You were not expecting to be summoned by Jimin’s father the next morning.

Minhyuk delivered the message over breakfast, casually, like he wasn’t asking you to walk into a room with a man who practically ran half the country’s corporate empire.

“He’s in the west library,” Minhyuk said, setting your coffee down with a subtle nod. “Wants to speak with you. Alone.”

“Did he sound… angry?”

Minhyuk tilted his head, considering. “No. But he sounded like your time was up.”

Great.

The west library was exactly what you imagined—floor-to-ceiling shelves of ancient books, mahogany furniture, and a sweeping second-floor balcony that wrapped around like a spiral staircase made of old money and stricter expectations.

Jimin’s father sat behind a massive desk, flipping through a leather-bound planner. He looked up only when the door closed behind you.

“Miss Y/N,” he said. “Sit.”

You obeyed.

He studied you for a long moment, fingers folded neatly over the desk like a judge preparing to deliver a sentence.

“My son has always had a taste for the unconventional.”

You stayed quiet.

“Music. Fashion. Independence. I let him indulge because it kept him from disappearing completely. But this engagement...”

He paused, eyes narrowing.

“This is different.”

You swallowed. “I understand your concerns, sir.”

“I doubt you do,” he said. “Because you’ve walked into a life where every gesture is currency. Every word has weight. And if you're careless, you won't just ruin him—you’ll ruin us.”

“I’m not trying to ruin anything.”

He leaned back slightly. “Then help me understand something, Miss Y/N. What is it you want?”

You hesitated.

The obvious answer—money—was no longer the full truth. Somewhere along the way, your reasons had shifted.

“I want to stop pretending,” you said finally. “And I want Jimin to be happy. Whatever that means for him.”

His eyes flicked over your face, like he was searching for cracks.

Then, to your surprise, he nodded.

“Good answer.”

You blinked.

He stood, slowly buttoning his suit jacket.

“Be careful,” he said, voice quiet now. “My son has been strong for a very long time. But even strong things break.”

The media didn’t wait long before demanding more.

By that evening, Minhyuk stood in the middle of Jimin’s penthouse, tablet in hand, reading headlines aloud like a war general reporting battle status.

“Netizens speculate wedding date could be announced by end of month.”
“Industry insiders say venue scouting already in progress.”
“Jimin and Y/N: The wedding of the year?”
“Anonymous tip claims wedding is real—ceremony planned for fall.”

You blinked. “We never said anything about a wedding.”

Minhyuk shrugged. “You didn’t have to. The kiss. The photos. The narrative is out of your hands now.”

Jimin pinched the bridge of his nose. “We were supposed to end this in three months. We’re barely past week two.”

“Do we... go along with it?” you asked.

Silence.

Then Jimin looked at you, eyes serious. “What if we didn’t end it?”

You froze.

“What?”

“I mean it,” he said. “What if we didn’t end it at all?”

You stared at him, your heart thudding.

“Are you asking me to make this real?”

He hesitated, then stepped closer. “I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere between pretending to love you and actually loving you... the difference disappeared.”

Your breath caught.

“You love me?”

He smiled softly. “I think I do.”

You weren’t ready for the weight of that confession—not in a penthouse with staff nearby, not with cameras waiting just outside the building. But more than that, you weren’t ready for how deeply part of you wanted to say it back.

Because it was getting harder to remember when the acting ended and the real moments began.

You took a shaky breath.

“Jimin, this started because I needed money. Because you needed to escape. We were never supposed to—”

“I know,” he said gently. “But we did.”

Silence stretched again.

Then he reached for your hand.

“I’m not asking for forever,” he whispered. “Just... don’t walk away yet.”

You stared at your fingers laced with his.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“Me too.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You sat on the balcony outside your temporary room in the penthouse, watching the Seoul skyline flicker in and out of view. The noise of the city was distant here, but your mind was loud.

So when the glass door slid open and Jimin stepped out in sweatpants and a hoodie, it felt like déjà vu.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said.

“What thing?”

“Overthinking.”

You smiled faintly. “Old habit.”

He sat beside you, pulling a blanket from the chair and tossing it over both your shoulders. The warmth wasn’t just physical—it was quiet comfort, the kind that only came when words weren’t needed.

After a while, he said, “You don’t have to say anything now. Just... stay.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“I’m here.”

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was enough.

The next morning, you were woken by a knock—not Minhyuk, not staff.

It was Jimin.

“Get dressed,” he said softly. “We’re going ring shopping.”

You blinked, groggy. “Wait—what?”

“We’re being followed anyway,” he said with a half-smile. “Might as well give them what they want.”

You stared at him for a long second. He looked unusually casual—white tee, jeans, messy hair that hadn’t been sculpted by his team.

But there was a seriousness in his eyes. Not performance. Not pressure. Something else.

Curiosity? Hope?

You nodded, quietly.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

The jewelry boutique was tucked into a quiet corner of Cheongdam, the kind of place that didn’t advertise its existence because the clients already knew where to go.

Inside, soft piano music floated through the air as the sales associate bowed and greeted Jimin with hushed reverence. They didn’t acknowledge your presence at first—not out of rudeness, but habit. You were the girl on his arm. An accessory to the one who mattered.

But then he surprised you.

“This is my fiancée, Y/N,” he said. “She’ll be choosing.”

Their postures changed immediately. Smiles appeared. Complimentary drinks were offered. A whole tray of velvet-lined boxes appeared within seconds.

You sat beside him, fingertips brushing the edges of satin and gold, blinking down at stones that shimmered like dreams you never believed you could touch.

“You okay?” Jimin asked softly.

“I feel like I’m playing dress-up.”

His eyes flicked toward you. “You’re not.”

You picked up a simple ring—rose gold, a narrow band, with a single oval diamond. It wasn’t the most expensive. But it was... quiet. Beautiful in the way paper flowers could be.

“I like this one,” you said, almost surprised by the certainty.

Jimin smiled.

“So do I.”

He turned to the associate. “Wrap it.”

Of course, by the time you exited the store—Jimin’s hand in yours, a tiny velvet box in your clutch—the press was already outside.

Click. Click. Click.

“Is the date set?”
“Where’s the ceremony?”
“Jimin, is she pregnant?”
“Is this real or another PR stunt?!”

You flinched at that one.

Jimin paused just long enough to hold your hand up to the flashing cameras. The ring caught the light, glinting like the answer to every question.

“She’s mine,” he said simply, before guiding you through the crowd, past the chaos, and into the car.

It wasn’t until you were halfway down the Han River highway that the shaking started.

Small at first.

Then bigger.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Jimin reached over and gently wiped a tear from your cheek.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, choking on the lump in your throat.

“It’s too much. The cameras. Your family. The ring. I don’t know where I fit in any of this. It’s like I’m watching someone else live my life.”

Jimin didn’t say anything right away.

Then, slowly, he reached across the seat and pulled you to him, letting your head rest against his chest as the tears came, warm and sudden and overwhelming.

“You fit with me,” he said quietly. “And that’s all that matters right now.”

You fell asleep like that—curled against him in the back seat, your tears finally slowing, your heart finally quieting.

When you woke up, the car was parked outside your old apartment.

Confused, you sat up. “Why are we here?”

Jimin gave a crooked smile. “You said you missed your old life. I figured we could visit.”

You stared at him. “You're insane.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

You stepped out of the car and looked up at the cracked brick facade, the peeling paint, the familiarity of it all. You hadn’t seen the building since you left for his world.

Your knees went weak just from standing on this sidewalk.

“Come on,” he said, holding your hand. “Show me where you used to dream.”

Inside, your landlord let you in without question—he recognized Jimin, of course. Probably had already called his niece to brag by now.

The apartment was empty, cleaned out after you left, but the light still streamed through the windows the same way.

You stood in the middle of the room, remembering the smell of instant coffee, the piles of photo prints, the sound of rain on the old tin balcony roof.

“I used to lie here,” you said, dropping to the floor, “and imagine I’d wake up somewhere else. Just for a day. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere safe.”

Jimin lowered himself beside you.

“And now?”

You looked at him, voice soft. “Now I don’t know where safe is anymore.”

He reached for your hand again.

“Maybe it’s not a place,” he said. “Maybe it’s a person.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned closer, but didn’t kiss you. Just brushed his fingers along your jaw.

“I don’t want to fake this anymore,” he whispered.

You looked into his eyes—still haunted, still human—but no longer hiding.

“Then let’s stop.”

He nodded.

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t under pressure. It wasn’t for the cameras or the press or the Park family legacy.

It was yours.

Completely.