Madam Lee leaned back slightly. "I want to know… would you be willing to become my future daughter-in-law?"
"WHAT?!" Naima blurted out, pointing frantically at the ring on her right hand. "I'm already married, Madam!"
Madam Lee looked genuinely disappointed. "Ah, what a shame… you have such a good aura."
Naima could only grin awkwardly.
Finally, Madam Lee stood up, folding her hands politely. "Thank you for taking the time to meet me, Miss. See you again," she said with a graceful smile.
Naima bowed slightly, returning the smile—though it looked more like a grimace. "You're welcome, Madam Lee. Have a lovely day."
As soon as Madam Lee walked away, Minjae peeked out from behind the chef's counter, grinning mischievously.
"I didn't expect you to be on talking terms with a chaebol like Madam Lee," he teased, voice casual but probing.
Naima shrugged lightly. "Well, I met you first, Minjae. You're a chaebol too, right?"
Thud.
Realizing what she'd just said, Naima immediately covered her mouth and smacked her forehead. "Wait—no, I mean—uh…"
Minjae stared at her curiously.
Naima forced a laugh and stammered, "I mean—you look like one! You've got that chaebol vibe. I mean, come on—if you already look this good just being a barista, imagine if you were actually rich!"
Minjae chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"Wow… so that's what you call a diplomatically safe compliment. But I like how you twist your words."
Naima could only grin in embarrassment, thinking, Oh God, why did I have to slip like that? He's really a chaebol and I just basically said I knew it!
Meanwhile, Minjae took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression turning thoughtful.
She really might be a fortune teller. First, she knew about Mr. Park's son. Then she somehow knew about Madam Lee. And now… she just hinted that I'm a chaebol. But why is she hiding it? If she can predict things like that, she could make a fortune here… Should I ask her directly? Or just… wait and see?
---
Naima finally returned to her apartment. Inside the elevator, her thoughts started spinning.
"After being drenched by his mom, Jaeho went nuts—he intentionally slept with Sooah without protection just to get her pregnant and win his mother's approval. God… and Sooah does get pregnant later. The baby's born with a defect… and only at the end do they find out they're siblings. Tragic as hell."
She paced back and forth in the elevator, watching the lights flicker across the mirrored walls.
The doors slid open, and she stepped out, still dazed.
"It's just a drama, Naima… The writer can do whatever they want. But why does it hurt so much to think about?"
Back in her apartment, she saw her laptop still glowing on the desk. Reality hit her like a hammer. "Work, Naima! WORK! Stop obsessing over fictional people!" her inner voice yelled.
She exhaled deeply, sat down, and opened a new document. Time to start the draft for her client, Be A Star Cosmetics. Dramas could wait—deadlines couldn't.
Thirsty, Naima grabbed a glass of water from her desk, staring at it for a moment before taking a slow sip.
"I once watched a drama," she murmured, "about a girl who loved reading comics. One day, she got sucked into the comic world. At first, she was just a background extra—but her presence messed up the plot, and eventually, she became the female lead. She fell for the male lead, took over the story, and decided to stay in that world forever…"
She placed the glass down softly, her eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
"And me? Nothing. Neither in the real world nor in dreams—I'm still just a spectator. I only meet handsome second leads or see deleted scenes that never even air. It's like living inside the blooper reel of someone else's drama."
She sighed, annoyed, amused.
"So boring. Sometimes I wish I could just jump into a drama like that—be the main lead for once instead of the random background extra."
Then her eyes widened slightly.
"But maybe… being the viewer means I get to see everything clearly, without getting trapped in the drama. Haha… yeah, but still, it sucks."
As she typed her copywriting draft for Be A Star, a realization hit her.
"Oh my God! That wine-throwing scene last night—that was from the first episode! The timeline hasn't even reached the halfway mark yet. Does that mean I'm stuck in this world for another year and a half?!"
Her fingers trembled as she pulled up another file—spreadsheets, moodboards, caption drafts—all still there, exactly like before.
"My old work files… still intact. But are they real? Or just… replicas of my real job?"
She frowned at the screen.
"Seojun's related to Hyunbin… what if I'm just a spin-off character? Someone written into the side story who still has to do office work?"
Her eyes looked blankly at the monitor, like she was peering at the thin line separating fiction and reality. She bit her lip and muttered, "Should I even keep working? What if continuing this breaks either world? Ugh, whatever. Forget Jaeho and Sooah. Focus on the project, Naima."
She brushed her hair back and smirked faintly. "Done. Email draft to Seojun, cc Mr. Beni… all good. What now?"
Naima picked up her phone and texted Johann: "You wanna have dinner at home?"
A few seconds later, her phone buzzed. "Yes, pls hunny. But no Indo noodle."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "Then what? Nasgor?"
"What is Nasgor?"
She giggled. "Fried rice."
"Great."
Naima headed to the kitchen, opening the fridge. "Rice, eggs… no veggies, no onions. Just chicken," she muttered, scratching her head.
Opening her map app, her eyes lit up.
"Yes! There's a traditional market nearby. Perfect. Time to rescue dinner—and my dignity."
---
At the market, Naima stood ready with her trusty translation app open.
"Annyeonghaseyo… I need garlic, shallots, and spring onions. Celery too. If not, coriander leaves are fine," she said carefully, looking at the elderly vendor, hoping the message came through.
The old lady squinted at her as if trying to decide whether Naima was a real person or a lost alien. But eventually, she began packing the vegetables.
"How much, Halmeoni?" Naima asked with a polite smile.
"No need. Just take it," the old lady said, waving her hand as though dismissing an unpaid bill.
Naima gaped. "Huh? Why? I'll pay, really—I'm not asking for charity!"
The woman leaned closer, eyes twinkling. "You're a foreigner, aren't you?"
"Uh… yeah," Naima replied cautiously, starting to feel like she was on a prank show.
"You're here for work?"
"Um… yes, technically…"
The old lady chuckled, shaking her head. "My granddaughter's your age—she's in high school, not sent overseas to work."
Naima smiled awkwardly. "I'm not a migrant worker, Halmeoni…"
But the old woman just waved dismissively again. Naima gave up, taking the groceries with a laugh.
"Okay then—thank you!" she said with a half-bow, feeling like she'd just won gold in the 'awkward but adorable encounters' Olympics.
She stopped by a few more stalls, picking up fresh veggies and even a local potato chip labeled "Hellfire Spicy."
"Well, why not. Worst case, I cry in the kitchen," she muttered, paying the vendor.
Loaded with groceries, phone in one hand and plastic bags in the other, Naima walked toward the crosswalk. The light just turned green for pedestrians.
"Okay, move fast before it turns red again," she said, half-jogging.
She was halfway across when—thud!
A man in his fifties suddenly collapsed right in front of her. Reflexively, Naima reached out and caught him—just in time before his head hit the pavement.