Chapter 8: Steam and Vows
The steam in the bathroom had thickened, a warm, damp cocoon that made every breath feel heavy. Da-rae leaned back against the cool marble, the contrast to Jin-woo’s heat shocking against her skin. His question hung between them, a live wire vibrating in the humid air.
Her heart wasn’t just beating; it was trying to break out of her chest. The water sheeted over them, plastering her dark hair to her shoulders, his to his forehead. She could see the intensity in his eyes, but beneath it, a familiar softness. A choice. He was always, somehow, giving her a choice, even when his hands were on her hips and his words were dipped in something dark and sweet.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
“I’m… it’s a lot,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper over the rush of the shower. “The wedding, the announcement, my sister… you.”
His smile was a small, slow thing. “Me most of all?”
She nodded, water catching on her lashes. “You know everything. And you’re still here. That’s… that’s the part I don’t know how to live with yet.”
He understood. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a moment. The possessive tension from seconds before melted, replaced by a different kind of weight. “I’m not going anywhere, Da-rae. Not unless you tell me to.”
“I don’t want you to go,” she said, the honesty raw and sudden. Her hands, which had been braced against his chest, relaxed, her fingers curling lightly into his skin.
He opened his eyes, searching hers. “Then let’s get through today. One thing at a time. First, getting you dry before you turn into a prune.”
The shift was gentle, deliberate. He reached past her and turned off the water. The sudden silence was enormous, filled only by the drip from the gold showerhead and their breathing.
He wrapped her in a towel so large and fluffy it swallowed her whole, rubbing her arms briskly through the fabric. “Your mother and mine will be here in two hours for the first dress fitting. You need to be fed and caffeinated before that onslaught.”
The mundane reality of it was an anchor. Dress fittings. Mothers. Coffee. It was a schedule, a normal problem for a bride-to-be. Not a problem for an impostor living a lie.
He dressed quickly in simple black trousers and a grey sweater, his hair still damp. Da-rae followed, pulling on soft leggings and one of his old university hoodies. It smelled like him—clean linen and something indefinably warm. It felt like armor.
Downstairs in the sunlit kitchen, he made coffee. The rich, bitter smell cut through the last of the bathroom’s jasmine haze. He slid a mug across the island to her, then busied himself with eggs.
“Do you think she’ll come today? Soo-ah?” Da-rae asked, cradling the warm mug.
Jin-woo cracked an egg against the rim of a bowl with a sharp, precise tap. “My father’s threat was specific. If she values your family’s remaining assets, she’ll stay away. But she’s never been good at valuing anything but her own satisfaction.” He glanced at her. “Does that scare you?”
“Yes,” Da-rae said, without hesitation. “But less than it did yesterday.”
He smiled at that, a real one that reached his eyes.
The dress atelier was a temple of white silk and whispered opinions. Madame Cho, a woman with a permanent pinch to her lips and a tape measure like a second tongue, fussed around Da-rae while the mothers sat on gilded chairs, watching like critical sovereigns.
Jin-woo’s mother, Mrs. Choi, was a sculpture of elegant composure, her suggestions offered in soft, firm tones. “The neckline is perhaps too severe, Madame Cho. Something softer for her.”
Da-rae’s own mother was a flutter of nervous agreement. “Yes, softer. Softer is good.” Her eyes kept darting to the door, as if expecting her eldest daughter to come crashing through it.
Da-rae stood on a low podium, feeling like a doll being arranged. The sample dress was a simple sheath of ivory satin, pinned in places to approximate a design. She felt exposed under the bright lights and their appraising gazes.
“Turn, please, Miss Luis,” Madame Cho instructed.
As Da-rae turned slowly, her eyes met the full-length mirror. For a fleeting second, she didn’t see herself. She saw Soo-ah standing there, a smirk on her face, wearing the dress that was meant to be hers. A cold knot tightened in her stomach.
The image shattered as the atelier door opened.
But it wasn’t Soo-ah. It was Jin-woo. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a silent, solid presence. He’d said he had a meeting, but here he was. He didn’t speak, just offered her a small, reassuring nod in the mirror’s reflection.
The tension in her mother’s shoulders eased slightly. Mrs. Choi’s lips curved in a faint, approving smile. “Your guardian is here, I see,” she murmured, though not unkindly.
“He has no taste in lace,” Da-rae heard herself say, the words surprising her. A flicker of her old self, peeking through.
Jin-woo chuckled, a low, warm sound that filled the room. “I like the simple one. The one that looks like you.”
Madame Cho looked mortally offended. Mrs. Choi laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Ignore them both, Madame Cho. Proceed.”
The fitting continued, the atmosphere lighter. Jin-woo’s presence had drawn the poison from the room. He asked inane questions about thread counts and train lengths, his feigned ignorance so blatant it became a game, making Da-rae bite her lip to keep from grinning.
Later, as they were leaving, a courier arrived at the atelier door, holding a flat, large envelope. “For Miss Luis,” he said.
Madame Cho took it, her brow furrowed, and handed it to Da-rae. It was heavy, expensive paper. There was no name, no return address.
Da-rae’s fingers trembled as she slid a finger under the flap and pulled out the contents. It was a single, stark black-and-white photograph. A press photo from the night of the registry office marriage months ago. It showed her and Jin-woo leaving the building, hands clasped. But next to it, someone had photocopied the official registry page. Soo-ah’s name was clearly visible, typed next to Jin-woo’s. Over Da-rae’s face in the photograph, a red ‘X’ had been slashed.
On the back, in precise, typed letters, it read: Which story will they believe?
The air left Da-rae’s lungs. The hallway seemed to tilt.
Jin-woo took the photograph from her limp hand. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes turned to chips of flint. He looked at the courier, who was already backing away. “Who gave you this?”
“A woman, sir. In a car. She paid cash.”
Jin-woo nodded once, a short, sharp motion. He slipped the photo back into the envelope. “Thank you.”
He placed a steadying hand on the small of Da-rae’s back and guided her out to the waiting car. Once inside, the partition up, he let out a long, controlled breath.
“She can’t help herself,” he said, his voice quiet. “She had to poke the bear.”
Da-rae stared at her hands, clenched in her lap. The fear was back, icy and familiar. “What do we do?”
“We do exactly what we said we would.” He took the envelope and tore it neatly in half, then quarters, then smaller pieces. He rolled down the window and let the fragments scatter into the city wind. “We turn on the lights. All of them. Brighter than she can stand.”
He pulled out his phone, typed a quick message, and sent it. A moment later, his phone buzzed. He showed her the screen. It was a news alert from a major society blog. The headline read: CHOI HEIR SPARES NO EXPENSE FOR BRIDE: GRAND CELADON BOOKED FOR SPECTACULAR WEDDING.
Below it was the official, glowing announcement, mentioning Da-rae by name three times, accompanied by a stock photo of the Grand Celadon’s famous crystal ballroom.
“It’s public now,” Jin-woo said, putting the phone away. “The story is ours. That photograph is just a piece of paper. This,” he gestured to the world outside the car window, “is reality. We’re going to make it so big, so bright, that her little ‘X’ disappears.”
He laced his fingers through hers. His hand was warm, sure. “You’re not facing this alone. Remember? Prune.”
A weak, watery laugh escaped her. She leaned her head against his shoulder, watching the city blur past. The threat still hovered, a shadow at the edge of a brilliantly lit stage. But the stage was theirs. And for the first time, she was starting to believe she might know her lines.