The sun had already begun its slow descent over the skyline of Seoul, casting long shadows across the glossy floors of the boutique where you worked. The store had quieted for the evening, the hum of designer heels and hurried customers now replaced by soft classical music and the gentle rustle of fabric hangers.

You sat behind the checkout counter, your eyes flicking between the blinking cursor on your laptop screen and the near-empty bank account glaring back at you.

₩52,340.
Barely enough for groceries. Definitely not enough for next month’s rent.

You sighed and leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples. This wasn’t the plan. You were supposed to be working your way through your photography degree with a comfortable part-time job at your dream gallery. Instead, you were folding scarves and steaming overpriced blouses for women who never acknowledged your presence.

Your phone buzzed. A message lit up from your best friend, Soojin.

"Girl, check your email. You won't believe this. And yes, I already said yes for you."

You frowned, clicking open your inbox. The subject line hit you like a truck.

“Job Offer: Private Photography Contract – Confidential Client”

Inside, a brief note explained that you had been recommended as a discreet, talented photographer for an “exclusive, short-term project” working with a celebrity client. Details were vague, but the pay was… absurd. Like, rent-for-six-months kind of absurd.

You blinked, reading it again.

Then again.

A client who was offering to pay that much for a few weeks' worth of work had to either be desperate or incredibly private.

Either way, you had no room to be picky.

The next day, you found yourself riding the elevator of a glass-walled tower in Gangnam, armed with your camera bag and a pit in your stomach. You'd dressed simply—dark jeans, black top, clean sneakers. Professional, but not flashy. The instructions were very clear: be punctual, be discreet, and do not ask questions unless prompted.

The elevator dinged softly. You stepped out onto the top floor, greeted immediately by a tall man in a sleek black suit.

“Miss Y/N?” he asked, bowing slightly.

You nodded.

“Please follow me.”

He led you down a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, the view of the city stretching endlessly beneath you. At the end, he pushed open a door and gestured for you to enter.

The room was minimalistic and modern. Polished marble floors, neutral tones, and a leather couch facing a wall-mounted TV. But it wasn’t the decor that caught your attention.

It was the man standing by the window, sipping coffee and looking devastatingly flawless in a casual black shirt and slacks.

Park Jimin.

Park. Freaking. Jimin.

You froze in the doorway, lips parting slightly in shock. You’d seen him, obviously—who in Korea hadn’t? BTS’s it boy. The idol-turned-actor whose face was on every billboard and whose name was constantly trending on Twitter.

But nothing compared to seeing him in person.

He turned, and your heart did a backflip.

“Hi,” he said, voice smooth, eyes crinkling just slightly in amusement. “You must be the photographer.”

You managed a shaky nod. “Yes. I—I’m Y/N.”

He smiled and set his cup down, then extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

You took his hand, surprisingly warm, surprisingly soft, and prayed your voice wouldn’t tremble. “Nice to meet you too.”

He gestured for you to sit. You sank into the couch while he sat across from you, his body language relaxed but guarded.

“I’m sure you're wondering why you're here,” he said. “And no, this isn’t a photography job.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry?”

He leaned back. “You were recommended by someone I trust. Not just for your work. For your discretion. I need someone to play a part for me. Temporarily.”

You stared, unsure if you’d misheard. “A part?”

He exhaled, eyes flicking to the city view behind you.

“Fake engagement,” he said. “Just for a few months. Public appearances. Photos. Nothing… physical.”

You blinked.

He continued. “It’s to calm the press. My family’s been under pressure—there’s this old contract with another family, and they’re trying to pair me off with their daughter. But if I’m ‘engaged,’ the heat dies down. The contract is void.”

You sat frozen, processing the absurdity of what you’d just heard.

“You want me to pretend to be your fiancée?” you said slowly.

“Yes.”

You stared at him.

“Why me?”

He shrugged. “You’re not in the industry. You don’t have an agency or a PR team to manipulate. You’re smart. Clean image. And, frankly, you’re struggling. I can help.”

Your eyes narrowed. “So, this is a charity gig?”

“No,” he said simply. “This is a contract. A transaction. You help me, I help you.”

“And what exactly does helping you entail?”

“Photo ops. Press events. Maybe a variety show appearance or two. You’ll stay in my penthouse for appearances, but you’ll have your own room. We’ll set boundaries. You’ll be compensated well.”

You looked at him, still stunned by how calm he was. This was not the kind of man who made decisions recklessly.

“What if people find out?” you asked, voice quiet.

“They won’t,” he said. “We’ll make it look real. We’ll even have a photo shoot to announce it.”

You stared at him for a long moment. His eyes didn’t waver.

Your heart was pounding. This was insane. It was also your way out. The debt, the bills, the apartment—this could buy you time to get back on track.

“How long?” you asked finally.

“Three months,” he said. “Unless we need to extend. But the goal is to dissolve it before anyone looks too closely.”

“And after that?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We go our separate ways.”

You sat there, staring at the man whose life seemed so polished on the outside. But the cracks were there—just beneath the surface. He wasn’t doing this for fun. He was doing it to escape something much bigger.

You swallowed.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll do it.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by your quick answer.

“But,” you added, “I have conditions.”

His smile grew a fraction.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

You hadn’t expected to be escorted to a law firm the next day.

Jimin’s assistant—who introduced himself as Minhyuk, picked you up in a sleek black car and handed you a folder the moment you buckled in.

Inside was a comprehensive contract detailing everything from non-disclosure clauses to the timeline of the engagement to compensation figures that made your head spin. There were even stipulations for image rights and social media posts, each line tightly crafted like a script.

“I feel like I’m selling my soul,” you muttered under your breath.

Minhyuk chuckled. “Don’t worry. Jimin's a surprisingly low-maintenance fake fiancé.”

You shot him a look. “Has he done this before?”

“No comment.”

He grinned and turned back to the road.

The meeting room at the law office was stark and cold, with glass walls that made you feel like you were on display. Jimin was already seated at the table when you arrived, looking effortlessly composed in a dark turtleneck and gray blazer. A lawyer sat beside him, flipping through documents with practiced ease.

He looked up as you entered and gave you a small nod.

“You read everything?” he asked.

“I tried,” you said. “It felt like a crime thriller.”

Jimin smiled, but said nothing.

His lawyer gestured toward the dotted line. “Just sign here and initial these three pages.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at Jimin. “You’re really going through with this?”

He held your gaze. “If I wasn’t serious, you wouldn’t be here.”

That was the second time he’d said something like that. And once again, there was a quiet intensity beneath the smooth words—like he wasn’t just saving face, but running from something deeper.

You picked up the pen.

Signed.

Initialed.

It was done.

You spent the next hour with Minhyuk and a stylist named Hana, who immediately took your measurements without asking permission and began listing off designer names you’d only ever seen in magazines.

“You’ll need at least three looks for your first week. Airport, casual, and announcement day,” she said, her tone clipped and professional.

“Airport?”

“Paparazzi love airport fashion. You’ll be ‘caught’ arriving at his family’s estate for a weekend visit. That’ll be the first soft reveal.”

“Oh,” you said, your voice small under the weight of it all. “We’re starting right away?”

Jimin had walked in at that moment, phone to his ear, and caught your question.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, lowering the phone.

You shook your head. “No. Just… adjusting.”

He nodded, then walked past without a word, back into another meeting room.

It was hard to tell if he was cold or just guarded. Either way, you were beginning to realize that this wasn’t going to be a slow descent into his world. You were being dropped headfirst into it.

The next morning, you were whisked away from your apartment at 7 a.m. Minhyuk loaded your suitcase into the trunk and handed you a coffee.

“You’re officially in the engagement bubble now,” he said. “Once we hit Incheon, phones go dark. We’ll leak photos through an anonymous fan account once we land.”

You nodded sleepily, wondering how many cups of coffee it would take to mentally prepare yourself for walking into Park Jimin’s family home as his fake fiancée.

Probably more than one.

The airport was a blur—flashes of cameras, a sea of faces, muffled shouting. You kept your head down and followed Jimin’s lead, one hand on your suitcase and the other tucked loosely through his arm. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t let go either. You moved together like clockwork, rehearsed and silent.

In the car, he finally spoke.

“You did well back there,” he said.

“Thanks,” you replied. “I think I only looked like I was about to throw up once.”

He smirked.

“I didn’t notice.”

The drive to the Park estate was long and scenic, winding through countryside roads and quiet hills. You stared out the window, unsure how to process the fact that you were heading toward a weekend getaway with one of the most famous men in Korea—and pretending to be his betrothed.

The house—or mansion, really—came into view over the next hill. It looked like something out of a period drama. Wide courtyards, intricately carved wood, and a private garden that spilled over the back lawn in a burst of cherry blossom pink and ivory.

Jimin stepped out of the car first, then turned and offered you his hand.

You took it.

Inside, a woman with sharp eyes and flawless posture greeted you with a shallow nod.

His mother.

“Mother,” Jimin said, voice formal. “This is Y/N.”

You bowed deeply. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Park.”

She gave a slight smile—polite, but unreadable.

“I’ve heard… very little,” she said. “But enough to be curious.”

Her gaze flicked down to your outfit—designer, courtesy of Hana—and her smile tightened.

Jimin spoke before the tension could thicken.

“We’ll settle in. Y/N’s had a long trip.”

You smiled again, the muscles in your face starting to cramp. Your cheeks already hurt.

He led you down the corridor, past antique vases and oil paintings, until you reached a large room with two adjoining doors.

“Your room is on the right,” he said. “We share a hallway, but that’s it. No pressure.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“They’re going to watch everything. My parents, the staff, the press—eventually. If you ever feel overwhelmed, let me know. Minhyuk’s always around.”

That was the first time he’d shown genuine concern. It caught you off guard.

“Why are you really doing this?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then, quietly, he said, “Because it’s the only way I get to choose.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing in a mansion, in designer shoes that didn’t quite fit, pretending to be the future wife of Park Jimin.

And for the first time since this started, you wondered what you had truly signed up for.