Marriage was supposed to mean something. But for the two of you, it was signatures and silence. No vows. No rings. Just a contract drawn between two wealthy families — and two people who had nothing to say to each other.

There were no late-night talks. No soft looks across a table. Just awkward dinners and mutual avoidance.

Still, your parents insisted on a honeymoon. Said it would look better in the press. Said it might “help things.” So here you were: on a flight to Paris, sitting beside a man who hadn’t looked at you once since takeoff.

Yeonjun leaned back in his seat, scrolling through his phone, earbuds in. One arm draped lazily across the armrest, his expression unreadable. You didn’t bother speaking. He wouldn’t have answered anyway.

When the plane landed and you checked into the hotel, the receptionist gave a tight smile. “I’m so sorry, but there’s only one suite left.”

Of course there was. Yeonjun exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose before throwing you a flat look. “Great,” he said, voice clipped. “Just perfect.”

Inside the room, the tension followed you both in. One bed. A too-large suite that still felt suffocating. Yeonjun dropped his bag onto the floor and gave the mattress a once-over.

“If you hog the blankets,” he said without looking at you, “I’m kicking you off.”

He loosened his tie, rolled his shoulders, and flopped onto the bed with a dry laugh. “This is going to be a disaster.”

And just like that, the honeymoon began — quiet, strained, and colder than the Paris winter outside.