Chapter 21
Those unusually clear, dark eyes stared straight at Yoon-jae without a single blink.
“Ha Yoon-jae.”
When those red lips called his name, he tore his gaze away from the woman he had been staring at as if spellbound.
It was unlike him.
“Should I say it’s nice to meet you?”
The tone and smile that followed were relaxed.
Her stylish two-piece outfit, paired with glittering accessories that made no effort to hide their sparkle, was elegant yet dazzling—perfectly matching her healthy, bronzed skin.
She had arrived ten minutes early, and after glancing him over without a hint of awkwardness, she opened those red lips again.
“My father said I’d like you once I met you in person. I can see why now.”
The confidence that even her voice carried made Yoon-jae tilt his head slightly.
“Am I being treated like a product?”
“Of course not.”
She denied it immediately, then shrugged with a faint smile.
“Or maybe I am. But I’m up on the display stand too, so let’s not act like either of us is a victim.”
Even without hearing the rest, he could guess what she meant.
Smiling lightly, she took a sip of fragrant coffee and asked,
“What do you think of me, Mr. Ha Yoon-jae?”
He wasn’t sure what answer she was fishing for, so he simply said what came to mind.
“You look like a person. Not a product.”
Somehow, it felt okay to say that.
Even though it was a sly jab, she smiled instead of being offended. He had gotten a clear read on her—short but certain—and didn’t bother to beat around the bush.
“Are we getting married?”
In a meeting like this, where the will of the two people involved didn’t matter, there was really only one thing to discuss.
She let her smile fade for the first time, took another sip of coffee, and said as if reading from a page,
“At this rate? We’ll probably get married before we even realize it. We’re already engaged, after all. Your mother’s already called me.”
“……”
“She said, ‘Please take good care of my son.’”
“Son.”
Yoon-jae finally interrupted her, his posture leaning back, a faint indifference on his face.
“I assume you already know I’m the child born outside the family.”
He said the open secret aloud, one no one dared mention, and let out a dry laugh.
“Ever wonder what it’s like living without a name in the family register, only to end up cleaning up after your half-brother?”
It could have sounded self-pitying, but his expression was utterly steady—no trace of emotion.
“I don’t see what difference it makes. My mother’s a stepmom, too. And I’ve got a half-sibling as well.”
“Good for you. Living as an illegitimate child is tougher than people think.”
“……”
Her lips twitched slightly at the warning in his words—don’t compare yourself to me.
She let out a short, silent laugh, then downed her lukewarm coffee.
“Let’s wrap this up after we finish this. Next time we’ll have dinner, and after that, I guess we’ll get married.”
Her mocking smile was half-hidden by her cup. Yoon-jae raised his own glass.
Water and oil.
A bastard son and a child of mixed blood.
Two people who came from opposite worlds but met in the same place—both thought the same thing.
“The worst.”
That was the first meeting between two fiancés who hadn’t even shared a proper conversation.
Silence lingered through the living room.
No words, no eye contact—just quiet.
She was kneeling on the carpet before the sofa, as if being punished, while he stood watching her.
Having left early for work that morning and come home slightly ahead of schedule, Yoon-jae couldn’t help but ask at the ridiculous sight before him.
“What are you doing?”
Kneeling there, hands in her lap, she looked like a child in trouble as she replied obediently,
“Confessing my sins.”
“Got a lot of free time?”
“Sorry?”
“Seems you’ve got plenty, considering all the pointless things you do.”
His brutally direct remark made her lips twitch, but she couldn’t complain—not while supposedly repenting.
With her demure posture and downcast eyes, she said sincerely,
“I’m truly sorry.”
“For what?”
Damn it.
Feeling a bead of sweat on her temple, she adjusted her glasses—a nervous habit that helped her think clearer.
Gulp.
Even now, her mind replayed last night’s disaster on a relentless loop:
[Take it slooow. Too fast.]
[Do you realize how ridiculous you’re being right now?]
[…I don’t want to. It’s really bad. Tastes awful.]
[There’s too much ugliness in the world. Way too much.]
[So don’t become one of them.]
That was enough remembering.
It had been her first time ever getting drunk—and not just tipsy, but messy drunk. When she woke up in the middle of the day, the person who had witnessed all her humiliating behavior had already gone to work.
There was no excuse. Carefully, she raised her hands.
“Should I lift my hands too?”
If he told her to, she would’ve done it instantly. Licking her dry lips, she started to explain—no, excuse herself.
“I’ve never been drunk before, really. I’m not usually the kind of person who talks nonsense like that. I swear. Yeah.”
Of course, she knew better than anyone that talking too much never helped.
Like a meditating monk, Yoon-jae kept silent, watching her.
“That’s all?” he asked.
“…What?”
Her big round eyes blinked in confusion, not catching his meaning.
“Convenient memory you’ve got there.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
She blinked again, clearly lost, and he clicked his tongue quietly.
“What a pointless dream.”
He had held her sleeping, drunken body for a while after she passed out—and in his sleep, he’d dreamed of his first meeting with Go Woo-ri.
Perhaps because his mind was already a mess, even his dreams had been restless.
Now, staring at her kneeling before him, he found himself looking again—at her small mouth, her dark, round eyes.
Maybe it was those clear, glassy pupils behind her lenses that reminded him of Go Woo-ri. If she appeared in his dream, maybe that unsettled feeling was mutual.
A drop of cold sweat ran down his back.
…Why is she staring like that?
Even if she tried to play innocent, she clearly knew she’d done wrong. Just as she was about to raise her hands in apology again, he asked:
“How did you get in there?”
Thankfully, she’d expected that question.
She answered boldly, without shame.
“Used my charm.”
“…What?”
“I’m pretty. Pale, small, and precious.”
It was said with such sincere confidence that she almost sounded objective. She really believed it, too.
He didn’t even bother responding to the shameless self-praise.
“When you’re done talking nonsense, come to the study.”
It was total dismissal—but she stood up cheerfully anyway.
“So you’re forgiving me? Are we making up? Together—ah, my legs are numb!”
After kneeling for barely five minutes, her legs gave out and she rolled onto the sofa. Ignoring her, he opened the study door, set his bag down, and removed his jacket.
By the time she hobbled in after him and clutched the doorframe, she asked,
“What is it?”
Instead of replying, he pointed to a paper on the desk.
She walked over lightly and picked it up.
“The contract terms.”
Surprisingly, it was the one she had written not long ago. She looked up at him, wide-eyed.
“Within reason,” he said.
Short but clear conditions. She turned her gaze back to the paper.
She had once planned to write out those terms seriously, but there was no real point. Now that they were married, the big picture wouldn’t change.
Because there’s no love.
This emotionless marriage would end someday—and after that, she would go on living.
Finishing the thought, she picked up a pen.
“One clause should be enough.”
Without hesitation, she wrote it down slowly, making sure he could read it clearly:
‘Guarantee me basic human rights.’
Fortunately, he didn’t read too much into her awful handwriting.
“What does that mean?”
“Just what it says. We both know who holds the power here, but we still made this agreement because we each need something. I just don’t want to be treated like a puppet, a doll, or a tool.”
A small effort to protect the little dignity she had left.
Ugly handwriting aside, the clause itself was surprisingly wise. Yoon-jae nodded.
“As long as you don’t cross my line.”
“And what’s that line?”
“Paper.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he picked up a pen and wrote something himself.
He then handed her the paper. The first thing she noticed was his elegant, clean handwriting—worthy of being called calligraphy.
But before she could even admire it, her lips tightened.
The words hit her heart like a spark.
He didn’t see the flicker in her eyes as he said calmly,
“That’s my line.”
