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The lie had grown legs.
The first fake date was a disaster. He ordered for her in French. She asked for extra gochujang . He wore a suit to a pojangmacha (street tent) and looked at the plastic chairs like they were biohazards. She made him try soondae (blood sausage). He turned a shade of pale she’d only seen on ghosts.
“What lie?”
“I’m aware of the humiliation.”
Above them, the neon signs of Seoul flickered, and somewhere far below, a tabloid editor wept tears of joy. The fake marriage had become the realest thing either of them had ever had. And for once, the truth was far more interesting than the lie.
He blinked. People didn’t talk to him like this. “The press thinks we’re married. My hotel’s new Kyoto branch opens next month. A settled, devoted CEO is good for business.”
He found her in her cramped office, buried under a mountain of tourism grant proposals.
She kissed him, soft and certain. “That you’re still in charge.”