The contract felt heavier than it should have. Each page crisp, every clause a reminder that her life was being rewritten in legal ink.
Temporary marriage. Confidentiality. Public appearances. Behavior expectations.
Her name looked foreign beside his. Kang Hye-rin, printed in black, trapped under the weight of Lee Joon-hyuk.
She closed the folder and pressed her fingers to her temples. What kind of person agreed to something like this?
The door opened without warning. He stood there, sleeves rolled, expression cool. "You've read it?"
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin. "It's… thorough."
He stepped closer, each movement precise, deliberate. "That's the point. No surprises."
"Except one," she murmured. "You didn't say why."
His gaze flickered. For once, words didn't come easily. "The board is pressuring me. You already know that."
"That's not what I meant."
He said nothing. Just silence — heavy, knowing, the kind that felt like a confession he'd never voice.
When she finally signed, her hand trembled only once. He took the paper, his fingers brushing hers again. No smile, no relief. Just a long breath.
"From today," he said, "you're my wife."
A contract wife. A name without meaning. And yet, as the ink dried, something in her chest shifted — the faint, dangerous echo of what if.