Chapter 18: Chance Encounter
The morning sun had hardened into the flat, bright light of early afternoon. Maria was curled on the living room sofa, a notebook of half-finished lyrics balanced on the gentle slope of her stomach, a pencil tucked behind her ear. The remains of the rice and egg omelette sat on the coffee table. She looked up as Min-ho came down the stairs, showered and dressed in low-slung jeans and a plain black tee.
“I’m going to run to the mall,” he said, leaning over the back of the sofa. “We need actual food. And I’m buying a rice cooker. This stove-top method is a crime against my ancestors.”
She smiled, a real one that reached her eyes. “You’ll be okay alone? I have a video call with Estela in twenty. She’s freaking out about the statement timeline.” Her manager had been blowing up her phone since dawn, a separate but parallel storm.
“I’ll wear a hat and sunglasses. I’ll be invisible.” He bent and kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “Back soon.”
The garage was cool and dim, smelling of concrete and old motor oil. Maria’s car was a modest silver hatchback, practical and unassuming. He slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors, the familiar ritual feeling strangely normal. The engine turned over with a quiet purr.
The mall was a monument to glass and polished stone, a world away from the faded grandeur of Maria’s neighborhood. Inside, the air was aggressively chilled, scented with synthetic vanilla from a candle kiosk. He found the household section first, comparing models of rice cookers with a focused intensity usually reserved for choreography. He settled on a mid-range one with a stainless steel bowl. In the grocery section of the department store, he filled a basket with ginger tea, plain crackers, short-grain rice, and a selection of fruits that looked gentle.
On his way to the checkout, a display in a women’s clothing store caught his eye. A top, silk, the color of a stormy sea, with delicate gathers at the shoulders. He stopped. It was exactly her. It would look incredible against her skin, would feel soft under his hands. He bought it without a second thought, the simple act a quiet rebellion against the chaos.
He was exiting the store, the rice cooker box under one arm, grocery bags and the silky top in a separate bag in his other hand, when he almost collided with someone.
“Oh! Disculpá—” The voice was familiar, artificially sweet.
Pilar.
She took a half-step back, her eyes wide with practiced surprise. She wore tight white jeans and a pale pink sweater, her hair cascading in perfect waves. A delicate silver cross necklace lay against her collarbone. She looked like she’d stepped from a magazine shoot, not a night spent sulking at a friend’s apartment.
“Min-ho. Hi.” She smiled, a shy, tentative thing. “I was just… thinking about you both.”
He merely nodded, his guard sliding into place as smoothly as a vault door.
“I wanted to apologize,” she continued, her fingers fluttering to touch his forearm, lingering just a moment too long. “For last night. I was… emotional. It was a lot to take in.”
The scent of her perfume, a cloying floral, fought with the ambient smells of fried food from the food court. He shifted, making her hand fall away.
“You don’t owe me an apology,” he said, his voice neutral. “You owe one to Maria.”
Pilar’s shoulders dipped in a semblance of contrition. She nodded, her gaze downcast. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.” She looked up, her eyes large and pleading. “Actually, I was hoping to buy her something. A peace offering. Would you… help me choose? You know her style better than anyone.” She offered a small, hopeful smile. “I know gifts won’t make her forgive me, but I don’t want to show up empty-handed. Besides, it would be good for us to start getting along. We’ll be family soon.”
The logic was sound, disarming in its simplicity. A public truce. A step toward peace for Maria’s sake. He felt the weight of the domestic bags in his hand, the ordinariness of the errand. Maybe this was how normal families repaired things.
“Okay,” he said. “A quick look.”
They ended up in a trendy boutique. Pilar flitted through the racks with a critical eye, finally pulling out a fitted black leather jacket. It was stylish, severe.
“This is so her, no? Tough rocker chic,” Pilar said, holding it up.
Min-ho shook his head. “It’s too small. In the shoulders. She needs room to move.” He thought of Maria’s stage presence, the powerful sweep of her arms, the way she owned space.
Pilar’s smile didn’t fade. She shimmied out of her own sweater and slipped the jacket on. It hugged her slimmer frame perfectly. She stood before a mirror, turning, then pulled out her phone and began filming herself, pouting slightly. “You’re right,” she said to her reflection, her voice taking on a satisfied tone. “I’ll keep this one.” She shot him a glance over her shoulder. “I know! What if I buy something for the baby instead? That’s better, right? More meaningful.”
A cold trickle of unease ran down his spine. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” he said slowly. “I think buying something for the baby should be something I do together with Maria.”
Pilar waved a dismissive hand, already heading towards a section with tiny, absurdly expensive-looking knitwear. “But you’ll just be there—no opinions, no paying. I just want it to be from her auntie. It’s innocent.”
He felt the argument forming, but it seemed churlish, overly suspicious. She was trying, in her twisted way. He followed, silent, as she cooed over a miniature cashmere cardigan the color of champagne. She bought it without asking his opinion, handing over a gold credit card with a flourish.
Finally, he paid for his rice cooker and groceries. The walk to the parking garage was quiet. Pilar, carrying her boutique bags, walked beside him.
“I’ll drive you,” he said, the words feeling obligatory. “It’s on my way.”
“Thank you,” she said, almost demure.
The silence in the car was thick. He focused on the road, the unfamiliar streets. When he pulled up in front of Maria’s house, the afternoon sun glinting off the front windows, Pilar made no move to get out.
She stared at the house, her profile suddenly looking young and uncertain. She lowered her head. “I don’t think I’m ready yet,” she whispered. “She’s probably still angry. It would just be another fight.” She turned to him, her expression soft, vulnerable. “Would you like to go eat sushi somewhere nearby with me? Just… to talk? I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”
The request hung in the air, intimate and entirely wrong. The image of Maria, pale and trembling over the toilet that morning, flashed in his mind.
“No,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I have to make dinner. Maria’s stomach has been sensitive.”
Pilar’s mask of vulnerability solidified into something polite and impenetrable. She nodded. “Of course. You’re a good guy.” She leaned across the center console and brushed a kiss against his cheek. Her perfume flooded his senses, the kiss dry and quick. “See you soon, family.”
She slipped out of the car, collected her bags from the backseat, and walked away down the sidewalk without a backward glance, the leather jacket bag swinging from her wrist.
Min-ho sat for a full minute, engine off, watching her disappear around the corner. The ghost of her lips on his cheek felt like a brand. The entire interaction replayed in his head—the apology, the shopping, the shy request, the abrupt departure. It was a performance. But for what audience? Him?
He grabbed the bags, the box, and walked into the house. The quiet embraced him, heavy with the echo of his own confusion. He frowned, setting the groceries on the kitchen counter, the shiny new rice cooker beside them. He had the distinct, unsettling feeling he had just passed a test he never knew he was taking, and he had no idea if he’d passed or failed.
He had the distinct, unsettling feeling he had just passed a test he never knew he was taking, and he had no idea if he’d passed or failed. The ghost of Pilar’s perfume, that cloying floral, seemed to cling to the collar of his shirt. He shrugged it off, literally, peeling the shirt over his head and tossing it into the laundry basket in the hall before walking to the kitchen.
He left the grocery bags and the rice cooker box on the counter. The boutique bag with the silk top felt suddenly foolish, a bright spot in a confusing fog. He set it aside and walked through the quiet house. The back patio doors were open, the gauzy curtains lifting in a slow, warm breeze.
Maria was outside, curled in the corner of the worn wicker sofa. The late afternoon sun gilded the edges of her dark red hair. She cradled a mate gourd in her hands, the silver bombilla straw catching the light as she took a slow sip. She looked peaceful, grounded in a way he suddenly felt he wasn’t.
Min-ho laughed, a soft, low sound. “I don’t think that’s good for your stomach.”
Maria looked up, her eyes crinkling. She winked at him. “It’s to make sure our child feels their Argentine roots. Caffeine is a cultural introduction.” She patted the space beside her. “How was the mall? Get everything?”
He sat, the wicker creaking under his weight. The encounter in the parking garage felt like a splinter lodged deep, needing extraction. “I just had a very strange encounter with your sister.”
Maria frowned, setting the mate down on the low table. “Claudia?”
“Pilar.”
A flat silence followed. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but something cooled behind her eyes. “Oh.” The word was neutral, heavy. “What did she want?”
He told her everything. The accidental meeting, the apology, the shopping trip where she bought herself a jacket, the tiny cashmere sweater, the request for sushi, the kiss on the cheek. He relayed it flatly, a factual report, watching her face. As he spoke, her initial wariness melted into pure, unadorned bewilderment.
When he finished, Maria stared at the climbing bougainvillea on the back wall, her head tilting slightly. “That sounds… strange. Even for her.” She looked back at him, her gaze searching his. “The sushi thing. The kiss. It’s all just… off. It feels like she was gauging something. Your loyalty, maybe. Or trying to create a secret.”
Min-ho put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She fit against him, her warmth immediate and real, erasing the phantom touch on his cheek. “I know. Very strange.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her. “But now…” He felt the shift, the need to anchor them both back to their own shared reality, to the concrete task that was theirs alone. “Tell me, have you thought about what we’ll say when we go public with our news?”
Maria sighed, a long exhale that deflated some of her tension. “Estela sent five draft options. They range from sterile corporate press release to a poem I wrote when I was sixteen. None of them feel right.” She laced her fingers with his where they rested on her shoulder. “I don’t want a statement. I want to say it. Myself.”
“So say it,” he said simply.
“On Instagram? A livestream? It’s so… performative.”
“Then we perform it for real,” Min-ho said, an idea forming, clear and sharp. “Not for the cameras. For us. We get married. Soon. Just us and the people who matter. And then, after, we post one picture. Our hands, with rings. Your bump. No caption needed. Let them figure it out.”
Maria turned within the circle of his arm to look at him. The setting sun lit the gold in her brown eyes. “A silent announcement.”
“A visual fact,” he corrected. “They can write their own stories. We’ll already be living ours.”
She was about to answer, a soft smile beginning, when her phone buzzed violently on the table. The screen lit up with Estela’s name, followed by two more rapid-fire buzzes—KakaoTalk notifications from his own manager, parked on the table beside it. The outside world, with its timelines and strategies, crashed through the patio’s fragile peace.
They looked at the buzzing devices, then at each other. The silent understanding passed between them. The strange theater with Pilar was a side plot, a distracting noise. This, the synchronized demand from their professional lives, was the main event.
“They’ve talked to each other,” Maria said, her voice resigned.
“Of course they have,” Min-ho replied. He reached for his phone. The preview of the message from his manager was in all caps, a sure sign of panic. COMPANY WANTS STATEMENT DRAFT BY TONIGHT. URGENT.
Maria picked up her own phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. The patio, which had felt like a sanctuary a moment before, now felt like the calm eye of a hurricane they were about to step back into. She took a final, decisive sip from the mate gourd, the bitter taste a fortification.
“Okay,” she said, squaring her shoulders against his chest. “Let’s go give them their statement.”
The synchronized buzzing of their phones felt like a starter’s pistol. Maria uncurled herself from the wicker sofa with a soft groan, pressing a hand to the small of her back. Min-ho stood, offering his hand, and pulled her up. They walked inside, the warm patio air giving way to the cooler, still silence of the house. Their footsteps on the tile were the only sound.
In the living room, they sat side-by-side on the sofa, phones in hand like tools for a surgery they didn’t want to perform. Maria called Estela back on speaker. Min-ho’s manager, Jae, was already typing a frantic thread in their group chat.
“They’ve seen the social chatter,” Estela’s voice was clipped, professional, straining against panic. “The rumors are starting. Grainy photos from fans at the airport in Seoul, speculation about why BET isn’t at the group’s scheduled fittings in Seoul. The clock is ticking, mi amor. We need to control this.”
On Min-ho’s screen, Jae’s messages stacked up. The company is nervous. An unsanctioned relationship is one thing. A child is a completely different level of crisis management. We need a narrative, Min-ho. Now.
“There is no narrative,” Min-ho said aloud, his voice flat, answering both of them at once. “There is a fact. Maria is pregnant. I am the father. We are getting married. That’s it.”
“That’s not it!” Estela countered. “The delivery matters. The wording, the platform, the timing—”
“We do it after the wedding,” Maria interjected, her fingers laced with Min-ho’s. “One photo. No words.”
A long, static-filled silence came from the phone. Jae’s typing indicator hovered, then stopped.
“That is… a risk,” Estela said slowly. “The information vacuum will be filled with garbage. It could be a week before you can get the legal paperwork done for a ceremony here. A week of wild speculation is a lifetime in this business.”
“Let them speculate,” Min-ho said. He felt a strange, calm certainty. The performative layers of his life were stripping away, leaving only this stark, essential truth. “We are not a product launch.”
The call dissolved into a tense negotiation of logistics and damage control forecasts. After twenty draining minutes, they had a fragile plan: minimal, holding statements from both management teams to buy time, pushing back against the most blatant false rumors without confirmation, all aimed at creating a window for them to marry quietly. When they finally hung up, the room felt oxygen-depleted.
Maria leaned her head against his shoulder. “I need more mate. My brain is soup.” She gave him a little kiss on the lips and told him she was going to heat up more water.
Min-ho just nodded, already pulling his laptop onto his knees, his mind shifting into the logistical puzzle of a secret civil wedding in Buenos Aires. He heard the click of the stove igniting in the kitchen, the familiar sound of the kettle being placed on the flame.
A moment later, he heard Maria scream, “That filthy whore!”
The sound was a physical shock, a blade through the house’s quiet. Min-ho was already moving, the laptop tumbling to the rug. He ran into the kitchen.
Maria stood frozen, her back to him, clutching her phone so tightly her knuckles were bloodless. The kettle began a shrill whistle behind her.
“What’s wrong?” He approached slowly, his hand reaching for her shoulder.
She turned. Her face was bone-white, her eyes burning with a pure, undiluted rage he had never seen. She shoved the phone at him. “An ‘anonymous’ person started a thread on Twitter saying you’re in Buenos Aires because you’re having a secret relationship with Pilar and that she’s pregnant.”
Min-ho’s blood went cold. He took the phone. The thread was detailed, vicious. It had photos. Him and Pilar in the mall, standing close by the clothing racks. Him a few paces behind her, looking at his own phone, as she stood in the doorway of the upscale baby store. The captions wove a compelling, intimate story of secret rendezvous and hidden consequences.
“There are photos of you with her at the mall, in stores, and in the baby store.” Maria’s voice was shaking now, the rage cracking to reveal a devastation underneath. She looked at him sadly at the last part.
“I didn’t buy or pick out anything,” he said, the words rushing out, desperate for her to believe the truth he now saw with horrific clarity. “She asked me to go with her. I said no to helping choose. I told her I wanted to do that with you.”
Maria closed her eyes, a single tear escaping. She took a heaving breath. “Not only that.” Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “My wretched sister posted a video of herself trying on a jacket with a heart filter, and you’re visible in the background.”
Min-ho scrolled. There it was on her Instagram. Pilar’s video, her lips puckered at the camera, the black leather jacket hugging her frame. And in the blurry background, near a rack of coats, was his unmistakable profile, looking away. The caption was a single, pink heart.
“And five minutes ago,” Maria continued, the words tasting like ash, “she posted a photo of my ultrasound!” A shattered sob broke from her throat. “She must have taken a picture of it when she was here last week. She wants to make it seem like she’s the one who’s pregnant with your child!”
The kettle’ scream peaked into a deafening shriek. Min-ho moved past her, wrenched the stove off, and the sudden silence was louder than the noise. He took Maria’s face in his hands. Her skin was cold.
“Look at me.” Her wide, wounded eyes met his. “This is what she wanted. This is the test. To see if she could plant the seed. To see if she could tear us apart from the inside before we even began.” His thumbs wiped the tears from her cheeks. “We are not letting her.”
He released her and picked up his own phone. He opened the camera roll, scrolled back to yesterday, and found it. A simple, unposed photo he’d taken without her knowing. Maria, asleep on their bed, one hand resting on her stomach, the afternoon sun making her hair look like embers on the pillow. Her face was peaceful, complete. He opened Twitter, ignored the exploding notifications, and began to compose a post.
“What are you doing?” Maria asked, her voice raw.
“Giving them their statement.”
He attached the photo. His cursor hovered in the caption box. He didn’t write in Korean or Spanish. He wrote in the language the two of them had built in the dark.
The only one. Then. Now. Always.
He tagged Maria’s professional account. He added no other tags. He took a breath, his thumb hovering over the post button. This wasn’t management-approved. This was a nuclear option. He looked at Maria, seeking the final permission in her glassy eyes.
She stared at the photo on his screen, at her own vulnerable, sleeping form. She saw the truth in it, the intimacy no staged kiss or mall photo could ever counterfeit. A slow, fierce light replaced the devastation in her gaze. She reached out and covered his hand with hers.
Together, they pressed post.