Page 2 of From Paris to Seoul (K-Drama Love Story #2)

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Seo-yeon

The camera flashed for what felt like the hundredth time. I shifted poses, tilting my chin just so, plastering on a smile that barely reached my eyes. The designer dress was gorgeous—sure—but it clung a little too tightly, like plastic wrap stretched over a supermarket rotisserie chicken.

“Perfect, Seo-yeon! Just like that,” the photographer gushed, practically buzzing with excitement.

I resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. You sure?

I knew the routine by heart: tilt, smile, hold. Repeat. And yet, all I could think about was how exhausting it was to play pretend. Working in this industry—model, actress—was supposed to be all glitz and glamour, right? So why did I feel more like a mannequin than a person?

My phone buzzed from the makeup table, snapping me out of my thoughts. During a brief pause, I grabbed it, blinking against the lingering glare of camera flashes. A message from my sister.

“Don’t forget about tonight. 7 PM sharp.”

Oh, right. The charity gala. Another night of smiling, waving, playing my part.

I exhaled and typed a quick message to my boyfriend, Cho Min-seok. “Oppa, are you going to pick me up after my shoot?” Not that I expected a fast reply—he was probably in a meeting, as always. Still, I waited a second longer than necessary before setting my phone down.

“Seo-yeon,” the photographer called. “You’re thinking too much. You’re crinkling your forehead—very dangerous habit. Might cause wrinkles,” he added with a wink.

I forced a polite laugh. “Got it.”

Another hour. More poses. More flashes. By the time we wrapped, my smile felt permanently stuck to my face. I muttered thanks to the crew and checked my phone.

No reply.

I sighed. Why do I even bother hoping?

“Ji-a,” I called, showing her the address. “Could you give me a ride to the hotel?”

She barely glanced at the screen before smirking. “Suuure.” The knowing tone in her voice said it all.

Ji-a’s been my assistant-slash-caretaker-slash-best-friend for the past couple of years. Honestly, she does everything for me. I even call her “Mommy” sometimes because she takes better care of me than my own mom—despite being two years younger.

A few minutes later, I heard a quick beep-beep from outside. That had to be Ji-a. I changed out of my dress as fast as I could, said goodbye to the photographer and his crew, and hurried out the door.

Just as we hit the road, my phone buzzed again. Min-seok’s name popped up on the screen with his usual lukewarm response: “Sorry, I had a meeting all day. Meet you at the gala?”

I let out a deeper sigh, bordering on dramatic. It was always like this—his texts felt more like they were coming from my accountant than my boyfriend. Six years together and a future ahead of us, but lately, it felt like I was the only one invested in it.

As we neared the hotel, I grabbed my vanity case and checked my makeup in the tiny mirror. A quick spritz of setting spray—more for my sanity than anything else—and I braced for what was to come.

I could already picture the next few hours: me, smiling and nodding, playing the role of the perfect daughter, paraded around the room by my parents and clinging to my boyfriend’s arm like a trophy, while pretending to enjoy endless small talk with a crowd of old geezers.

Okay, maybe calling them old geezers was a bit much, but honestly, I’d rather be at home watching some trashy TV show, reading a book, or playing the piano. Even a trip to the dentist sounded more appealing than this.

But, ever the good daughter, I accepted my fate.

With the venue now in sight, I absentmindedly checked my makeup in the mirror, smoothing my lipstick and adjusting my necklace. A few deep breaths, and I was ready—or at least pretending to be.

“ Ya , Seo-yeon-ah! Hurry up! There are cars waiting behind us!” Ji-a’s voice snapped me out of my little beauty ritual. I glanced out the window and realized we’d already reached the hotel lobby.

I quickly jumped out of the car, careful not to trip over my heels. I waved at Ji-a, who gave me a thumbs up before driving off to park.

A concierge greeted me at the entrance and took my coat, guiding me toward my parents.

They were impeccably dressed, as always.

My dad—the host of the annual MarineTech Association charity gala—looked sharp in a deep navy suit, while my mom stood beside him, every bit the perfect gala wife in a flowing beige gown that draped her figure gracefully.

They gave me a brief nod to acknowledge my arrival before returning to their conversation with the guests in front of them.

“Mr. Kang, this is our youngest daughter, Seo-yeon,” my mom said, gently pulling me to her side as she introduced me to the white-haired man they’d been chatting with. I bowed and smiled politely, just as I’d imagined the night would go.

The man went on and on about his daughter who’s living in the U.S. and how he’ll be visiting her and his grandson next month. I nodded, pretending to look enthusiastic while my gaze drifted to the waiter in the background, carrying a tray of champagne glasses and what looked like shrimp cocktails.

I automatically did the math in my head: each shrimp has about six or seven calories, so I can indulge in a few. But the calories aren’t the issue—it’s the salt. Too much, and my cheeks might get puffy, and I can’t afford that because I have something planned for tonight.

My mom shot me a warning glance, so I nodded even harder at whatever Mr. Kang was saying.

After hundreds of these parties, I’d become an expert at pretending to be engaged while my mind wandered elsewhere.

Besides, I had a feeling Mr. Kang loved talking about himself and didn’t particularly care if anyone was actually listening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar couple surrounded by guests.

The petite woman, despite her high heels, looked tiny next to the tall man beside her, who seemed gigantic in comparison. Many guests seemed intrigued by them, chattering and giggling with excitement before the woman swiftly slipped away to grab a mini hamburger from a passing tray.

Ah, if it wasn’t the it couple, Ryu Ji-yong and Han Yumi.

Ji-yong and I went to drama school together, and currently he’s undoubtedly one of the country’s most famous actors.

The petite woman by his side is his girlfriend, Han Yumi, an actress in her own right, though she’s had more success on theater stage than on TV screen. The three of us co-starred in the historical drama TV series Princess of Cosmos a few years back, so seeing them here was a nice surprise.

I noticed Yumi’s face light up the moment she took a bite of the mini hamburger. God, I envied her. Most people in the industry started strict diets at a young age, but there were exceptions like Yumi, who could eat whatever she wanted and still look petite.

Her figure and her appetite were a complete mystery. Once, to my horror, I saw her wolfing down not one but two bowls of tteokbokki from our lunch bus on set—a calorie load that would last me the whole week! I could only hope she didn’t have a stomach worm.

I caught Ji-yong’s loving gaze as he watched Yumi, amusement dancing in his eyes as she wiped a smudge of ketchup from her cheek with a cheeky shrug.

Watching them made my stomach knot lightly. Was it envy? Or was it just the sweetness of the moment—like that warm feeling you get watching a litter of puppies? I couldn’t quite tell, but they seemed almost too perfect together.

Well, Ji-yong had always been Mr. Perfect, even back in our university days, which was exactly why I never had a crush on him. He seemed unreal—like a Ken in a Barbie world.

A gentle tap on my shoulder startled me, as if my ‘bird-watching’ activity had been interrupted. I turned to see Min-seok, my boyfriend, looking a bit worn out. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened slightly, enhancing his charm.

Being seven years older, he carried that aura of a successful, attractive, middle-aged lawyer: polished, classy and rich.

I smiled back as he smiled at me, slipping my hand onto his arm, doing my best impression of the perfect gala girlfriend.

Onstage, my dad stood at the podium, thanking everyone for their generosity and explaining how their donations would support MarineTech’s mission to preserve marine biodiversity.

I snorted in disbelief. The hypocrisy was off the charts—his company is one of South Korea’s largest producers of industrial seaweed, a business that directly contributed to the loss of marine biodiversity.

The night wore on as we mingled with VIPs, chatted with Ji-yong and Yumi, and exchanged sarcastic jokes in hushed tones with my sister, Yae-rin. I did my best not to yawn too openly.

Finally, a little before midnight, once the ‘mandatory attendance’ time had passed, Min-seok and I said our goodbyes, citing early morning plan. My parents and sister stayed at the party, which meant I could finally have some alone time with Min-seok for a while.

“Should we go to your place?” I suggested as we hopped into his car. Min-seok nodded, though not very enthusiastically, and replied, “Sure, why not.” We drove mostly in silence until we finally arrived at his place—a sleek apartment in a downtown high-rise.

As soon as we stepped inside, he loosened his cravat, grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, offered me one, and then sank into the sofa, closing his eyes for a moment and pressing his fingers against his temples.

I had to admit, my plan for the night wasn’t off to a great start.

“Did something happen at work today?” I asked.

He sighed. “Same old, same old. My client wasn’t too happy with how things were progressing,” he replied with a shrug. “How about you?”

I shrugged back, smirking as I moved closer to him. My hand traced his chest in a suggestive manner as I unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

At the beginning of our relationship, he always said it turned him on when a woman made the first move. But this time, I wasn’t sure if he was genuinely interested or just felt obliged to play along.

Still, he returned the gesture, his hand trailing over the top of my dress as he undid the buttons one by one.

He paused, noticing the new red lingerie I’d put on. He grinned and gave an appreciative nod.

I felt a small jolt of triumph. With our busy schedules, it had been over a month since we’d last had sex. And while I hadn’t exactly been craving it, I was starting to worry about our relationship.

So, I made plans to spend more time together and spent hours last weekend shopping for sexy lingerie, hoping tonight would be the night to rekindle things (and maybe even score a marriage proposal?).

I just want to feel seen and desired again… and I’m ready to take the next step in our relationship.

We aren’t exactly young anymore—I’m in my mid-thirties, and he’s in his early forties. It feels like the right time to move forward, to reignite whatever spark we still have.

So when he kissed me, I kissed him back. When his hands roamed over my body, I told myself this was what I wanted.

We quickly moved to his bedroom, and he positioned himself on top of me. After a bit of fumbling, he managed to remove my new red lingerie, leaving us both naked. He began grinding against me, and I let out a small sound, adding a touch of enthusiasm.

I would have loved to have a bit more of ‘appetizer’ before the ‘main dish’, but as usual, he didn’t think it was necessary and plunged straight into action.

Buy I knew I just had to endure this a little bit more. I ‘participated’ for a bit until I heard him grunt and then went limp on top of me, his breath heavy and uneven.

Well, at least we did it , I tried to reassure myself, even though I felt… a bit like a letdown.

After six years together and a long day at work, it’s hard to keep things feeling hot and steamy anyway, I reminded myself.

We lay in bed for a while. “That was nice,” he said once his breathing returned to normal.

Nice? The word echoed in my mind, loud and insistent. Nice like the weather? Or like a decent plate of kimchi fried rice?

Then he got up, started getting dressed, and headed to the bathroom to clean up. “I’ll take you home,” he called out as he disappeared into the hallway.

Huh , I thought. Very transactional… No exchanged smiles, no giggles, no cuddles, no… nothing.

How was this any different from being a prostitute?

Lying there, doubt began to seep into my mind. Is this how I’ll spend the next 50 or 60 years of my life?

I felt the weight of my choices pressing down on me. On one hand, we’d been together forever, and he checked all the boxes for an ideal husband—at least by my parents’ standards. On the other hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being unwanted and… unsexy.

But the thought of starting over—dating someone new again, in my thirties, after six years in a comfortable relationship—was terrifying.

I sighed, trying to push those thoughts away, then picked up my lingerie from the floor (which now felt pretty ridiculous) along with the rest of my dress.

I guess you just have to take one small victory at a time and learn to be content with it.