Han Minjae didn't sleep that night.
He tried.
He tossed and turned on the thin mattress, staring at the peeling ceiling of the apartment, listening to the uneven hum of the heater. The city seemed quieter than usual, as if even the traffic had decided to respect the weight of that decision.
Three weeks.
It was a small number.
Small enough to seem controllable.
Big enough to change everything.
He sat up in bed just before dawn, running a hand through his messy hair. His phone vibrated with notifications he avoided opening. Comments. Messages. Theories.
He had become a story.
And he hated it.
The deal still seemed unreal.
Pretending to be the boyfriend of a conglomerate heir during the winter retreat of Korea's most powerful family.
It was absurd.
It was dangerous.
And it was exactly the kind of thing he always avoided.
But when he thought about the scholarship, the overdue tuition fees, the coordinator's embarrassed expression when he mentioned the deadline…
The envelope on the table seemed more concrete than his principles.
Minjae stood up and went to the small table where he had left the contract.
He ran his fingers over the paper.
No emotional involvement.
He chuckled softly.
As if feelings were switches.
As if it were possible to choose not to feel anything when someone looked at you the way Kang Yejun looked at you—not with desire, not with superficial interest, but with something harder to define.
Caution.
Or perhaps curiosity.
His cell phone vibrated again.
A message.
Yejun:
We leave at 10 a.m. I'll be on your street at 9:40 a.m.
Objective. Clear. Formal.
Minjae typed a reply.
Does it have to be so punctual?
The reply came in seconds.
Yes.
He sighed.
"Of course it does."
"Kang Yejun didn't sleep either. But the difference was that he was used to it."
Insomnia had been a constant since he was eighteen.
Ever since he started attending meetings that decided the future of thousands of employees while he was still learning to drive.
He sat in the armchair in his apartment, still in his suit, watching the city through the panoramic window.
His father had officially confirmed the engagement announcement for the second formal dinner of the retreat.
Everything was already organized.
Invitations sent.
Press discreetly informed.
Nothing was improvised in the Ahn family.
Except this.
Minjae.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
The proposal had been rational.
Simple.
Neutralize the scandal. Buy time. Reorganize the narrative.
But when he held Minjae's hand in the parking lot, something had escaped logic.
The touch wasn't strategic.
It was… warm.
He ran a hand over his face, irritated with himself.
Feelings were unpredictable variables.
And unpredictability didn't suit his life.
His cell phone vibrated.
A message from his father.
Seungho:
Remember what's at stake.
Yejun didn't reply.
He knew.
He always knew.
The question was, how long would he continue to be just a pawn?
—
At 9:39 a.m., the black car stopped in front of Minjae's building.
Punctual.
Minjae got out at 9:42 a.m., carrying a medium-sized suitcase and a painting bag he insisted on taking.
He stood beside the car.
He took a deep breath.
The door opened.
Yejun got out first.
Dark overcoat. Leather gloves. Impeccable posture.
Minjae felt again that stark difference between their worlds.
"Are you really going on a trip dressed like that?" Minjae asked, trying to ease the tension.
"Yes."
"Of course you are."
Yejun opened the trunk and carefully put Minjae's suitcase away.
When they closed the door and stood face to face, a heavy silence fell.
It was the first moment after the signing.
After the decision.
"You can still back out," Yejun said unexpectedly.
Minjae blinked.
"Are you scared?" "I'm being logical."
Minjae tilted his head.
"I don't like going back on my word."
Yejun's eyes scanned his face for a second that was far too long.
As if trying to memorize every detail.
"Then let's go."
The road to the mountains was long.
Snow piled up on the sides, creating a white corridor that seemed to isolate them from the rest of the world.
Inside the car, the heating was too high.
Even so, Minjae felt cold.
"So," he began, looking ahead, "what are the real rules?"
Yejun kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel.
"In public, constant proximity. Naturalness. No hesitation."
"That includes…?"
"Holding hands. Casual contact. Consistency in the narrative."
Minjae let out a small laugh.
"You talk like it's a report."
"It's easier that way."
"And outside of public?" Yejun hesitated before answering. "Away from the public eye… We keep clear boundaries."
"Do you always live like this?"
"Like what?"
"Separating everything into compartments."
Silence was answer enough.
Minjae observed his profile.
Straight nose. Tense jaw. Eyes focused on the road as if any distraction could cause a disaster.
Perhaps it could.
"Are you really willing to confront your father about this?" Minjae asked, more quietly.
Yejun took a deep breath.
"I'm not confronting him. I'm postponing it."
The honesty surprised them both.
"As the property appeared on the horizon, Minjae felt his stomach churn."
It was bigger than he imagined.
Tall gates.
Impeccably restored traditional architecture.
Staff positioned as if they had been rehearsing for hours.
"I don't belong here." Minjae murmured.
Yejun heard.
Without saying anything, he parked.
He got out of the car.
He walked around to Minjae's side.
And, before he could think too much, he took his hand.
This time, it wasn't calculated.
It was firm.
Steady.
"Stay by my side," Yejun said softly.
Not as an order.
As a request.
Minjae looked at their intertwined fingers.
Heat rose up his arm.
"You seem more nervous than I am," he teased gently.
"I don't get nervous."
"You're lying."
A near-smile crossed Yejun's lips.
Almost.
The main door opened.
Warm light contrasting with the cold snow.
And there he was.
Ahn Seungho.
Watching.
Motionless.
With an indecipherable expression.
His gaze landed on their intertwined hands.
He showed no surprise.
He showed no approval.
He merely assessed.
As if observing an unexpected variable in a carefully planned experiment.
Minjae felt Yejun's grip tighten slightly.
Instinctive.
Protective.
Or perhaps self-protective.
Seungho stepped forward.
"So you're Han Minjae."
The voice was calm.
Controlled.
But it carried weight.
Minjae bowed slightly, respectfully.
"Yes, sir."
Seungho's gaze drifted from his face to his intertwined hands.
And back up again.
"I hope you understand the importance of the occasion."
There was something in that sentence.
A veiled warning.
Minjae felt his heart beat faster.
But he didn't let go of his hand.
"I understand," he replied.
Yejun didn't look away from his father.
It was a silent confrontation.
And Minjae realized, with a different kind of chill running down his spine:
He wasn't there just to pretend.
He was in the middle of something much bigger.
Something that involved power.
Control.
And perhaps revenge.
—
As they entered the house, Minjae had the strange feeling that the snow outside was the only honest element in that place.
White.
Cold.
Transparent.
Everything inside seemed calculated.
And he was there by choice.
Or necessity.
Or something that didn't yet have a name.
As they climbed the stairs beside Yejun, still holding hands, he whispered:
"Three weeks, right?"
Yejun replied without looking at him:
"Three weeks."
But, for the first time, there was doubt in his voice.
And outside, the snow began to fall harder.
In the private office of the property, Seungho received a call.
"Yes," he said into the phone. "Continue monitoring the boy."
A pause.
He looked out the window at his son and Minjae entering together.
"If he is a weakness… we will eliminate the problem before the announcement."
The call ended.
And the real game began.