Chapter 10: Her Smile Isn't Hers Anymore
The lights in the dining hall sparkled like stars caught in glass. Laughter echoed through the walls, clinking glasses and polished shoes against marble. Jiha sat at the far end of the long table, dressed in a lavender hanbok with golden thread. She looked beautiful — a doll, dressed and placed for display.
No one noticed her empty eyes.
Beside her, her stepmother smiled for every guest like it was her own stage. Jiha's father laughed heartily, clinking glasses, his arm resting lightly on his new wife's shoulder. Jiha watched the way his fingers curved gently around her back — the same way he used to guide Jiha across the street when she was little.
Now, he barely looked her way.
The staff came around with dishes. When the silver plate was placed before her, Jiha's throat tightened. Shellfish. The creamy white sauce clung to the shrimp. It smelled too rich, too heavy — and dangerous.
"I… I can't eat this," she whispered, looking at the maid.
"Jiha," her stepmother interrupted sharply, tone just loud enough for the nearest guests to hear, "why must you always create a scene?"
"I'm allergic to shrimp," Jiha said firmly, but quietly.
Her stepmother turned with a sigh. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. You used to eat it before. Now you suddenly have allergies?"
"I've had them since I was a child—"
"She's lying," her stepmother said with a soft laugh that oozed charm. She looked around as if embarrassed for her. "Teenagers love drama."
Jiha turned to her father, hoping — please just remember.
But he barely blinked. "Since when are you allergic? Honestly, Jiha, stop being difficult. Everyone here is trying to enjoy the evening."
Jiha's mouth parted slightly. "I'm not—"
"You should be grateful," he added, voice sharper now. "We're trying to include you. Don't ruin your stepmother's night."
The silence that followed felt like a slap.
Her fork scraped against the edge of her plate as she stared down at the food. Her throat burned. Around her, laughter resumed — her protest dismissed, buried beneath the glow of chandeliers and fake smiles.
She picked up her napkin slowly, placing it over her lap with trembling fingers.
No one noticed when she didn't eat a bite.
No one noticed when her hands remained clenched under the table the whole night.
And when the guests left and Jiha retreated to her room, she closed the door gently, locked it quietly, then curled into herself like a paper folding in on wet ink.
She didn't cry. Not this time.
She was starting to understand:
Her smile wasn't hers anymore.
It belonged to the version of her that made her father look like a good man in front of other people.