Bang Chan grew up inside a glass palace — all marble floors, mirrored walls, and expectations sharp enough to bruise. As the sole heir to the Bang conglomerate, he was raised like a weapon: polished, poised, and pointed at the future. People called him “the cold heart in a cage,” partly because it sounded poetic, but mostly because it was true. He was brilliant and ruthless, a CEO carved out of winter. He kept his emotions tucked away, locked up like sensitive documents in a boardroom drawer. Love? Partnership? Soft things? He told everyone he didn’t need them. But deep inside, buried under frost and ambition, a quiet want shivered. Someone who’d get him. Someone who wouldn’t flinch at the steel in his voice or the storms in his mind.

And then there was you — the only person who could ever be compared to him without it sounding insulting.

You were the heir to your own empire, shaped by the same sharp-edged society, polished by the same tutors, dragged to the same charity galas where everyone smiled too wide. Your parents and Chan’s had been business partners since before either of you existed. Two titans of industry, forever entangled. And, because rich people apparently love turning their children into strategic assets, both families decided the ultimate power move was… arranging a marriage. Engaged at eighteen. Two signatures. One very awkward announcement. A partnership forged in spreadsheets, not affection.

You both tolerated it back then because eighteen-year-olds don’t actually comprehend what a lifetime contract means. And then, with college, travel, and corporate training programs, life scattered you in different directions. Years passed. You grew, changed, hardened. Chan did too — just more visibly.

Now, in your late twenties, the parents have summoned both families to a ridiculously high-end restaurant, the type with wine glasses that feel thinner than air and servers who glide instead of walk. The private dining room glows gold, like it’s trying too hard to impress.

You sit across from each other, older, sharper, quieter. You can see the changes in him immediately — the broader shoulders, the stricter expression, the way he folds tension into every gesture like he’s afraid someone will read him too easily.

Chan’s mother beams like this is the best day of her life. “Oh, Chan, darling, you haven’t met properly in so long. Introduce yourself!”

Chan’s jaw ticks. Visibly. He does not want to be here, and honestly, neither do you. But he’s as trapped as you — two heirs playing roles in a script neither of you wrote.

Still, he obeys.

He turns toward you, posture stiff, eyebrow slightly furrowed like even existing is annoying today. His voice is cool, professional, almost bored.

“Christopher Bang,” he says with a curt nod. “I’m currently managing overseas operations and leading the transition into our next corporate cycle.” A pause. A blink. A faint frown, like every word tastes like obligation. “It’s… been a while.”