Love Under Contract

Chapter 4: Runaway Thoughts and Eternal Misery

The wedding was officially over. The guests had left, the champagne had run dry, and the string quartet had packed up their violins and cello-shaped burdens. But for Sophia Hwang, the real performance had only just begun.

Inside the towering honeymoon suite, complete with a chandelier so grand it probably needed its own zip code, she stood in front of the massive window, barefoot, wrapped in a hotel robe three sizes too big.

She looked like a burrito of regret.

Ethan Kang—her brand-new husband, as per legal documentation—was nowhere to be seen. And thank God for that.

Sophia flopped onto the king-sized bed with the dramatic flair of a woman auditioning for a sad K-drama. Her phone lit up with messages, but she ignored them. Probably Lily asking if she’d run yet. Or the twins threatening to break into the bridal suite and drag her out Mission Impossible-style.

She buried her face in a pillow.

“Okay, Sophia. Let’s recap. You married your childhood betrothed. Who is also your company’s boss. Who is also emotionally unavailable and possibly allergic to humor. Good job. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Just then—of course—there was a knock at the door.

Sophia froze. No. No. No.

It couldn’t be him.

She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. A bellboy? Her heart exhaled. She opened the door.

“Ma’am, this is for you,” the bellboy said, handing her a white envelope with a gold seal.

She took it warily. “Thanks.”

As soon as he left, she tore it open.

Inside: Room key. Card. Handwritten note.

*"Thought you might want to escape for a bit. Rooftop’s quiet this time of night. –E.”*

Oh. So he wasn’t a complete robot.

Still wrapped in the hotel robe, Sophia slipped on fluffy slippers and headed up the private staircase to the rooftop garden.

The night air was crisp, brushing her face like a gentle slap. The city lights glittered beneath her like diamonds poured onto velvet.

And there he was.

Ethan stood near the edge of the rooftop, sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets, staring into the distance like he was modeling for a cologne ad.

Sophia cleared her throat. “Wow. You actually wrote something by hand. Should I frame it?”

He glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

She padded over and joined him by the railing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Couldn’t breathe. My dress tried to assassinate me. I’m pretty sure the corset was sentient.”

A soft laugh escaped him. “That explains why you looked like you were trying to summon the afterlife during the photo session.”

They stood in silence for a while. Surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward.

“Thanks for this,” she said, tilting her head toward the rooftop.

“You looked like you were one paparazzi flash away from sprinting down the street.”

“Please. I was two flashes away.”

Another smirk.

Sophia folded her arms. “So, what now? Are we supposed to share a bed? Or do we divide the suite like wartime territories?”

“I’ll take the couch.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wow. A gentleman. Where were you during the pre-wedding chaos?”

He turned toward her fully now. “Doing damage control. Your aunt leaked the story to three major outlets. I had to make sure it didn’t look like a business acquisition.”

“Oh, so it’s not?”

He paused. “Do you want it to be?”

Sophia blinked. “That’s… actually a fair question. I don’t know. I just didn’t want to lose what little control I had left.”

Ethan studied her face. “You don’t have to lose it. We can make this work—on your terms too.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Are you dying or something? You’re being unusually reasonable.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied.

They went back downstairs, their silence companionable this time. As they entered the suite, Ethan wordlessly grabbed a pillow and blanket from the closet and claimed the couch.

Sophia changed into her usual baggy T-shirt and sweatpants. No more lace. No more tiaras. Just good old cotton and comfort.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

“Sophia Kang,” she said to her reflection. “You are officially a married woman. With slippers that don’t match and a husband who looks like a GQ model but sleeps like a frat boy.”

From the couch, Ethan called out, “I can hear you, you know.”

“Good. Then know this—if you snore, I will smother you with a pillow.”

“Duly noted.”

She climbed into bed, tucked herself in, and turned off the lights. But sleep didn’t come.

Instead, her thoughts ran wild.

What if this was a huge mistake?

What if they actually pulled it off?

What if she started to like him?

That last one terrified her the most.

Far more than the media, her aunt, or the contract.

Because if her heart got involved…

She might not survive this circus of a marriage after all.

***

A week passed by faster than her will to resist caffeine. Sophia Hwang Min Hee sat cross-legged on the leather sofa in Ethan Kang’s penthouse-s***h-office-s***h-emotional cold storage unit. Her brows were furrowed, eyes narrowed at the thick contract in front of her like it had personally insulted her bloodline.

She flipped a page. Then another. Her fingers tapped against the margin in an impatient rhythm.

Finally, she looked up. “Why do we need a contract, Ethan?”

He didn’t even look up from his espresso. “Because this isn’t a real marriage.”

“And what if I don’t want it to be governed by paper and clauses?”

Now he looked at her. Calm, cool, unreadable.

“Do you want to be my wife for the rest of your life?”

The question hit the air like a dropped crystal—sharp, unexpected, echoing in her chest.

Sophia blinked. Her mouth opened. Then closed.

Then she picked up the pen and said simply, “Fair enough.”

But as she uncapped the pen and opened the first page, she muttered, “Doesn’t mean I won’t audit the entire thing like a suspicious tax agent.”

She flipped to the first clause.

“This reads more like a war treaty between empires than a marriage agreement,” she said, skimming the dense legalese. “No PDA unless pre-approved for media? No shared streaming accounts? No touching the wine cellar?”

“Boundaries,” Ethan replied smoothly. “And privacy.”

Sophia arched a brow. “You’re one ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign away from becoming a hotel.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

She flipped another page. “Clause 11B: No access to Mr. Kang’s private refrigerator without written consent?”

“Some things are sacred.”

“Like your twelve-dollar organic oat milk?”

“Exactly.”

“Clause 14D: No sarcastic commentary during board dinners.”

“That one’s new. We both know who it’s for.”

Sophia scowled. “I cope with sarcasm.”

“You weaponize sarcasm.”

“I call it multi-tasking.”

Mr. Jang, the ever-neutral family lawyer seated nearby, cleared his throat. “Miss Hwang, we are open to minor revisions if you find specific clauses unduly restrictive—”

“Does that include a snack clause? I need ramen access at 2 a.m. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Personal dietary accommodations can be added under Subsection 9F,” Mr. Jang replied promptly.

Sophia stared at him. “Do you sleep with your legal dictionary?”

“Only when I’m lonely,” he replied without missing a beat.

The therapist in the corner jotted something down.

Sophia groaned. “Oh great. She’s journaling my breakdown in real time.”

“I’m not,” the therapist said gently.

“I saw the eyebrow twitch. Don’t lie.”

“I’m merely observing emotional cues.”

“I’m not unstable.”

“Just emotionally reactive,” Ethan murmured.

She shot him a death glare. “And you’re emotionally flatlined.”

He raised a brow. “Better than being a walking fire alarm.”

Mr. Jang, wisely, sipped his tea.

***

Sophia eventually slammed her hand down on Section 14. “Here. The clause that’s got my aunt pirouetting in joy.”

Mr. Jang adjusted his glasses. “Clause 14B. Inheritance from the late Mr. Hwang shall remain in trust until Miss Hwang completes two full years of marriage, under board-appointed marital audit—”

“Audit? Are we a couple or a failed company?”

“—and provided Mr. Ethan Kang signs a declaration of marital stability.”

Sophia blinked. “So I don’t just have to stay married—I need him to approve me at the end like I’m some corporate intern hoping for a promotion?”

“That’s correct,” Ethan replied without blinking.

“My aunt are so not happy with this clause. Oh, and I still have to hold a job, show up in public, and not cause a PR scandal?”

“Yes. Consider it… performance-based love.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If this is love, I want a refund.”

“Too late. You already cashed the engagement ring.”

“Funny. I thought it came with a manual and a GPS tracker.”

“Page 42,” Ethan said, sipping his espresso. “And only if you misplace yourself during official events.”

Sophia groaned and rested her forehead dramatically on the contract. “Why do I agree to marry you?”

“You were five,” Ethan said calmly. “And, as your aunt likes to remind us, very insistent.”

“I also insisted I was going to marry Inuyasha and live in a sacred tree.”

“You still have time,” Ethan said dryly. “Go climb one.”

The therapist wrote again.

***

Sophia finally grabbed the pen again. “Fine. But I’m going clause by clause. From Netflix to nap time.”

Hours passed in signature purgatory. She scribbled her name so often she forgot how to spell it correctly. By the end, her fingers were numb and her soul had left her body at least twice.

She dropped the pen. “Done. I am now officially, legally, contractually, regretfully… your wife.”

Ethan nodded. “Temporarily.”

She raised a brow. “Gee, so romantic.”

“You wanted clarity.”

“I wanted a life. But sure, let’s go with clarity.” She stood and stretched. “So… what now?”

“Now, we attend our first public dinner as a married couple. Tonight.”

Sophia stared at him. “You mean the dinner with the pharmaceutical division heads? The one with six CEO’s, a Countess, and the Minister of Health?”

“Yes.”

She nearly gagged. “Why don’t you just throw me into a volcano while you’re at it?”

“You’ll be fine. Wear the blue dress.”

“You mean the dress that makes me look like a blueberry in a hostage situation?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s elegant.”

“It’s tragic.”

“It’s Dior.”

“…Fine.”

***

Hours later, Sophia stood in front of her full-length mirror in Ethan’s penthouse walk-in closet—seriously, it had its own ZIP code—wearing the infamous blue dress.

“Still think I look like royalty?” she asked Lily over the phone.

“You look like you’re about to charge taxes on tea. In a hot way.”

“Comforting.”

“Are you gonna kiss him if someone asks?”

“I’d rather kiss a cactus.”

“Girl, if the cactus is rich, marry that too.”

Sophia laughed, the anxiety twisting in her gut like origami swans on espresso. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck. You need wine and Wi-Fi.”

***

The dinner went exactly how you’d expect from a room filled with power-hungry executives and one newly contracted couple. Ethan played the part of charming, composed heir-to-the-throne with Olympic-level ease. Sophia smiled, nodded, and hoped she wasn’t sweating through her Spanx.

“Sophia, you work in the R&D division, yes?” asked Mr. Do, head of Pharmaceuticals.

“Yes,” she said with a polite smile. “Environmental and occupational safety.”

“Interesting,” said the Countess. “So you keep our scientists from exploding?”

“Pretty much. And from inhaling powdered antibiotics by accident. That’s happened more than once.”

The table chuckled.

Ethan looked at her, slightly impressed.

Later, as dessert was served, someone asked the dreaded question:

“So, Ethan, when did you first fall in love?”

He didn’t even flinch. “The moment she threatened to strangle me with a tie.”

The table erupted in laughter.

Sophia blinked. “That actually happened.”

“I know,” he said, smiling faintly. “That’s why it was love at first threat.”

Sophia stared at him. Did he just… joke? And reference their fight in the elevator last week?

Did he remember things?

Did he have emotions?

The room buzzed with warmth as couples laughed, toasts were raised, and dessert was ignored in favor of wine.

For a brief second, Sophia allowed herself to relax.

Then her phone buzzed.

Unknown number: [Nice performance, sweetie. Let’s hope it convinces the lawyers too. – Aunt May]

She stared at the screen, the wine turning bitter on her tongue.

Fake smiles. Hidden knives.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

But tonight, at least, she had played her part.

Game on.