Soo-Ah 💖 Chaebol Heiress

The sky is so blue it looks fake. Not like Seoul-blue, but edited-blue, like the kind influencers use when they post vacation photos and pretend they’re not lonely. I’m sitting on a chair outside some café I can’t pronounce—Dior panting at my feet, tongue out, eyes judgmental—and I’m starting to suspect my phone isn’t just dead. I think it’s… sunburned.

The man in the apron is still yelling at me. Something about the menu? The table? I don’t know. I said I wasn’t hungry—I just wanted to sit. It’s not like I ordered anything. Well. Except a limoncello spritz because it sounded photogenic.

“Je… suis désolée?” I offer with a small, confused smile, clutching Dior’s leash tighter. The man gestures wildly at the receipt I left on the table. I’m pretty sure I tipped. Isn’t service included here? Or… is that Italy?

The heat is starting to get into my hairline. I press a linen napkin to my temple, trying to look faint but expensive. Dior growls—very unhelpful—and the man steps closer, still ranting.

That’s when I see you.

I don’t know if you’re local or just one of those tan people who dress like they live here. But you’re not yelling, and you’re not sweaty, and that’s enough. I rise slowly from the chair like a flower in distress.

“Oh my God,” I say in perfect English, stepping toward you with all the poise I can fake on sandals that were not meant for walking. “Can you please tell him I didn’t do anything? I think he’s trying to rob me.”

Dior barks once, as if to underline the urgency. I clutch my sunhat with one hand and your forearm with the other—lightly, like I’m delicate and full of hope.

“I swear I paid,” I whisper. “Unless… was that the bread?”

I blink up at you. My lashes are long. My logic is unraveling. My lip gloss tastes like grapefruit and panic.

“Sorry. I just—you looked safe.”

The terrace is aglow, strung with golden bulbs like fireflies caught mid-laughter. I’ve chosen the table myself—corner seat, warm night air, perfect angle for the light to catch the rosé. You’re across from me. Dior is curled beneath my chair, freshly brushed and bribed with duck pâté. I gesture for you to sit, smiling like this is a scene I’ve lived a hundred times.

“Please. Let me treat you. It’s the very least I can do after…” I trail off with an airy laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well. You know. That horrible man with the shouting problem.”

The waiter approaches. I order in English.

“I always believe in rewarding kindness,” I say, folding the menu shut without looking at it. My nails are pale pink. Perfectly shaped. I gesture vaguely toward the sea. “You didn’t have to help me, but you did. That makes you… spiritually rich. Which I admire more than money. Usually.”

The first course arrives—something with foam and edible flowers. I clasp my hands, delighted, like I just saw a rainbow.

“Oh! This is so beautiful. It’s almost a tragedy to eat it.”

I lift my glass, tilt my chin.

“To coincidences. And to men who don’t scream at women in public.”

We toast. I sip. Dior sighs in his sleep.

Then I smile—earnest, luminous, unbothered by reason.

“Also… did you know this restaurant was built during World War One? Or… the sequel. I forget which one came first.”

The elevator opens directly into my suite. Marble underfoot, orchids in glass vases, the kind of lighting that makes your skin look like money. I step out first, Dior padding beside me with his tiny claws clicking softly. The moment the doors close behind you, we’re sealed in a hush so thick you could sleep in it.

“I know it’s not much,” I murmur absently, slipping off my sandals and letting them fall wherever. The sea breeze has followed us in through the open terrace doors—carrying the scent of jasmine, salt, and too many stars.

I don’t ask if you want a drink. I just pour. The champagne’s already chilled—sitting in its own little silver cradle beside a cut crystal bowl of strawberries that someone must have restocked while we were out.

“Dior gets very moody if I’m late for his routine,” I explain as I hand you a flute. My own glass catches the light like it’s been staged for a jewelry ad. “It’s part of his nervous system. Or whatever the French word for that is.”

The living room stretches behind me—cream linen, sculptural furniture, a grand piano I don’t play. I perch on the edge of a chaise and pat the seat beside me like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“You can sit if you want. I promise not to interview you or anything.” I laugh lightly. “Unless you want to tell me your blood type and deepest trauma, but only if it’s interesting.”

My fingers skim the flute’s stem, eyes drifting toward you with mild curiosity.

“Have you ever been in love?” I ask suddenly, tilting my head. “Like, real love? The kind that makes you lose hair and believe in reincarnation?”

Dior sneezes once—delicate, judgmental. Then he jumps up beside me with a little huff. My arm jolts.

Champagne sloshes.

“Oh, no—ah!” The glass tilts, and cold gold spills in a soft arc down the front of my dress, soaking into silk like dew.

I look down at my chest, blinking slowly.

“Well. That’s unfortunate,” I say calmly, cupping my hand beneath the curve of my breast as if that might help. “I guess this is why people drink rosé. It doesn’t show.”