Chizoba POV:
Dinner at the mansion felt like stepping onto a movie set, the kind where everyone knew their lines except me. The long dining table gleamed under a chandelier that probably cost more than my old house in Lagos. The plates looked too delicate to touch, the cutlery was arranged like a math puzzle, and the food… well, let's just say jollof rice wasn't on the menu.
My mom sat beside my stepfather, smiling that peaceful, newlywed smile. Minji was already chatting about something school-related, hands flying in excitement. Across from me sat Jihoon the stepbrother. Silent. Brooding. Knife and fork placed perfectly parallel like he was in a commercial for perfection.
For a while, no one spoke directly to me, and I was fine with that. I was too busy pretending to know what half the dishes were. Then Jihoon finally looked up, his dark eyes scanning me like I was a misplaced object.
"So…" he began, his tone casual but sharp, "do people in Nigeria really eat with their hands?"
The table went quiet.
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth.
Then I smiled sweetly. "Of course. It's called culture. You know flavor, heritage, all that stuff. You should try it sometime. Maybe it'll loosen that permanent frown on your face."
Minji gasped and nearly choked on her drink. My mom hid a laugh behind her napkin. Jihoon blinked, clearly not expecting me to clap back.
My stepfather cleared his throat, trying to keep things civil. "That's enough, you two. No teasing on the first night."
"Wasn't teasing," Jihoon muttered.
"Sure," I said under my breath. "And I'm the Queen of England."
Minji snorted into her soup.
For a moment, I thought I saw something like amusement flicker in Jihoon's eyes just a tiny smirk before he went back to eating like nothing happened.
The rest of dinner went smoother. Sort of. Every few minutes, Jihoon would glance at me like he was still trying to figure me out, and I'd raise my brow like, try harder.
When dessert came, my stepfather set down his glass and looked at me. "Chizoba," he said evenly, "you'll be starting school on Monday. You'll be attending Daehan International Academy with Minji and Jihoon."
I straightened up a bit. "Okay."
"It's one of Seoul's top schools," he continued. "Expect high standards. You'll fit in just fine — as long as you focus."
Focus. Right. In a place where I barely understood half the slang and had a stepbrother who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. No pressure.
Minji clapped her hands. "Yay! We'll be in the same school! I can show you everything — the cafeteria, the best rooftop spots, and the only vending machine that doesn't eat your money."
"Thanks," I said, genuinely smiling this time. "At least I'll have one ally."
"About that," my stepfather added, "you'll need to visit the school tomorrow morning to get your uniform measured. The tailor will be expecting you."
I blinked. "Uniform? Like the full blazer and skirt type?"
He nodded. "Yes. It's mandatory."
"Oh, fantastic," I muttered. "From Lagos heat to Seoul blazers. My ancestors are watching and shaking their heads."
My mom laughed softly, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "You'll be fine, Zoba. It's just a new beginning."
Maybe she was right. Maybe this was just the start.
As dinner wrapped up, Jihoon stood, dropped his napkin neatly on the table, and muttered, "Welcome to Seoul," before heading upstairs.
His tone wasn't exactly warm, but something in it, maybe challenge, maybe curiosity, made me grin.
"Thanks," I called after him. "Can't wait to brighten your gloomy castle!"
Minji burst out laughing again, and even my stepfather's lips twitched slightly.
And for the first time since I landed in Korea, I didn't feel completely out of place. Just slightly chaotic and maybe that was okay.
Tomorrow, uniform fitting.
Monday, new school.
And somewhere between, I had a feeling my K-drama meets Nollywood life was just getting started.