She hadn’t learned about Hyukjoon’s identity until the morning of their date a week later, when Bora’s message containing a link appeared on KakaoTalk.
Bora:Isn’t this your boyfriend?
Not my boyfriend, Dahye had written back before clicking on the link. She was sure it was a case of mistaken identity, but then Hyukjoon’s smiling face had appeared on her screen.
As it turned out, he was the second son of the CEO of YS Media Group, the biggest entertainment company in Korea. Over the years, YS Media Group had launched several of the country’s most famous musical artists, including some of Dahye and Bora’s favorite K-pop idols. Dahye scanned the article. Hyukjoon’s older brother was being groomed to take over the company, while Hyukjoon was leading the effort to establish a North American division. The plan, spanning five years, would pursue strategic partnerships with U.S.-based music labels and focus on expanding their artists’ global opportunities.
Her blood ran cold. Feeling sick, she closed her laptop. His family was rich and well connected. She was a nobody. Why had he asked her out in the first place? Was it out of pity?
Dahye’s phone rang. It was Bora. “It’s him, isn’t it?” she squealed. “I recognized him right away. Youhaveto go on the date now. No backing out. I will never forgive you if you do.”
“And do what?” Dahye protested. “What would I even say to him?”
“You’re charming,” Bora said. “Just be normal.”
Despite her growing doubts, Dahye had gone, trying her best to be “normal.” The restaurant was upscale, but not excessively so. Hyukjoon made no mention of his famous family, his father, or their company, so she stayed away from those topics as well. And while they were fashionable, his clothes were casual, making the dress Dahye had purchased just for the occasion (under Bora’s direction) seem embarrassingly over-the-top. Her heavy earrings tugged at her earlobes.
Dahye sat stiffly, her face frozen in an uncomfortable grimace, saying little while Hyukjoon told her about his childhood in New Hampshire and the years he had spent in New York while attending Columbia University. He was the youngest in his family. As well as a brother, he also had an older sister who was at Harvard for her residency. She was going to be a plastic surgeon. Dahye nodded, every muscle in her body tensed.
All afternoon, she had watched videos on etiquette—which fork to use, the correct way to hold a steak knife—but none of it had mattered. As soon as the food had arrived, the information had simply fallen out of her brain.
“I feel like I’ve been doing all the talking,” Hyukjoon said, sipping his wine. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Like what?” Dahye asked. She felt a swell of panic. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Where were you born? Did you go to school here? Do you have any siblings?”
“I was born here,” Dahye said, staring at her plate. She sawed off a piece of steak, and the white ceramic flooded with blood. The sight of it made her stomach churn. She had asked for the meat to be cooked medium well, but there had been some mix-up in the kitchen, and her plate resembled a murder scene. Despite Hyukjoon’s suggestion that they send it back, Dahye had refused, not wanting to seem like a nag. She took a bite and fought back a heave. Quickly, she took an enormous glug of wine, and it spilled—a dark red line running down her chin.
“Here,” Hyukjoon said, passing her the napkin from his lap. He seemed to be fighting a smile.
Her face burned. She cleared her throat. “Like I was saying, I was born in Seoul,” she said. “I went to school here, too. Hanyang-dae.” She handed the napkin back to him, the stains from the wine blooming across the white. He nodded absentmindedly as he used the same napkin to wipe the corners of his own mouth.
“Good school,” he offered.
In that instant, it became clear to her how badly she had misjudged the situation. Hyukjoon wasn’t just out of her league; he was on another planet entirely. She excused herself, pushing away from the table. The vase between them teetered and then fell with a loud crack onto the floor. Water spilled across the tile.
Dahye crouched and began picking up the shards with her fingers. In a flash, Hyukjoon was kneeling by her side, his hand on her wrist. He held it up to the light, and she saw that her thumb was bleeding. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the entire restaurant had turned to watch them.
“Are you alright? You’re hurt,” Hyukjoon said, his voice gentle.
“I’m fine.” She waited a moment, then pulled herself out of his grasp. “I have to go to the restroom.”
She rushed away, keeping her head lowered. People were whispering. She thought she heard someone laugh. Her face grew warm.
In the women’s restroom, she looked at her reflection and then pulled up a picture of Hyukjoon she had saved on her phone. She held it up to her face. It was obvious they weren’t a match. She wasn’t ugly; she just wasn’t attractive enough to be with someone of Hyukjoon’s stature. Her hair was frizzy and flat, her skin greasy and dull. In elementary school, her classmates had called her “frog face” because of her far-apart eyes. Her finger accidentally touched the screen, and the image of Hyukjoon disappeared, replaced by an old photo of Eunhye.
Side by side, Dahye’s dissimilarity from her sister couldn’t be more obvious. Eunhye’s eyes were almond-shaped, and her face was perfectly oval. She had high cheekbones and silky dark hair. Dahye stared at herself in the mirror until her vision blurred. Until Eunhye’s features were transposed over her own. She wasn’t Eunhye, but for one night, maybe she could pretend. She would march back to the table and act like everything was okay, just like Eunhye would have done. She would laugh prettily, make jokes, bat her eyelashes. She didn’t have a chance with Hyukjoon anyway. At least this way she could go home with her dignity.
By now, her thumb had stopped bleeding. Dahye put her hands under the faucet, letting the sensor turn on a gentle flow of warm water. She washed them carefully. Once she was done, she took a deep breath and returned to the table. The glass had been swept away. Someone had replaced the broken vase with another, even replacing the pink peonies she had destroyed.
“Do you need a Band-Aid?” Hyukjoon asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, showing him. “It’s not bleeding anymore.” She sat down.
“I asked them to bring you a new steak,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I asked them to cook it medium well this time. Like you wanted.”
She wished he hadn’t asked for another steak. “That was kind of you,” she said. “Thank you.”