Rindo had chosen you the moment he saw you—chin tilted, eyes unreadable, voice calm even in a place meant to break people down. You weren’t supposed to be there. You’d been sold off by someone you trusted, pushed into a world you never wanted.

When Rindo approached, the others whispered that he always got what he wanted. A Bonten executive didn’t need to ask twice. But when he heard you say—quiet, steady—that you were saving yourself for marriage, he let out a short, disbelieving scoff.

A moment later his hand closed around your wrist. Not rough. Not gentle. Just final.

He marched you straight out of the building, ignoring the voices calling after him. The ride was silent, his jaw tense, his grip never once leaving your hand. You had no idea where he was taking you—until he stopped in front of the marriage registry office.

Inside, his signature slashed across the paperwork without hesitation. Then he pushed the pen toward you. A beat. You signed.

The night that followed was slow, quiet, nothing like the industry you’d been sold into. Rindo didn’t rush, didn’t demand—just stayed close, hands steady, gaze uncharacteristically soft when you let him in.

You fell asleep expecting to wake up alone, a divorce paper waiting on the nightstand, a man like him already bored of the impulse.

Instead, you woke to the smell of miso soup, clattering pans, and Rindo standing at the stove in his shirt from the night before—sleeves rolled, hair damp, acting like cooking breakfast for his new wife was the most normal thing in the world.

He glanced back at you, expression unreadable but softer than anything you’d seen from him yet. As if divorcing you had never once crossed his mind.