Chapter Twenty-Five #5
"My, what a handsome young man," she declares, beaming. "Look at those eyes. And such good skin! Donghwa, you have excellent taste."
"I know," Donghwa says from somewhere to my left. I can hear the smirk in his voice.
A heavy hand claps onto my shoulder, nearly making me jump out of my skin again. I look over to see Donghwa’s father standing there, grinning from ear to ear.
"About time," the older man booms, shaking his head. "I was starting to think our youngest was going to cling to bachelorhood forever. Thought he was married to that motorcycle of his."
He looks me up and down, not with the critical, calculating eye of my father—checking for weakness, checking for value—but with genuine interest. He sniffs the air slightly, his eyebrows going up.
"Alpha?" he asks.
My stomach drops. Here it comes. The hierarchy check.
"Yes, sir," I say, bracing myself. "Dominant Alpha."
I wait for it. I wait for the frown. I wait for the lecture on how Alphas should mate with Omegas to preserve the bloodline, or how two Alphas in one house is a recipe for disaster.
I wait for him to ask who my father is, what my net worth is, what my grades are—the standard resume check that happens every time I step foot in a house like this.
Donghwa’s father just nods, looking satisfied.
"Good," he says decisively, giving my shoulder another squeeze. "Donghwa could use someone to go toe-to-toe with him for once. He’s been walking all over everyone since he was in diapers. Needs a challenge."
I stare at him. "Sir?"
"Don't just stand there in the foyer!" He waves a hand toward the living room, dismissing my confusion entirely. "Come in, come in. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Are you hungry? You look like you could eat. Donghwa, take his bag. Don't be rude."
"I got it," Donghwa sighs, stepping forward to grab my bag again.
I let him take it, too stunned to protest. I watch his parents usher us into the massive living room, chattering about dinner and heating pads, and I feel... unmoored.
No interrogation? No background check? No subtle digs about my dyed hair or my slightly-too-flashy watch?
They didn't ask who my family was. They didn't ask what my father does. They didn't ask if I’m "good enough." They just... let me in.
"Come, come!"
Donghwa’s mother doesn't wait for an answer. She hooks one arm through Donghwa’s and the other through mine, locking us into a maternal pincer maneuver that is surprisingly strong for a woman wearing that much silk.
I stumble a step, startled by the contact. My own mother treats physical touch like a transaction—a stiff hug for a press photo, a pat on the arm if I win a trophy. This woman is towing me against her side like I’m a stray puppy she’s already decided to keep.
"We have time before the food is ready," she declares, marching us down the hallway.
"And I want to hear everything. Donghwa tells us absolutely nothing over the phone. It’s like pulling teeth with this boy.
'I’m fine, Mom.' 'School is fine, Mom.' You’d think he was in a secret service program instead of art school. "
"I tell you the important things," Donghwa grumbles from her other side, looking resigned to being manhandled.
"You told us you bought a motorcycle via a speeding ticket that got mailed to the house," one of the sisters chimes in from behind us.
I feel a sharp elbow in my ribs. I look down to see the sister—Dohwa? Dohwi? I can’t tell them apart yet—grinning up at me conspiratorially.
"You have to spill," she whispers loudly. "Has he been a menace? Is he terrorizing the department? We need details."
"I bet he is," the other sister adds, popping up on my other side. "He was a tyrant in high school. Please tell me you have dirt on him. We need new material for sibling blackmail. The motorcycle incident is getting stale."
Donghwa throws a glare over his shoulder, his lip curling in a sneer that lacks any actual heat. "You two are vultures. Just hungry for gossip."
"Obviously," the first sister counters, unbothered. "What else are big sisters for? Humbling you is our full-time job."
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, and then, without my permission, a real smile breaks through. It feels weird on my face—unpracticed in this kind of setting. Usually, my smiles at family gatherings are plastered on, held until my cheeks ache. This one just... happens.
"I might have a few stories," I admit, glancing at Donghwa’s annoyed profile. "He does have a reputation."
"Traitor," Donghwa mutters, though he doesn't pull his arm away from his mother.
We’re steered into a sitting room that looks like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest, but again, it’s confusingly comfortable.
The ceilings are vaulted, letting in the late afternoon mountain light through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a garden that looks more like a private forest.
But my eyes are drawn immediately to the piano.
It’s a grand piano, sitting in the bay window, bathed in golden light.
It’s not a shiny, black lacquer showpiece like the one in my parents' lobby that nobody is allowed to touch.
This one is a warm, matte wood, clearly antique, with sheet music messy and scattered across the stand. It looks loved. It looks used.
"Sit, sit," Donghwa’s mother commands, pulling us toward a massive, cloud-like cream sofa that faces the view.
She pulls Donghwa down next to her, and I take the spot on his other side, feeling the dip of the cushions. The sisters sprawl onto the adjacent armchairs with a lack of grace that would give my etiquette coach a stroke, kicking their legs over the armrests.
Donghwa’s mother doesn't let go. She keeps Donghwa’s hand clasped in her lap, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles in a rhythmic, soothing motion. I stare at it. It’s such a casual intimacy. If I held my mother’s hand like that, she’d ask me if my palms were sweating or if I needed money.
"So," she starts, beaming between the two of us, her eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "Tell me about the semester. The classes? The professors? Are you eating well? Is the apartment too cold?"
I sit there, hands clasped so tight in my lap my knuckles are turning white, and watch the show.
It is a show. It has to be. Nobody’s family is actually like this.
"So, the studio classes," his mother presses, leaning in like he’s about to reveal state secrets. "Professor Lim? Is he still wearing those terrible scarves?"
"Yes," Donghwa says, looking pained as he tries to subtly extract his hand from hers. "He’s fine. He says hi."
"He says hi?" Dohwa snorts from the armchair, kicking her legs over the side. "He probably said, 'Tell your mother she still owes me a bottle of wine from 1998.' You know he’s only nice to you because Mom funded his gallery opening ten years ago."
"He’s nice to me because I’m talented," Donghwa shoots back without missing a beat.
"Debatable," Dohwi chimes in, examining her fingernails. "Remember your 'Blue Period' in middle school? When you painted everything in the house navy? Including the dog?"
"It was artistic expression," Donghwa grumbles, sinking lower into the couch.
"It was a golden retriever, Donghwa," his father chuckles from his armchair, taking off his glasses to wipe them on his cardigan. "Poor thing looked like a bruised blueberry for a month."
They all laugh. It’s a warm, easy sound that bounces off the high ceilings.
I sit frozen, a polite, plastic smile plastered on my face, but inside, my stomach is twisting into a cold, hard knot.
I’m waiting for the pivot. I’m waiting for his father to stop chuckling and ask, But how are your grades?
Are you top of the class? Are you making connections that will benefit the family legacy?
I’m waiting for his mother to stop petting his hand and ask if he’s lost weight because it looks bad for their image.
It never comes.
They just want to know him. They ask about his motorcycle maintenance. They ask if he’s sleeping enough. They ask if he’s made friends—at which point Donghwa vaguely gestures to me, and they all beam at me like I’m a war hero for tolerating him.
It’s fascinating. It’s horrifying.
I watch Donghwa—the stoic, unbothered, "too cool for school" Alpha—actually relax.
The tension that he carries in his shoulders at the university, that constant, low-level alertness of a Dominant Alpha guarding his territory, just evaporates.
He rolls his eyes at his sisters, he grumbles at his mom, but he looks safe.
The knot in my stomach pulls tighter. It feels like jealousy, hot and acidic, but beneath that, there’s this hollow, aching loneliness that I haven't let myself feel in years.
This is what I’m competing with? This is the foundation he stands on? No wonder he walks through life like he owns the pavement. He has this safety net waiting for him. If he fails, if he drops out, if he decides to become a mime, these people would probably just buy him face paint and cheer.
If I fail, I’m cut off. If I’m not the best, I’m invisible.
I feel like an alien. I feel like a fraud in my cashmere sweater, sitting on their expensive couch, pretending I understand this language of unconditional love. I want to go home. I want to stay here forever.
The heavy oak door to the hallway swings open, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
A tiny, older woman bustles in, balancing a massive tray laden with steaming cups and plates of colorful rice cakes. She’s wearing a simple uniform, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, but her face is round and wrinkled with smile lines.
I instinctively straighten up, preparing to ignore her. That’s the rule at my house. Staff are invisible. You don't engage unless you need something.
The woman spots us on the couch. Her eyes sweep over the mother, the father, the sisters, and then land on Donghwa.
The tray rattles dangerously.
"AIGOO!"
She screams it. Actually screams.