Chapter 33
The immigration officer's business card sat on my kitchen counter like a live grenade, and I'd been staring at it for twenty minutes while my sourdough starter bubbled accusingly in its jar.
"You going to call her, or are you planning to manifest a green card through sheer anxiety?" Maya's voice crackled through my phone speaker.
I picked up the card—Agent Patricia Morrison, USCIS Fraud Detection and National Security—and set it back down. "She said she had questions about our 'living arrangements.'"
"Okay, so that's terrifying."
"Very helpful, thanks."
"I'm just saying what you're thinking." Maya's keyboard clacked in the background. She was probably billing hours while talking me off a ledge, which was very on-brand. "Have you told Daniel?"
My thumb found the jade bracelet on my left wrist, spinning it in slow circles. "He's been texting every day. Asking if I ate. Sending me articles about small business tax deductions like we're still—" I stopped, because I didn't know how to finish that sentence.
"Like you're still married?"
"We are still married."
"You know what I mean."
I did. The legal paperwork said one thing. The space between us said another. Three weeks since I'd walked out of his apartment with my grandmother's necklace burning a hole in my pocket and his promise to change echoing in my ears. Three weeks of him respecting my boundaries so carefully it felt like we were strangers performing politeness.
My phone buzzed. Daniel's name lit up the screen with a message: Made reservations at Osteria Mozza for Thursday. 7pm. We should talk about the immigration interview.
Not "can we talk" or "would you like to." Just a statement of fact, a plan already made.
I typed and deleted three responses before settling on: I'll think about it.
His reply came instantly: Okay.
Just that. No follow-up, no pressure. It should have felt like progress. Instead, it felt like he was holding his breath, waiting for me to decide if he got to exhale.
"Nora? You still there?"
"Yeah, sorry. He wants to have dinner. To prep for the interview."
"And you're going to go."
"I don't know."
"Liar." Maya's tone was affectionate but firm. "You've been waiting for him to do something, anything, that proves he's actually changing. This is him trying."
"This is him making a reservation without asking if I'm free."
The silence on the other end stretched long enough that I checked if the call had dropped.
"Okay so," I said, needing to fill the quiet, "maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe I'm looking for reasons to—"
"To protect yourself? Yeah, you are. And you should be." Maya's voice softened. "But at some point, you're going to have to decide if you're protecting yourself or punishing him."
Thursday arrived with the kind of aggressive sunshine that made Los Angeles feel like it was showing off. I'd changed outfits four times before settling on the black wrap dress that made me feel competent and untouchable—armor disguised as date night attire.
Osteria Mozza was the kind of place where the waiters remembered your name and the wine list required a graduate degree to navigate. Daniel was already seated when I arrived, wearing the charcoal suit that made his shoulders look unfairly good and his expression carefully neutral.
He stood when he saw me. Old habit, the kind of formal courtesy his mother had probably drilled into him before he could walk.
"You look—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "Thank you for coming."
I slid into the chair across from him, hyperaware of the white tablecloth between us like a demilitarized zone. "You said we needed to talk about the interview."
"Did you eat lunch?"
"Daniel."
"Right. Sorry." He reached for his water glass, then seemed to think better of it. His hands settled on the table, fingers laced together in a way that looked almost prayerful. "The interview is scheduled for next Tuesday. Ten a.m."
"I know. I got the same email you did."
"They're going to ask about our daily routines. What side of the bed we sleep on. What I eat for breakfast."
"You don't eat breakfast. You drink coffee until noon and then have whatever's in the fridge."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or relief that I'd been paying attention. "See? You know that. But we need to make sure our answers match. They're looking for inconsistencies."
The waiter appeared with menus and a recitation of specials that I barely heard. I ordered the first thing my eyes landed on. Daniel did the same, which meant we were both too tense to actually care about food.
When we were alone again, I said, "What else?"
"They'll want to know about our relationship timeline. How we met, when we decided to get married, why so quickly." He was using his corporate voice, the one that turned everything into a presentation. "We need to have a consistent story."
"We have a consistent story. It's the truth."
"Parts of it are the truth."
"The parts that matter are the truth." I leaned forward, and he leaned back slightly, like I was something that might burn him. "We met at the restaurant. We became friends. We got married because I needed a green card and you needed—" I stopped, because I still wasn't entirely sure what he'd needed. "What did you need, Daniel?"
"I told you. My uncle was pressuring me about marriage, and you were—"
"Convenient?"
"No." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "You were the only person who didn't want something from me."
Our appetizers arrived—burrata for me, octopus for him—and we both pretended to be interested in them while the real conversation hung suspended between us.
I cut into the burrata, watching the cream spill across the plate. "The immigration officer came to the restaurant."
Daniel's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "When?"
"Last week. She asked my staff questions about you. Whether you ever came by, what you ordered, if we seemed 'affectionate.'" The word tasted bitter. "Rosa told her you always got the lunch special and never looked at the menu because you trusted my recommendations."
"That's good. That's—"
"She also told her that we never touched each other. Not even a hand on the shoulder."
Daniel set down his fork with careful precision. "What did you tell her?"
"Nothing. She didn't ask me anything directly. Just left her card and said she'd be in touch." I met his eyes across the table. "We're not going to pass this interview."
"Yes, we will."
"How? By memorizing each other's coffee orders? They're going to ask me what you look like when you first wake up, Daniel. They're going to ask what we fight about and how we make up and whether you snore."
"I don't snore."
"I know that. But do you see the problem?" My voice was rising, and I forced it back down. "We've been married for eight months, and we've spent maybe twenty nights in the same apartment. We don't have shared bank accounts or joint leases or any of the things that actual married couples have."
"We have the restaurant."
"You're an investor. That's not the same as—"
"I have a key to your apartment."
"You've never used it."
"Because you asked me not to." His hands were flat on the table now, pressing down like he was trying to anchor himself. "You said you needed space, so I gave you space. You said you needed time, so I gave you time. I'm trying to do what you asked, Nora, but I don't—" He stopped, throat working. "I don't know what you want from me."
The honest answer was that I didn't know either. I wanted him to fight for me and give me space. I wanted him to change and stay exactly who he was when he looked at me like I was the only solid thing in his world. I wanted the impossible.
"I want you to trust me," I said finally. "Not just with the small things. With everything."
"I do trust you."
"No, you don't. You trust me to run the restaurant and make good food and not embarrass you in front of your family. But you don't trust me with the hard stuff. The messy stuff." I pushed my plate away, appetite gone. "You kept my grandmother's necklace for weeks without telling me. You made decisions about the investigation without asking what I thought. You're still doing it now—making reservations, planning our interview strategy, trying to control the outcome."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection. I need a partner."
The word landed between us like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward. Daniel's expression did something complicated—a flash of pain, then resignation, then something that might have been hope if I squinted.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Tell me how."
We didn't finish dinner. Daniel paid the check while I was in the bathroom, which was exactly the kind of thing I'd just told him not to do, but I was too tired to fight about it.
The parking lot was nearly empty, our cars parked three spaces apart like even our vehicles were maintaining a respectful distance.
"Come home with me," Daniel said.
I turned to look at him, keys already in my hand. "What?"
"Not—I don't mean—" He scrubbed a hand over his face, and for the first time all evening, he looked genuinely uncertain. "The interview is in five days. We need to be able to answer their questions, and the only way to do that is to actually spend time together. Real time, not dinner reservations and text messages."
"You want me to move back in."
"I want us to have a chance." He took a step closer, then stopped himself. "One week. Stay with me for one week, and if you still want to leave after the interview, I won't fight you on it."
"Daniel—"
"I'll sleep on the couch. You can have the bedroom. I won't—" He stopped, jaw tight. "I won't touch you unless you ask me to."
The offer should have felt like manipulation, like one more way for him to control the situation. Instead, it felt like surrender. Like he was finally admitting that he couldn't fix this by himself, that he needed me to meet him halfway.
"One week," I heard myself say. "But we do this my way. No more decisions without talking to me first. No more trying to manage my reactions or protect me from information I deserve to have."
"Okay."
"And you answer my questions. All of them. Even the ones that make you uncomfortable."
Something flickered in his expression—fear, maybe, or the anticipation of pain. "Okay."
"I mean it, Daniel. If I ask you something, you don't get to deflect or change the subject or tell me you can handle it. You tell me the truth."
"I will." He pulled out his phone, fingers moving across the screen. "I'm sending you the gate code for the parking garage. You remember which spot is mine?"
"P3, level two, next to the elevator."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "See? You know me better than you think."
Daniel's apartment looked exactly the same as the last time I'd been there—the same minimalist furniture, the same abstract art that probably cost more than my monthly rent, the same complete absence of anything personal or warm. It was like walking into a very expensive hotel room occupied by someone who'd never bothered to unpack.
Except.
On the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker, sat a small ceramic container with a familiar pattern. My sourdough starter, the one I'd been feeding for three years, the one I'd left behind when I walked out.
"You've been taking care of it," I said.
Daniel set my overnight bag down by the door. "You left instructions. Feed it every day, discard half, add equal parts flour and water."
"It's been three weeks."
"I know."
I crossed to the counter, lifted the lid. The starter bubbled enthusiastically, smelling sharp and yeasty and alive. Healthy. Thriving, even.
"Why?" The question came out smaller than I'd intended.
"Because you loved it." He was standing very still, like he was afraid any sudden movement might spook me. "Because it mattered to you, so it mattered to me."
I set the lid back down carefully, my hands not quite steady. This was the kind of thing I'd been asking for—proof that he saw me, that he paid attention to the small unglamorous details of my life. But it also felt like evidence of something more complicated, something that made my chest tight and my eyes burn.
"Okay so," I said, needing to break the moment before it cracked me open, "where do you want to start?"
"Start?"
"The interview prep. That's why I'm here, right?"
Daniel's expression did something I couldn't read. "Right. Yeah. Let's just—" He gestured toward the living room, then seemed to think better of it. "Actually, are you hungry? I know we didn't really eat dinner."
"You're deflecting."
"I'm asking if you ate."
"Same thing."
He almost smiled again. Almost. "There's leftover Thai food in the fridge. Pad see ew from that place on Melrose you like. I ordered it yesterday."
"You ordered my favorite dish from my favorite restaurant on the off chance I'd come over?"
"I ordered it because I was thinking about you." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I've been thinking about you constantly for three weeks, Nora. Wondering if you were eating enough, if the restaurant was busy, if you were sleeping okay. Wondering if you were thinking about me at all."
The honesty of it hit me like a physical thing. No deflection, no corporate-speak, just the raw admission that he'd been as miserable as I had.
"I was thinking about you," I said quietly. "I am thinking about you. That's the problem."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Because I don't know if I can trust it. This feeling. Us." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the apartment's perfect climate control. "What if we pass the interview and get the green card, and then six months from now, we realize this was all just—"
"Just what?"
"Adrenaline. Proximity. Two people who got married for the wrong reasons and convinced themselves it meant something."
Daniel crossed the space between us in three strides. He stopped just short of touching me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, see the way his chest rose and fell with careful breaths.
"Ask me," he said.
"Ask you what?"
"You said I had to answer your questions. All of them. So ask me what you really want to know."
My heart was doing something erratic and painful behind my ribs. "Do you love me?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no deflection. Just the single word, solid and certain.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've never been afraid of anything the way I'm afraid of losing you." His hands were fists at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me. "Because when you left, it felt like someone had removed something vital from my chest. Because I kept your grandmother's necklace not to control you or keep something from you, but because it was the only piece of you I had left, and I wore it every day like maybe if I kept it close enough, you'd come back."
I stared at him. "You wore it?"
He reached up, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and pulled out a thin silver chain. My grandmother's necklace, the one she'd brought from Taiwan with nothing else, hung against his chest like it belonged there.
"Every day," he said again. "I know that's probably creepy or possessive or—"
I kissed him.
It wasn't planned or strategic or part of any interview prep. It was pure impulse, the need to close the distance between us more powerful than any of my carefully constructed boundaries. He made a sound low in his throat—surprise or relief or both—and his hands came up to frame my face with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine.
"I love you," I said, because it was true and terrifying and I was tired of pretending otherwise. "I love you, and I don't know if that's enough, but—"
The buzzer for the apartment door cut through the moment like a knife.
Daniel pulled back, frowning. "I'm not expecting anyone."
"Maybe it's a delivery?"
He crossed to the intercom, pressed the button. "Yes?"
"Daniel, it's your uncle. We need to talk."
Every muscle in Daniel's body went rigid. "It's eleven o'clock."
"I'm aware of the time. This can't wait." Richard's voice crackled through the speaker, smooth and implacable. "Let me up, or I'll wait in the lobby until you do. Your choice."
Daniel's finger hovered over the button. He looked at me, and I saw something in his expression I'd never seen before—not just fear, but a kind of trapped desperation, like a wild animal that had finally run out of places to hide.
"What do you want to do?" I asked.
"I want to tell him to go to hell." His hand dropped. "But if I do that, he'll—" He stopped, throat working.
"He'll what?"
The intercom buzzed again. Insistent. Demanding.
"Daniel," Richard's voice said, "I know she's up there with you. The doorman told me. So let's not play games. This concerns her too."
Ice slid down my spine. "How does he know I'm here?"
Daniel's face had gone pale. "He's been having me followed."
"What?"
"Since the investigation started. He said it was to protect the family's interests, to make sure we didn't do anything that would—" He stopped, eyes widening with something that looked like horror. "Oh god."
"What? Daniel, what is it?"
He pressed the button to unlock the door, then turned to me with an expression that made my stomach drop.
"He's not here about the investigation," Daniel said quietly. "He's here because he knows about the necklace. And if he knows about that—"
The apartment door swung open, and Richard Park walked in like he owned the place. He was wearing a suit despite the late hour, his silver hair perfectly styled, his smile sharp enough to draw blood.
"Nora," he said warmly, like we were old friends. "So good to see you again. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
Behind him, partially hidden by the doorframe, I caught a glimpse of someone else. A woman in a dark blazer, holding a leather portfolio.
Agent Patricia Morrison stepped into the apartment, her expression professionally neutral.
"Mr. Park, Ms. Chen," she said. "I apologize for the late hour, but we have some new information about your case that requires immediate attention."
She opened the portfolio, pulled out a photograph, and set it on the counter next to my sourdough starter.
It was a picture of Daniel and me. From three weeks ago. The night I'd left his apartment.
The night I'd been wearing my grandmother's necklace.
The night he'd been wearing it too, visible in the photo, hanging outside his shirt as I walked away.
"Can you explain," Agent Morrison said calmly, "why you both appear to be wearing the same piece of jewelry in this photograph? And why, according to our investigation, that necklace was reported as a family heirloom belonging to Ms. Chen's grandmother?"
Richard's smile widened.
Daniel's hand found mine, fingers lacing together with desperate pressure.
And I realized, with perfect crystalline clarity, that we were about to lose everything.