The snow made no sound as it fell on the mountain property.
But Yejun did.
Not on the outside. On the inside.
Kang Yejun observed the white landscape through the panoramic windows of the Ahn family's winter retreat. The world seemed suspended, trees covered in snow, a dull, silent sky.
He always liked winter.
In winter, everything seemed organized.
Imperfections were hidden.
Just as he had learned to do.
"You took your time."
The father's voice came from the main room, low, firm, impossible to ignore.
Yejun entered.
The fireplace was lit, but there was no real warmth in the room. The traditional Korean furniture mixed with modern decor was carefully calculated to convey legacy and power.
Seated in the central armchair was Ahn Seungho.
Erect posture. Untouched glass of whiskey.
He didn't seem irritated.
He seemed strategic.
"Sit down," he ordered.
Yejun obeyed.
From childhood, he had learned that direct confrontations were never about emotions. They were about control.
And his father never lost control.
"The stocks have fallen another 1.2% since this morning," Seungho began, without introduction. "American investors have requested formal clarifications."
Yejun maintained a neutral expression.
"The situation will be contained."
"It should have been already."
The following silence was not empty.
It was accusatory.
On the coffee table, a tablet displayed the image circulating on the internet.
Him and Minjae.
The red scarf standing out against the white snow.
Seungho touched the screen with his fingertip.
"Who is he?"
The question seemed simple.
But Yejun knew what it really meant:
Is he a threat?
"An artist hired for an event."
"And why is he so close to you?"
Yejun held his father's gaze.
"Because the camera captured an inconvenient angle."
Seungho didn't smile.
"Public perception is reality."
Yejun already knew what was coming.
There was always an alternative plan.
There was always a solution that involved calculated sacrifice.
"The announcement will be made at the second formal dinner of the retreat," his father said finally.
Yejun didn't ask what announcement.
He knew.
"Your engagement to Cha Yura will be made official."
The name hung in the air.
Cha Yura.
Daughter of a pharmaceutical conglomerate.
Educated abroad.
Elegant. Suitable.
Perfect for a corporate merger disguised as marriage.
"This will eliminate any speculation," Seungho continued. "The market responds well to stability."
Stability. That's what they called irreversible decisions.
Yejun felt something tighten in his chest.
Not pain.
He didn't allow himself to feel pain.
It was… pressure.
Like snow accumulating on a fragile roof.
"Understood."
The answer came automatically.
Rehearsed.
Since he was seven years old.
Since the first time he heard,
"You are the future of the family."
Seungho watched his son for a few more seconds.
"Don't disappoint me."
The conversation ended there.
For the father, it was just another executed strategy.
For Yejun, it was the closing of a door he didn't even know he wanted to keep open.
"That night, alone in his room on the property, Yejun stared at the ceiling for long minutes."
He wasn't thinking about Cha Yura.
He was thinking about the artist with the red scarf.
Han Minjae.
Too expressive.
Too disorganized.
Too honest.
He remembered the exact moment they had bumped into each other at the building's exit.
Minjae had apologized before even looking at him.
When he looked, there was no recognition.
There was no calculation.
There was no fear.
It was a direct look.
Simple. Yejun wasn't used to this.
Most people looked at him and saw a last name.
Minjae had looked at him and seen only… a tall man taking up too much space in the hallway.
Which was strange.
And annoyingly memorable.
He closed his eyes.
The announcement at the retreat would solve everything.
In a few weeks, no one would remember the photo.
He would regain control.
He had always been good at maintaining control.
So why did the idea of announcing the engagement seem like a defeat?
_
On the other side of town, Minjae sat on the floor of the tiny apartment, surrounded by unfinished screens.
The heater made a strange noise.
He ignored it.
He was staring at his own cell phone.
The photo.
The damn photo.
"This can't be happening" he murmured.
He didn't know that man.
Not really.
But the internet seemed determined to create a whole narrative.
Messages had started arriving.
Curious colleagues. A professor sending a simple: "Is everything alright?"
Minjae felt his stomach sink.
Scholarship recipients couldn't afford scandals.
He depended on the scholarship.
He depended on his job at the café.
He depended on the fragile stability he had built.
"I don't even know his name properly…"
Lie. He knew.
Kang Yejun. Heir to Ahn Holdings.
He had researched it.
Out of curiosity.
Just curiosity.
And he had been surprised by the difference between the man in the photo and the formal images online.
In the corporate photos, Yejun looked sculpted from marble.
In Minjae's memory, he seemed… human.
Distant.
But human.
His cell phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He hesitated before answering.
"Han Minjae?"
The voice was low.
Controlled.
He recognized it immediately.
His stomach churned.
"Yes?"
"We need to talk."
It wasn't a request.
But it wasn't a threat either.
It was… inevitable.
_
They met in the same underground parking lot.
Snow was starting to fall outside.
Minjae kept his arms crossed, trying to appear less nervous than he was.
Yejun was impeccable.
As always.
But there was something different.
An invisible tension.
"I imagine you're uncomfortable with the situation." Yejun began.
"Uncomfortable is a mild word."
Yejun's eyes scanned Minjae's face for a second longer than necessary.
"The situation is also affecting me."
Minjae almost laughed.
"Really? I wouldn't have guessed."
Silence.
Yejun didn't seem used to direct sarcasm.
"My father intends to announce my engagement during the winter retreat."
The information hit him hard.
"Then announce it," Minjae replied too quickly, trying to protect something he didn't even understand.
"I don't intend to."
This caught him off guard.
Yejun took a step closer.
The cold light reflected in his eyes.
"But I need to neutralize the scandal."
Minjae felt the tension shift.
Something was being built.
"What do you want from me?" Yejun didn't hesitate.
"I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend during the retreat."
The world went silent.
Minjae blinked.
"Have you gone mad?"
"Three weeks."
"This isn't a school project!"
"I'll pay your overdue tuition."
Minjae froze.
The air felt colder.
"How could you—"
"I needed to know if you would accept." Anger rose first.
Then shame.
Then something more complex.
"You investigated my life."
"I needed to assess risks."
Risks.
Was that how he saw people?
Minjae took a step back.
"I'm not an investment."
Yejun's eyes shifted slightly.
There was no contempt there.
There was… exhaustion.
"I know."
He was sincere.
And that was worse.
"Then why me?" Yejun replied softly:
"Because you're already in the picture."
But there was something unspoken.
Something Minjae felt even before he understood.
He clenched his fingers.
He thought about the bills.
The constant threat of losing the scholarship.
He also thought about how Yejun seemed more exhausted than arrogant.
"And after the three weeks?"
"Everyone goes their own way."
Easy.
Clean.
Safe.
Minjae took a deep breath.
"I want respect."
Yejun held his gaze.
"You'll have it."
The silence between them shifted.
It was no longer hostile.
It was heavy.
Like the air before a heavy blizzard.
Minjae extended his hand.
For a second, Yejun just watched.
Then he took it.
The touch was firm.
Warm.
Human.
And in that instant, something went out of control.
Neither of them fully realized it.
But both felt it.
Later, alone in the car, Yejun closed his eyes.
He had just defied his father's plan.
Only partially.
But still.
It wasn't about money.
It wasn't about stocks.
It was about not accepting a predetermined fate without question.
And, annoyingly, it was also about the artist with the red scarf.
He murmured to himself:
"Don't get involved."
Minjae, sitting on the bus, stared at his own hand.
He still felt the warmth of the touch.
"Three weeks," he whispered.
Outside, the snow was beginning to fall harder.
Without either of them knowing, the winter retreat would be the beginning of something that no contract could contain.
And someone, observing everything from a distance, was already starting to move pieces on the board.
"On the terrace of the mountain property, Ahn Seungho received a simple message from an advisor:"
"They met."
Seungho looked at the snow.
And smiled discreetly.
As if that too was part of the plan.