Chapter 3
The Minister of the Middle Secretariat—normally harder to see than a star in the sky—was sitting in a pavilion drinking tea.
Beside him was Lady Munhyeon.
Across from them sat their two sons and two daughters.
Soran didn’t remember much else, but the sunlight pouring through the pavilion roof was bright and white.
The fragrant scent of flowers drifting past her nose was vivid.
They were a family.
And there was no place for Soran among them.
The minister didn’t even glance at her as she served the refreshments.
Sehwa whispered complaints about Soran to her older sister, who laughed loudly.
In that moment, Soran understood.
There was a river between them—one she could never cross.
And yet today, someone told her she would have a family too.
If she hadn’t felt excited, that would’ve been a lie.
She was like a child receiving her first gift, too restless to sleep.
But when she saw Gyoheum for the first time at the wedding ceremony, she smelled something bitter—like medicinal decoction—from him.
He smiled gently, warmly, like a spring breeze… But the bitter scent surrounded him from all directions.
“Honestly… even I would hate someone like me.”
Soran knew at first glance:
Gyoheum didn’t like her.
“That’s why he isn’t coming to see me on our wedding night.”
Soran nodded to herself as if that made perfect sense. She held back tears and smiled instead.
“But the food is getting cold…”
A full feast covered the red silk tablecloth:
Glassy roast chicken dripping with oil, savory fried pancakes, fresh vegetables, and beef broth.
Gurgle—
Her stomach had been begging for food all day.
Because of the wedding, she hadn’t eaten a single bite since morning.
“Can I… eat alone?”
She glanced nervously at the closed door.
No one answered her question.
Two bowls of white rice.
Two bowls of clear beef soup.
Suddenly, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Paju-auntie earlier.
― This is terrible, Auntie. I’ve never been married before—what if I make a mistake?
― The problem isn’t never having been married—the problem is when you have been married, dear.
Unlike anxious Soran, Paju-auntie had been calm and confident.
Soran admired her—she had raised five children, after all.
― Ideally, you wouldn’t get married at all. But since it’s already happened, what can you do?
― Huh?
― Men are all the same. Useless bunch, hardly different from each other. Even mine—lying around, not lifting a single finger—ugh, never mind.
Realizing she’d wandered off-topic, Paju-auntie grabbed Soran’s hands.
― I already looked into the second son of General Mo’s family.
Soran’s eyes went round. Her ears perked up.
She was curious about her future husband.
Was he tall? Short?
Was his voice deep? Thin?
Handsome? Rough-looking?
― He didn’t hold office and spent his days drinking with friends, worrying his father—but fortunately, he got his act together recently. Last summer, their eldest son died under tragic circumstances.
― My goodness… How heartbreaking that must have been.
Soran covered her mouth with her hands, pity on her face as if it had happened to her own family.
― The eldest son’s wife and child are staying with her parents. The general is bedridden. The mother-in-law hasn’t left her room since losing her son—so there will be no one to harass you in that household.
But that wasn’t the problem, and Soran shook her head. Paju-auntie squeezed her hands.
― If the people there have functioning eyes, they’ll surely like you. Just be yourself. Don’t shrink back.
Soran laughed bitterly and joked:
― You’re the only one who says such things, Auntie. Everyone else calls me dull or a premature weakling.
― What rotten brutes say that? If I ever catch them, I’ll gouge their eyes out!
Paju-auntie bent her fingers like claws, as if ready to strike.
― These people here have eyes on their toes. They can’t see how lovable you are. So in your husband’s home, receive all the love you never got here.
Paju-auntie dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.
Soran’s eyes stung as well.
― I will.
She nodded with a bright smile—and a tear slipped down from her eyelashes.
“Sorry, Auntie… looks like I won’t be loved here either.”
Soran shook her head sadly and pushed away the thought.
Then she firmed her expression and picked up her spoon.
“Ghosts who die from overeating still look good—so let’s eat.”
Since her husband wasn’t coming, she might as well eat the feast herself.
Soran scooped a huge spoonful of rice.
“This is my first time eating white rice.”
She searched her memories but couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten pure white rice.
“No… this really is the first time.”
The rice had gone cold, but that didn’t matter.
At the minister’s house, she rarely had warm food anyway.
“Haap.”
One spoonful filled her cheeks like a little squirrel.
She chewed busily.
“White rice gets sweeter the more you chew.”
She lifted the beef soup.
The floating oil didn’t bother her at all.
“What should I eat next?”
She reached for a chicken drumstick.
It fell off the bone with barely any force.
“Haap!”
With fierce determination, she bit into the meat like a wild animal.
Her cheeks puffed up again.
The tender meat went straight down her throat without even needing to chew.
Soran’s eyes melted blissfully.
Even if she wasn’t loved—
If she could eat like this every day, she might be okay.
“Love doesn’t fill your stomach anyway.”
For someone whose lifelong wish was just to eat nurungji, this meal was almost too much.
“Mmm…”
Before she knew it, she had finished one bowl of rice. She eyed the second bowl—the one meant for her husband.
It was packed full.
“This might be my last meal like this.”
Tomorrow, she might go back to the usual mixed grains and a couple of side dishes—like at the minister’s house. And she’d have to compete with servants to even eat that much.
“And there’s no Auntie to sneak me nurungji anymore.”
Paju-auntie had been wrong.
Anyone with working eyes despised Soran.
So people here would surely come to hate her too.
“This is my last supper.”
With a solemn murmur, she reached for the second bowl.
She scooped a round spoonful and swallowed it whole.
“Haap.”
The rice slid smoothly down like it was oiled.
Gulp.
Then she pulled the second bowl of soup toward her.
She grabbed the last drumstick and chomped into it.
“Mm?”
A faint sound came from outside the door.
Her cheeks bulged with unswallowed meat.
Was it the wind?
It must be.
If Gyoheum planned to come, he would have come long ago.
He didn’t like her and clearly didn’t intend to spend their wedding night together.
She sighed softly and returned to tearing the drumstick—
When the door rattled open.
“Forgive me. I made my bride wait on our first ni—”
“!”
Soran stared, unable to swallow or spit out what was in her mouth.
The door slammed shut behind him from the wind.
“……”
Silence thickened in the room.
She bit into the drumstick, unmoving, and slowly lifted her eyes.
Gyoheum was unmistakably a man with a strong presence.
Taller than most, shoulders broad, body firm beneath his clothes—just as one would expect from a military family.
Compared to him, tiny, skinny Soran looked like a chewed-up chicken bone.
She glanced up again.
His eyebrows were long and thick.
His eyes were deep and dark—like you couldn’t see the bottom.
His nose bridge was slightly crooked, perhaps once broken, which somehow made him look even more masculine.
His jaw was sharp and stubborn.
There was no doubt:
the man she had peeked at during the ceremony—the one she hoped wouldn’t be her groom—
was indeed her husband.
“……”
Gyoheum’s eyes widened slightly in disbelief.
Soran, with a drumstick still between her teeth, looked ready to cry.
Auntie… What do I do now?
