The scent of wilting lilies hung heavy in the air of "The Glass Greenhouse," a perfume of desperation. Ha Seol stared at the final notice from the bank, her knuckles white as she gripped the paper. It wasn't just a shop; it was her mother's legacy, every petal and leaf imbued with her memory. And she was about to lose it all.
"Unnie, we have a customer," her best friend Soo-ji whispered, her usually cheerful voice subdued.
Seol looked up, forcing a professional smile onto her face. The man who entered didn't look like he belonged in a small flower shop. His suit cost more than her monthly rent, and his expression was one of thinly veiled distaste, as if smelling something foul—which, given the lilies, might have been accurate.
"Ha Seol-ssi?" he asked, his eyes scanning her worn apron.
"That's me. How can I help you? Looking for an arrangement? Perhaps for a loved one?" she offered, her voice practiced and sweet.
The man, who introduced himself as Choi Taek, a publisher, gave a dry laugh. "In a manner of speaking. The arrangement I'm proposing is… slightly more complex." He slid a crisp white business card across the counter. "I represent Yoon Siheon."
The name hit her like a physical blow. The Yoon Siheon. The literary genius whose psychological thrillers topped bestseller lists worldwide. The mysterious recluse no one ever saw.
"I… see," Seol said, utterly confused. "Is he a fan of freesia?"
Choi Taek didn't smile. "He is a fan of nothing, which is the problem. He has writer's block. A severe one. His next manuscript is a year overdue." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He believes the problem is a lack of authentic experience. He needs to observe a romance. Up close."
Seol's confusion deepened. "And you need a romance novelist?"
"No," Choi Taek said, his gaze intensifying. "We need a performer. We need you."
He explained the deal with cold, financial precision. A contract. Six months. She would be Yoon Siheon's girlfriend in public, his "muse" in private. Her job was to be charming, beautiful, and convincingly in love, providing him with the emotional data he needed to write. In return, he would clear all her debts and pay her a sum of money so large it made her head spin.
"It's absurd," Seol breathed out, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was insane. Degrading.
"Is it?" Choi Taek asked, his eyes flicking pointedly to the bank notice still clutched in her hand. "It's a business transaction. You provide a service; we provide compensation. Think of yourself as… a florist for human emotions. You arrange the feelings he needs."
The analogy, so chillingly close to her own skills, sent a shiver down her spine. She was good at reading people, at matching their hidden desires with the perfect blossom. Could she really fake the greatest emotion of all?
That evening, she found herself in the penthouse apartment of Yoon Siheon. The space was minimalist, cold, and silent as a tomb. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the glittering city, not turning to greet her. He was taller than she'd imagined, his posture rigid, his black hair perfectly styled. He was devastatingly handsome, but in the way a marble statue is—beautiful and utterly lifeless.
Finally, he turned. His eyes, a dark, unnerving shade of brown, swept over her, analytical and devoid of warmth. He didn't see a person; he saw a subject.
"Ha Seol-ssi," he stated, his voice a low, smooth baritone that held no emotion. He picked up a binder from a stark white table and handed it to her. "The contract. It outlines your responsibilities, expected behaviors, and the boundaries of our… engagement."
She took it, her fingers trembling slightly. It was dozens of pages long. Clauses covered everything from approved public displays of affection to preferred conversational topics.
"Appendix B details the projected arc of the relationship," he said, as if discussing a project timeline. "The initial 'awkward attraction' phase, the 'growing intimacy' phase, culminating in a believable 'deep emotional connection.' I will be observing and taking notes throughout."
Seol felt a surge of defiance mixed with sheer panic. "And what if the 'data' you collect is unsatisfactory?"
He finally looked directly at her, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn't warm. It was curious. "Then I suppose the narrative will require a different twist. Don't worry, Miss Ha. I'm an excellent writer. I will make sure our story is… compelling."
He reached into a crystal vase on the table—a vase that had been empty—and produced a single, perfect black rose. He held it out to her. The thorns had been meticulously removed.
"The first prop," he said. "A classic symbol for a dark, budding romance, don't you think? It suits the aesthetic."
Seol stared at the flower. It was beautiful, unnatural, and utterly devoid of the life that made real flowers breathe. It was bait. And she was desperate enough to take it.
Her hand closed around the stem. It was cool and smooth.
"It does," she said, her voice steadying as she slipped into the role she was hired to play. She met his analytical gaze with a carefully crafted smile of her own. "I look forward to working with you, Author-nim."
The game was on. She just didn't know yet that in his story, the beautiful love interest often met a very tragic, and artistically satisfying, end.