Chapter 41
title: "Chapter 13" wordCount: 3366
My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't get my phone into my pocket.
The woman—Agent Morrison, according to the badge she held at eye level—stepped into the apartment like she owned it. Her partner, a man with silver hair and the kind of face that had seen too many people lie, positioned himself by the door. Blocking the exit.
"We need you both to come with us for questioning," Morrison said. "You have the right to remain silent, but—"
"We know our rights." Daniel's voice cut through the room, sharp and cold in a way I'd never heard before. He ended the call with Richard without a word, slipping his phone into his pocket with the kind of deliberate calm that made my chest tighten. "Are we under arrest?"
"Not at this time. But we have reason to believe—"
"Then we're not required to go anywhere with you." Daniel moved between me and Morrison, his body a wall. "If you want to question us, you can schedule an appointment through our attorney."
Morrison's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Park, I strongly advise you to cooperate. Making this difficult will only—"
"I'm not making anything difficult. I'm exercising our legal rights." He pulled out his phone again. "I'm calling our lawyer now. You can wait outside until she arrives, or you can leave and contact us through proper channels."
The silver-haired agent shifted his weight. "Son, you really want to play it this way?"
"I'm not your son." Daniel's thumb hovered over his screen. "And yes, I do."
My nails dug into my palms hard enough to hurt. The jade bracelet on my wrist felt too tight, cutting off circulation, and I couldn't stop thinking about my grandmother's face the day she'd given it to me—the way she'd said it would protect me from bad luck, as if a piece of stone could stop the world from caving in.
Morrison exchanged a glance with her partner. Something passed between them, some silent communication that made my stomach drop.
"Fine," she said. "We'll wait outside. You have ten minutes to contact your attorney. But Mr. Park?" She paused at the door. "Running would be a very bad idea."
The door clicked shut behind them.
Daniel was already dialing before the sound faded. He pressed the phone to his ear, his free hand running through his hair in a gesture I'd learned meant he was three seconds from losing it completely.
"Sarah? It's Daniel. ICE just showed up at my apartment." A pause. "No, they said we're not under arrest, but—" Another pause, longer this time. "Okay. Okay, yes. We'll wait." He lowered the phone. "She's on her way. Twenty minutes."
"They're not going to wait twenty minutes."
"They will if they want this to be legal."
I moved to the window, careful to stay out of sight. The agents were standing by a black SUV, Morrison on her phone, the other one watching our building like he expected us to rappel down the side. "Daniel, what if Richard called them? What if he—"
"He didn't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." Daniel came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. "Richard wants CoreStone. He doesn't want us in federal custody where we can't sign anything. This is something else."
"What else could it possibly be?"
He didn't answer. Just stared down at the street, his jaw working like he was chewing on words he couldn't say.
The the pause extended longer than comfortable between us, thick and suffocating, until I couldn't stand it anymore. "You were going to give him everything," I said. "Just now, on the phone. You were going to sign over your company."
"Yes."
"For me."
"Yes."
"That's—" I stopped. Started again. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
His head turned toward me, and for the first time since the agents arrived, something like emotion cracked through his careful mask. "Excuse me?"
"CoreStone is your life. You built it from nothing. You worked yourself half to death for years to make it what it is, and you were just going to hand it over to the man who's been trying to destroy you?" My voice was rising, but I couldn't stop it. "For what? For me? For someone you barely even know?"
"I know you."
"You know I make good japchae and that I'm scared of my parents finding out I'm a failure. That's not—that doesn't mean you throw away everything you've worked for."
"It does if the alternative is you going to prison."
The words hit like a slap. I stepped back, my hip colliding with the windowsill hard enough to bruise. "I'm not going to prison."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you."
"Nora." He reached for me, then seemed to think better of it, his hand falling back to his side. "If they can prove fraud, you're looking at five years minimum. Five years. And that's if you're lucky, if they don't decide to make an example out of you because—"
"Because I'm not rich like you? Because I don't have lawyers on speed dial and a trust fund to fall back on?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned away from me and pressed both palms flat against the window, his shoulders rigid with tension. "I meant that I can survive losing CoreStone. I can't survive knowing I let you take the fall for something I talked you into."
The apartment felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I could hear Morrison's voice through the window, muffled but insistent, and somewhere in the building a door slammed. "You didn't talk me into anything. I agreed to this. I signed the papers, I moved in here, I—" My throat closed around the words. "I made my own choices."
"You made them because you were desperate. Because your parents lost everything and you were drowning in debt and I offered you a way out." He turned back to face me, and the look in his eyes made my chest ache. "I took advantage of that. I knew you needed the money, and I used it to get what I wanted."
"What you needed. The visa."
"What I wanted," he repeated. "Because I could have found another way. I could have hired a real immigration lawyer, could have applied for a different visa category, could have—there were options. But they would have taken time, and I didn't want to wait. I wanted the fastest solution, and you were it."
The words should have hurt. Should have felt like confirmation of every fear I'd had since the day I signed the contract. But instead, they just felt true. Honest in a way that cut through all the careful pretense we'd been maintaining.
"Okay so," I said, and hated how my voice shook. "So what? You used me, I used you, we both got what we needed. That's the arrangement. That's what we agreed to."
"Is it?" He took a step closer. "Is that really all this is?"
My back hit the wall. I hadn't realized I'd been retreating. "What else would it be?"
"You tell me."
"Daniel—"
"Because from where I'm standing, this stopped being just an arrangement somewhere between you teaching me how to make kimchi jjigae and me memorizing the way you take your coffee." Another step. "Somewhere between you falling asleep on my couch and me buying extra blankets because you're always cold. Somewhere between—"
A knock on the door cut him off. Sharp, authoritative, the kind of knock that said time's up.
"Mr. Park? Ms. Chen? Your ten minutes are over."
Sarah Kim arrived like a force of nature, all sharp edges and expensive perfume, her heels clicking against the hallway floor with the rhythm of a countdown timer. She was younger than I'd expected—maybe thirty-five, with perfect posture and the kind of confidence that came from winning more cases than she'd lost.
"Don't say anything," she told us before she'd even fully entered the apartment. "Not a word until I tell you it's safe. Understood?"
I nodded. Daniel said, "Understood."
Morrison and her partner had followed Sarah up, and now the apartment felt impossibly crowded, all of us packed into the living room like sardines. The silver-haired agent—his badge said Chen, which felt like some kind of cosmic joke—kept glancing at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"My clients are willing to cooperate," Sarah said, her voice crisp and professional. "But I need to know what this is about. You said they're not under arrest, which means you don't have enough evidence to charge them with anything. So what exactly are we doing here?"
Morrison pulled out a tablet, tapped the screen a few times, then turned it to face us. "We received a tip this morning about a fraudulent marriage. The tipster provided substantial evidence, including financial records, communication logs, and testimony from multiple witnesses."
My stomach dropped through the floor.
"What witnesses?" Sarah asked.
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information at this time."
"Then I'm not at liberty to let my clients answer any questions." Sarah crossed her arms. "If you want to interview them, you can schedule it through my office. Otherwise—"
"We already have an interview scheduled. Tomorrow at nine a.m." Morrison's smile was razor-sharp. "We're here to ensure they don't flee before then."
"You can't hold them without charging them."
"We're not holding them. We're strongly encouraging them to stay in the city until after their interview." Morrison's gaze shifted to me, then to Daniel. "Of course, if they choose to leave, that would be noted in their file. And it would significantly impact how we proceed."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and unmistakable.
Sarah's teeth pressed together. "Fine. My clients will be at the interview tomorrow. You have my word."
"Your word isn't what concerns me, Ms. Kim." Morrison tapped her tablet again. "Mr. Park has significant financial resources and international connections. Ms. Chen has family in Taiwan. Forgive me if I'm not entirely confident in their commitment to staying put."
"Are you asking them to surrender their passports?"
"I'm suggesting it would demonstrate good faith."
Daniel moved before I could process what was happening, pulling his passport from a drawer in the kitchen and holding it out to Morrison. "Here. Good faith."
Morrison took it, examined it briefly, then looked at me. "Ms. Chen?"
My passport was in my bedroom, tucked into the bottom of my underwear drawer like I was hiding it from myself. I'd looked at it three times in the past week, each time thinking about how easy it would be to just leave. To get on a plane and disappear before everything fell apart.
"Nora," Sarah said quietly. "You don't have to do this."
But I did. Because if I didn't, they'd know I was thinking about running. They'd know I was guilty.
I retrieved the passport and handed it over, my fingers numb.
Morrison slipped both passports into her bag. "Thank you for your cooperation. We'll see you tomorrow at nine a.m. Don't be late."
They left, finally, and the apartment felt like a crime scene in their wake.
Sarah waited until the door closed before turning to us. "Okay. Tell me everything. And I mean everything. No lies, no omissions, no protecting each other. If I'm going to keep you out of prison, I need the truth."
We told her. All of it. The contract, the arrangement, the money. Richard's blackmail, the moved-up interview, the evidence he claimed to have. Sarah listened without interrupting, her expression growing more grim with each revelation.
When we finished, she was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "You're both idiots."
"That's helpful," Daniel said.
"I'm serious. This is—" She pressed her fingers to her temples. "This is possibly the worst case of marriage fraud I've ever seen, and I've seen some spectacularly stupid ones. You have a contract. An actual written contract outlining the terms of your fake marriage. Do you have any idea how that's going to look to a federal prosecutor?"
"We destroyed it," I said. "Weeks ago."
"Doesn't matter. If Richard has a copy, or if there's any digital trail—emails, texts, anything—they can use it against you." She started pacing, her heels leaving small indentations in the carpet. "And this interview tomorrow. They're going to separate you. Ask you the same questions in different ways, looking for inconsistencies. They're going to ask about your relationship, your daily routines, intimate details. And if your answers don't match perfectly—"
"They will," Daniel said.
Sarah stopped pacing. "How can you be sure?"
"Because we've been living together for months. Because we know each other."
"Knowing someone and being married to them are two different things." She pulled out her own tablet, started typing. "I'm going to send you a list of questions. Common ones they ask in fraud interviews. You need to go through them together, tonight, and make sure your answers align. But here's the thing—you can't sound rehearsed. If you sound like you memorized a script, they'll know."
"So what do we do?" I asked.
"You tell the truth. As much of it as you can without incriminating yourselves." She looked between us, her expression softening slightly. "Look, I've handled cases like this before. Not exactly like this, but close enough. The best chance you have is to convince them that whatever this started as, it's become real. That you're actually in love."
The words hung in the air between us.
"Can you do that?" Sarah asked. "Can you convince them you're in love?"
I couldn't look at Daniel. Couldn't risk seeing whatever expression was on his face. "I don't know."
"Well, you'd better figure it out. Because if you can't sell it tomorrow, you're both going to prison."
Sarah left an hour later, after drilling us on potential questions and making us promise not to discuss the case over phone or text. "Assume everything is monitored," she'd said. "Every call, every message. If you need to talk, do it in person."
Now it was just the two of us again, the apartment too quiet without the buffer of Sarah's presence.
Daniel was at the kitchen counter, making tea. He'd been making tea for the past ten minutes, the same methodical process he always used when he needed to think. Boil water. Warm the pot. Measure the leaves. Pour. Wait.
I sat on the couch, my grandmother's bracelet twisted around my wrist, and watched him move through the familiar routine.
"We should go through Sarah's questions," I said finally.
"Okay."
"She sent them to both of us. We can—"
"Nora." He set down the teapot. "Can we just—let's just sit for a minute. Before we start preparing our testimony like we're witnesses in a trial."
"We are witnesses in a trial."
"We're not. Not yet." He brought over two cups, handed me one, then sat beside me on the couch. Close enough that our knees almost touched. "We're just two people having tea."
The cup was warm in my hands. Jasmine, I realized. My favorite. He'd remembered.
"When did you buy jasmine tea?" I asked.
"Three weeks ago. You mentioned you liked it."
Three weeks ago. Before Richard's blackmail, before the interview got moved up, before everything started falling apart. He'd bought my favorite tea three weeks ago and hadn't mentioned it, had just quietly added it to the rotation of things he kept in the apartment.
"That's—" I stopped. Started again. "That's the kind of thing a real husband would do."
"I know."
"Daniel—"
"I know what you're going to say. That we need to keep this professional, that we can't let it get complicated, that the arrangement is the arrangement." He set his cup down on the coffee table, then turned to face me fully. "But it's already complicated. It's been complicated since the day you moved in and reorganized my entire kitchen because you couldn't stand how I had the spices arranged."
"They were alphabetical. Who organizes spices alphabetically?"
"Someone who likes order."
"Someone who doesn't actually cook." I took a sip of tea, buying myself time. "You organize them by frequency of use. The things you reach for most often go in front."
"I know that now. Because you taught me." His hand moved to the couch between us, palm up, an invitation. "You've taught me a lot of things."
I stared at his hand. At the calluses on his fingers from the guitar he played when he couldn't sleep, at the small scar on his thumb from the time he'd tried to help me julienne carrots and nearly taken off the tip. At the way his fingers were slightly curved, like he was already imagining the weight of my hand in his.
"This is a bad idea," I said.
"Probably."
"We're about to be interviewed by federal agents who think we're criminals."
"Yes."
"And if we can't convince them we're really married, we're both going to prison."
"I'm aware."
"So this—whatever this is—it's just going to make everything more complicated."
"It's already complicated," he repeated. "At least this way it's complicated in a way that feels honest."
My hand moved before my brain could stop it, fingers sliding into his palm. His hand closed around mine, warm and solid and real.
"Sarah said we need to convince them we're in love," I said.
"Yes."
"Can you do that? Can you pretend to be in love with me?"
His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand. "I don't think I'd be pretending."
The words hit like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I opened my mouth to respond, to say something, anything, but before I could form words, his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
We both looked at it. The screen lit up with a notification.
Unknown number. A text message.
Daniel picked up the phone, his hand still holding mine, and read the message. I watched his face change, watched the color drain from his skin, watched his jaw clench so hard I could see the muscle jump.
"What is it?" I asked.
He turned the phone so I could see the screen.
The message was short. Just a photo and a single line of text.
The photo showed Daniel and me, taken through the window of the apartment. Tonight. Maybe an hour ago. We were standing close, his hand reaching for me, my back against the wall. The angle made it look intimate. Staged.
Below the photo, the text read: See you tomorrow. I'll make sure to mention how convincing you two are. - R
But it was the second message, the one that came through as we were reading the first, that made my blood run cold.
P.S. - The agents who just left? I'm the one who called them. Consider it a preview of tomorrow. Sweet dreams.
Daniel's hand tightened around mine, his knuckles white.
And then the apartment went dark.
Not just the lights—everything. The hum of the refrigerator cut off mid-cycle, the glow of the streetlights outside vanished, and the city beyond the windows disappeared into absolute blackness.
A power outage. Building-wide, maybe city-wide.
Or something else entirely.
I heard Daniel move in the darkness, heard the rustle of fabric as he stood, felt his hand slip from mine.
"Stay here," he said, his voice low and tight.
"Daniel—"
"Stay here. I'm going to check the breaker."
His footsteps moved toward the hallway, toward the utility closet where the breaker box was mounted. I heard the closet door open, heard him fumbling in the darkness.
And then I heard something else.
A sound from the front door. Not a knock. Something quieter. More deliberate.
The sound of a key sliding into a lock.
"Daniel," I whispered, but my voice came out strangled, barely audible.
The lock turned with a soft click.
The door began to open.
And in the darkness, I saw a silhouette step into the apartment—