I. The Corporate Trigger
Kim Taehyung returned from the clinic, the chilling certainty of Dr. Lee's diagnosis—The Lie must be maintained at all costs—weighing heavily on him. Dr. Lee's words, "The biggest trigger of all, Chairman, is the Vow itself," echoed in his mind like a death knell. He felt less like the Chairman of Taewon Group and more like a high-security warden, constantly policing his own home. He decided he needed to sterilize the house completely of any corporate remnants, a task he should have completed weeks ago, before this psychological time bomb was brought into his sanctuary.
He moved through the house with surgical precision, gathering stray memos and removing all decorative items that vaguely resembled Taewon's logo. He was in the middle of emptying an old desk drawer in the unused study—a room Ha-eun rarely entered—when he momentarily set down a small, heavy object on the living room table as he passed through: a sleek, engraved Chairman's pen—a rare, expensive gift reserved only for the Taewon Group's highest executives. The metal gleamed under the afternoon light.
Ha-eun ('Eun-ji') was sketching peacefully nearby, humming a tuneless melody, entirely absorbed in her work. But as her eyes casually caught the sunlight reflecting off the gold cap of the pen, she froze. The humming stopped instantly. Her breathing hitched, and the easy smile vanished, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
"That pen..." she whispered, her gaze locked on the object with the intensity of a predator. Her eyes, usually bright with childish curiosity, were momentarily sharp, calculating, and cold—the undeniable, terrifying eyes of the former Chairwoman, Bae Ha-eun. The brief return of that fierce, ruthless intelligence was a chilling confirmation of Dr. Lee's warning. "That pen is for signing... for signing things that hurt people. It seals the end of all hope and promises."
She slammed her hand over her ear, letting out a small, distressed cry that was half-whimper, half-scream. "Make the cold sound stop, Taehyung! I don't want to hear the paper rip! I hear the sound of the contract tearing the family apart!"
The flash of recognition was immediate, potent, and terrifyingly brief. It was a perfect, devastating trigger. Taehyung's heart hammered against his ribs. He didn't hesitate; he lunged forward, sweeping the pen off the table and hiding it deep inside his suit pocket. He immediately knelt beside her, his protector's mask firm, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice.
"It's gone, Eun-ji. It's gone. It was just a pen for writing funny poems, I promise. I swear on the Affection Clause," he murmured, pulling her close and shielding her from the empty space where the pen had been. "The cold sound is gone. Focus on your blue melancholy, my little painter."
Ha-eun buried her head in his chest, trembling violently, clinging to him as if he were the only solid object in a collapsing world. The crisis passed, and the sharp, calculating look slowly melted away, replaced by the vulnerable fear of a child. Taehyung held her until her breathing evened out. He had his proof: the psychological barrier was fragile, and the memories of the Taewon corporate trauma were lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right tool to unlock the prison.
II. The Dramatic Demand
The house remained quiet for a long while. The brush with reality had shaken Taehyung more than any corporate coup. He knew he had to reinforce the new identity, not just by removing threats, but by building a stronger, safer future for 'Eun-ji'.
Later that evening, after the tension had subsided and Ha-eun had demanded her scheduled (and slightly extended) Briefing Hour, she settled down to watch her favorite escape: a highly dramatic K-Drama on the large screen. It was a scene involving a highly emotional, over-the-top wedding—swirling white lace, violins swelling, and tears streaming down the groom's perfectly styled face.
Ha-eun turned to Taehyung, her eyes wide with sudden, innocent, and completely unwarranted resolve.
"Taehyung! I have figured out the solution to the Permanent Vow!" she announced, gesturing grandly at the television. "The secret to eternal safety and love is right there!"
Taehyung nearly choked on his black tea. He had been reviewing quarterly reports on his tablet and had barely registered the drama. "We need to what?" he managed, trying to sound calm.
"Married!" she repeated, clapping her hands with delight. "Like in the drama! That's how you show the world and the sad poets that you will never, ever abandon me to the corporate darkness! The pretty dress is proof that the happy poet side won! It is the ultimate, non-negotiable Affection Clause!"
The idea of marrying the woman who was legally his corporate rival, who thought she was a poet with a tragic destiny, and whose memory could flip back to a ruthless CEO at any moment, was utterly absurd. It was reckless, insane, and completely impossible.
Yet, he realized, the demand addressed her deepest, most fundamental need: permanent, institutionalized security. It was the ultimate antidote to the trauma caused by the broken Vow. By marrying him, she wasn't seeking power or status; she was seeking a fortress against the truth.
"Taehyung, why are you frowning? Does the thought of eternal devotion to the Corporate Poet fill you with financial anxiety?" she asked, her bottom lip starting to tremble—a potent tool she had recently discovered.
"No, Eun-ji," Taehyung lied smoothly, setting down his tablet. "The thought of eternal devotion is... compelling. I am merely calculating the logistical framework required for such a high-stakes union."
III. The Lesson on "Mehnat"
Knowing he couldn't simply refuse the "ultimate vow" without triggering another breakdown, Taehyung chose to explain marriage using terms she understood: a serious contract requiring effort ('mehnat') and rigorous corporate planning.
"Eun-ji," he said gently, moving to the sofa beside her. "Marriage is not just a pretty dress and emotional crying. It is a very complicated co-habitation agreement that legally and emotionally lasts a lifetime. It is the most complex contract the human race has ever devised."
"Hard work?" she frowned, genuinely confused. "Why is it hard work? The man on the screen just showed up, held a big ring, and then they cried dramatically! That is not work; that is just being very emotional! My poetry is emotional, but I don't call it work!"
"That is the drama, not the reality," Taehyung countered, leaning into the Chairman's explanatory mode, choosing his words carefully. "The drama shows the signing, but not the due diligence. That is where the mehnat comes in."
"In reality, marriage requires due diligence. It requires resource allocation—time, attention, and security. It requires emotional management—constantly ensuring both partners' needs are met and their inner artists are respected. It is a daily, committed effort."
"Like sharing my blue paint?" she asked, her eyes widening with a glimmer of understanding.
"Exactly! Like sharing your blue paint," he confirmed, relieved, "and dedicating resources to creating a safe environment where neither partner is demanding a forehead kiss every hour on the hour, which is a severe violation of the existing 'Affection Clause' terms. We would need to work very hard (mehnat karna) to keep the promise solid and legally binding."
Ha-eun watched the drama screen, where the couple was now dramatically kissing, then looked back at Taehyung, her head tilted, still unconvinced by the corporate jargon.
"Your explanation is extremely taupe, Taehyung. It lacks all the necessary lyrical punch. But in the drama," she insisted, pointing at the TV as the bride threw her bouquet, "she just said 'I do,' and then they kissed! That's how my marriage will happen, Taehyung. With a lot of crying and a very dramatic, unplanned declaration of permanent artistic partnership! Not with your boring contracts and due diligence!"
Taehyung sighed, a genuine, soft smile finally touching his lips. He realized his life was destined to be a high-stakes, ruthless corporate reality constantly interrupted by an impossible, demanding romantic comedy. He had won the empire, but he was trapped in an absurd love story forged by lies and psychological necessity. He knew the only way to protect her from the Vow was to embrace her Affection Clause, no matter how ridiculous the demand.
"Perhaps," Taehyung conceded, leaning in to brush her hair back. "But until we conduct the necessary due diligence for that unplanned dramatic declaration, we stick to the terms of the Co-habitation Agreement. No surprise declarations, no painting on the antique furniture. Only scheduled limericks and two mandatory forehead kisses before midnight." He pulled her closer, his ultimate vow now redefined not by corporate law, but by therapeutic necessity.