Han Seo-yoon chose his file the way she chose everything that mattered now: without blinking.
On the tablet before her, Kang Jin-hyuk's life was flattened into neat lines of text, the chaos of a human being pressed into bullet points and digits—hospital debt, tuition loans, employment history, disciplinary record from the Conservatory. His portrait was the only thing that resisted containment: a grainy ID photo where a younger man stared at the camera as though it had interrupted him mid-breath.
Not handsome in the obvious way the PR team preferred, she noted. Nose slightly crooked. Eyes too direct. Jaw set as if he was arguing with someone the photographer couldn't see.
Still, there was something there—something… resonant. Disconcertingly alive.
Her finger hovered over the screen, then tapped.
"Confirm candidate," she said.
The AI assistant chirped, "Confirmation requires verbal affirmation of contract conditions, Executive Chair Han."
"I confirm," she replied. "Draft the contract. Three years. Full debt acquisition. Comprehensive medical coverage for Kang Won-sik. Add non-disclosure and non-compete."
"And emotional fidelity clause?" the system asked, in that painfully neutral voice that never sounded shocked by any corporate permutation of intimacy.
Seo-yoon's lips barely moved. "Unnecessary."
"Logged," the AI said. "Scheduling first meeting. Optimal time: forty-eight minutes from now. Location: Executive Level, Private Lounge B."
Of course. Efficiency was the only romance her calendar recognized.
She locked the screen and rose. Outside the glass wall of her office, the city sagged under late autumn rain. Han Group's headquarters pierced the gray sky like a polished accusation—steel, glass, and the reflected dreams of millions of consumers who never questioned the logos in their hands, on their screens, pasted over their lives.
Her father's building.
Her battleground now.
The door opened before she reached it. Secretary Park bowed, tablet clutched to his chest.
"Executive Chair-nim, Director Han has requested—"
"No," she said, walking past him.
He hurried to keep pace. "He says it concerns the Ethics and Governance Committee. The board is convening in forty-five minutes."
"Then I will see them in forty-five minutes," she said. "After my meeting."
Secretary Park hesitated. "With… the candidate?"
Seo-yoon paused at the elevator. He looked nervous; his glasses sat slightly crooked, as though they'd been pushed too many times under stress.
"Do you disapprove, Secretary Park?" she asked mildly.
He paled. "No, Executive Chair-nim. I only worry that Director Han will—"
"Director Han has worried about a great many things since my father's death," she replied. "Our schedules cannot be dictated by his anxieties."
The elevator slid open. She stepped inside, her reflection multiplying in the mirrored walls: black suit sharp as a blade, hair swept back, expression unreadable. A woman carved from discipline and necessity.
As the doors closed, her tablet buzzed with an incoming message.
From: Legal Affairs – Special Counsel
Subject: New Appointment
She opened it. A single line:
Per board resolution 11-27C, Attorney Choi Ye-rin has been appointed Internal Compliance Auditor, granted full oversight of familial contracts and marital disclosures.
Attached: a photograph.
Seo-yoon's eyes lingered, just for a second.
The woman in the photo was in her early thirties, hair in a precise bob, lips painted a muted wine. Her gaze was cool, appraising, the kind of cool that knew how to warm itself at controlled fires—other people's secrets. She wore a smile that did not involve her eyes.
Another vulture, she thought. This one with a law degree.
"Of course," she murmured. "Right on schedule."
The board would not attack her contract directly. That would appear regressive, spiteful. Instead, they sent someone in a tailored suit and moral language, wielding "compliance" like a scalpel.
New antagonist. New variable.
She closed the file as the elevator slowed.
Private Lounge B was designed for seduction—not of bodies, but of alliances: muted lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows blurred by rain, furniture in warm earth tones that suggested intimacy without ever quite delivering it. The city spread below like a board game waiting for its players.
He was already there.
Kang Jin-hyuk stood by the window, his posture uneasy in borrowed formality. The suit fit him well enough, but his body disagreed with it—shoulders too familiar with weight, hands too used to work. One hand rested on the back of a leather chair, the other curled in a half-fist at his side, as though it remembered an instrument that was no longer there.
He turned when she entered.
Those same direct eyes, now older than the photo. A scar along his right knuckle, white against tanned skin. He took her in quickly, once, then again more slowly—as if recalibrating whatever he had expected.
"Han Seo-yoon-ssi?" he asked.
"Executive Chair Han," she corrected, crossing the room. "But for the purposes of our arrangement, 'Seo-yoon' is acceptable in private."
His brows lifted slightly. Not quite amusement, but close. "And in public?"
"In public," she said, "you will call me jagi."
He blinked, color touching his ears. "We're starting at that level already?"
"We have very little time," she replied. "Please sit."
They took opposite ends of a low table. Between them, a pot of tea steamed quietly, unnoticed.
She placed the tablet on the table, but didn't turn it on. "You have read the preliminary outline," she said. "Before we finalize, I want to hear your understanding of the contract."
He studied her for a beat, then nodded.
"You clear all of my debts," he said. "Hospital, education, everything. You transfer my father to a better facility and cover his treatment. Three-year term. Publicly, I'm your husband. In private, we live… separately, unless you need me at events or for interviews."
His gaze flicked briefly to the window. Rain traced uneven paths down the glass. "I drop my current jobs. You provide a stipend. I sign a non-disclosure agreement that basically means I take this to my grave."
"You omitted certain elements," Seo-yoon said.
"Such as?"
"No romantic obligation," she replied. "No physical, unless we choose otherwise. No claim to Han Group assets during or after the contract. No challenge to succession rights. And one more condition—added this morning."
His jaw tightened. "Which is?"
She met his gaze. "You cannot return to professional music during the three-year term."
Silence stretched, thin and sharp.
He laughed once, without humor. "You're banning me from playing the cello now?"
"I am restricting you from public performance or commercial activity using your name or likeness as a musician," she said. "You may play in private if you wish."
His hands flexed. "You read my file. You know I'm not playing anyway."
"I know your injuries are recoverable with proper rehabilitation," she replied. "I also know the world has not forgotten your scandal, no matter whose fault it actually was."
His eyes narrowed. "You think I did it."
"I think you took the fall," she said. "Whether that was noble or foolish is irrelevant. The stain remains. If you re-enter the spotlight, they will not say 'virtuoso.' They will say 'disgraced.' And then they will say 'husband of Han Seo-yoon.'"
His gaze sharpened. "And that would hurt your empire."
"Yes."
He leaned back, studying her as if she were a difficult score he'd been handed at the last minute. "So that's all this is to you. An image correction."
"That is not 'all,'" she said. "It is one part. The board demands 'family values' to justify the succession. A married woman is easier to tolerate than an unmarried one. A devoted husband is a more palatable accessory than another acquisition."
"And I am… an accessory."
"A strategic asset," she corrected.
He snorted softly. "You really do talk like a contract."
"I talk like someone who intends to survive."
The words dropped between them heavier than any legal clause.
He watched her, something like understanding flickering through the irritation. "Your uncles," he said, almost casually. "They're the ones pushing this 'family' thing?"
"Among others."
"And they don't think a woman can run the company."
"They think a woman should run a household," she replied. "I intend to run both."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Ambitious."
"Necessary."
The door slid open without a knock.
Seo-yoon did not turn. Only her eyes shifted, cutting toward the entrance.
Director Han Sang-gu entered with the confidence of a man who had never been denied entry to any room in his life. His hair was silver at the temples now, but his frame remained broad, his presence heavy. He wore his suit like old armor, the tie slightly looser than protocol demanded—a calculated informality.
Behind him walked a woman in a dark blue suit, tablet in hand. Choi Ye-rin. The new compliance auditor. Her eyes flicked over the room, absorbing fine details: the distance between chairs, the untouched tea, the relaxed tension in Jin-hyuk's posture.
"Seo-yoon-ah," Sang-gu said, voice booming as if he were on a stage. "You start important meetings without informing the board now?"
"This is not a board matter," she said. "This is a personal contract negotiation."
"In this company," he replied, strolling closer, "your person is the board's matter."
He turned his attention to Jin-hyuk, appraising him with a faint curl of disdain.
"This is the candidate? The… musician?"
Jin-hyuk stood automatically, shoulders squaring. "Kang Jin-hyuk," he said, bowing.
Sang-gu did not bow back. "You don't look like a husband."
Jin-hyuk's jaw tightened. "What does a husband look like, Director-nim?"
"Not like someone who works with his hands," Sang-gu replied. "My niece deserves better than callouses and scandals."
Choi Ye-rin's gaze flickered, just once, at the word scandals.
Seo-yoon rose, placing herself at a slight angle between Jin-hyuk and her uncle. The movement was subtle, but Ye-rin's eyes noted it.
"Uncle," Seo-yoon said, her tone level. "This interruption is inappropriate. The board meeting begins in twenty-nine minutes."
"It moved up," Sang-gu said. "Because of this." He gestured vaguely, as though the possibility of her marriage were a distasteful odor. "The committee cannot approve a union without due diligence. I have brought Miss Choi. She will ensure everything… aligns with regulation."
"Attorney Choi Ye-rin," Ye-rin said, bowing. "Internal Compliance."
Her voice was smooth, unhurried. She turned to Jin-hyuk. "I look forward to reviewing your history in detail, Mr. Kang."
Something in her tone pricked the back of his neck. He met her gaze, and they held it: his wary, hers politely predatory.
"I thought this was a personal matter," he said.
"In chaebol families," Ye-rin replied, "there is no such thing."
"Miss Choi will be conducting a thorough examination of this man's past," Sang-gu said, ignoring them. "We cannot have… surprises. Not now. Not with the government already breathing down our necks about that safety violation last quarter."
"Which your division caused," Seo-yoon said.
His smile tightened. "We all suffer together in this family, don't we?"
"Some of us profit more comfortably," she replied.
He laughed, but his eyes cooled. "You may play at being your father's heir, Seo-yoon-ah, but this empire was not built on games. The public will scrutinize this marriage. If there is even a hint of impropriety—"
"There will not be," she said. "You may brief the board that I will attend as scheduled."
Ye-rin closed her tablet. "Before we proceed too far, I must ask a preliminary question," she said. "For clarity."
"Ask," Seo-yoon said.
Ye-rin's gaze moved between them like a measuring tape. "Is this marriage based on mutual affection, or is it a contractual arrangement for corporate optics?"
The question hung in the air, bare and sharp. Jin-hyuk felt the weight of it press against his ribs.
He looked at Seo-yoon.
Her expression did not change. "Affection can be cultivated," she said. "Our arrangement is mutually beneficial, legally sound, and personally consensual. Han Group does not involve itself in the… emotions of its executives."
Ye-rin smiled, slow and small. "Of course. We simply ensure that what appears as truth is not, in fact, deception."
"There is no deception," Seo-yoon said.
Jin-hyuk heard, or thought he heard, the slightest hitch before the last word. A ghost of hesitation quickly buried.
Ye-rin inclined her head. "Then you won't mind if I verify that."
She turned to leave, but paused at the door. "Mr. Kang."
He straightened. "Yes."
"I used to attend your concerts," she said. "Before… everything."
The room shifted almost imperceptibly.
"You played with an unusual intensity," she continued. "I remember thinking you would burn yourself out." Her eyes held his, calmly. "I was not wrong."
She left without waiting for a response.
Sang-gu smiled, satisfied. "Twenty-five minutes, niece. Don't keep the board waiting. They are less patient than I am."
He exited as well, the door hissing shut behind him.
Rain tapped insistently at the glass.
The silence that followed was different from the one before—a silence with edges.
"So," Jin-hyuk said at last, exhaling. "New compliance auditor. Old fan."
"An auditor is never a fan," Seo-yoon replied. "She is an antagonist."
"You say that like a fact."
"I say that like someone who reads appointment memos," she said. "The board does not hire anyone without a purpose. Her purpose is to find fault. In you, if possible. In me, if not. In us, ideally."
He sat again, more slowly. "And the 'Shadow Benefactor' in my file?" he asked quietly. "The one who holds the real evidence about what happened at the conservatory. Was that you?"
"No," she said. "But someone has been very diligent about preserving leverage over you."
He swallowed. "If they decide to pull that trigger, everything about this marriage looks fake. Fraudulent."
"Yes."
"You still want to go through with it?"
She met his gaze. "Do you still want your father to live?"
He flinched, but did not look away. "That's a dirty move."
"It is the truth," she said. "You asked for honesty in the email you sent my office. I am giving it to you."
He thought of the late nights at construction sites, the ache in his hands, the stale instant noodles in hospital waiting rooms, the sound of his father's breathing—the way it rattled, too shallow, too strained.
Three years.
Three years of being a lie so his father could stay alive.
"You're really not going to ask if I love you?" he said, half-bitter, half-incredulous.
"I do not require love," she replied. "I require reliability. Discretion. Performance."
He laughed, softer this time. "You sound like you're casting a drama."
"We are," she said. "It airs every day. Prime time."
His eyes met hers across the table. Something moved in them—not surrender, not exactly consent, but the recognition of a trap he was choosing to step into.
"All right," he said. "I'll be your devoted, trophy husband, Executive Chair Han. I'll smile for the cameras. I'll call you jagi in public and pretend it's real."
His voice dropped, roughened by something that might have been anger, or grief, or both. "But I won't forget who I am. And if, someday, I get my hands back… if I can play again…"
"You will not do it publicly during the term," she said.
"And after three years?" he asked. "When this contract ends?"
She held his gaze. For the first time, her eyes softened—barely, like frost thinking about melting.
"After three years," she said quietly, "you will choose. Empire or stage. My reputation or your soul. I will not pretend those will be compatible."
His breath caught at the starkness of it.
"You're very sure of the future."
"I am very sure of people," she replied. "They do not forgive as easily as they claim."
He studied her, then nodded once.
"Then we have three years to prove you wrong," he said.
She said nothing.
Outside, the rain intensified, blurring the city into indistinct shapes—towers and streets and lives smeared into watery streaks. Inside, two people signed an invisible line neither could cross without burning.
"Secretary Park will bring the finalized contract in ten minutes," she said, gathering her tablet. "Read it carefully before you sign, Mr. Kang."
He watched her stand, his eyes lingering on the rigid set of her shoulders.
"And you?" he asked. "Do you read contracts carefully before you sign them, Executive Chair Han?"
She paused. He could not see her face, only the reflection of it in the rain-streaked glass.
"I no longer sign anything," she said, "that I am not prepared to lose everything for."
When she left, the door whispering shut behind her, the room felt suddenly too large.
Kang Jin-hyuk flexed his scarred hands, feeling the ghost-weight of a bow between his fingers, the invisible curve of a cello against his chest.
Three years, he thought.
Somewhere, perhaps in a different building, perhaps in the shadowed corners of a different city, someone else read a file with his name on it. Fingers tapped an encrypted drive. A faint smile curved unseen lips.
The Shadow Benefactor had just learned that his favored pawn was stepping onto a much bigger board.
Deception and truth, the benefactor mused. Such inefficient words for what people did to survive.
On the thirty-seventh floor, rain pressed its cold face against the glass. Inside, the first move had been made.