"Inside, probably," Donghwa says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "We don't do the whole fanfare thing here."
He gets out, and I scramble to follow, suddenly terrified of being left alone in the car. There’s no valet. Donghwa just walks around to the trunk, pops it, and hauls our bags out himself. It’s such a mundane action against such a grand backdrop that it throws me off.
He slings my bag over one shoulder and his over the other, then looks at me, tilting his head toward the stone steps leading up to the entrance.
"Coming?"
I swallow hard, smoothing down the front of my cashmere sweater. The lack of rushing staff, the quiet, the sheer weight of the history in those stone walls—it’s intimidating in a way I wasn't prepared for. It screams that they don't need to prove anything to anyone.
I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. I can handle a few old rocks and some quiet.
"Lead the way," I say, though my voice sounds thinner than I’d like in the open mountain air.
Donghwa’s eyes soften just a fraction, catching my nervousness. He doesn't say anything, doesn't mock me. He just waits for me to reach the bottom step, and then, instead of walking ahead, he falls into step right beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as we walk up to the heavy wooden doors together.
I brace myself as the heavy wooden door creaks open. I’m expecting a drafty great hall, maybe some marble floors that echo when you walk, or a butler standing there with a silver tray and a judgmental expression. I’m expecting it to smell like old paper and dust.
Instead, I get hit in the face with the smell of... yeast?
I blink, stepping over the threshold. It’s warm. Not the dry, cranked-up central heating warmth of my parents' penthouse, but a soft, radiating heat that seems to come from the floorboards themselves. The air is thick with the scent of baking bread and fresh flowers spilling from massive ceramic vases on the entry tables.
It’s confusing.
My eyes dart around, trying to reconcile the intimidating exterior withthis. It’s spacious, sure. The ceilings are high enough to fly a kite in. But it feels... lived in. There are rugs that actually look walked on. A stack of books left on a side table. It doesn't feel like a museum where you can’t touch anything; it feels like a home. A very, very expensive home, but a home.
"Shoes," Donghwa says, toeing his boots off by the door.
I follow his lead, lining my loafers up next to his boots, feeling weirdly exposed in just my socks on the polished wood.
I wander further in while Donghwa deals with the bags, my attention snagging on the walls. At my house, the walls are reserved for "investments"—modern art my mother bought at auction because a consultant told her it would appreciate in value. Here, the walls are covered in frames.
Hundreds of them.
I step closer to a cluster near the stairs. It’s a timeline. I see three kids in various stages of growth—two girls and a boy. The boy is obviously Donghwa. I stare at a picture of him as a toddler, looking grumpy even then, clutching a toy tiger.
"Cute," I mutter, though I’d die before saying it loud enough for him to hear.
But it’s not just the polished studio shots. There are candid ones, blurry ones, and—I lean in, squinting—honest-to-god cheesy costume photos. There’s a sepia-toned one of the whole family dressed like 1920s gangsters, Donghwa looking about twelve and absolutely mortified in a fedora.
My mother would rather burn the house down than let a photo like that exist on a wall where guests could see it. She’d say it lacksdignity. But here it is, framed in mahogany, right next to a photo of what looks like a Superior Court Justice.
It’s a flex. A massive, silent flex. They’re so secure in their status they don’t even have to curate it.
I drift toward a long hallway stretching off to the right, and the vibe shifts. The candid photos give way to oil paintings. Serious ones. Men in traditional robes, women in intricate hanbok, stern-faced men in early 20th-century suits.
Generations.
I swallow hard, the knot in my stomach tightening. This is the difference between us. My family’s history goes back to a construction site in the 80s where my dad got lucky with a land deal. Donghwa’s history goes back to... well, probably to the people who owned the land before money even existed. It’s heavy. It’s a weight I can feel in the air, a silent reminder that no matter how much money my dad makes, we can’t buythis.
I’m staring at a portrait of a guy who looks disturbingly like Donghwa but with a mustache when a booming voice makes me jump out of my skin.
"HELLO?"
I spin around. Donghwa is standing at the base of the main banister, one hand cupped around his mouth, bellowing up the stairs like a barbarian at the gates.
"HAS EVERYONE DIED?" he shouts, his deep voice echoing off the high beams, shattering the reverent silence I’d been drowning in. "OR IS THE HOUSE JUST ABANDONED?"
I stare at him, wide-eyed. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
