Episode 02
There was neither goodwill nor hostility in the man’s upturned eyes.
Ah—no, one thing was clear.
The single emotion written plainly in his gaze.
The look of a driver picking up a passenger, a part-timer facing an audience, a clerk responding to a customer.
That unmistakable light in their eyes.
Boredom—utterly devoid of interest or affection.
This man held no opinion of her whatsoever. She was simply dull. Tedious. A passing inconvenience.
How was she supposed to earn the favor of someone like this—let alone reach marriage?
Suppressing the rise of her dialect, she forced herself to speak.
“A blind date… is a meeting with marriage in mind, isn’t it? I do intend to marry.”
“Hu—”
A long, languid exhale, as though something troublesome had just cropped up. A sigh, perhaps.
Her reply, inevitably, turned sharp.
“Why?”
“The information I received was rather limited. That you stayed shut indoors—no, that you lived in the provinces, receiving nothing but bridal training.”
Was he mocking her?
Laughing at the counterfeit version of her life he’d heard about, without knowing anything of what she’d actually lived?
“Can you cook?”
It was the first question the chairman had thrown at her when they met.
“I can manage simple things.”
“That’s enough, then. Learn a few dishes that look impressive. Did you keep drawing? Hmm—maybe take a crash course in flower arrangement or calligraphy. You’ve got an artistic sense, so you’ll pick it up quickly.”
“You’re telling me to learn those things?”
“You need to launder your identity. Do you think they’d accept a bastard who used to pick peaches in the countryside? They already won’t welcome you, given you’re an illegitimate child. We’ll say you stayed in a provincial city, properly receiving bridal education. Oh—and couldn’t you stop using that old-lady dialect?”
Bastard. Illegitimate child.
Those were the labels the chairman used for her.
The daughter born of an affair committed by the former chairman of Jeonghan Ilbo Group.
Perhaps a child who should never have been born at all—
A nobleman’s mistake.
Her thumb worried at a hangnail, tearing at it again and again to keep the self-loathing from swelling.
No. No.
Her roots were pride.
Dohwa. Dosil.
Both her mother’s name and her own were taken from the peaches her grandmother raised.
Peach blossom—Dohwa.
Peach fruit—Dosil.
Her mother and she herself were born in that orchard, soaked in her grandmother’s sweat and breath.
“Dosil, you’re a peach fruit, ain’t you? There ain’t nothing more fragrant or sweet than a peach. I named you so you’d live a sweet, fragrant life too. You hear me, girl? You’re this precious—to your grandma.”
Just as those peaches were her grandmother’s pride, she was her grandmother’s pride.
Even if she had gone from Seo Dohwa’s daughter, Seo Dosil, to Ma Hun’s illegitimate child, Ma Dosil.
She decided to abandon the awkward Seoul accent that never quite fit her mouth.
What was wrong with a dialect, anyway?
Yongcheon—
The trajectory of her life, rolled and battered in the countryside, was etched into her speech like rings in a tree.
These were the words her grandmother had taught her.
Why should she change them?
She fixed her gaze on the man before her—so polished and flawless it was obvious at a glance what kind of refined life he’d lived.
“Are you lookin’ down on me just ’cause I lived in some backwater and took bridal classes?”
Her eyes, sharp as a wildcat’s, flashed fiercely.
At worst, he’d probably dismiss it as the childish anger of a spoiled rich girl.
Still—there were oddities.
That elderly dialect.
And the strange inconsistencies that stood out once you really looked.
At first glance, her face was unremarkable: upturned eyes, a small mole on her right cheek, clear skin. Nothing more.
Her style was predictably luxurious—designer brands, all of them.
Dull to the extreme.
But the more he examined her, the stranger she seemed.
A rough provincial accent that clashed with her supposed upbringing.
Hands tanned dark as if baked under the sun, contrasting her pale face.
Forced nail art. Makeup colors that didn’t suit her features.
Expensive clothes and styling only become natural when worn often.
Worn once, forcibly, they only create discord.
The limits between those who were born into it—and those who weren’t.
For work done so carefully by professionals, the overall impression was clumsy.
Bridal training, my ass. Had she been sealed off from the world entirely?
She was similar to his immature sister—but also completely different.
Not that it changed the essence of things.
No. Her birth hadn’t changed.
Annoying as it was, he had to destroy this marriage arrangement.
And the one who had to pull the plug was the bride-to-be herself.
“It does sound like I’m looking down on you. Unfortunately. Sorry about that.”
Go Joon’s response was so bluntly honest it was almost infuriating.
She had no reason to be looked down on.
“Why’s bridal training somethin’ to sneer at? You’re awful quick to judge people.”
“Do you have a life goal? Marriage? Is there anything you can actually do? Something you love—something you want to pursue on your own? Not living off someone else.”
It was understandable that he saw her that way.
A woman shut away in the provinces, trained only to become a bride.
Even she thought she lacked appeal. And that was the official narrative.
But official stories differed from reality—and that was unfair.
“What if livin’ off a man is my life goal? Is that so wrong? Breakin’ my back learnin’ cookin’, paintin’, calligraphy, flower arrangin’—is that pathetic? Ain’t you here lookin’ for that kinda woman anyway? You knew all this when you came.”
“Ha.”
A shameless woman—and on top of that, the grating dialect.
Just what was she, to irritate him like this?
He was only here because of his father’s threats.
Did he really have to give up his mother?
No. He couldn’t.
If he did, every last memory he had would vanish.
This woman had to be the one to give up.
And he knew exactly where women like her got hurt.
“Well… if you were my type, I might consider marriage. But you’re not my type at all.”
Fair enough.
With a face handsome enough to rival actors—and rumored flings with actual celebrities—would her appearance ever register to him?
At least she had self-awareness.
Still.
How could she possibly catch his eye?
How could she save her grandmother?
She glared at him, ready for a fight.
“Then what kinda type do you like?”
Go Joon smiled faintly and answered with a single word.
“Sexy.”
Ah.
So she was being told, very clearly, that she wasn’t sexy at all.
Her stubbornness flared.
“Wow. You’ve barely seen me. You’re sayin’ I ain’t sexy, then? That what you mean?”
“Glad you understood.”
Go Joon flexed his long, elegant fingers, producing a sound.
Thumb bending down, pressing from index finger to pinky—
A sharp crack of shifting joints.
Crack. Crack.
That hand alone was disturbingly sexy.
A habit, perhaps.
Something he did when bored—when enduring moments stretched too thin.
Or maybe a closing ritual, signaling he was about to leave.
This was Mission Impossible.
A KO loss.
She didn’t want to accept it—but—
Fine. To hell with it.
On the brink of recklessness, she blurted out what was practically a scream.
Because she was desperate.
“I’m real sexy! Damn sexy! You don’t know me! How can you judge me like that? You ain’t even seen me naked!”
Ah.
That last line was crude. Pathetic.
She grew embarrassed the moment it left her mouth.
But what could she do?
It was already out there.
Go Joon let out a breathy, incredulous laugh.
Fine. Laugh all you want.
All she had left was pride and defiance.
“I don’t want to see you naked. Which means—you’re not sexy to me.”
Crack. Crack.
His fingers snapped again.
As though he couldn’t wait to escape this tedious, antiquated place.
