Marriage did not begin with vows.
It began with an elevator.
Gold doors slid shut behind me, sealing away the noise of reporters, the hospital, the version of my life where I still belonged to myself.
I stood beside Kang Min-jae, close enough to feel the quiet heat of him, far enough that our arms did not touch.
Neither of us spoke.
On the mirrored wall across from us, a stranger stared back at me.
She wore borrowed elegance—a coat provided by his assistant, heels chosen in a hurry, hair smoothed by hands that would not stop trembling. A woman who looked like she had stepped into a dream she could not afford.
Beside her stood the man who owned half the skyline.
Impeccable suit. Perfect posture. Absolute control.
My husband.
The word wrapped around my thoughts like silk that tightened the more I breathed.
Temporary, I reminded myself.
Six months. A performance.
Survive it.
The elevator rose smoothly, numbers blinking past in silent judgment.
Min-jae's phone vibrated. He checked the screen, typed a short response, then returned it to his pocket.
"Your father has been transferred to a private recovery suite," he said.
Relief hit so suddenly my knees almost failed. "Already?"
"I told you I handle matters efficiently."
"Thank you," I whispered.
He studied me as if gratitude were unfamiliar territory.
"Do not thank me yet," he said. "You have responsibilities starting tonight."
The reminder cooled the warmth spreading through my chest.
Of course I did.
I had signed them.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened.
And I walked into a world so far from mine it might as well have been another planet.
The penthouse was quiet in the way expensive places always were. Soft lighting. Endless glass. Furniture that looked untouched, as though real life had never been allowed to wrinkle it.
Staff lined the entrance.
They bowed.
"To Madam," one of them said.
The title nearly made me look behind myself.
Min-jae's hand pressed lightly at my back, guiding me forward. To anyone watching, it would appear intimate.
Supportive.
But I felt the direction in it.
Stand here. Smile. Belong.
"This is my wife," he said.
No hesitation.
No softness either.
Just a statement of fact.
I bowed awkwardly, unsure what a wife was supposed to do in a house like this.
Their eyes swept over me—curious, surprised, calculating.
They would be discussing me before the hour ended.
The poor girl.
The sudden marriage.
How long will she last?
Min-jae dismissed them with a glance. The line dissolved instantly.
Power, effortless and terrifying.
"Come," he said.
I followed him deeper into the apartment, heels sinking into carpet softer than anything I had ever owned.
"This will be your room," he said, opening a door.
I paused.
Your.
Inside was a bedroom larger than our entire home. Silk sheets. City lights spilling across marble floors. A closet already filled with clothes that still carried tags.
"I don't understand," I said.
"We will maintain appearances," he replied. "But I work late. Separate rooms will prevent… complications."
A strange mix of relief and something I refused to name flickered through me.
"Right," I said quickly. "Of course."
He watched my reaction too carefully.
"Disappointed?" he asked.
"No!"
His mouth curved faintly.
"Good," he said.
Because if he had stepped closer in that moment, I wasn't entirely certain I would have remembered this marriage was supposed to be fake.
A phone buzzed somewhere in the apartment.
Min-jae checked his watch.
"We attend a dinner in two hours," he said. "Investors. They will want proof this marriage benefits me."
"Proof?" I repeated.
He met my eyes.
"Stay near me," he said. "If I touch you, you don't pull away. If I speak for you, you let me. Understood?"
It sounded less like instruction and more like ownership training.
But I nodded.
Because my father was breathing in a better hospital room.
Because I had agreed.
Because it was too late not to.
"Good," he said again.
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway.
"Seo-yeon," he added.
It was the first time he had said my name.
It did something unsettling to my pulse.
"Yes?"
"You represent me now," he said quietly. "No one embarrasses what belongs to me."
Belongs.
The word lingered long after he was gone.
And for reasons I did not understand yet…
it didn't feel temporary at all.
The city lights stretched endlessly outside the massive windows. I could see the glow of traffic below, each car a tiny heartbeat in the rhythm of a life I had never known. And yet, inside the penthouse, I felt trapped in silence, as if the walls themselves waited for me to fail.
Min-jae returned from checking messages on his sleek phone, expression as unreadable as ever. "We leave in one hour. Dinner with the board. You must be ready."
I nodded, unsure if I was ready for anything. The idea of being paraded as his perfect wife to powerful investors made my stomach churn. I didn't belong here. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this.
He watched me in the mirror as I changed into the outfit chosen by his assistant: a fitted dress, elegant but understated, shoes that pinched my feet after minutes. "Straighten your posture. Walk with confidence. You are mine tonight," he said, his voice low and controlled, almost hypnotic. The word "mine" made my pulse stutter in ways I did not expect.
The dinner was held in a private room of a five-star hotel, lights dim, crystal chandeliers glinting above polished tables. As soon as we arrived, all eyes turned to us. Investors murmured, their whispers brushing across me like a chill wind. I felt Min-jae's hand at the small of my back, guiding me forward, correcting my stance without a word. Each movement reminded me: I belonged to him—for the world to see, and for reasons that would remain secret.
We took our seats. Conversation started superficially, but under every compliment, every nod, I could feel the tension. Min-jae introduced me as his wife. The word echoed in my mind. Wife. Temporary, contractual, but somehow the reality of it pressed into my chest with weight I had not anticipated.
At one point, an investor glanced at me with a hint of curiosity. "Is she involved in your company, Min-jae?" he asked casually.
"She supports me," Min-jae said, eyes locked on mine. "She understands the responsibilities that come with proximity to power."
I blinked. Proximity. Understand. Support. The subtlety of his words, meant to elevate me in their eyes, felt more like a claim. My cheeks heated. I wanted to pull back, to say nothing, to vanish into the shadows, but he leaned closer, whispering, "Do not embarrass me."
I swallowed, nodding.
Halfway through dinner, he stood abruptly. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, leaving the room. I exhaled in relief—but then noticed a man approaching our table from the shadows. A waiter? A spy? My imagination spun faster than my pulse. He smiled politely, taking the empty seat across from me. "Ms. Han, you must be careful. Your life is more observed than you think."
I froze. The man's words mirrored thoughts I hadn't allowed myself to voice. He leaned closer, lowering his voice: "Watch him. Watch everything."
Before I could ask, Min-jae returned, cool and composed, slipping into his seat like he hadn't left. His hand brushed against mine under the table, and heat surged through me. This was supposed to be a performance. Yet the casual intimacy he projected made my stomach twist in ways I could not control.
The night wore on, filled with champagne toasts and boardroom chatter disguised as small talk. Every time I dared to glance at him, I saw it: the faint tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to potential threats, the protective stance that seemed to grow tighter whenever anyone spoke to me for too long.
And then the moment came that I would never forget.
A young investor, bold and smiling, reached toward my hand. "So, how does it feel to be married to someone like Min-jae?" he asked lightly, brushing my fingers.
I recoiled instinctively. Min-jae's hand was over mine in an instant, palm pressing down, a subtle warning. The boardroom laughed at the display—interpreted as a charming gesture—but I felt exposed, cornered, and fully claimed. Possession had never been a word I had imagined would apply to me, and yet here it was, sharp and undeniable.
After dinner, he escorted me back to the penthouse. The elevator ride was silent, heavy. I wanted to speak, to ask him questions, to understand what this life meant. But the words lodged in my throat.
When the doors opened, I stopped, looking down at the city. The cold night air from the terrace pressed against my face through the open door. He joined me silently.
"You did well tonight," he said. "Better than I expected."
I blinked. "You expect me to perform?" My voice trembled with a mix of anger and something else I couldn't identify.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. "Seo-yeon," he said, my name like a command. "This isn't a game. The world is watching. And so am I. One mistake—one misstep—and I will make sure you regret it."
Fear and something darker rose inside me. His words weren't threats—they were statements of possession. And yet, beneath that, I sensed care, a strange protection I could not name.
"I… I understand," I said softly.
He nodded once, satisfied, then turned away. "Rest. Tomorrow will be harder."
I stayed on the terrace long after he left, watching the city and feeling the weight of what I had agreed to. Temporary. Contract. Six months. That was all it was supposed to be. But my heart refused to accept simplicity. With every beat, it seemed to whisper something I could not acknowledge: that this arrangement, this powerful, dangerous man, had already changed everything.
And as I finally slipped into the bedroom, exhausted, I felt a shadow across my mind: the real test had only just begun.
Sleep did not come.
Seo-yeon lay beneath sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and wealth, staring at a ceiling too smooth, too perfect, as if even shadows had been trained to behave in this place. The silence pressed on her ears until she could hear the echo of her own pulse.
Wife.
The word replayed again and again, each time sounding less temporary.
She turned onto her side, clutching the edge of the blanket, trying to remind herself why she was here. Her father was safe. The lawsuit was gone. Debt would no longer swallow her family whole.
This was the price.
So why did it feel like she had signed away something no contract could ever return?
A soft sound interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
Footsteps.
Measured. Calm. Approaching down the hallway.
Her breath caught.
There was no reason to be afraid — this was his home — yet awareness prickled across her skin. She sat up slowly, heart racing, as the steps stopped outside her door.
A pause.
Then a quiet knock.
Not loud.
Not demanding.
But certain.
"I know you're awake," Min-jae's voice came through the wood, low and steady.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "Do you need something?" she asked, hating how small she sounded.
"No," he replied.
Silence followed.
She waited for him to leave.
He didn't.
Finally he spoke again, softer this time.
"Get used to the attention," he said. "From tonight onward, every enemy I have will look for ways to reach me."
Her fingers tightened in the sheets.
"And they'll start with you."
Her stomach dropped.
"Why tell me that now?" she whispered.
"Because," he said, and she could almost see the shape of him on the other side of the door, hand resting against the frame, eyes dark with thoughts he did not share, "fear keeps people close."
Close.
To him.
Before she could answer, his footsteps retreated down the hall.
Leaving her alone.
Wide awake.
And suddenly aware that being Kang Min-jae's wife did not just mean protection.
It meant being within reach of his war.