The first time I met Kang Min-jae, he was deciding whether my life was worth the inconvenience.
I knew it from the way he watched me.
His gaze didn't wander over the peeling hospital walls or the flickering fluorescent light above our heads. It stayed on me with a stillness that made my skin feel too tight, like I had stepped under a microscope instead of into a hallway that smelled of antiseptic and quiet despair.
Outside the tall windows, rain devoured the city. Cars moved in blurs of red and white, people hunched beneath umbrellas, life continuing with cruel indifference.
Inside, my world balanced on a signature.
I had not slept in three days. My father lay behind the intensive care unit doors, tubes and machines breathing rhythm into a body that had always seemed unbreakable to me. Every time the monitor beeped, it felt like a countdown I couldn't see.
And in front of me stood the man who could end it all.
Kang Min-jae.
CEO. Heir. Untouchable.
Merciless, if the rumors were true.
"You asked for ten minutes," he said, glancing at the silver watch at his wrist. Even the movement looked expensive. Controlled. "You have eight."
Eight minutes.
I swallowed, forcing my spine straight. Begging worked better when you pretended you still had dignity.
"My father guaranteed the shipment your company rejected," I said, proud that my voice did not crack. "He didn't know the supplier falsified the safety reports. If you pursue the lawsuit, he'll be prosecuted."
Min-jae didn't blink.
"The documents carry his approval," he replied.
"He trusted them," I whispered.
"Trust," he said mildly, "is not a legal defense."
The air thinned.
I had rehearsed my speech a hundred times in the bathroom mirror, practicing calm, practicing logic, practicing how not to fall apart. But nothing prepared me for the reality of speaking to a man who held futures like coins in his pocket.
"My father has worked honestly his entire life," I said. "If he loses this case, we lose our home. The hospital bills alone—"
"That is unfortunate," Min-jae said.
Unfortunate.
The word hit harder than if he had shouted.
He wasn't cruel.
Cruel required emotion.
He was simply unmoved.
I hated him a little for that.
And I hated myself more for needing him.
"Please," I said.
The sound slipped out of me before I could stop it. Small. Human.
For the first time, something in his expression shifted—not sympathy, but attention sharpened. Like a businessman finally hearing numbers that interested him.
"You came alone," he observed.
"We can't afford representation."
"And yet," he continued, "you requested a private meeting with me rather than my legal department."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because everyone said you were the only one who could change the decision.
Because powerful men sometimes liked to play gods.
Because if I had any chance, it was with you.
But I didn't say those things.
Instead, I met his eyes and answered honestly.
"Because you can stop this."
Silence pooled between us.
He studied me in a way that made heat creep up my neck. I became aware of my wrinkled blouse, the coffee stain near my sleeve, the fact that exhaustion had stripped away every careful layer I usually presented to the world.
I was nothing like the women who appeared beside him in business magazines.
I was simply desperate.
And desperation, I realized, was currency.
"What are you offering?" he asked.
My thoughts stumbled. "I… I'm asking for mercy."
"No one approaches me empty-handed," he said. "So I'll ask again. What are you offering in return?"
Humiliation flared hot in my chest.
"I don't have money," I said.
"I know."
"I don't have influence."
"I know that too."
Something dangerous flickered behind his calm.
"But you do have something," he finished.
My heartbeat quickened.
"I'm not selling myself," I said immediately.
His gaze sharpened, but he shook his head once.
"I didn't ask you to."
Relief tried to come.
It didn't fully arrive.
Because he still hadn't told me what he wanted.
Footsteps interrupted us. One of his aides hurried down the hallway, phone in hand, whispering urgently in Min-jae's ear.
I caught fragments.
"…shareholders…"
"…marriage rumors…"
"…public stability…"
Min-jae listened, face carved from stone.
When the man retreated, Min-jae looked at me again.
Not as a nuisance.
As a possibility.
A chill traced my spine.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Han Seo-yeon."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"Any scandals? Debts? Criminal associations?"
"No!"
The corner of his mouth moved faintly, almost amusement.
"Good," he murmured.
I did not like the direction this conversation was taking.
"Why are you asking me that?" I said.
Instead of answering, he asked another question.
"Are you married?"
The world seemed to tilt.
"No," I said slowly.
"Engaged?"
"No."
"Dating someone who might object?"
My throat tightened. "No."
He held my gaze.
Then, very softly, Kang Min-jae smiled.
It was not kind.
It was the smile of a man who had just solved a problem worth millions.
"I may have a solution for both of us," he said.
And suddenly I understood.
My pulse roared in my ears.
"No," I breathed.
But he had already stepped into the future.
"Yes," he said.
"No," she had said.
But Kang Min-jae had already seen the answer forming behind her fear.
They moved to the hospital café, a quiet corner cleared swiftly by security. Seo-yeon felt the shift immediately. Space followed him. Obedience followed him. Decisions bent toward him before he even voiced them.
He did not sit like a man making a request.
He sat like a man announcing an outcome.
"I require a wife," he said.
The bluntness stole the air from her lungs.
"You don't even know me," she managed.
"I know what matters," he replied. "You are not connected to my competitors. You have no history that can be weaponized. Your reputation is clean, and you need something only I can provide."
"My father," she whispered.
"Yes."
The word landed gently.
Ruthlessly.
"This will stabilize my position with the board," he continued. "In return, your father's legal and medical problems disappear. Permanently."
Her mind spun.
Marriage.
Not dating. Not pretending for an evening.
Marriage.
The kind that came with signatures and headlines and consequences she could not yet imagine.
"For how long?" she asked.
"Six months," he answered. "Perhaps a little more if required."
"And then?"
"We divorce. Quietly. You are compensated. Your family is secure."
It sounded simple when he said it.
Contained.
As if emotions could be scheduled for termination.
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
Min-jae held her gaze.
"Then my legal department proceeds," he said.
Not cruel.
Just honest.
"I need to see my father," she said.
He nodded once.
"Five minutes," he replied.
Generous.
Measured.
As if he were already granting her privileges.
The ICU hummed with mechanical life.
Seo-yeon stood beside the bed, staring at the man who had once carried her on his shoulders, who had never returned home without bringing her something small and sweet, who believed the world rewarded hard work.
She took his hand carefully.
"I'm going to fix it," she whispered.
His eyelids fluttered, but he did not wake.
Tears threatened, but she forced them back.
Crying would not change anything.
Power would.
And power sat in a café downstairs, waiting for her answer.
"I'll make sure you come home," she promised.
Even if she never truly did.
When she returned, Min-jae was exactly as she had left him.
Certain.
He looked up as she approached.
"Well?" he asked.
Her throat burned.
Every instinct screamed at her to run, to reject this cold, terrifying arrangement, to keep at least one piece of her life untouched by men like him.
But love rarely chose pride.
"I'll do it," she said.
She expected relief.
Instead, he simply nodded.
"As expected," he replied.
Documents appeared immediately, drawn from a leather folder by his assistant. Prepared in advance.
Of course they were.
Her hands trembled as she took the pen.
There were paragraphs about conduct, confidentiality, duration, public expectations. Words designed to prevent chaos.
No paragraph explained what happened if her heart betrayed her.
"Once signed," Min-jae said, "there is no reversal without consequence."
She hesitated.
He noticed.
"Ms. Han," he added more quietly, "I keep my promises."
So do I, she thought.
And signed.
When it was done, the assistant vanished.
They were alone.
Just husband and wife.
The title felt absurd.
Heavy.
"From this moment," Min-jae said, standing, "your problems are mine."
It should have comforted her.
Instead, she wondered what of his would become hers.
He extended his hand.
After a breath, she placed hers in it.
His grip was warm.
Steady.
Claiming.
Outside, the press had already gathered.
Seo-yeon stopped when she saw the cameras.
"You said this would be controlled," she whispered.
"It is," he replied.
"By you."
He stepped closer.
"Yes."
The honesty stunned her.
Flashes burst like lightning beyond the glass doors.
Min-jae leaned down, his voice lowering so only she could hear.
"If we hesitate, they will smell weakness," he murmured. "And they will tear you apart."
Her heart pounded.
"I don't know how to be your wife," she confessed.
His gaze softened — only slightly, but she saw it.
"Stand beside me," he said. "I will do the rest."
The doors opened.
Noise attacked them instantly.
Questions flew, chaotic, endless.
Min-jae's arm came around her waist with smooth authority, drawing her into him. The contact shocked her system, heat rushing through nerves already too aware.
To the world, it was romantic.
To her, it was terrifying.
Because it felt natural.
"Chairman Kang! When did you start dating?"
"Was this arranged?"
"Madam, how do you feel?"
Min-jae did not slow.
"My wife is overwhelmed," he said coolly. "Direct your curiosity at me."
My wife.
The possessiveness in it sent a strange shiver through her.
She realized something in that moment.
The contract might have forced the marriage.
But the claim?
That part came easily to him.
At the car, he paused, turning to her.
"Smile," he instructed gently.
She tried.
It felt fragile.
But his thumb brushed once at her back — approval, encouragement, or warning, she wasn't sure.
"Good," he said.
Then he opened the door and helped her inside like she was something precious.
Something breakable.
Something is already his.
As the vehicle pulled away, Seoul vanished behind tinted glass.
Seo-yeon watched the hospital disappear.
Watched the last place she had belonged fade into distance.
She had saved her father.
She had done the right thing.
So why did it feel like she had just stepped into a cage lined with silk?
Beside her, Kang Min-jae adjusted his cufflinks, calm, composed, victorious.
Without looking at her, he spoke.
"Get used to it," he said.
"To what?" she asked faintly.
His eyes met hers.
Dark.
Certain.
"To be mine."