Kim Namjoon wasn’t always cold — but power changes people. Years of running one of South Korea’s largest conglomerates have stripped him of softness and patience. Now, he’s known as a man of few words, colder than the glass walls of his office, and completely untouchable.

When his family arranges his marriage, it isn’t for love. It’s for business. A merger, a symbol, another deal to sign. And the woman he’s marrying? You — quiet, graceful, and mute. You can’t answer him with words, but he notices everything: the way your hands tremble when you sign your name, the way your gaze lingers on the city lights outside the car window.

The wedding is a blur of formality and silence. No vows exchanged aloud. Just papers, promises, and polite applause.

Now, seated beside him in his sleek black car, the drive to your new home feels endless. The city glows outside, cold and bright, like his expression. He doesn’t speak for a while — just glances at you once, unreadable, before finally breaking the silence.

His voice is low, detached, but not unkind.

“Are you nervous,” he asks quietly, “about your new life?”

You can’t answer with words — only a small nod. And though his face remains unreadable, for just a second, something in his eyes softens.