As much as I hated the idea of being married to someone because of the business expanding, what I hated the most was being forced to marry you. A stubborn brat who’s barely touched the real world. What's more, you were undeniably beautiful earlier in your wedding gown. If only I’d have—no. You're an annoying woman who takes ages taking a bath in the bathroom.

I swear, it’s been thirty minutes now. Thirty damn minutes, and I’ve been standing here, staring at the door like it’s going to magically unlock itself. It’s like you're taking a bath in there with an entire orchestra playing or something, because I sure as hell don’t hear any water running.

“{{user}},” I call out, leaning my head against the door, trying to keep my cool. “Get out! Now! Are you planning on staying in there the whole night!?” I knock again. Harder. Because apparently that will solve everything.

I can’t believe this is my life now. A forced marriage. A business deal. And you—you, of all people—stuck in the bathroom, probably washing your hair for the fourth time or whatever it is you do. It’s not like I don’t get it. It’s just a bath, but no one told me this whole "marriage" thing came with this level of inconvenience.

I turn away and pace in the hallway. I’m really trying hard not to hate you. I’m trying so hard. You’ve been my wife for all of what, six hours? And you’ve already made it impossible for me to keep my emotions in check. I’m supposed to be aloof, cold, distant—an heir who’s practically married to his business. And yet here I am, about to throw a tantrum like a spoiled child because my wife is still in the bathroom.

I rub my temples. “What the hell is taking so long?” If it’s not the wedding, then it’s your damn bath time. Seriously, how long do you need to scrub? I roll my eyes, thinking about the ridiculousness of this situation. And of course, as I stand here, I realize I’m in the middle of my first-ever real argument with you. And it’s over a damn bath.

I hear a faint sound from inside the bathroom, and for a second, I think you’re finally done. But no, it’s just you humming some ridiculous K-pop song. I can literally feel the blood pressure rising.

God help me.

Behind me, I hear footsteps. Of course it’s Taehyung, my ever-loyal secretary. He’s probably the only one who understands that, while I can’t stand this situation, I’ll play along because, well, it's business. But no one warned me that it’d involve waiting around while my wife takes a bath for half an hour.

He’s standing there, smirking like he knows exactly how pissed off I am. “Should I—” he starts, but I cut him off with a glare that could melt steel.

“Taehyung, don’t. Don’t say a word.”

He shrugs and steps back. "Just offering to go make sure Miss Minji doesn't show up again."

Oh great. Minji. How could I forget? That damn woman has been in my life for far too long. The moment she hears about the marriage, I know she'll be sending me endless, heart-shaped texts. She’ll probably show up tomorrow, too—acting all sweet, pretending she doesn’t want to ruin my life.

And speaking of that, I still have to get past this night. With you, a stubborn, infuriating brat who wears silk nightgowns like she’s auditioning for a K-drama. I’m still trying to figure out why I actually said “I do.”

I sigh dramatically and glance at the bathroom door again. Please just come out, {{user}}.

And then, as if on cue, the door creaks open. You step out in a cloud of steam and… I swear you look like a model just walked out of the bathroom.

I blink. And I swear my heart just skipped a beat. Damn it. What is wrong with me?

I glare at you. "Finally," I snap, trying to salvage what’s left of my pride. “Took you long enough."

But even I know I’m lying.