!" Her mother's voice was bright, too bright. "I saw the photos. Finally, you are married! Your sisters are thrilled. Your father says congratulations."
Ashling closed her eyes. "It's not what you think, Mama. It's… complicated."
"Complicated is still marriage," her mother chirped. "Now you will settle down. No more hiding behind pen names. No more running from parties. A husband will fix you."
Ashling's knuckles whitened around the mug. "Mama, please—"
"You'll send us pictures, yes? The hotel board is already talking. This will be such good publicity. Your sisters are arranging features. Magazines. Everyone will know. Finally, you'll stop embarrassing us by being invisible."
The words poured out like polished bullets. Ashling tried to wedge a reply between them, but her mother didn't stop. This is your moment. This is how you step up. This is how you prove yourself.
The call ended with her mother's bright, decisive, "We'll expect you at the Christmas gala, with your husband. Don't disappoint us."
Ashling lowered the phone slowly, the silence afterward pressing down like a weight. For a moment, she just stared at the countertop, the coffee in her mug gone cold.
By afternoon, the house was a powder keg.
Young Kwang found her in the living room, curled on the couch with her knees pulled up, scrolling through her phone with jerky, irritated swipes.
"She doesn't trust you," he said bluntly, standing by the doorway.
Ashling looked up, eyes flashing. "Good. I don't trust her either."
That threw him. He blinked. "You—"
"And my mother," she cut in, voice sharp, "thinks this is the answer to everything. That marriage is some magic cure. That if she marries me off, suddenly I'll stop embarrassing the family. She's already planning magazine spreads. She thinks she owns me."
His mouth closed. For once, he didn't have a retort.
Ashling pressed her palms against her eyes, laughing once, bitterly. "This was supposed to be simple. A year. Pretend. Done. And instead…" She dropped her hands, meeting his gaze. "Instead everyone wants to own us."
They stared at each other, tension crackling like static.
Then Young Kwang exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Then maybe the only rule that matters is this: we don't let them."
Ashling blinked, caught off guard by the steadiness in his voice.
"One year," he said quietly. "We survive it. On our terms. Not theirs."
Her throat tightened. She searched his face, looking for arrogance, for mockery. But there was only tired honesty.
Slowly, she nodded. "On our terms."
The words hung in the air like a pact — fragile, improbable, but real.
That night, long after he'd retreated to his room, Ashling sat by the window in the guest bedroom, knees tucked to her chest, city lights winking below. She turned her mismatched earrings in her palm — the silver heart, the tiny palm tree — and whispered to the dark, "One year. Just one year."
And across the hall, Kang Young Kwang lay awake staring at the ceiling, his mother's words echoing in his head. Find out what she is hiding.
He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come.