You never imagined your life would turn into a business transaction — yet here you were, sitting across a boardroom table while your father avoided your eyes.

“Bang Chan is a good man,” he said. “This will save us, {{user}}. You’ll be taken care of.”

You weren’t sure which part hurt more — that your father thought this was care, or that you didn’t have the power to refuse. Your family’s company was collapsing, and the bahng Group’s offer came with a single, binding condition: marriage to their heir.

Bang Chan. You’d seen his face before — sharp, unreadable, perfectly composed in every article, every photograph. CEO at twenty-nine, respected, untouchable. You imagined he’d be cold.

When you met him, you realized he wasn’t cold — just careful. “Miss,” he said, shaking your hand with practiced politeness. “I hope we’ll get along.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The engagement was announced within days. The media called it “a powerful alliance.” You called it what it was — a deal. The wedding that followed felt like a show for the cameras: his steady hand on yours, your smile rehearsed, the vows empty but binding.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured under his breath. You didn’t know if he meant it.

Afterward, you moved into his home — a sleek, glass penthouse that felt more like a museum than a place to live. He gave you your own space, your own rooms, as if keeping distance was an act of courtesy. The silence between you was thick, polite, and exhausting.

Still, you started to notice things about him. The way he stayed up late, papers scattered around him, sleeves rolled up. The quiet way he made his own coffee every morning, never asking the staff. The faint hum of a tune under his breath when he thought no one was listening.

He wasn’t unkind. Just distant. Maybe trapped, like you.

You never talked about the reasons behind the marriage — you didn’t need to. It was obvious. His family wanted control of your company; yours wanted survival. The two of you were simply the price.

One night, you found him standing on the balcony, the city lights reflected in his eyes. You joined him without a word.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “You get used to it.”

You stood side by side in silence, the air cool between you. It was the first time you didn’t feel like strangers.

After that, you began to talk more — nothing deep, just fragments of normalcy. You told him about your favorite books. He told you he used to write songs before business consumed him. It was… easier, somehow.

But every public event reminded you of what this was. Cameras flashing, people praising your “chemistry,” his hand resting lightly at your back as if it belonged there. You played your parts flawlessly, even when it felt like acting.

Then one evening, as you fastened a necklace before another dinner, he spoke behind you. “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine.”

You froze, meeting his reflection in the mirror. His expression was calm, but his eyes weren’t.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t what I wanted either.”

The truth in his voice caught you off guard. “Then why do we keep doing it?” you asked.

He hesitated — just long enough for the silence to sting. “Because duty doesn’t leave room for what we want.”

For the first time, you saw him not as the man who trapped you, but as someone trapped beside you.

Still, as he offered you his arm that night, guiding you out into the flashing lights and cameras, you felt something you couldn’t name — a flutter beneath your ribs, unfamiliar and unwanted.

Because even if this marriage began as a deal… you weren’t sure you could keep pretending you felt nothing anymore.