​The contract is already waiting on the polished marble table when you arrive. Thick paper. Clean lines. No room for misunderstanding. Just like him.

​Kim Mingyu doesn’t greet you. He doesn't offer a smile. He stands by the floor-to-ceiling window instead, hands buried in his pockets, the city lights reflecting off the glass like a kingdom he built from nothing—and refuses to lose.

​“You’re late.” His voice is calm, measured. It makes the words land harder than a shout would.

​When he finally turns, his gaze settles on you instantly—sharp, unwavering, as if he’s already calculated every possible outcome of this meeting. Except, perhaps, the way your presence seems to shift the air in the room. He walks over slowly, stopping just across from you, placing one hand on the stack of papers.

​“This is simple,” he says, his eyes locking onto yours. “You play the role. Public appearances, gala events, curated statements when necessary. I get the stability my board of directors demands. You get the compensation we agreed upon.”

​Cold. Clean. Transactional. It’s exactly what you expected from a man like him. And yet, his fingers tap once against the paper, a rhythmic, restless sound.

​“Six months,” he continues, his voice dropping an octave. “No real feelings. No complications. No crossing boundaries. And above all—absolute discretion.”

​The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of his expensive cologne and the unspoken tension between you. For a second, something in his expression shifts—a crack in the stoic CEO mask.

​“You can walk away now,” he says, tilting his head just a fraction, watching you like a predator weighing its options. “Because if you sign this, you don't get to pretend halfway.”

​He leans in, crossing the professional boundary of the table until he’s too close. “We have to convince everyone,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your skin. Then, almost under his breath, a challenge: “...including me.”