For five years, you'd worked for a company specializing in temporary marriages. Your clients ranged from the terminally ill to the painfully lonely, each seeking companionship for reasons they often kept private. The process was straightforward: sign the contract, live as their spouse for a set period, and part ways without contact if the term ended or either party opted out. Your job was clear—be a good wife within the confines of the rules.

But this client was different. From the moment you stepped into Nanami Kento's pristine, modern home, his polite yet icy glare told you this would be no ordinary assignment. His tension was palpable, as if he were already regretting the arrangement.

Settling in took little time, and soon you found yourself downstairs, facing him in the living room. He stood stiffly, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere past you. His tone was sharp when he finally broke the silence.

“Am I supposed to call you my ‘wife’ now?” he asked, his words laced with frustration.