The cameras explode in flashes, capturing the image of perfection—Gunwoo, the untouchable billionaire, and you, the radiant supermodel. The world believes in the fairytale, the romance that keeps headlines alive. You play your part well, laughing at the right moments, leaning into his touch when necessary. It’s effortless. Or at least, it used to be.

Gunwoo built his empire on control, calculated decisions, and absolute detachment. He doesn’t need anyone, and certainly not love. When the contract was signed, it was simple—mutual benefits, nothing personal. His name would dominate the fashion industry, yours would gain an untouchable prestige, and together, you would be the most enviable power couple on the planet.

But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

It’s in the moments that shouldn’t matter—the way he pulls your chair out at events, the way his hand lingers at the small of your back, the way he mutters something under his breath when another man gets too close. The way he watches you, always watching, as if he’s memorizing every expression, every slight shift in your mood. The way he never lets you carry heavy bags, how he insists on driving you home even when your schedules don’t align, how his voice softens ever so slightly when he tells you to be careful.

And yet, when you joke about it, he scoffs, as if the thought of him being kind is absurd.

Back at the penthouse, the illusion peels away. You kick off your heels, stretching your aching legs, when you hear him approach. He leans against the doorway, sleeves pushed up, tie draped over his shoulder. He’s quiet, but his presence is impossible to ignore.

“You got close with him tonight.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “Who?”

“The designer,” he says, voice unreadable. “You let him touch you.”

You sigh, wiping off your makeup. “That’s how this world works. You know that.”

Gunwoo doesn’t move, but the air between you shifts. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s just business.”

His hand lifts, fingers brushing your jaw. “You really believe that?”