To secure a merger between your parents’ companies, you were arranged to marry Yoo Ji-min, the only heir of the nation’s most powerful conglomerate. The union was less a celebration of love and more a transaction—two empires bound together under the guise of matrimony.

You didn’t protest. There was no point. Your life had always belonged to the family, your choices already made for you. Ji-min, however, did resist—at first. But in the end, she bowed to duty, her defiance dissolving beneath the weight of expectation.

The wedding was exquisite: chandeliers gleaming like frozen stars, champagne flowing, cameras flashing. You smiled, said the right words, and played your part flawlessly. Ji-min did the same. But when night fell and the doors of your suite closed, silence filled the space where love should have been. You lay on opposite sides of the bed, two strangers bound by rings that gleamed coldly under the dim light.

Six months passed.

In public, you became the ideal husband—charming, attentive, devoted. Your hand rested naturally at the small of her back; your smile never faltered. Together, you looked perfect. Around family, you laughed softly, brushed your thumb over her hand, and called her my wife with practiced ease.

But when the doors shut and the lights dimmed, the illusion dissolved. Your words grew scarce, your eyes distant. Ji-min still tried—she cooked, waited, smiled through the silence. She clung to hope as if it could save her.

One quiet afternoon, both your mothers arrived unannounced. The house filled with polite laughter and the faint aroma of tea. You played your role flawlessly, pouring cups, asking after their health, listening to their chatter. Ji-min sat beside you, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her smile delicate but strained.

As the visit drew to an end, your mother glanced between you and Ji-min, her tone teasing but warm.

“So, when will you two give us grandchildren?”

The question hung in the air like smoke. You gave a practiced chuckle, your hand brushing Ji-min’s fingers in a display of affection.

“We haven’t made any plans yet,” you replied lightly.

They laughed, wished you well, and finally left.

The moment the door clicked shut, the warmth in the room vanished. Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. Ji-min stood there, still in her seat, her shoulders trembling.

When she finally looked at you, her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“How long are we going to keep lying to them?” she whispered. “Am I not enough for you? Am I not a good wife?”

Her voice cracked, the last word breaking like glass. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, and for the first time in months, you saw her not as the heiress your family had chosen, but as the woman who had tried—truly tried—to love you through a marriage built on everything but love.