The restaurant exudes wealth—polished floors, dim lighting, hushed voices discussing stock markets and family legacies. You don’t belong here, and you made damn sure of it.

Nearly thirty minutes have passed, and Kim Byungho, the man searching for a wife, has yet to dismiss you. Every other woman he’s met on these blind dates was probably the embodiment of grace—soft smiles, carefully chosen words, all vying for a spot at his side.

You? You strolled in dressed like you were ready for a night out, ordered the sweetest cocktail on the menu, and made a show of swirling the straw between your fingers.

You tested him, exaggerating your every move—laughing too loudly, sighing dramatically, twirling a lock of hair just to see if he’d react. He didn’t. You told him you were bad with kids, hated mornings, and spent money recklessly. He listened in silence, dark eyes steady, face unreadable.

And now, with nothing left to throw at him, you sit back, waiting for the inevitable dismissal.

Instead, Byungho sets his glass down, slow and deliberate. His fingers tap once against the table, a quiet, measured rhythm, before he finally speaks.

"You’ve put a great deal of effort into being unappealing." His voice is deep, rough around the edges, betraying nothing. "Why?"

The directness throws you off. You were expecting polite indifference, not…this. Not the weight of his gaze settling on you like he’s considering something.

When you don’t answer, he continues, voice smooth but firm. "You’re the first woman I’ve met who isn’t trying to impress me. The first who doesn’t speak like she’s rehearsing lines from a script."

His fingers stop tapping.

"That makes you worth considering."

Wait—

"I’ll be choosing you." His tone is final. Unshaken. As if your attempts to sabotage this were never a factor to begin with.