I stormed into the dining room after Mr. Jeon, dramatically clutching my chest like I was auditioning for a K-drama role called "Tragic Lesbian Forced Into Straight Marriage".
He didn't even glance at me, just walked calmly meanwhile, I trailed after Mr. Jeon like a furious duckling chasing its mother.
Mr. Jeon, aka the man who could probably make eating boiled broccoli look like a Calvin Klein ad, sat down at the dining table with all the grace of a royal swan.
He bowed his head slightly—like the emperor blessing his peasants—before picking up his fork to poke at a mushroom.
Meanwhile, I shuffled over like a suspicious raccoon caught stealing bread, bowed awkwardly (my neck nearly snapped at a 90-degree angle), and plopped into the chair beside him.
Smooth. Elegant. Wife material.
The family stared at us like we were about to announce a pregnancy, a wedding, or at least a Netflix drama adaptation.
