Chapter Text
The contract was thicker than Jihoon expected.
Not because of the legal jargon, he’d anticipated that, but because of what it represented. Weight. Obligation. A future that didn’t belong to him, neatly bound in embossed paper and sealed with a signature he hadn’t given yet.
Across the table, Choi Seungcheol didn’t look at him.
That, more than anything, was what made Jihoon uneasy.
“I trust you’ve read everything,” Seungcheol said, voice even, eyes still fixed on the city spilling out beyond the glass wall of his office. Seoul glittered in the late afternoon light, all sharp edges and ambition.
Jihoon swallowed. “Yes.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d read enough.
Clause 4. Public appearances required at least twice times per week.
Clause 7. Co-residency in the primary residence.
Clause 12. No romantic entanglements that could damage public image.
Clause 18. Compensation transferred monthly.
Clause 22…
He stopped there the first time. The number attached to it had made his chest tighten, not from excitement, but from something heavier. Something that felt like selling more than time.
Seungcheol finally turned.
Jihoon immediately wished he hadn’t.
He’d seen him before, of course. Everyone had. CEO of one of the fastest-growing businesses in the country, known for his sharp business instincts and an even sharper tongue. The media loved him, cold, composed, untouchable. The kind of man who looked like he never hesitated.
In person, it was worse.
There was nothing soft about him. Not his posture, not his gaze, not the way he seemed to assess Jihoon in a single glance and file him away under something dismissive.
“You understand what this arrangement is,” Seungcheol said.
It wasn’t a question.
Jihoon straightened slightly. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
Jihoon blinked. “What?”
Seungcheol’s expression didn’t change. “If you’re going to be my husband, even on paper, I’d like to know you can articulate the role.”
Husband.
The word felt strange. Foreign.
Jihoon forced himself to meet his eyes. “It’s a contractual marriage. I attend events with you, maintain appearances, and act as your spouse in public settings.”
“And in private?” Seungcheol asked.
Jihoon hesitated for just a second. “We…coexist.”
A flicker of something passed through Seungcheol’s eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or disbelief.
“Coexist,” he repeated. “That’s one way to put it.”
Silence stretched between them, thin and brittle.
Jihoon gripped the edge of the folder resting on his lap. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, too loud, too fast. He hated that his nerves were showing, hated that this man, this stranger, could probably see right through him.
But he couldn’t afford to care.
Not now.
Not when hospital bills were stacking faster than he could open them. Not when every call from the clinic made his stomach drop. Not when his father’s voice had started sounding…smaller.
“You’ll move in by the end of the week,” Seungcheol continued. “My secretary will handle logistics. You’ll also be briefed on upcoming events. I don’t tolerate mistakes, especially not in public.”
Jihoon nodded. “I understand.”
Another pause.
Then, casually, too casually, Seungcheol added, “And let’s be clear about one thing.”
Jihoon looked up.
Seungcheol leaned back against his desk, arms crossing. “I don’t care what you do with the money.”
There it was.
Jihoon felt it land before the rest of the sentence even came.
“But don’t mistake this for anything more than a transaction.”
Jihoon’s throat tightened.
“People like you,” Seungcheol went on, voice cool, “tend to blur the lines once they get comfortable.”
People like you.
Jihoon kept his face still. Neutral. He’d learned how to do that a long time ago.
“What matters is that you play your role well,” Seungcheol said. “You’ll be compensated generously for it. That’s all this is.”
A beat.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “I assume that’s why you agreed.”
Jihoon didn’t answer right away.
Because if he did, it wouldn’t come out right.
Because if he opened his mouth, he might say something reckless, something honest.
Instead, he lowered his gaze to the contract again. To the crisp lines of text. To the space waiting for his name.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
That’s why.
Not because his father’s condition had worsened last month.
Not because the doctor had gently suggested a treatment plan Jihoon couldn’t even begin to afford.
Not because he’d spent nights calculating numbers that never added up.
Just money.
That’s what Seungcheol saw.
Jihoon picked up the pen.
It felt heavier than it should have.
“Good,” Seungcheol said.
The word sounded final.
Jihoon signed.
The apartment was bigger than Jihoon’s entire childhood home.
That was his first thought as the elevator doors slid open directly into the penthouse. No hallway. No neighbors. Just space, wide, quiet, immaculate.
Cold.
He stepped out slowly, a single suitcase trailing behind him. It looked embarrassingly small against the polished floors and high ceilings.
“Mr. Lee?”
Jihoon turned.
A woman in a tailored suit approached him with a polite smile. “I’m Mr. Han, President Choi’s secretary. I’ll be assisting you with the transition.”
Jihoon bowed slightly. “Nice to meet you.”
He nodded, efficient. “Your belongings will be brought up shortly. I’ll show you your room.”
Your room.
Not our.
That shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was.
As they walked through the apartment, Jihoon tried not to stare. Everything was…curated. Minimalist, expensive, untouched. Like a showroom no one actually lived in.
“President Choi is still at the office,” Mr. Han said. “He’ll return later this evening.”
Jihoon hummed softly.
Good.
He wasn’t ready to see him again. Not yet.
They stopped in front of a door at the far end of the hallway.
“This will be your space,” he said, opening it.
Jihoon stepped inside and froze.
It wasn’t just a room.
It was a suite. Bedroom, sitting area, walk-in closet, private bathroom. Bigger than any place he’d ever lived in.
For a moment, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.
This is what he’d traded himself for.
“You’ll find a schedule on the desk,” Mr. Han added. “Your first public appearance as President Choi’s husband is in three days. A charity gala.”
Jihoon nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“If you need anything, you can contact me directly.”
“Thank you.”
He gave him one last polite nod before leaving, the door clicking shut behind himself.
Silence settled in.
Jihoon stood there for a long time, unmoving.
Then, finally, he exhaled.
His shoulders sagged, the tension he’d been holding all day slipping just enough to make him feel it.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
There were three missed calls.
All from the hospital.
His stomach dropped.
He called back immediately.
It rang once. Twice.
“Hello?”
Jihoon closed his eyes at the sound of his father’s voice. “Dad.”
“Jihoon-ah,” his father said, warm despite the faint strain underneath. “You’re busy, aren’t you? You didn’t have to call back so quickly.”
“I’m not busy,” Jihoon said, too fast. He forced himself to soften his tone. “How are you feeling?”
There was a pause.
“I’m fine,” his father said.
Jihoon knew better than to believe that.
Still, he swallowed it down. “Did the doctor come by today?”
“Mm. He did.”
“And?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Jihoon’s grip on the phone tightened.
“We’ll talk about it later,” his father said gently.
Which meant it wasn’t good.
Jihoon stared at the floor, vision blurring slightly.
“Dad.”
“I told you not to worry so much,” his father cut in, voice still kind but firmer now. “Focus on your work. Are you eating properly?”
Jihoon let out a small, shaky breath. “Yeah.”
A lie.
“Good,” his father said. “That’s all I care about.”
Jihoon bit the inside of his cheek.
If that were true, this would all be so much easier.
“I’ll visit soon,” Jihoon said.
“You don’t have to come so often.”
“I want to.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “Okay.”
They talked a little longer, about nothing important. Weather. Food. Things that didn’t matter.
Things that felt safe.
When the call ended, Jihoon stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the darkened window.
He barely recognized himself.
Carefully dressed. Composed. Someone who had just signed a marriage contract with a man who thought he could be bought.
Maybe he could.
Jihoon let out a quiet laugh, humorless.
“Three days,” he murmured to himself.
Three days until he had to stand beside Choi Seungcheol and pretend this was something it wasn’t.
Three days until the world started watching.
Behind him, the door to the apartment opened.
Jihoon stiffened.
Footsteps, steady, unhurried, echoed through the space.
He didn’t turn around immediately. Didn’t want to.
“You’re here.”
Seungcheol’s voice.
Closer than expected.
Jihoon turned.
They stood a few feet apart, the distance between them sharp and deliberate.
Seungcheol’s gaze flicked over him once, quick and assessing.
Then he nodded, as if confirming something to himself.
“Good,” he said.
A beat.
Then, with faint disinterest, “Try not to look so out of place.”
Jihoon held his gaze.
And for the first time since signing the contract, something steadier settled in his chest.
“I won’t,” he said.
Even if it killed him.