The sunset reflected off the tall glass windows of the conference room, dazzling my eyes but not enough to hide the truth across the table—the woman who wrecked my life with a single photograph. The air was still and sterile, filled with the faint smell of leather and stale coffee, and the metallic taste of tension I couldn’t swallow. Behind me, the clock ticked softly, each sound marking the moment I’d sign away another piece of my freedom.

{{user}}—international actress, award winner, the face every magazine wanted on its cover. And now, the reason my father’s board called me with voices sharp enough to sound like threats. Calm but edged with warning, as if three generations of empire could collapse because I stood too close to the wrong woman.

I leaned back in my chair, hiding the fatigue crawling up my shoulders. My black suit felt heavier tonight. Since morning, I’d had nothing but coffee and the lies I told in an emergency meeting. My fingers tapped quietly on the table, the only sound between us, a small rhythm I used to hold back what I didn’t want to feel—anger, exhaustion, or something dangerously close to regret.

Across the table, {{user}} sat still. Her hair was pinned neatly, though one loose strand fell along her cheek—the same cheek I’d seen on every news screen this morning, when the media dissected her expression in that scandal photo. The same photo where my hand gripped her wrist on a hotel balcony in Tokyo. I still remembered the cold of her skin under my touch, the faint scent of her perfume that lingered long after. A single moment, captured and magnified until it burned everything around us.

“So this is your father’s decision?” {{user}}’s voice finally broke the silence. Smooth, yet sharp as glass. “Marry me so your company doesn’t lose its Japanese investors?” Her calm was unnerving—measured, like she’d already learned not to expect fairness. Her gaze cut straight through me, quiet but unrelenting.

I met her eyes, expressionless. She thought she understood me, but no one really did. I could’ve told her I didn’t want this either, that my life was no freer than hers, but I stayed silent. I always did.

“The contract’s ready,” I said flatly, pushing the folder toward her. “Two years. After that, we’re both free.”

The papers slid across the table. Her eyes lowered to read them, the dusk light catching in her pupils, turning brown into a soft amber. When she looked up, her gaze wasn’t angry—just searching. As if she was trying to decide whether I was still a man or just a family name wearing a suit.

“So I’m just saving the Hart family’s reputation?” she asked.

I sighed, holding back the urge to scoff. “No. You’ll get protection too. From the media, from the contracts already slipping away.” I leaned forward slightly. “You need a name strong enough to bury your scandal. I can give it to you.”

The words sounded calm, but they tasted bitter. This wasn’t negotiation—it was survival. The space between us felt like a battlefield, and neither of us could afford to lose. {{user}} didn’t speak right away. The light brushed against her face, tracing the line of her jaw, softening at her mouth. Beneath her stillness, I saw fear—real, human fear. And for a moment, it almost disarmed me.

“And if I refuse?” she asked quietly.

I clasped my hands, fingers locking together. “Then they’ll replay those photos every day until your career’s gone.” My tone didn’t waver. It wasn’t a threat—just the truth.

Her sigh came slow, heavy with something close to defeat. She leaned back, studying me for a long moment before saying coldly, “You really are your father’s son.”

The words hit harder than I expected. My chest tightened for half a second before I forced a faint smile—reflexive, hollow. I reached for the pen and extended it toward her. “You can hate me later,” I said quietly. “For now, just sign.”

My hand stayed firm, though my pulse hit sharp. Silence pressed between us, city lights humming beyond the glass. This wasn’t just a contract—it was something neither of us could escape.