Sihwan flinches. He actually flinches. "It’s... it’s the trend right now, Mom. Everyone wears it like this."
"Everyone isn't the heir to a hotel empire," she counters, dusting her fingers off on her pants. She steps back, her eyes raking down his body. "And this suit. It’s pulling at the shoulders. Have you gained weight?"
"It's muscle," Sihwan defends weakly, his hand coming up to cover his stomach instinctively. "I've been training for the swim team—"
"You look bulky," she interrupts, cutting him down with surgical chill. "Like a bouncer at a club. It lacks elegance, Sihwan. We’ve talked about this. You need to look like an executive, not a laborer."
I stand there, watching the swaggering hothead I know crumble into a pile of insecurities in under thirty seconds. Sihwan’s jaw works, his eyes dropping to the floor as he nods, accepting the criticism without a fight. He looks humiliated.
A sharp, hot spike of irritation flares in my chest.
I look at Sihwan—broad, strong, objectively attractive, currently ranked top of his class in swimming—and then at this woman who is nitpicking him apart because he doesn't fit her narrow, aesthetic vision of what an Alpha should be.
It annoys me. It annoys me that he takes it. It annoys me that she does it in front of a guest. But mostly, it annoys me because, despite our arrangement and his general idiocy, he’smine. And I don’t like people touching my things with dirty hands.
I keep my face blank, locking my hands behind my back, but I make a mental note to tell Sihwan later that the suit fits him fine. Just to spite her.
If the foyer was a museum, the rest of the house is a showroom for a department store that doesn't exist yet.
Mrs. Oh leads the way, her heels clicking a sharp, authoritative rhythm on the marble floors. She walks with the kind of posture that suggests she’s balancing a book on her head, or perhaps the entire crushing weight of her social climbing ambitions.
"We had the architect fly in from Milan," she says, gesturing vaguely at a vaulted ceiling that looks exactly like every other vaulted ceiling I’ve ever seen. "He didn't understand the visionat first—he wanted something morerustic—but I insisted on the clean lines. Minimalism is key, don't you think?"
I look around at the gold-leaf molding, the crystal chandeliers that look like frozen explosions, and the velvet drapes that are heavy enough to suffocate a man.
"It's certainly... distinct," I say smoothly.
Sihwan is trailing three steps behind us, silent as a ghost. The swagger he carries around campus like a weapon is gone, replaced by a slump in his shoulders that makes him look inches shorter. He’s staring at the floor, probably praying for a sinkhole to open up and swallow the entire estate.
"And this," Mrs. Oh says, pausing dramatically at the entrance to a cavernous sitting room, "is the Grand Salon."
She sweeps her hand toward the far wall.
"We acquired this piece last spring. It was a private auction in Hong Kong. The artist is notoriously difficult to get a hold of, but my husband pulled a few strings."
I follow her gaze to the massive canvas dominating the room. It’s an abstract expressionist piece—bold strokes of crimson and charcoal, aggressive and chaotic. It’s clearly meant to be the centerpiece, the thing that screamscultureto anyone who walks in.
I suppress a snort.
I know this artist. One of my mentors was obsessive about his early work. I also know that the artist in question has been dead for five years, and his estate is notoriously litigious about reproductions.
I step closer, clasping my hands behind my back, playing the role of the impressed guest.
From a distance, it’s convincing. But up close? The texture is wrong. The impasto is too uniform, lacking the erratic, violent layering the artist was famous for. And the signature in the corner... it’s a little too neat. A little too perfect.
It’s a high-end replica. A very expensive, very convincing fake. Probably cost them a fortune, but it’s soulless. Just like the house.
"It’s breathtaking, isn't it?" Mrs. Oh asks, stepping up beside me, a smug little smile playing on her lips. "The raw emotion. It really speaks to the legacy of this family."
I glance at Sihwan. He’s standing by the doorway, looking at the painting with a blank expression. He doesn't know it’s fake. He probably thinks it’s the most valuable thing in the room. He looks miserable.
I could do it. I could point out the brushwork. I could mention the estate laws. It would be easy. It would be funny. It would crush Mrs. Oh’s ego flat.
But then I look at Sihwan’s hands, clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"It certainly makes a statement," I say, turning to Mrs. Oh with a polite, closed-lip smile. "The color palette is an excellent choice for this room. It draws the eye immediately."
Sihwan exhales, a soft sound of relief that I’m sure only I can hear.
