Mrs. Oh preens, smoothing down the lapel of her cream suit. "You have a good eye, Donghwa. I knew you would appreciate it. Sihwan never really looks at it. He says it gives him a headache." She casts a disparaging look over her shoulder at her son. "No appreciation for the finer things."
Sihwan flinches, his jaw tightening. "I just said it was loud, Mom."
"Art is supposed to be loud, Sihwan," she snaps, turning away from the canvas. "If you spent less time in that chlorine water and more time in a gallery, you might understand that."
She checks her diamond-encrusted watch.
"Come. We're supposed to meet your father in the dining room. We shouldn't keep him. You know how he gets about punctuality."
She breezes past us, leaving a trail of lily scent in her wake.
I hang back for a second as Sihwan starts to follow. As he passes me, I reach out and snag his elbow. He jumps, looking at me with wide, startled eyes.
"It's a fake," I murmur, low enough that only he can hear.
Sihwan blinks. "What?"
"The painting," I say, tilting my head toward the monstrosity on the wall. "It's a replica. A good one, but a fake."
Sihwan stares at the painting, then back at me, a flicker of confusion warring with the shame in his eyes. "But... she said..."
"I know what she said," I interrupt, letting go of his arm. I shove my hands into my pockets. "Don't let her make you feel stupid about art she bought to impress people she doesn't like. It’s just canvas and paint, Sihwan. And in this case, it’s not even the real thing."
I wink at him—a quick, conspiratorial gesture—and turn to follow his mother.
"Coming?" I call back over my shoulder.
Sihwan stands there for a moment longer, staring at the painting with a new expression. Not awe. Not boredom. But something like vindication.
He hurries to catch up, his footsteps a little lighter than before. But as we approach the dining room, the air grows heavy again.
Sihwan goes quiet again, his brief moment of relief vanishing as we step through the archway.
The dining room is, predictably, a mausoleum dedicated to the death of intimacy.
The table is a slab of dark, polished mahogany long enough to land a small aircraft on. Sihwan and I are seated on one side, his mother opposite us, leaving the head of the table empty andlooming like a throne. The silence is heavy, broken only by the clink of silver against china as servers pour water with terrified reverence.
Sihwan is restless again. I can feel it radiating off him, a low-frequency tremor that travels through the floorboards and up my chair leg. He’s staring at the empty seat at the head of the table, his knuckles white where he’s gripping his napkin.
"He'll be here in a moment," Mrs. Oh says, smoothing her napkin over her lap. "Business calls. You understand."
"Of course," I say, keeping my voice smooth.
Then, the double doors at the far end of the room swing open.
Oh Byungho doesn't walk; he occupies space. He’s a large man, broad in the way that suggests former muscle turned to expensive bulk. He enters the room with his chin tilted up, checking the perimeter like a general surveying a battlefield he’s already conquered.
Sihwan shoots to his feet so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. I follow suit, rising with a bit more calm grace, buttoning my jacket.
"Father," Sihwan says. His voice cracks. Just a fracture, but it’s there.
Byungho ignores him. His eyes lock onto me immediately, dark and assessing, sweeping over my frame with the subtlety of a spotlight.
"So," he booms, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that echoes off the vaulted ceiling. "This is the Kang boy."
He crosses the distance in three long strides, bypassing his wife and son to stop directly in front of me. He’s tall, but I have him by an inch or two. He doesn't seem to like that. He compensates by puffing out his chest, invading my personal space.
"Kang Donghwa, sir," I say, extending a hand. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."
