39. Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
Lina
The day moves as usual, but I’m stuck in a glass jar. Looking out but not really seeing anything.
I go through the motions. Smiling when I’m supposed to, answering questions, refilling cups. But inside, my mind is stuck on a single, impossible truth: my ex-father-in-law hired someone to kill me.
For money. Money I didn’t even know existed.
It all feels surreal, almost absurd, like it belongs in a movie instead of my life. I keep trying to wrap my head around the idea that someone would calculate another person’s death the way they balance a spreadsheet.
But then again…I didn’t grow up in a world where money insulated you from consequences.
I grew up poor.
After my mom died, everything changed. She left behind government loans tied to the small business she’d poured herself into. Because Koreans open businesses, that’s what we do. The payments were manageable while she was alive. Then she got sick. Really sick. And then she was gone.
My dad was left with debt, three kids, and no safety net.
He didn’t have a college education. He met my mom in the military, and when he got out, there was no help waiting for him.
No transition. No guidance. Just bills. The only thing he had going for him was his knowledge of computers.
Skills he picked up out of necessity, turning them into side jobs wherever he could.
Eventually, he went back to school and earned his degree. But before that? We scraped by.
Thrift store clothes. SaveALot groceries. Stretching fifty dollars for an entire week. Some days, all we had was steamed white rice. Nothing else. Just rice.
I learned early that things don’t last.
When my mom passed, everything of value disappeared one by one. Sold to keep the lights on, to pay bills, to survive. Anything that could be turned into money was gone.
Escaping that life and building something of my own changed what I valued. I never chased luxury. I don’t care about expensive things. My SUV is the most luxurious thing I have. But I can give that up in a heartbeat.
Because I know how fast luxury can vanish.
And now here I am, learning that to some people, money isn’t only security or comfort. It’s a weapon.
The Allister’s looked at me and didn’t see a woman who loved their grandmother. Who sat by her bedside every day before she passed. They saw a liability. A payout schedule they didn’t want to keep honoring.
I grew up knowing what it meant to survive without money. They grew up believing money entitled them to erase anyone who got in the way of it.
That difference, that moral gap, is beyond my comprehension.
Beneath the numbness, something else stirs. Not fear but resolve. I didn’t claw my way out of poverty, grief, and abuse to be reduced to a number.
They may have money, but I know how to endure.
I think about everything I’ve already survived, and it almost sickening that anyone would believe this would be the thing to break me.
Loss has been a constant companion in my life. It didn’t arrive once and leave. It kept showing up, changing forms, demanding I adapt.
My mother’s death didn’t even carve the first hollow in my chest. And everything after only tested whether I would collapse into its hole or learn to stand around the edges.
Every time something happened to me, I didn’t stop. I didn’t fall apart for long. I cried in private and swallowed the fear. I did what needed to be done and kept moving.
I survived poverty without bitterness. Abuse without becoming cruel. Grief without letting it rot me from the inside out.
I lived through a relationship that slowly dismantled my sense of self, piece by piece, until I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.
Escaping wasn’t the end of me. I didn’t crumble. I rebuilt.
I carried guilt that wasn’t mine for years and still showed up for other people.
I even buried a child. No parent is ever meant to stand beside a tiny casket and say goodbye to a future that never had the chance to unfold. That alone should have broken me. It should’ve hollowed me out until there was nothing left worth saving. And yet...here I am.
Still loving. Still choosing hope over numbness, even when numbness would be easier.
I’ve been emotionally starved, financially stripped, gaslit into believing I was unworthy of better, and every time, I adapted. I pushed forward.
I didn’t do it loudly or for praise. I did it because stopping was never an option.
So when I think about them—the Allister’s—about people who believe money gives them the right to decide who lives and who doesn’t, I almost pity how badly they’ve misjudged me.
They think I’m soft because I’m kind. They think I’m fragile because I love deeply. They think survival made me small. They’re wrong.
Survival made me durable.
I’ve already been through enough tragedy and cruelty to last a lifetime. Whatever comes next isn’t something I’ll run from. It’s something I’ll outlast. Because I don’t keep going despite what’s been done to me, I keep going because of it.
By the time Val walks up to me, the afternoon light is already slanting through the front windows.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you all morning,“ she says. “But my shift didn’t start until two, and of course we were slammed.”
I glance at the clock. “Yeah, it got crazy busy.”
She doesn’t even pretend to start working. Just plants her hands on the counter and leans in.
“So,” she says. “How was your night? Tell me everything.”
I sigh, already smiling. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“No,” she says. “This is not a good afternoon conversation. This is a you let a man come over, cook for you, and stay the night conversation. I know he stayed. Right? He stayed the night?”
She beams with eagerness.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say automatically.
Val lifts a brow. “Do tell then.”
I laugh and shake my head. “We talked. A lot.”
Her expression shifts. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I echo.
“That’s different,” she says. “You don’t do that.”
I don’t. And the fact that she knows it so easily makes something tighten in me.
“I know,” I admit. “Usually, I keep things light. Safe. Surface-level.” I shrug. “But with him…it just happened.”
What I don’t say presses at the back of my throat.
That we were sleeping when it happened.
That danger slipped into my house without knocking.
That Alex didn’t stay the night—he stood between me and something meant to end me.
Val leans against the counter, fully invested. “About what?”
“Everything,” I say. “Our pasts. The ugly parts. The things we never say out loud on first—or second dates.” I pause. “I told him things I don’t usually tell anyone.”
I don’t tell her how carefully I edit that truth.
How I skip the parts that would change the way she perceives me.
“And he listened,” Val says, already knowing.
“Yes,” I say softly. “Really listened.”
She smiles, slow and knowing. “That’s a very dangerous thing, Lina.”
I swallow. You have no idea.
“I’m aware.”
“So,” she says, grin returning, “was he good in the…kitchen?”
“Oh, he was very good in the kitchen.”
“High praise,” she says, giggling.
“And he cleaned up after himself.” I add.
Val gasps. “Oh no. That’s how they get you.”
I laugh, but my chest squeezes tight.
Because I can’t tell her why he’s actually here. Why this small town isn’t a coincidence. Why I’m not only the woman he’s falling for—but the reason he was sent.
“It’s still early,” I add quickly. “We’re not putting labels on anything. We’re just…seeing where it goes.”
What I don’t say: as long as we’re allowed to.
“But,” she presses gently, “you feel something.”
I hesitate—then nod. “Yeah. I do. And that’s the part that caught me off guard.”
She studies my face. “Good caught off guard or ‘should I panic’ caught off guard?”
“Good,” I say. “Unexpected, but good.”
Val smiles, satisfied. “I want every detail.”
“You’re not getting every detail.”
“I will settle for most.”
“You’ll get highlights.”
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m saying it now—if this man made you talk instead of deflect, he’s already done something right.”
I don’t argue.
Because even with everything I’m not saying—that part is still true.
Val looks at me again, eyes sharp and far too pleased.
“So,” she says, nodding toward the kitchen behind us, “back to the topic of his cooking.”
I groan. “We already covered this.”
“No, we didn’t,“ she says. “We established that he didn’t burn anything. That’s baseline. I’m talking skill level.”
I cross my arms. “Define skill.”
“Oh, I will,” she says. “Was he good with his hands?“ She winks, then raises her eyebrows suggestively.
I choke on air. “Val!”
“In the kitchen,” she adds quickly. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I counter.
“Did he know how to work his utensil,“ she continues, “or was he just throwing things around and hoping for the best?”
“We are so not talking about cooking, are we?” I ask.
“Yes, we are,” she says.
She whispers, “Did he control the heat? Timing? Pressure?”
“I know what you are really asking, Val.”
She tilts her head. “Now tell me—did you have to stretch before reaching the…top shelf?”
I press my lips together. “You are unbelievable.”
“That’s not a no,” she says, delighted. “Follow-up question—did you actually reach the top shelf?”
“Val!” I giggle.
“And,” she adds, lowering her voice, “was it as amazing as you hoped it would be?”
I incline my head, laughing despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“If you aren’t giving me details, it had to be good. You would otherwise tell me everything,” she says with her hand on her hip.
I meet her gaze. “I will say this...”
Her grin widens. “Go on...”
“He knows his way around a kitchen,” I say carefully. “Very…skilled.”
Val straightens, hand to her chest. “Oh my.”
“And,” I add before I can stop myself, “he definitely helped me reach the top shelf…like no other.” My eyes flutter closed for a moment, grinning at the memory of one of the best orgasms of my life.
She exhales dramatically. “Oh…yes!!”
“That’s all you’re getting.”
Val sighs. “Fine. But can we at least talk about the utensil? Was it as big as I imagine it to be? You know the wooden spoon that is?”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, I’m so not talking about that.”
She smiles smugly, “I bet your oven was nice and warm too.”
“Val!” I groan.
“Oh…I bet there was a lot of groaning too…from the full warm oven,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.
I swat her on the shoulder and giggle. Val is loving this game.
“Okay…I’m done now. Walking away,” she utters while she picks up a rag to wipe the counter.
I don’t argue. Because some things don’t need explaining.
The annoying thing is, she’s right. Usually, she would have already gotten the entire recap by now. The highlights. The lowlights. The commentary track.
Instead, I’ve given her almost nothing. Which is strange.
Historically, I treat dating like a post-game press conference. But Alex feels different. Talking about him that way feels wrong somehow. Too personal. Too private. The realization catches me off guard.
Maybe because all the other men were temporary. And gradually, I stopped wanting Alex to be.