There are no photos.
No embarrassing baby pictures of Sihwan. No graduation shots. No candid family moments from a vacation. My parents are stiff, traditional intellectuals, and even our house has a designated hallway for the family lineage. This place feels sterile. Impersonal. Like a staging area for a lifestyle magazine rather than a place where people actually live.
"Living room is through there," Sihwan mutters, gesturing vaguely to a cavernous space on the left. "Dining room is down the hall."
He sounds like a tour guide who hates his job.
"Nice place," I lie. It’s terrible. It has no soul.
Sihwan just hums, a non-committal sound, his eyes darting toward the staircase like he’s calculating the fastest escape route. "Yeah. It’s... a lot."
I look at him, really look at him, standing there in his perfectly tailored suit against a backdrop of aggressive luxury. He fits the aesthetic perfectly, on the surface. But underneath the expensive cologne and the gelled hair, he looks small. Isolated.
I shift the bag of gifts to my other hand. "Where are the parents?"
"Drawing room," Sihwan says, his voice tight. "Waiting."
Of course they are.
The clicking of heels against marble echoes down the hall before she even appears. It’s a sharp, rhythmic sound.Click. Click. Click.Like a countdown.
Sihwan stiffens beside me. His posture, which had been mostly relaxed in the car, snaps rigid. He straightens his tie for the third time in ten seconds.
Then, Choi Yerim rounds the corner.
She is a striking woman. I can see exactly where Sihwan gets his bone structure—the high cheeks, the strong jawline. But where Sihwan is expressive and loud, she is frozen in a layer of icy perfection. Her hair is an immaculate bob, dyed a jet black that absorbs the light, and she’s wearing a cream-colored suit that drips with luxury.
She smells like lilies, alpha heavy.
"Donghwa," she says, her voice smooth, practiced. She stops a few feet away, her eyes sweeping over me with a calculating warmth. "I’m so glad you could make it. It’s been a while since we’ve had a guest of your... caliber."
I know the code.Calibermeanspedigree. She likes my last name. She likes that my grandfather was a Minister.
I bow. A perfect, respectful forty-five degrees. I’ve had etiquette beaten into me since I could walk, and I know exactly how to play the dutiful junior when I have to.
"Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Oh," I say, straightening up and offering the bags with both hands. "It’s a pleasure to be welcomed into your home. A small token of gratitude."
She takes the bags, peeking inside just enough to catch the label on the whiskey and the packaging of the ginseng. Her smileticks up a fraction of an inch. Genuine approval. Or as genuine as she gets.
"Wild ginseng," she notes, handing the bags off to a hovering maid without looking away from me. "You have excellent taste. Your parents raised you well."
"I try," I say dryly.
Then, the warmth evaporates.
She turns her head three inches to the right. Her gaze lands on Sihwan.
The change in the air pressure is immediate. It’s not that she looks angry; it’s worse. She looks disappointed. She looks at her own son the way an art critic looks at a forgery—searching for the flaws in the brushwork.
"Sihwan," she says. No greeting. No'how have you been.'Just his name, flat and heavy.
"Mom," Sihwan says. His voice is smaller than I’ve ever heard it. He tries to smile, that dazzling, camera-ready grin he uses on everyone at school, but it falters at the corners.
She steps closer, reaching out. For a second, I think she’s going to hug him. Sihwan seems to think so too; he leans in slightly.
But her hand doesn't go to his shoulder. It goes to his hair. She pinches a lock of the chestnut-brown strands between her manicured fingers, her nose wrinkling in distaste.
"Still this color?" she sighs, dropping his hair like it’s dirty. "I told you last break it looks cheap. It washes you out."
