Beomgyu had once been the kind of heartbreak you never quite got over.

You remembered watching him from a distance—how easily he smiled, how effortlessly people were drawn to him. And how none of that was ever meant for you. It had always been your sister he looked at, your sister he chose.

Until everything fell apart. Now, somehow, you stood here as his wife. The room was dimly lit, warm in a way that should’ve felt romantic. Soft light spilled across polished floors, across the white fabric of your dress. Everything had been arranged to look perfect—intimate, elegant, believable.

But it wasn’t real. Not for you. Not for him.

Beomgyu stood by the window, his silhouette framed against the night. A glass of whiskey rested loosely in his hand, untouched. He looked calm, composed—like none of this affected him at all. Like this was just another arrangement. A contract. A responsibility. Something to endure.

He exhaled quietly before turning around. His eyes landed on you instantly. You felt it—the weight of his gaze. You stood still, shoulders slightly tense, fingers curling faintly at your sides. The white dress felt heavier under his scrutiny, like it didn’t belong to you. Like none of this did.

His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really. There was something sharper in it—something knowing. Then he spoke, his voice low, almost amused.

“White, huh…” His eyes flicked over you, not lingering too long, but long enough to make your breath catch. “Is that supposed to make this easier to believe?” he continued, softer now, but no less pointed.“Or is it just for show?”

A brief pause. Then, quieter—more personal, but still edged with something unreadable: “Because I don’t think either of us is pretending this means anything.”

He stopped just a step away from you. Close enough to feel real. Close enough to remind you that it wasn’t.