OTGM 2

Chapter 2

There was no nuance of affirmation or denial in his upturned eyes.

Ah—one thing she could tell, at least.
The single emotion written clearly in his gaze.

The look of a taxi driver picking up passengers, a part-timer dealing with customers, a clerk responding to shoppers—the unmistakable light in their eyes.

Boredom.
A complete lack of interest or affection.

This man felt nothing about her, the woman he had just met. He was simply bored. Indifferent.

How was she supposed to win the favor of a man like this? And go as far as marriage?

She struggled to suppress her dialect and opened her mouth.

“A blind date is… a meeting with marriage as the premise, isn’t it? I do intend to get married.”

“Hoo—”

A long, drawn-out sigh, as if something troublesome had arisen. Or perhaps a yawn-like exhalation.

Her response inevitably turned sharp.

“Why?”

“The information I was given is rather limited. That you stayed shut inside your home—no, lived in the provinces—and only received bride training.”

Was he mocking her? Laughing at the fake life he’d heard about, without knowing anything about the real one she’d lived?

“Can you cook?”

That had been the first question Chairwoman Lee had thrown at her when they met.

“I can do simple dishes.”

“That’s enough. Learn a few impressive recipes. Have you kept up with drawing? Hmm—maybe it’d be good to quickly learn flower art or calligraphy too. You’ve got artistic sense, so you’ll pick it up fast.”

“Why do I need to learn things like that?”

“You need to launder your status. Do you think they’d accept an illegitimate child who used to pick peaches in the countryside? They won’t welcome you as it is, being born out of wedlock. We’ll say you lived quietly in a provincial city, receiving bride training. Ah—and could you stop using that old-person dialect?”

Illegitimate child. Bastard.
Those were the labels the chairwoman had used for her.

A girl born from the former chairman of Jeonghan Daily Group’s affair.

Perhaps a mistake of a noble man—someone who should never have been born.

Self-loathing threatened to rise again, and she tore at the hangnail on her thumb over and over.

No. That’s not it.
Her roots were pride.

Dohwa. Dosil.
Both her mother’s name and her own came from the peaches her grandmother raised.

Dohwa—the peach blossom.
Dosil—the peach fruit.

Her mother and she herself were born from that peach orchard, where her grandmother’s sweat and breath had taken root.

“This Dosil is a peach fruit, ain’t she? There’s no fruit as fragrant and sweet as a peach. I named you so you’d live a fragrant, sweet life too. You hear me, girl? You’re this precious—to your grandma.”

Just as the peaches her grandmother raised were her pride, Dosil herself was her grandmother’s pride.

Even if she was no longer Seo Dosil, daughter of Seo Dohwa, but now Ma Dosil, the illegitimate child of Ma Hun.

She decided to abandon the awkward Seoul accent that didn’t stick to her mouth.

What was wrong with a dialect, anyway?
Her life rolling around the countryside of Yongcheon had etched itself into her speech like rings in a tree.

These were the words she’d learned from her grandmother. Why should she change them?

She stared at Go Jun-i’s flawless, impossibly handsome face—a face that clearly showed he’d lived a refined, privileged life.

“Are you looking down on me now just because you say I only had bride training in some countryside backwater?”

Her ferret-like eyes flashed sharply. Still, to him, it probably looked like nothing more than the petulant anger of a spoiled youngest daughter from a rich family.

The odd thing was her old-fashioned dialect—and the strangely mismatched details.

At first glance, she seemed ordinary enough: slightly upturned eyes, a small mole on her right cheek, clear skin.

Her style, too—luxury brands worn too plainly.

Utterly boring.

But the more he examined her, the stranger she seemed in pieces.

A rough dialect despite supposedly living in the provinces quietly; hands tanned dark like they’d been overcooked by the sun, contrasting with her pale face; forced-looking nail polish; makeup in colors that didn’t suit her.

Expensive clothes, makeup, and styling become natural when worn often—but forcing them on all at once only creates discord.

The limit between those who were born into it and those who weren’t.

For something crafted so carefully by professionals, the atmosphere was oddly clumsy.

Bride training only—had she cut herself off from the real world? She was in the same position as his immature younger sister, yet clearly different.

But that didn’t change the essence. No—the origin.

Annoyed and irritated, he still had to destroy this marriage arrangement. And the one to give up had to be this strange woman who’d even received bride training.

“Seems like I am looking down on you. Unfortunately.”

Go Jun-i’s answer was infuriatingly honest—and obnoxious.

There was no reason for her to be looked down on by this man.

“Why is bride training something to look down on? You really think lightly of people—what’s wrong with you?”

“Do you have any goals in life? Ah—marriage? Is there anything you’re actually good at? Something you like, something you’re passionate about, something you want to do on your own? Not living by leeching off someone else.”

It was understandable why Go Jun-i saw her that way.

A woman shut away in the provinces, trained only to be a bride. Even she thought it sounded unappealing. And that was the official story.

Still, official and unofficial were different—and that made it unfair.

“If my life goal is to live off a man, is that not allowed? If I break my back learning cooking, painting, calligraphy, flower arranging just to do that, is it pathetic? And aren’t you here to meet exactly that kind of woman? Seems like you knew everything before you came.”

“Ha.”

A pathetic woman, and now shameless too. That irritating dialect. What exactly was she, to be this bothersome?

He’d come here only because of his father’s threats. Could he really give up his mother? No—he couldn’t.

If he did, every memory he had left would disappear. He had to make this woman give up instead.

And he knew exactly where women like her got hurt.

“Well… if you were my type, I might’ve considered marriage. But you’re completely not my type.”

That seemed fair. With looks rivaling actors and endless rumors with actual actresses—why would her appearance ever catch his eye?

At least she had to be realistic about herself.

So then—how was she supposed to get into this man’s good graces?
How was she supposed to save her grandmother?

She glared at him, ready to fight, at Go Jun-i’s infuriatingly clean and polished face.

“Then what kind of type do you like?”

Go Jun-i lifted the corner of his lips in a faint smile and answered simply,

“A sexy type.”

Ah. So he was indirectly saying that the woman standing in front of him—her—was not sexy at all.

Provoking her on purpose.

“Wow. You’ve barely even looked at me, and you’re saying I’m not sexy, huh? That what you mean?”

“The fact that you understood is a relief.”

Go Jun-i moved his long, elegant fingers, making a sound.

He bent his thick thumb and pressed down from index finger to pinky, cracking his knuckles.

Crack. Crack.
Those hands themselves struck her as dangerously sexy.

A habit, maybe? Something he did when bored? Or a ritual before leaving, signaling he wanted to end this tedious meeting?

She didn’t want to accept this as Mission Impossible. A KO loss. The end.

At this point—whatever. Let it all go to hell.

With the urge to completely lose control, she cried out—

Not a scream, but close enough. Because she was desperate.

“I’m really—really—super sexy! You don’t know me! How can you judge me so easily when you’ve never even taken my clothes off!”

Ah. That last line was crude and pathetic. After blurting it out, she felt a little embarrassed.

But what could she do? The words were already out.

Go Jun-i let out a deflated chuckle.

Fine. Laugh at her. At this point, all she had left was stubborn pride.

“I don’t want to take your clothes off. Which means—you’re not sexy to me.”

Crack. Crack.
His finger joints sounded again, as if he couldn’t wait to escape this stale, suffocating place.