“I have no time for ignorance. Good-bye, Miss Indi. Go.”
She extended her hand, most likely out of sheer professionalism, and gripped mine. I forgot to support my elbow. I forgot to apply the correct amount of pressure. I forgot to defend myself or point out her flawed logic. Small hands, delicate but surprisingly strong. Soft hands. Tender hands, ones that had comforted and loved and clapped in glee.
The moment Hyunkyung Han touched me, it was over. I couldn’t leave.
I hated her guts, and I lusted after her in a way that disgusted me.
“Put Indi Go in the Mugunghwa Suite,” she said. She strode away, her entourage closing around her like goldfish swarming toward a handful of pellets dropped into their tank.
Miss Cha glided forward, averting her eyes as she propelled me toward the elevator. Out of sympathy, perhaps, she maintained distance. Or didn’t she want to be seen with the girl her boss had rejected at first sight?
“Please, wait for me.” I had a hard time speaking and keeping up with her. For a small woman, she moved fast.
She punched an elevator button. “The company will reimburse you for your expenses. I should have checked, but I assumed—”
“Assumed what? That I spoke Korean?”
She fiddled with her phone, a thin, miniature tablet. “That you were Korean.”
“Why would she get someone from America if she wanted a Korean employee?”
Miss Cha glanced at me, her lips forming a pink O. “An employee? You didn’t know? Ee Sajangnim wants—”
“I don’t care what your Onion hashoo wants. I’m going home, and good riddance.”
Miss Cha ushered me into a sumptuous pink-and-gold suite, and I ran to the bathroom and slammed the door. Childish, maybe, but it felt good. I’d had enough of strangers putting me on display to sneer.
I listened for the door to click shut behind her, staring into the oval, golden-edged mirror and brushing fingertips across the back of my right hand.
Hyunkyung had touched me here, the supercilious ice princess. I wanted to punch her lights out, but I wanted her to touch me. Just once more, with that commanding but gentle pressure, promising more than I could ever want.
I wanted Hyunkyung Han, and she had dismissed me like a misbehaving puppy.
Go to hell. America’s full of employers one hundred times better than you. No, one thousand. One million.
Chapter Two
“Madame Eve-nim won’t take phone calls, Ee Sajangnim—”
“Get her! Now!” How ridiculous I must have looked, courting my future bride who might as well have been an infant for all her use to my company. She shamed me in front of all my employees. I’d be the laughingstock for years. Again.
“She says she sent you an e-mail, Ee Sajangnim.”
No one said no to Han Hyunkyung, first daughter of Han Chanwoo and heir to his real estate, stationery, and retail empire valued at two quadrillion Korean won.
“Tell her to get on the phone, or I will ruin her!” I clenched a fist.
“Ee Sajangnim, I’m sorry but you asked me— You said to—”
“What is it?” Miss Cha would not have spoken to me this way, but she’d run off to babysit the American and stuck me with her subordinate.
Minhee quivered like a rabbit snatched by the jaws of its predator. “Ee Sajangnim, please don’t be angry with me, but you said I should—”
“Say it!” What was taking Miss Cha so long?
“Remember the nuts. Ee Sajangnim.” Minhee set her phone on my desk and skittered away. A good idea. If I wanted to hit her, I’d have to stand up.
The peanuts. I flushed with rage and shame. The peanuts from an employee when my father ordered my debut tour at age twenty-one. I was old enough to take over the family fortune, he’d said. I performed correctly for the photo opportunities and television cameras.
Then my blood sugar had dipped. The cursed jeohyeoldangjung, a problem I’d developed in adolescence. I had to eat regularly, or my system threw a misfire of dizziness followed by faintness. I hated being weak, hated being ruled by my body. I refused to let anyone know except for my doctor and my family, so no one understood the urgency when I requested a break in the interviews.
I’d learned to keep food nearby for when I felt the pangs of irritation followed by shakiness, but the reporters had continued their accusations about my “un-patriotic” decision to attend Columbia for undergraduate studies and Yale School of Management for my master’s in business administration degree instead of Seoul National University. They’d trashed my lack of a suitor and blamed economic woes on the nepotism of spoiled rich children ruining businesses owned by family dynasties. I’d needed food, but couldn’t communicate my desperation until the tremors hit. My assistant brought kalbi, but hadn’t reached me in time. I’d asked for food, and the reporter offered me peanuts. Peanuts. Raw, unshelled peanuts, as if I were a copy-coffee agasshi playing at learning business rather than preparing to inherit one.
I’d thrown the despised peanuts at the reporter’s head, and the news stations and papers splashed the moment in endless replay across the nation.
Han Princess Goes Nuts.
Han Hyunkyung has Han about Peanuts.
Peanut Child a Shame to Her Family.
Peanut child! When I stood 172 centimeters tall in stocking feet! And child…I was no child. As my father reminded me. I’d had to apologize in front of a national press conference, dipping my entire body in acquiescence to the scorn of strangers who knew nothing of the real me. My father had apologized for his errors in childrearing. In private, he’d issued a warning. One more scandal, and he would allow the board to proceed with disinheritance.
Look up “Han Hyunkyung” in any online search, and you will find a photo of my submission to the masses. You’ll read about my supposedly spoiled upbringing, my nasty temper, and my lack of touch with reality. I am another sign of society gone wrong, a warning to other parents, and a sorrow to my great-grandfather who built Han Incorporated from a two-and-a-half pyong store on a subway station. “Han” means country or leader, and Great-Grandfather Han insisted we would rise from war-torn poverty into leading our nation. We are the noble Cheongju Hans, the line that produced six queens for the Choseon dynasty of ancient Korea.
I am Korea, and I bowed in acknowledgment of my wrongdoing. I will never restore my honor.
Angrily, I swiped Minhee’s phone unlocked to reveal Madame Eve’s e-mail.
There has been no mistake. I chose Indigo for you and will not replace her. Reject her, if you wish, but do not expect a new referral.
As to why I chose an American, you will find out for yourself. Unless you are too afraid, my dear.
—Madame Eve
My cheeks burned. “My dear,” as if I was her subordinate. The nerve! I’d put her out of business. I’d—
The door opened, and Miss Cha came back to my side. “Ee Sajangnim?”
Catching the urgency in her tone, I sent Minhee away. “Yes?” I may have barked my reply, but Miss Cha knew me too well for fear.
“I already made the arrangements for your date. Perhaps, since Miss Indi Go can’t leave until tomorrow, you might show her a little of Seoul before she leaves?” She hesitated. “As you know, she will have to eat dinner.”
I stared into space, moody and resentful. Either way, I would carry the shame. Could things get any worse? “Where?”
“Shilla Hotel, the Seoul Arts Center for the symphony, and Namsan Tower.”
I brooded. Sights chosen to please the perfect woman for my dynasty, but wasted on this uncouth foreigner. And yet, Madame Eve’s accusation stung. Afraid? I’d show her. “Why not? Make sure Indi Go doesn’t embarrass us.”
With that, Miss Cha disappeared while issuing rapid-fire orders into her phone. I sighed. The match had failed, but I might as well do my duty. At least, at a concert, no one would talk to Indi Go and find out her purpose in coming here. Perhaps I could pass her off as an overseas client, if Miss Cha d
ressed her well enough. She had the corporate credit line to purchase whatever she needed.
I wanted a bride, a wedding, and a public relations opportunity to establish legitimacy as the soon-to-be owner of Han Incorporated. Instead, Madame Eve sent me a gauche schoolgirl.
***
“But you don’t understand. She’s a monster. Her staff’s afraid to look at her. Like Medusa.”
Great-Aunt Matilda’s voice cut through the static. “Indi, I gave you that phone card for an emergency, not a tantrum. Grow up. You need a fresh start.”
“You should have warned me!” I twirled the phone cord around my fingers, kicking at the bedspread. “She hates Americans. She wouldn’t listen to anything, said my Korean is terrible—”
“Your Korean is terrible.”
“Thanks! What are great-aunts for?”
“Who bought you that plane ticket and covered for you every time you got in trouble with that boy?” She said “that boy” as if she meant “that backstabbing snake in the grass.” She probably did. “If you come back, you’ll have no job and no home. I spent my money on that ticket, so—”
“Fine!” That was a low blow. Low, but accurate. How could I explain that I didn’t want to go back, but Hyunkyung Han had rejected me? “She hates me. I told you.”
“Then stop sulking and make a better impression. I’m hanging up now. I put thirty minutes on that card, and you’re not to use the rest unless the situation involves blood, broken limbs, or an ambulance. Good day.”
I scowled at the phone, marshaling my best arguments for the benefit of the dial tone. I wasn’t spoiled or complaining about nothing. Anyone would be upset. Hyunkyung had been unreasonable and rude. Hadn’t she?
Someone rapped on the door, failed to wait for an answer, and entered. Miss Cha. I groaned. She held up a dress on a padded pink hanger. “Ee Sajangnim will take you to dinner.”
“What? Why?” I wanted sleep more than food, but restlessness precluded both.
“I’ve made the arrangements.”
What kind of job required bringing in a foreigner from overseas, followed by wining and dining after hiring? For that matter, was I hired? Nothing made sense, and I grew suspicious. Was Han Incorporated aboveboard, or did this high living stem from something else? Had I stumbled into a drug cartel using a legitimate business for its cover? Or was it a prostitution ring, maybe, preparing to sell me into sexual slavery?
I shook my head and laughed. I’d watched too many episodes of undercover cop shows. “That’s okay.” I tried to sound nonchalant.
“You can’t go home without seeing anything of Korea,” she chided. “Our country has the longest history in the world. Five thousand years ago, the great Tangun descended from the gods to found Korea.”
Home. I hadn’t dared tell Great-Aunt Matilda the truth. Why see a country that didn’t want me? “No, thanks. I’m tired from the flight.”
Then Miss Cha showed me the clothes for the evening, and I gasped. She’d chosen a flirty, filmy emerald green silk dress with a scoop neck, gathered cap sleeves, and a sash that tied in the front. To go with an elaborate necklace, she had chosen Jimmy Choo stiletto sandals in gold lamé, impossibly tall and with straps that wrapped around the ankles twice. She had thought of everything, including a gold bangle for my wrist and nylons in three colors to match my skin.
I had never touched an outfit that beautiful, and I could never buy one. What a chance to dress up in such finery! Maybe Hyunkyung would be terrible company, but why not play rich lady for one evening? Was my empty, if sumptuous, room where I wanted to spend the night? I’d be Cinderella, spinning in my borrowed finery until the clock struck twelve. So what if I had to go with the wicked stepmother instead of a handsome prince?
“Thank you,” I stammered.
“Miss Lee will come up in a few minutes to prepare you. Start your shower, please.”
I gaped at Miss Cha, wondering when I had entered a fairy tale and ascended the dais of royalty. Would twelve mice-turned-into-horses pull my carriage to the ball? And when would the spell wear off? I’m a princess, I thought in awe. Then I laughed. A princess lured by the evil, haughty Korean witch. Maybe she’ll eat me.
Miss Cha gave me a glance of alarm. Maybe she feared my insanity. Maybe she should.
“Why doesn’t she like me?” It was not the question I’d meant to ask, but it would have to do. For now.
Miss Cha looked flustered. “It will be fine.” She tried to placate me, but I didn’t buy it.
“I can’t learn Korean overnight, so what does she expect from me?”
Miss Cha fussed with the label on my dress. Already I thought of it as mine, when I should have known better. “Don’t worry.”
“Please. I don’t want another disaster. What if she tears into me again?”
“Tears into?” She puzzled at the words. “Tear is for paper, yes?”
Right. English was not Miss Cha’s first language. How could I have not realized that sooner? It probably wasn’t her second, either, considering her earlier phone conversations in what sounded like Japanese.
“How many languages do you speak?”
I meant it as genuine curiosity, but her cheeks colored. “My English is not enough. I never studied abroad. I speak only a little English, Japanese, Chinese, Russian, and French.”
I gaped at her. “What about your boss?”
Miss Cha waved a hand. “More than I. She has to speak the native languages of her most important clients. We are global world now, yes?”
I’d called Hyunkyung arrogant, but had I acted any better? I’d come to a foreign country, to people who spoke my language, and I’d criticized Hyunkyung for expecting the same courtesy in her own land. This wasn’t America, after all. Maybe this was why people called us ugly Americans.
“It’s okay. Could you teach me how to say the greeting again?” Miss Cha pushed me toward the bathroom, but I held my ground. “Please.”
She set the dress, shoes, and jewelry on the bed and faced me. She exaggerated her facial movements, giving me time to see each sound one at a time. “An.”
“On,” I parroted. On, not off. I could do this.
“Nyeong.”
Syllable two, and already I was the dunce of a class of one. “Nee-yuh.”
“Nyeong,” she said, articulating the strange collision of consonants. “Nuh-yeong.”
“Young!” I exclaimed in relief. Young, not old. “On. Young.”
Miss Cha smiled. I must have sounded like a one-year-old to her, but she praised me. “Very good. Ha.”
“On. Young. Ha.” Another easy one. Ha ha ha, ho ho ho. Santa’s coming to town.
“Say.”
“Say.” Oh, say can you see? I had this. Ha-say, like José but with a ha. “On Young Ha Say.”
“Yo.” Miss Cha waited, knowing this one was simple even for a clueless, monolingual American.
Yo-yo, a child’s toy. Or the famous cellist. I’d moved from the class dunce to its ace. No dumb American left behind. “Yo.”
“Annyeong haseyo.”
I stumbled to remember each sound in the correct order. “On-young. Ho-say-yo.” I paused. Not José Canseco, the baseball player, but Santa plus “The Star-Spangled banner.” “Ha-say. Onyoung hasay.” That wasn’t right, either. “Yo. Say-yo.” Five syllables, and I might have run a marathon.
“Perfect!” Miss Cha beamed. “Annyeong haseyo.” The words slipped from her mouth like water drops sprinkling from a fountain.
It was only a few silly words. It wouldn’t make the snooty ice princess change her mind about the newest job opening, but it was worth a start.
Besides, what would I say to Great-Aunt Matilda if I didn’t give this visit my best effort?
“On Young Ha Say Yo,” I repeated as Miss Cha excused herself and Miss Lee entered to cleanse my face, dress me, and arrange my hair and makeup. There wasn’t enough time for the hairdresser or makeup artist, she told me, so she would do the best she could.
“We can’t keep Ee Sajangnim waiting,” Miss Lee urged. “Bahlee, bahlee.”
When I stared at myself in the full-length mirror next to the wardrobe, I couldn’t believe the results. I touched the necklace, shook the bangle, and twirled. The dress flared out around me, a sumptuous, jewel-toned parachute drifting below my knees. I should have twirled on satin ballet shoes, rising onto my toes for an elegant arabesque. Instead, atop the glittery golden sandals I teetered on the brink between falling and flying. My toes would ache by the end of the evening, but, before that, I would dance on magical shoes transported to an ethereal land.
I lifted the tiny gold lamé clutch, just big enough to hold my lipstick, oil blotting paper, and a few tissues.
“I’m ready,” I said, and my new borrowed shoes carried me forth in a waft of rose-scented elegance.
Chapter Three
As Miss Cha ushered the green-and-gold-clad figure out of the elevator and across the foyer, heads whipped around. Gone was the schoolgirl, and in her place floated a woman who looked her best and knew it. Whatever Miss Cha had charged to the company account, it was worth it. The curved seams of Indi Go’s bodice accentuated her body in a way her previous dress had not. Her hair, too short for ordinary femininity, lay in a shining cap. My hairdresser must have smoothed the uneven ends and applied deep conditioning. It would take time to remove Indi’s rough edges, but I had the resources.
The dress. My God, the dress. On me, the softness and bows would wash out the hard angles I had worked years to achieve. On this girl, the green flounces transformed her into a creature of mystery and delight, flutters and promises. I licked my lips, imagining the depths hidden just below the sweet, demure neckline.
What was I thinking? What was Miss Cha thinking? Did she forget Indi Go was unsuitable in every possible way? How could Miss Cha dress Indi Go like a runway model? Indi Go would board her plane tomorrow and release me from this public relations nightmare. And I thought marrying a woman would cause a stir. I had never considered the scandal of an American who couldn't say a single word of proper Korean.
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