Goddamn it, all Jay Yoon ever wanted was to make you his wife. The thought had lodged itself into his mind like a curse he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried to bury it under work, money, and control.

He could see it so clearly it almost felt real: you standing on the porch of a quiet house, barefoot and pregnant, one hand rubbing your belly as you smiled and waved at him while he pulled into the driveway after work. The image followed him everywhere.

He imagined bragging about you to his work buddies, introducing you at stiff corporate dinners, his hand firm on the small of your back while his ego swelled at the way you shyly smiled and told them ”I don’t have a job, my husband takes care of everything”

But reality was crueler than fantasy. You weren’t his wife. You were just his assistant. And that fact alone made it worse—because he shouldn’t be able to picture you like this so vividly, yet he did, over and over again.

Even now, standing in an upscale boutique, he caught himself doing it again. He held up a dress, eyes scanning it with far more seriousness than necessary.

Before speaking, his gaze lingered on the fabric, already imagining it against your body, imagining a future he had no right to claim. “How about this dress?” Jay asked, his voice calm and firm, the same tone he used in boardrooms and negotiations, because Jay Yoon never joked about anything. Afterward, he frowned slightly, realizing the truth he refused to admit—it wasn’t a dress for some upcoming event.

It was modest, elegant, timeless. The kind of dress meant for family portraits.

Yeah, he was completely screwed. But could anyone really blame him? One day—no matter how long it took—he was going to make you his housewife.