I’m stunned at how quickly this has all been put together. One minute, I’m listening to Bomi’s story about Wansu’s rise to power, and two hours later, I’m preparing for an emergency board meeting. I have no idea where Yujun is. While Bomi called Wansu to tell her my decision, I called Yujun, but he never answered. Wansu informed me that she passed on the plan to Yujun and he was in agreement that this was the best course of action.

That really hurt, even though it was my damn decision. I guess a tiny part of me wanted him to protest or, rather, a big part of me wanted him to swarm in here on a white horse and save me, save all of us. How humiliating. I shove the misery I have no right to feel aside and give myself over to Wansu’s miracle squad.

Ellen is already in a chair. “Come here, darling, and get your battle gear put on.” She pats the arm of the seat next to her. “Do you like my dress? Wansu brought it.”

“It’s very pretty.” What I can see of it looks nice. There’s a cloth draped around Ellen’s shoulders, but it is a lovely color of tulip yellow. Wansu is dressing us to all look soft, like flowers, and I’ve ruined it. “Thank you.”

“Eomoni.”

“What?”

“You will need to call me Eomoni in front of the board. It is a more formal version of ‘Mother,’” she explains for Ellen.

“Right. I forgot,” I reply stiffly. Not the same as what Yujun calls her, but close enough. It could be worse, I can hear him saying, we could actually be related. He was right. Things could be worse than they were the other night, and this is living proof.

“Come sit down,” Ellen says, this time tugging on my pants. “Let’s get this over with.”

I do as I’m told. My hair is tucked back into an elegant bun at the base of my neck and the hairdresser gives way to the makeup artist, who smooths on one cream and then another before she even starts with foundation. Light eye makeup is stroked across my lids. Blush is dabbed on my cheekbones. Highlighter is added to my nose and forehead. The stylist shakes a tube of liquid eyeliner and starts to apply it. I feel the wet liner drawn across my lid, hear a mutter, and then a cotton pad swipes across my eye. This process happens twice more. I tell myself that this isn’t a bad omen, that not even a Korean can apply eyeliner correctly to my eyes.

Wansu—I can’t quite bring myself to call her Eomoni yet—says something sharply in Korean. When I pop open my eyes, I see the makeup artist bowing and stepping backward. Wansu picks up the tube and shakes it again.

“Your eyes are uneven and that’s why the eyeliner is hard to apply. They turn down at the ends and you need to—” Wansu flicks the applicator across my lid. “Close,” she orders. I obey. Two more swipes and Wansu is done.