Chapter 2:- The Conditions
510 Words
12:17 AM
My apartment, lights off, phone face down.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.
It didn’t.
It only held the echo of Jeon Jungkook’s voice repeating in my mind like some cursed business audiobook.
“One year. No strings. I pay your family’s debt.”
It was outrageous. Arrogant. Insulting.
But also… practical.
And that was the worst part.
Because as insane as it sounded, it was a lifeline wrapped in ego and legal documents.
Earlier that night — After I stormed out of his office
I went straight to Mina’s place. My best friend. My devil on the shoulder. My personal therapist without a license.
I paced her tiny kitchen while she ate instant noodles like I wasn’t having a life crisis five feet away.
“You’re telling me,” she said between slurps, “that Mr. Untouchable CEO—THE Jungkook Jeon—asked you to fake marry him?”
“It’s not fake to the government!” I groaned. “He wants a legal contract. A lawyer. Witnesses. A press statement. An actual marriage license, Mina!”
She blinked slowly. “Hot.”
“Mina!”
“Okay okay okay! Sorry. But bestie… your mom’s house is getting auctioned in three weeks. Your brother’s tuition is late. Your bank account literally said ‘lol’ last time you opened it.”
I collapsed onto her couch. “I know. I know all of that. But how do I even look at someone who called me forgettable and still say, ‘Sure, let’s get married’?”
Mina leaned forward, eyes suddenly sharp. “You don’t have to like him. You just have to outplay him.”
I paused.
That… didn’t sound terrible.
The Next Day – JK Corp. Top Floor
I stood in front of his glass office again, this time not as nervous—but still wildly underdressed compared to his ice-cold billionaire aura.
He looked up from his laptop. “Miss Y/N.”
“I’m saying yes,” I said, stepping in. “But I have conditions.”
A flicker of amusement danced across his eyes. “I’m listening.”
I pulled a folded paper from my bag and laid it on his desk.
CONTRACT MARRIAGE TERMS – By Y/N (definitely not dramatic):
No touching. Ever.
Separate bedrooms. Preferably separate time zones.
No pet names, fake or real. I will not answer to “babe.”
No lying to my friends. They’ll know it’s fake.
No emotional manipulation. If you get weird and soft, I’m out.
One year only. Day 366, we divorce. No questions asked.
He read it like he was reviewing a grocery list.
Then he looked at me.
“Clause three is unnecessary. I wouldn’t call you ‘babe’ even under gunpoint.”
I scowled. “Just sign it.”
He picked up a pen. “Anything else, wifey?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smirked.
Too smug. Too calm.
I hated him.
And god help me—I was about to marry him.
- Writer
