The knock came just as Young Kwang was rinsing out his coffee mug. Sharp, insistent, too early for neighbors and too purposeful for deliverymen.
He frowned, drying his hands on a dish towel before heading for the door. Ashling beat him there, tugging the hem of her borrowed shirt down over her jeans.
The door swung open to reveal a petite woman in her fifties, hair immaculate, perfume so sharp it could cut glass. Behind her, a driver waited discreetly by a black sedan.
"Omma," Young Kwang said flatly.
Ashling blinked. His mother?
"Don't 'Omma' me, Kang Young Kwang." Her gaze swept the entryway, cool and assessing. "I heard a rumor. A marriage rumor. You didn't think to call me?"
Before he could answer, her eyes landed on Ashling. The pause was brief but loaded. "And this must be the reason."
Ashling straightened her spine, the way she always did when facing her mother back home. She offered a polite smile. "Good morning."
The older woman's lips curved in something not quite a smile. "So. You're the wife."
Ashling almost choked. She glanced at Young Kwang, who looked like he'd swallowed a lemon whole.
"Yes," he said tightly. "This is… Ashling."
"Just Ashling?" his mother repeated, eyebrows arched.
Ashling forced herself not to fidget. "Yes, ma'am. Just Ashling."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Then, as if she had decided not to waste her morning, Mrs. Kang stepped inside. "Well. Since you've already embarrassed me by letting me hear about this from other people, you will both sit down and explain."
They ended up at the dining table, garlic rice scent still lingering. Mrs. Kang sat at the head like a chairwoman in a board meeting.
"How long?" she asked.
Ashling glanced at Young Kwang. He kept his gaze on the table. "A few weeks," he lied smoothly.
His mother's eyes narrowed. "Weeks, and I'm only hearing now?"
Ashling opened her mouth, then closed it. She wasn't sure what story they'd agreed on.
Mrs. Kang sighed, her expression icy. "If you think you can parade some stranger in front of the press and expect me to approve, think again. Your father—" she cut herself off, lips thinning. "This family has standards."
The jab landed clean. Ashling felt it like a bruise she wasn't supposed to show.
Before she could stop herself, she leaned forward. "With all due respect, ma'am, this wasn't planned. Not by him. Not by me. But I'm here. I'm willing to do what's necessary."
That made Mrs. Kang pause. Her gaze sharpened, reassessing. "Brave words," she said finally. "We'll see if you mean them." She stood, smoothing her blazer. "Dinner tomorrow. Seven sharp. At the house. Don't be late."
And with that, she swept out as quickly as she came, leaving silence in her wake.
The silence lasted until the sedan pulled out of the driveway. Then Ashling let out a strangled laugh. "So that was your mother."
"You didn't have to say all that," he muttered.
"What, that I'm willing? You want me to look weak in front of your mother?"
"I want you to look gone," he shot back. "The less involved you are, the better."
She crossed her arms. "Too late for that. She just invited us to dinner."
His phone buzzed on the counter before he could reply. He glanced down — and swore.
On the screen was a headline: "Mystery Wife? Actor Kang Young Kwang Seen with Woman at Laurelwood Residence." A grainy photo of Ashling at the kitchen window glowed back at them.
Ashling peered over his shoulder. "Well… guess it's not a secret anymore."
That night, after too much silence, they ended up at the table again — this time drafting what Ashling jokingly called "The Survival Rules."
"No touching in public," she said, scribbling it down.
"Unless cameras are around," he countered.
"No interviews."
"Unless my manager says otherwise."
She gave him a look. "You're impossible."
"You married me," he reminded her.
She laughed despite herself, and for the first time, the edges between them softened. But when she slipped away to her room later, she lingered over her mismatched earrings on the nightstand. The heart. The palm tree.
They weren't just jewelry. They were promises she wasn't sure she was ready to bury.
And downstairs, scrolling headlines on his phone, Young Kwang muttered to himself: "One year."
The words sounded less certain every time he said them.
The car climbed steadily up the hillside, the city lights of San Francisco winking below like a carpet of jewels. Young Kwang's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, his jaw set in that way Ashling was beginning to recognize — the look of a man bracing himself for battle.
She sat in the passenger seat, calm on the surface, though her thoughts churned. Her braid rested lightly over her shoulder, the glittery light-blue blouse flowing as she shifted. White slacks hugged her legs neatly, brown high-heeled sandals tapping against the floorboard. The French pedicure had been a last-minute indulgence at the airport salon, not for him, not even for his mother, but because she needed armor. If she couldn't control what this "fake marriage" would spiral into, she could at least control how she entered a room.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him glance at her outfit, then look quickly back to the road. She didn't smile, but she filed that reaction away.
"You don't have to do this," he muttered finally.
She tilted her head. "Do what?"
"Dress like…" His hand flicked vaguely at her blouse. "Like you're going to a board meeting. She'll still find a reason not to like you."
Ashling leaned back, her lips curving faintly. "I'm not dressing for her."
His grip tightened, but he didn't press.
The Kang residence came into view, a glass-and-wood fortress perched above the city. Ashling inhaled quietly as they pulled up the drive. Homes like this, she knew, were designed to intimidate. Her own family in Manila had mastered the same trick with their hotels — glass facades, sweeping lobbies, ceilings that forced guests to look up, to feel small.
But she had learned long ago how not to be small.
Inside, the air was scented faintly with jasmine tea and grilled beef. The dining table gleamed under chandelier light, bowls of banchan lined neatly, steam curling from galbi and kimchi jjigae. It looked less like dinner and more like a carefully staged set piece.
Omma sat at the head of the table, posture regal, gaze sharp. The tilt of her chin was almost imperceptible, but the message was clear: You are being measured.
Ashling bowed politely, murmured a soft greeting, and slid into the seat beside Young Kwang. Her smile was calm, her eyes steady. She picked up the chopsticks with ease, wrist curving gracefully as she lifted a piece of kimchi onto her plate.
The faintest flicker of surprise crossed Omma's face.
Young Kwang noticed too. His brows twitched, but he said nothing.
Dinner began with conversation in Korean. Omma asked about his endorsements, his filming schedule, the endless parade of contracts. He answered evenly, his tone respectful but restrained.
Ashling kept her eyes down, sipping soup, nodding at appropriate pauses, feigning ignorance. In truth, she understood more than she let on. Years of working with Korean partners in business had made her an adept listener. But tonight, silence was her weapon. Better to let them think she was harmless, an outsider looking in.
Halfway through, Omma switched to English, her gaze fixing on Ashling. "And you, Ashling. What do you do in Manila?"
Ashling dabbed her lips with her napkin, deliberate and measured. "My father is Irish. He worked in shipping before retiring. My mother is Filipina — she runs our family businesses. My siblings are more… public than I am."
"Public?" Omma's brows arched.
"They like the spotlight," Ashling said evenly, her smile faint but sure. "They thrive on it. I prefer to work quietly. Behind the scenes."
Omma studied her closely. "So you are private by choice."
"Yes, ma'am." Ashling's voice didn't waver. "Fame never interested me. Results did."
The silence stretched. Even the clink of utensils paused. Then Omma gave the smallest of nods, returning to her meal.
Young Kwang's shoulders loosened a fraction. He wouldn't admit it, but he'd expected Ashling to falter. Instead, she sat there like she'd been training for this moment all her life.
Dessert arrived — slices of melon and plates of tteok, sweet and sticky under the lights. Omma spoke again, reverting to Korean, her tone lower, almost sharp.
"She is composed. Polished. But clever is not enough. Do you even know her well?"
Young Kwang's reply was clipped. "It's complicated."
Ashling reached calmly for another slice of melon, her expression serene. She didn't let on that she understood every word. Let them underestimate her. It was easier that way.
When dinner ended, Omma rose smoothly, her voice neutral. "Thank you for coming. We will see you again soon."
Not approval. Not rejection. A test deferred.
The ride home was quiet at first, the city sprawling below them in glittering silence. Ashling watched the skyline, the streetlamps casting her reflection against the glass.
"You surprised her," Young Kwang said finally, eyes fixed on the road.
Ashling smiled faintly, leaning her cheek against her hand. "Good. I like surprising people."
His mouth twitched. "You handled chopsticks like you've been doing it all your life. What else are you hiding?"
She tilted her head toward the window, lips curving but giving nothing away. Some truths were hers to keep. He didn't need to know she was heir to a Manila hotel empire, that her siblings adored tabloids and galas while she wrote anonymous marketing campaigns under pen names. He didn't need to know that this absurd marriage was her shield — proof she could throw back at her meddling family one day: See? I tried marriage. It failed. Now leave me alone.
For now, he only needed to know she was Just Ashling.
"Nothing important," she said finally, voice light. "Only that I'm not as baduy as you thought."
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, a flicker of annoyance — or maybe curiosity — crossing his face.
"One year," he muttered under his breath.
But as her reflection shimmered in the window, braid glinting under the dashboard light, he wasn't sure if he was reminding her… or himself.