Ashling woke to the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft whoosh of morning traffic beyond the window blinds. For a few seconds, she didn't remember where she was — until her gaze landed on the unfamiliar cream-colored walls, the neatly folded blanket at the foot of the bed, and the suitcase she had yet to unpack.
San Francisco. A stranger's guest room.
Her husband's guest room.
Rolling out of bed, she tugged on her white button-down from yesterday and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The space was as modern and cold as a showroom — all stainless steel and clean lines. She'd seen hotel lobbies with more personality.
Still, she'd been raised in a Filipino household, and one thing her mother drilled into her was you feed the people you live with. It wasn't about needing something in return. It was just how you showed respect and care.
She rummaged through the fridge and pantry, finding eggs, garlic, and rice. Perfect.
By the time the coffee machine gurgled to life, she'd already minced the garlic with the kind of quick, practiced rhythm only years of helping in the family kitchen could teach. The scent filled the air — warm, rich, and comforting — and for the first time since landing in California, she felt a little less like an intruder.
Young Kwang came downstairs in a plain white T-shirt and black joggers, hair still damp from a shower. He stopped short in the doorway.
The woman was barefoot at his stove, turning garlic rice in a pan like she owned the place.
And damn it all, she looked… comfortable.
"Morning," she said without turning around. Her voice was softer than he remembered from yesterday, still warm with sleep.
"Morning." He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "You didn't have to cook."
"I know," she said simply. She plated the rice, then fried two eggs with a casual grace, sliding one plate across the counter to him. "Eat."
He stared at the food. "You're feeding me breakfast."
She arched a brow. "You say that like I just proposed marriage."
He smirked despite himself. "Technically, you did. Or maybe I did. Or maybe my idiot friends did."
She snorted, taking her own plate and sitting at the small dining table. "That about sums it up."
But as he watched her wrap her fingers around the warm porcelain, mismatched earrings glinting in the morning light, he had the distinct — and deeply inconvenient — feeling that a year was going to be a lot longer than it sounded.
He forced his gaze back to his plate. "Why are you really here?"
Her brows knitted. "I told you. My mother signed me up for this thing without asking. And apparently your friends signed you up too."
"Yeah, but…" He hesitated, studying her carefully. "There's prize money. A million dollars. Most people would think that's the reason."
Her fork clinked against the plate. "And do you think that's the reason?"
He didn't answer.
"Right," she said dryly, taking another bite. "Enjoy the garlic rice, Mr. Kang."
The guest room's en suite shower hissed to life, steam curling up toward the mirror. Ashling stepped under the warm spray, tilting her head back until the water soaked through her hair and ran in rivulets down her spine.
She reached up and slipped out her mismatched earrings — the tiny heart, the little palm tree — setting them gently on the soap dish. Without them, she felt oddly bare, like she'd peeled off a layer of armor.
She reached up and slipped out her mismatched earrings — the tiny silver heart and the palm tree inside a delicate circle — setting them gently on the soap dish. Without them, she felt oddly bare, like she'd just peeled off a layer of herself.
They weren't just jewelry. The heart had been a gift from Nonong on their first anniversary — a quiet dinner at a small French restaurant in Makati where he'd slipped the tiny box across the table with that crooked smile she'd loved so much.
The palm tree earring had come a year later, during their Boracay trip. They'd walked along White Beach one night, the tide warm around their ankles, and stumbled across a little jewelry stand lit by a single lantern. He'd bought them for her on a whim, saying they'd always remind them of the best week they'd ever had.
Somewhere along the way, she'd lost the matching pieces — one heart, one palm tree. Instead of replacing them, she'd worn the survivors together.
Her own private talisman.
Wearing them, she sometimes felt like he might come back. That maybe, wherever he was, he'd see her again and realize that Isabella — or whoever it was — hadn't been what he thought she'd be. That maybe, he'd remember Boracay, and sunsets, and the girl who'd believed in forever.
Without them, she felt exposed, as if the invisible shield she carried had slipped away.
By the time she turned off the tap and wrapped herself in a towel, the mirror was clouded over. She padded back into the bedroom, the faint scent of his laundry detergent still clinging to the crisp sheets.
She sat on the edge of the bed, damp hair trailing over her shoulders, and for the first time since stepping into this house, let her mind wander where it always seemed to go when the noise stopped.
Nonong.
Armando Lopez Jr., son of a family whose name opened doors without knocking. Old money, old influence — the kind that owned TV networks, print empires, radio stations. They'd met in the halls of the Asian Institute of Management, two people who shouldn't have had time for each other but somehow found three years to be inseparable.
He had been her life, her breath, her soul.
And then, one sunset, without a fight, without a warning, he'd looked at her with those calm eyes and said, "Today's the last day I'll be with you. It's a good thing the sunset is beautiful."
Then he was gone.
After all these years, the wound hadn't healed clean. She could still feel the shape of it when she breathed too deeply. Maybe she would never get over him.
Which was why this — this absurd marriage to a perfect stranger — didn't scare her the way it should have. Kang Young Kwang was tall, impossibly tall at six-foot-seven, with broad shoulders and a face that, if you caught it in the right light, looked too much like Keanu Reeves in his late twenties. But he wasn't Nonong. And that made it safe.
She could survive a year of this. She could smile for the neighbors, make coffee in the mornings, play the role her meddling mother had essentially strong-armed her into — and then, at the end of 365 days, she could walk away.
And when her mother inevitably tried to pull this stunt again, Ashling could look her straight in the eye and say, Marriage isn't for me.
She lay back on the bed, staring up at the plain white ceiling. One year. She could do one year.
And if she was lucky, she'd get through it without ever letting this stranger with the broad shoulders and dark eyes see that she still missed someone else entirely.