I change three times before dinner.
Not because I care what they think. Because nothing I brought feels right. My jeans are too casual. My one nice dress is wrinkled from the suitcase. I settle on black pants and a blouse my mother bought me before we left—tags still attached, too expensive for her budget, guilt stitched into every seam.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. The lighting is soft and warm, designed to make everyone look good. It doesn't help.
At 6:55, I leave my room.
The dining room is on the first floor. I find it by following the sound of voices—my mother's nervous laughter, Chairman Kang's low murmur. When I reach the doorway, I pause.
The table is massive. Dark wood, polished to a mirror shine. Twelve chairs, only five occupied. My mother sits at Chairman Kang's right. An empty seat beside her—mine, I assume. Across from them, the twins.
Su-ho is leaning back in his chair, phone in hand, scrolling through something. He's changed into a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The silver rings are still there.
Min-jun sits straight. Hands folded on the table. He's looking at his father, listening to something being said, nodding at appropriate moments. The perfect son.
I step into the room.
My mother spots me first. "Mara! Come, sit."
She gestures to the empty chair beside her. I cross the room, feeling the weight of eyes on me—Su-ho's open and mocking, Min-jun's nonexistent. He doesn't look up when I sit down.
"We were just discussing the wedding," Chairman Kang says. He smiles at me, a practiced warmth that doesn't quite land. "Small ceremony. Family only. Next month."
"Sounds nice," I say, because I have to say something.
"It will be," my mother adds. Too bright. Too eager.
Su-ho snorts.
Servers appear. Two women in matching uniforms, carrying trays. They set dishes on the table —bowls of rice, plates of meat I don't recognize, small dishes filled with vegetables in red sauce, something that looks like soup but smells fermented.
Chairman Kang picks up his chopsticks. Everyone follows.
I reach for mine. They're metal, not wood. Heavier than I expected. Slippery. I adjust my grip, try to remember the YouTube tutorial I watched at 3am, and reach for a piece of meat.
It falls.
I try again. It slips.
Third time. It drops onto the table, leaving a small stain on the white cloth.
Nobody says anything.
Su-ho doesn't need to. His smirk is loud enough.
I set down the chopsticks. Pick up the meat with my fingers. Put it on my rice. Eat it.
My mother inhales sharply.
"The galbi is excellent," Chairman Kang says, smooth as glass. "From a farm in Gangwon Province. We've sourced from them for years."
"It's delicious," my mother agrees, even though she's barely touched her plate.
The conversation moves on. Chairman Kang asks about Min-jun's classes. Min-jun answers but His Korean is too fast for me to follow, but I catch fragments.
"And you, Su-ho?" Chairman Kang asks. "How is your coursework?"
"Boring." Su-ho tears a piece of meat with his chopsticks—effortless, almost aggressive. "But I'm passing. Isn't that what matters?"
"Effort matters."
"Effort is for people who need to try."
Chairman Kang's jaw tightens. But he doesn't push.
I take a sip of water. The glass is crystal, heavy in my hand. I set it down carefully, terrified of breaking something.
"Amara."
I look up. Chairman Kang is watching me.
"Your mother tells me you're interested in art. Photography, yes?"
My mother jumps in before I can answer. "She's very talented. She had some photos displayed at her school back home. A whole exhibition."
That was two years ago. Before everything. The photos were of abandoned buildings—broken windows, peeling walls, beauty in decay. My teacher called them haunting. My classmates called them creepy. Claire said they were depressing.
Claire.
I push the thought away.
"That was a long time ago," I say.
"Perhaps you can continue here," Chairman Kang offers. "Haneul has an excellent arts program."
"Maybe."
Silence. My mother fills it with more praise—my grades, my potential, my adaptability. I let the words wash over me without hearing them. Across the table, Su-ho watches me with open amusement, chin propped on his hand like I'm entertainment.
Min-jun refills his water glass. Adjusts his napkin. Continues eating.
He hasn't looked at me once since I sat down.
Not once.
My mother lingers with Chairman Kang, talking about tomorrow's schedule, wedding details, things I tune out. The twins disappear without a word—Su-ho first, pushing back from the table with enough force to rattle the dishes, Min-jun following a minute later.
I excuse myself.
My room feels smaller at night. The ceiling too high, the bed too big, the silence too loud. I lie on top of the covers in my clothes because I can't find the energy to change. My stomach growls. I barely ate—too focused on not embarrassing myself with the chopsticks.
At 11:30, I give up on sleep.
The hallway is dark except for small lights embedded in the floor, glowing soft white. I pad barefoot toward the staircase, trying to remember the path to the kitchen. Left at the painting of the mountains. Right at the vase with the twisted branches. Down the stairs. Through the room with too many sofas.
The kitchen is at the back of the house. I find it by accident—pushing open a door I think leads outside and instead stepping into a space all steel and marble. Industrial refrigerators. A stove with eight burners. Countertops bare and gleaming.
And Su-ho.
He's sitting on the counter, legs dangling, a bottle in his hand. Something clear. Soju, maybe. His jacket is gone. The black shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves still rolled up. His hair has fallen forward into his eyes, and he doesn't push it back.
He sees me before I can retreat.
"The American." He raises the bottle in a mock toast. "Couldn't sleep?"
I consider leaving. But my stomach growls again, loud enough that we both hear it.
His mouth curves. "Hungry?"
"I'm fine."
He hops off the counter. He's steady on his feet, but his movements are looser than before. "Sit. I'll make you something."
"You cook?"
"Don't sound so shocked. I'm full of surprises."
I don't sit. But I don't leave either.
He moves around the kitchen ,pulling a pan from a cabinet, eggs from the refrigerator, oil from a shelf. His rings clink against the metal as he cracks the eggs one-handed into a bowl.
"Ramyeon is easier," he says, "but you look like you need real food. When's the last time you ate?"
"I ate at dinner."
"You pushed rice around your plate for an hour. That's not eating." He whisks the eggs. Pours them into the pan. The sizzle fills the silence. "My mother used to do that. Near the end. Pretend to eat so no one would worry."
strange.
I don't know what to say, so I say nothing.
He finishes the eggs. Slides them onto a plate. Adds rice from a cooker I didn't notice, some of the banchan from earlier, arranges it all with more care than I expected. Then he sets it on the island between us.
"Eat."
I sit on one of the stools. The food smells good. Tastes better. I eat slowly, waiting for the catch.
Su-ho watches me, leaning back against the counter, bottle still in hand.
"You're wondering why I'm being nice."
"The thought crossed my mind."
"I'm not nice." He takes a drink. "I just don't like waste. You not eating doesn't hurt anyone except you.
There it is.
"Good to know where I stand."
"You don't stand anywhere. That's the point." He sets the bottle down. His eyes are clearer than I expected—sharp beneath the haze of alcohol. "You think your mum is the first woman he's brought home? You think your mother is special?"
My chopsticks pause halfway to my mouth.
"There have been others," he continues. "Two. Three. I lost count. They all had the same look your mother has—grateful. Desperate. Like he's saving them from something." He tilts his head. "What's he saving her from, I wonder? What made her desperate enough to drag her kid across an ocean for a man she barely knows?"
"That's none of your business."
"Everything in this house is my business."
I set down the chopsticks. My appetite is gone.
"Thanks for the food," I say, standing.
"Running away already?"
"Going to bed."
"Same thing." He picks up the bottle again. "Word of advice, American. Don't unpack your bags. You won't be here long enough to bother."
I walk to the door. Stop with my hand on the frame.
"My name is Amara."
"I know what your name is."
"Then use it."
I leave before he can respond.
The hallway swallows me up—dark and cold and endless. I climb the stairs with his words echoing in my head. Desperate. Grateful. Won't be here long.
Back in my room, I lock the door. Check it twice.
Then I sit on the floor with my back against the bed and pull my knees to my chest.
This house has no safe spaces.
Not the dining room. Not the kitchen. Not this bedroom either.
Nowhere.