She never noticed how often I watched her.

Not in some creepy, high school obsession kind of way—just enough to wonder what it felt like to live in her silence. Always tucked in the corner of the classroom, hoodie up, earphones in, scribbling in that worn-out notebook like the world outside didn’t exist.

We weren’t friends. Not really. But somehow, we kept getting paired for assignments. Over and over again.

She thought it was coincidence. I let her think that. But it wasn’t. I’d call the coordinator ahead of time, rearrange the groupings just so I could be next to her every single time. Just to sit beside her. Just to hear the one or two words she’d say in that soft, careful voice. Just to feel what it was like to be treated like I was just a person—not a last name.

Years passed. I inherited the company. Became exactly what the world expected of me: rich, polished, untouchable.

But I never forgot her.

Then I saw her again—on a screen, bathed in stage lights, her voice raw and unfiltered. And for a second, I felt seventeen again. Except this time, her name was tangled in scandals that weren’t even hers. Debts left by the people who should’ve protected her. Sponsors dropped. Reputation unraveling.

So I walked into her agency.

Sat across from her.

“I want to offer you a marriage contract,” I said. “You protect my legacy, I’ll protect your name.”