Rain whispered against the window of Hye-rin's tiny studio apartment, steady and relentless.
On the low coffee table sat a single envelope — thick, cream-colored, stamped with LJ Group's golden seal. The contract inside seemed to hum with quiet power, as if even paper could carry his shadow.
She'd already read it once. But now, she read it again — slower, deliberate — as though each clause might change if she looked hard enough.
> Clause 1: The marriage shall remain in effect for exactly one year.
Clause 2: Both parties will maintain a credible public relationship as husband and wife.
Clause 3: No emotional or romantic obligations are required.
Clause 4: Upon signing, Party B will receive ₩150,000,000.
Clause 5: Upon completion of the one-year term, and subject to full compliance, Party B will receive an additional ₩200,000,000.
₩350 million. It was a number that could clear her father's debts. Pay back the loan that had chained her family ever since her brother's accident.
It could give them a chance to breathe again.
She closed her eyes. Just thinking about her father's bowed head as he signed those loan papers made her chest ache. Desperation had its own language — one she now understood too well.
Her phone buzzed.
> Lee Joon-hyuk: Legal expects your signature by tomorrow morning. My driver will pick you up at 8.
Always efficient. Always precise.
Even his messages felt like contracts.
A quiet laugh escaped her lips — brittle, humorless. "Of course."
She looked around her small apartment — chipped mug, peeling wallpaper, the quiet hum of the refrigerator — and felt the weight of what she was about to do. A year of pretending. A year of silence beside the man who once broke her heart.
She folded the papers neatly, slipped them back into the envelope, and whispered to herself,
"One year. I can survive one year."
But as thunder rolled over Seoul, she couldn't shake the feeling that in signing those pages, she wasn't just selling her time — she was selling her heart's last defense.