#(izone)

You roll over on the mattress, staring at the wall like maybe the paint will start peeling out money instead of flakes.

And then your phone vibrates. Ding.

The group chat you muted weeks ago lights up your screen again.

“Party tonight. Big one. Come through.”

“No excuses, man. We’re dragging you if you don’t.”

“You need to stop being depressed and live a little.”

You sigh, tossing your phone onto the bed like it personally wronged you. These obnoxious fucker again. The “friends” you managed to cling onto through sheer luck and timing, the rich kids with wallets heavier than your entire life savings. The kind who use champagne bottles as water guns and laugh about failing a class because they can just retake it next semester with their daddy’s money.

You know how this goes. They’ll invite you, claim it’s all in good fun, then spend the night poking at you like you’re their charity case. The “ordinary” one. Whatever their favourite punchline is.

But before you can type out the usual excuse—work, studying, not feeling well—another message drops. “Relax. We’ll cover your entry. Drinks too.”

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

They’ll pay. Free food. Free drink.

For a second, you imagine staying as you are: laying down, maybe getting up to your desk, staring at the blinking cursor on your half-finished assignment, pretending the instant noodles taste better than cardboard. Then you imagine an open bar, food that isn’t from the clearance aisle, and a night where you don’t have to think about overdue notices in exchange for ridicule.

You exhale, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Screw it.”

Your phone buzzes again, like it’s mocking your surrender. “Knew you’d cave, dumbass. Don’t embarrass us too much.”

You mutter to yourself as you pull the least-wrinkled shirt from your closet, “Yeah, because I’m just here to make you fuckers look good, right?”

Still, you iron it. You button it up. You force your hair with the last spurt of your hair spray into something presentable. Downing that canned coffee you forced yourself to like to stay awake. Because at the end of the day, you don’t have the luxury of saying no.

Not when everything around you is crumbling, and a free night out will at least make you forget about your reality.

-

…maybe rotting at home was better whatever this grand party was.

The moment you step through the grand hotel doors, you feel like you should be working at the back of the kitchen instead. Marble floors, chandeliers dripping crystals, a string quartet in the corner—it’s the kind of environment where even the air feels expensive. Everyone is dressed like they’re either nepo babies or they actually are nepo babies, and you… you’re praying no one notices that your shirt has a frayed cuff or that little stain you couldn’t get rid of.

Your "friends", meanwhile, are already in their element. They throw their jackets at the coat check like it’s a sport, grab champagne flutes from silver trays like it’s water, and slide into the crowd with ease.

“Yo, relax, man,” one of them claps you on the back, nearly knocking the glass out of your hand. “We told you already, tonight’s on us. Just… don’t brood in a corner, alright?”

Remember, free food.

You force a smile and give them an uninterested "sure". But it’s hard to smile when your head keeps on doing mental math the whole time. Rent: $740. Utilities: another $120. Tuition deposit: looming like an execution date. Your brain is buzzing louder than the music, and every time your friends laugh, it feels like you’re sinking deeper into water you can’t swim out of. But you hover beside them anyway, because then you can get it out of the way as soon as this parade is done and bolt straight home.

Although, that’s when you notice her. Damn it, was her name again?

Oh right. Jang Wonyoung.

The room reacts instantly at the clacking of her heels. Heads turn. Voices lower.  You’ve heard the name tossed around campus like it’s some kind of brand. The Jang Corporation heiress. Top royalty. Samsung-level of wealth (or probably more). People whisper about her the way they whisper about exam leaks—rare, untouchable, never meant for the likes of you.

And seeing her in person? Yeah, it makes sense.

She’s radiant in a way that makes the room tilt. Every step, every glance, it’s like she was choreographed for perfection. Diamond earrings brush her jawline, her silk dress flows like liquid, and the casual flick of her hair has more grace than your entire existence. Heads turn. Conversations falter. She’s that girl, the one who doesn’t have to try.

Not that it matters. She’s definitely not your type. Too polished, too arrogant, too unreachable. You’ve got bigger problems than pretty girls with a last name that can open multiple estates.

So you stand there, nodding when your friends introduce her in passing. “Ah, Miss Jang, hey! It's been a long time. This is our guy, don’t mind him, he’s shy.” She gives you the briefest glance, a polite nod, then goes back to sipping her wine. Perfect. Easy.

Until it isn’t.

Because suddenly, a crowd of suitors descends on her like moths to a flame.

“Miss Jang, I’ve been meaning to ask, would you care for a drive in my father’s new Maybach?”

“Your dress is stunning tonight. Did you have it tailored in Paris? I could recommend —”

“You know, my family’s hosting a gala next week. You should come. We’d be honoured.”

The voices overlap, desperate, performative. Funny enough, you can see it in her expression: the strain behind her perfect smile, the boredom hiding in her eyes. She doesn’t want this. But they don’t care.

And then she looked at you, as if you two shared the same distaste towards this obnoxious crowd…then moved slowly towards you. Wait, towards you?

You freeze as she closes in, perfume wrapping around you like invisible silk. Her arm slips through yours, firm, warm, and terrifyingly deliberate.

“Babe,” she says smoothly, loud enough for the whole group to hear. Her smile blooms, but now it’s sharp, purposeful. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

Babe? Who's babe now? Did she forget that she just dismissed you with her eyes only just then?

You blink, brain scrambling for words, but nothing makes it past your throat. The suitors stop mid-sentence, their faces contorting in disbelief.

“Him?” one of them sneers.

Her grip tightens on you, nails grazing your sleeve. She tilts her head, still smiling, but her voice dips just enough to sting. “Yes. Problem?”

No one answers. No one dares. They scatter, muttering half-hearted excuses, their pride leaking out of them like popped balloons.

You, meanwhile, are still processing the fact that her arms are still wrapped around yours. Before you can speak, she tugs you away, heels clicking across the marble. Past the champagne, past the murmur, through a velvet curtain and into a quieter, dimly lit VIP lounge. She finally releases you, her expression cool and unreadable, like nothing just happened.

You blink at her. “What the actual fuck was that?”

“Quiet.” She doesn’t flinch. Too busy to check her black nails than to look at you. “Six months. Pretend to be my boyfriend. I’ll pay you.”

You furrowed your brow. “...What bull shit is this?”

Finally, her eyes flick to yours. They’re sharp, clear, cutting right through you. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Six months. You play the boyfriend role, and you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

You laugh, bitter. “Ok, I don’t know who the hell you think I am, but I’m not some fucking— ”

“Do it or else.” She cuts you off, her tone flat, dismissive. Like you’re already signed, sealed, delivered.

“Or else what?” you snap, more from panic than pride.

Her lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Or else I tell everyone here that you threatened me to call you babe. And trust me… they’ll believe me.”

Your blood runs cold. “Y-yeah fuck n—“

“What are you gonna do then, broke boy? Waggling your tail behind those three guys? You think I didn't notice?”

You want to cuss her out, walk out, reclaim the last scrap of dignity you have left. But the image of your unpaid rent flashes in your head. The tuition deadline. The electricity bill threatens to snap your life in half. The measly amount of money you have left imprinted in your mind.

$31.08.

This whole thing is a mistake. One big, humiliating, insane mistake. Yet.

“…How much?” you mutter, hating yourself already.

-

The café was too bright for your mood. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the morning light pour in, catching every imperfection of your slouched posture, every shadow under your tired eyes. You picked the corner seat, the one closest to the exit. If this went south, and it already felt like it would, you wanted the fastest escape route.

Because who would believe that event a few nights earlier actually happened?

Wonyoung entered like she owned the place. Not in the cliché way of a girl walking in with confidence, but in the literal sense that everyone working there seemed to straighten the second she stepped in. She wasn’t dressed like the heiress you’d overheard your friends gushing about that night— just jeans and a tucked-in shirt—but the air around her bent differently, like she was gravity and everyone else was debris.

“You’re late,” you muttered when she slid into the seat across from you.

“You’re poor,” she shot back with the sweetest smile. “But we can’t have everything we want, can we?”

You blinked, thrown off, before scowling. “Was that really fucking necessary?”

“It's amusing.” She smoothed the cuff of her sleeve, barely glancing at you. “Now, let’s talk business.”

The way she said business made your stomach twist. Like you weren’t sitting in some café near the subway station, but at the negotiating table of a multi-million-dollar merger.

“I already told you—”

“You already told me nothing,” she interrupted, plucking the coffee menu from the stand and flipping through it like she was at a salon. “You mumbled, cursed, and sulked. That’s not communication.”

Your jaw clenched. “I didn’t agree to anything.”

Her eyes flicked up then, sharp enough to slice. “You did, actually. The second you stayed in that room and asked how much. That is consent, sweetheart. Don’t you know your contract law?”

You leaned back in your chair, muttering under your breath. “What bullshit...”

“Anyway, let’s not waste my time.” She set the menu down and folded her hands neatly. “Let’s establish terms again.”

“Terms?”

“As I said, six months,” she cut in again. “You’re my boyfriend in public, in front of suitors, family, business associates. No exceptions.”

“And private?” you asked flatly.

“Private?” She let the word hang in the air like she was savouring it. Then she smiled, mocking, victorious. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Separate lives.”

You laughed, bitter. “Great, so I’m just an act.”

“Congratulations, you caught on quick.” She tilted her head, studying you like a lab rat who’d done a trick. “But don’t worry. You won't have to work at Starbucks for cash. You work for me.”

“I don’t like being owned.”

“You’re not owned,” she corrected, sweet as poison. “You’re hired. Big difference.”

That one stung, but you swallowed it down. The rent. The bills. The constant choking fear of falling behind. Those words kept your mouth shut when every bone in your body wanted to stand and leave.

“Anything else?” you muttered.

“Yes. Next, not falling for each other.” She said it so casually, like she was warning you not to step on wet paint.

“Tsk.” You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”

“Good,” she replied instantly. “And you’re definitely not mine even in my next life. So we agree.”

There was silence for a beat, filled only by the hiss of the espresso machine and the low hum of chatter. You thought maybe that was it until she slid a crisp folder across the table.

You froze. “…What’s this?”

“Your new role.”

You opened it and almost choked. Resumes. Certificates. Company IDs. Bank statements. All meticulously crafted. You weren’t just anyone anymore. According to this file, you were a bright young intern at Samsung, on the path to middle management glory.

“This…” Your voice cracked. “You forged all this?”

“Such an ugly word.” She sipped her iced Americano, perfectly calm. “I prefer… curated.”

“Are you fucked in the head? If anyone finds out —”

“They won’t. I won't get caught.” She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand, her gaze locking onto yours. “And neither will you, if you’re smart enough to play your part.”

Your hands tightened around the folder. “This is blackmail.”

“This is survival…well for you, I suppose.” She corrected it smoothly. “Unless, of course, you want to go back to your dignity and struggle with rent while I find someone else for the role.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but nothing came out. The images of unpaid bills, of your landlord’s cold eyes, of the suffocating weight of reality… they were louder than your pride.

“Thought so,” she said, victorious, before pulling a sleek pen from her bag and sliding it across to you. “Sign it.”

You stared at the pen like it was a blade pressed against your throat. “You really think you can just…do shits like this?”

Her smile widened, serene and smug. “Oh no. I don’t think. I know.”

Your lips curled into a snarl, but your hand still reached out, almost on its own. You signed. The sound of the pen scratching against paper felt like shackles clamping onto your wrists.

“Good boy,” she said softly, leaning back in her chair as if the deal were sealed with your dignity.

You wanted to argue, to flip the table, to tell her you weren’t anyone’s dog. But all you could do was sit there, staring at the ink drying on the contract, knowing you’d just sold yourself into the most humiliating role of your life.

You leaned back, exhaling through your nose. “…Great. Can’t wait to meet the in-laws.”

Her smirk deepened. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s next week.”

You nearly choked on your own spit. “WHAT THE F—”

-

You had been told to “dress nicely” for tonight, but Wonyoung’s definition of nice was apparently closer to a corporate gala than what you pulled together. A shirt that had seen too many washes, a blazer with one loose thread, and shoes that squeaked if you pressed too hard on the heel.

When you arrived at her family’s mansion, the difference between your world and hers slapped you in the face before you even touched the brass knocker. The gate alone was taller than your apartment building, the hedges trimmed like soldiers in formation. It literally looked like it had been pulled straight out of one of those glossy real estate magazines that you ripped the pages off to cover the mold on your wall.

She opened the door herself, arms crossed, eyes scanning you in a slow, judgmental sweep. “Hm. Passable,” she said flatly, before leaning in close enough for her perfume to brush your skin. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. Smile. And remember, you’re a Samsung intern, not… whatever you usually are.”

“I know,” you muttered, tugging on your sleeves. “You already drilled it into my fucking head five times.”

“Six,” she corrected with a faint smirk. “And it’s still not enough. Also get rid of your foul mouth.”

Inside, her parents sat in a living room large enough to host a wedding reception. Her mother rose first, elegant and poised, while her father looked up from the leather armchair, his expression somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.

“This must be him,” her mother said warmly, extending a hand. “The young man you told us about.”

“Yes, Mom,” Wonyoung replied smoothly, her tone dripping with the practiced sweetness you had never once been privy to in private. She squeezed your arm just hard enough to remind you of your role. “This is my lovely boyfriend. He’s an intern at Samsung’s headquarters.”

That single lie rolled off her tongue like silk, and you had to nod quickly before her parents’ eyes bored through you.

“Yes, ma'am. It’s… an honour,” you said, fumbling slightly, but catching yourself at the last second. You forced a polite smile, praying it didn’t look too strained.

Her father stood behind, brow raised. “Samsung? Which department?”

You froze for a beat, but Wonyoung slipped her hand over yours on the couch, nails biting into your skin under the guise of affection.

“R&D,” you said quickly, voice steady only because you knew she’d dig deeper into your hand if you faltered.

Her father leaned back, studying you. “Impressive. Competitive to get in. You must be very capable.”

You nodded again, feeling your stomach churn. “I… do my best, sir.”

Throughout the dinner, you spoke only when asked, each word carefully filtered through the silent threats in Wonyoung’s sharp glances. She filled in the gaps flawlessly, weaving a story around you as though she had rehearsed every lie for weeks. She laughed at your forced anecdotes, painted you as ambitious, dedicated, dependable—the kind of son-in-law any parent would be proud of. You wanted to sink into the floor. Every compliment was another stone on your chest. But when her father finally nodded in approval, you felt her hand relax ever so slightly over yours.

As soon as the front door closed behind her parents, she let go of you like you were nothing but a used prop. “Not bad,” she said, already beginning to head inside without a glance back. “You didn’t embarrass me. You might actually be useful.”

“Glad to be of the fucking service,” you muttered under your breath.

She paused, half-turning with a smile. “Careful. Props don’t talk back.”

The days that followed turned into a routine, or rather, a performance. Hand in hand, you walked across campus with her, her fingers laced with yours in a grip that felt more like possession than affection. Cameras, phones, whispers, all part of her stage. She leaned close enough to make hearts flutter around you, her laughter spilling like honey into the ears of every spectator.

“Baby” she’d say loudly, brushing her hair back with exaggerated fondness, “walk me to class, please?”

The crowd would melt. You’d play along, smile like a fool, even squeeze her hand. And when the crowd dispersed, when the attention shifted elsewhere, she’d drop your hand like it burned her.

“That’ll be $3000 for you.” she’d say casually, slipping a bill into your pocket like she was tipping a waiter.

"Wow." You clenched your teeth, forcing yourself to swallow your pride. “A fine example of humility, Jang Wonyoung.”

“So what?” she cut in sharply, eyes gleaming. “You agreed to this. Don’t start acting like you’re the victim.”

Another day, she leaned into your shoulder at the campus café, sighing dramatically loud enough for the group at the next table to hear. “You’re so sweet, paying for my coffee again. How did I get so lucky?”

You grinned through your teeth, sliding your own card across the counter, your stomach twisting at the price (even you got paid handsomely). When the last witness turned their head away, she straightened up and shoved a stack of folded bills at you beneath the table.

“Reimbursement,” she whispered, tone dripping with mock kindness. “For being so obedient.”

You wanted to throw it back at her. To stand up, tell everyone it was all bullshit. But then you thought of your empty fridge, the rent overdue notice peeking from under your door. You kept the money, like you always did. Eating away your shame was better than eating nothing.

And she knew it. Every smirk, every command, every choreographed laugh reminded you that she wasn’t your girlfriend—she was your leash-holder. And you were the dog that agreed to wear the collar.

At least your wallet is happier now. But were you?

Were you really?

-

Her room was too clean.

That was your first thought when she waved you in with the laziest flick of her wrist. It was supposed to be another “home date” arranged to keep up appearances for her parents, but tonight was different. For the first time, you properly took in her space.

The desk was ridiculously enormous, covered in a thin stack of papers, a sleek MacBook, and one of those Montblanc pens you’d only ever seen locked behind glass in department stores. But the strangest thing? Despite the money on display, the open workbook in front of her was smeared with pink highlighter and frantic chicken-scratch notes stood out.

Wonyoung was slouched in her chair, hair tied back messily, staring at an Excel sheet like it had personally insulted her.

“Corporate Finance. Week five.” She groaned, stabbing her pen at the screen. “Why is this shit so hard? Discounted cash flow? Net present value? IRR? What the fuck is this...”

So even the glamourous princess could be foul with her tongue. Huh.

You leaned against the desk, peering down at her assignment. The Excel sheet was a disaster: columns misaligned, formulas broken, random cells filled with “???”.

“…Why don’t you just, you know, pay someone to do it?” you asked flatly, because honestly, wasn’t that her whole way of life? Throw money at problems until they disappear.

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “If I could, don’t you think I would’ve already? Daddy said if he catches me outsourcing work again, he’s cutting off my platinum card. No Amex, no driver, no weekend spa trips.” She said this as if it were the cruellest punishment imaginable.

You raised a brow. “So basically… your entire ecosystem of survival. What a fucking cheat.”

She clicked her tongue. “Don’t act like you don’t get it. You’d die without money too. The difference is, you’d just starve. I’d lose my whole lifestyle.”

You wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Still, you glanced back at her sheet and sighed. “Alright, move over. Let me see this shit.”

Wonyoung blinked. “You? What are you gonna do? Throw some sad, broken-man wisdom at my work?”

“Broke-man wisdom probably has more accuracy than… whatever the fuck this is.” You gestured to her file. “Look, this assignment isn’t that hard. You’re just overcomplicating it.”

She gave you a dubious look but shifted over, chair squeaking as you pulled it toward the desk.

“Okay, so.” You pointed at the problem statement. “They’re asking you to evaluate a project—figure out if it’s worth investing in. First step: you take the projected cash flows—”

"Wait. Cash flow is just… money in and money out, right?”

“Basically. But you need to think in terms of time value of money. A dollar today is worth more than a dollar tomorrow.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because of opportunity cost. You could invest that dollar today, earn returns, so by next year it’d be worth more. That’s why you discount future cash flows back to present value.”

“…Okay, fine, professor.” She rolled her eyes but leaned forward anyway, watching as you typed out the formula.

"Not a professor but whatever." You sighed, but continued anyway. "See this? NPV equals the sum of all future cash flows divided by (1 + discount rate)^t. If it’s positive, you take the project. Negative, you reject it."

Her brow furrowed, lips pursing slightly. She scribbled it down on her notebook in messy handwriting.

“And IRR?” she asked quietly.

“Urm…Internal Rate of Return. It’s basically the discount rate that makes your NPV equal zero. Companies like to compare it to their hurdle rate—if IRR’s higher, the investment’s good.”

She actually nodded this time, no sarcasm. “…Okay. That kind of makes sense. Wait, so the discount rate… what even is that?”

“Think of it like…uh…the required rate of return. Usually, it’s tied to the cost of capital. You know, like WACC—Weighted Average Cost of Capital.”

Her nose wrinkled. “That sounds awful.”

“It is…but it matters. A company’s not gonna put money in something unless the return’s higher than the cost of funding it.”

You kept explaining, fingers flying over her Excel sheet on the screen, fixing formulas and formatting. She leaned closer, chin resting on her palm, quietly absorbing.

“See? Clean. NPV is positive, IRR is twelve percent. The project's viable.”

“…You make it look easy,” she muttered, almost grudgingly.

“Shit's not easy. You just panic instead of thinking.”

She gave you a side-eye. “Don’t act all superior. You probably learned this to survive, huh? Counting pennies on your grocery runs.”

“Better than not knowing what the fuck an interest rate is.”

Her mouth fell open. “I do know! It’s… it’s that number the bank slaps on your credit card!”

"Fuck, damn." You snorted. “Revolutionary insight. Harvard Business School is fucking shaking.”

She shoved your shoulder lightly, cheeks puffed. “…Shut up. I’m trying.”

For once, the edge in her voice wasn’t mocking. She was actually… frustrated. Vulnerable, even. You caught yourself staring at the way her brows furrowed as she chewed on the end of her pen, scribbling half-legible notes.

“You’re not that damn bad at this, you know,” you muttered.

Her head tilted. “Don’t fucking lie.”

“Well, I fucking not. You just…” you tapped her notes “…don’t trust yourself enough to think through the steps.”

Silence lingered between you, broken only by the clacking of keys. Finally, she leaned back with a sigh. “…Thanks. I guess.”

-

At first, earning your new role as her impromptu tutor was like dragging a cat into a bathtub. She’d slump back on the leather couch with her legs crossed, diamond earrings swinging, staring at her phone while you were trying to explain the difference between gross margin and net margin.

“Wonyoung, you can’t just—” you sighed, tapping the whiteboard app on your tablet. “Revenue minus cost of goods sold. That's a gross margin. But if you subtract operating expenses, then you get net. Write it down.”

She didn’t even look up, lazily twirling her straw in a pink cocktail. “Mhm. So… if I spend 50k on a Chanel bag showcase and sell it to my friends for 70k, the gross margin is… twenty, right?”

“Not… exactly.” You pinched your nose. “One, you don’t ‘sell’ bag showcases. Two, you’re missing fixed costs. Venue rental, staff, lighting, the security guard who looks like he eats diamonds for breakfast—”

Finally, she looked at you, pouting. “Ugh. Why do you make it sound so boring? Just say yes.”

“Fuck no. Because your professor won’t.”

It was the only time you could afford to be blunt with her, the only arena where her usual intimidation lost ground (it's most likely because she wanted to get her black cards back). She’d glare at you like she was two seconds away from firing you, but instead of snapping back, she’d lower her eyes and quietly jot something down in her notebook.

The sessions became so frequent that you started to notice her picking up your habits without even realizing it. Her notes were no longer scattered scrawls but tidy bullet points, structured exactly like yours. Her readings, once untouched, were now highlighted in the same rhythm you used. And every so often, you’d hear her mutter your exact words under her breath, “...you fucking serious?” in that clipped, annoyed tone that used to be yours alone. Basically, she swore more often just like you.

But it didn’t stop there. One night, around 2 AM, your phone lit up. You groaned, rolled over, and saw her name.

You picked up, voice rough. “What.”

“Explain elasticity again.”

“…You fucking serious?”

“Yes, I am fucking serious. If demand is elastic, price goes down, sales go up, right? But then why did Apple make their phones more expensive and still sell more?”

"You fucking…" You sat up, rubbing your temples. “….Because not everything is elastic. Luxury goods, like the stuff you waste your allowance on, are often inelastic. The higher the price, the more it screams status. People buy it because it’s expensive.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then a quiet laugh. “So I’m a walking case study?”

“Glad you’re self-aware, Jang Wonyoung” you muttered, collapsing back onto your pillow. “Now let me sleep, will you?”

“Mm. Fine. Thanks, babe. Sleep tight.”

You hung up, staring at the ceiling. Wonyoung, of all people, studying at 2 AM? You didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

Other times, she’d drag you out against your will.

You once had to storm into the VIP lounge of a Gangnam club because she wouldn’t stop spamming your phone. She was waiting with a notebook open among champagne bottles and expensive fruits.

“Sit.” She patted the seat beside her, like you were some kind of dog.

You groaned. “You’re seriously making me teach you here?”

“Yes. I already skipped three classes. You said I was wasting time.” She slid her notebook closer, eyes uncharacteristically big and expectant. “Don’t let me waste it, my shitty boyfriend.”

Her tone was bossy, but her hand was already clutching a pen like she was actually ready to listen. Against your better judgment, you sat and explained how Porter’s Five Forces worked while bass shook the glass walls. She nodded, tapping her nails on the page, lips moving as she whispered the concepts back to herself.

And somewhere along the way, you picked up her habits too.

She had that habit of twirling her pen when she thought, and you caught yourself doing the same when trying to find the right word to explain to her. She'd waved her hand dismissively whenever she rejected an idea, a gesture so effortlessly elegant you slap yourself for accidentally mirroring it when the waiter offered drinks. Worst of all, you just start drinking whatever overpriced she always brought.

But then…her grades began to climb, not spectacularly, but enough to make her happy. Her first decent midterm came back with a solid B+. She shoved the paper into your face before you even stepped into her place.

“Look! I passed!” she beamed. “Do you know how many people thought I was going to fail out? Hah!”

You gave her a once-over. “Not bad. Still not an A though.”

“Excuse you?” She smacked your arm with the rolled-up paper. “This is basically an A for me. You should be honoured. My dad didn’t even believe I wrote the essay myself.”

“…Did you?”

“Yes!” She puffed out her cheeks, glaring at you. “I stayed up all night, typing and deleting. And don’t give me that shitty grin, I only cried twice.”

You chuckled despite telling yourself not to. “Fine. Good job.”

Her eyes widened, then she smiled a little too brightly. “Y-you actually mean that?”

“Why would I waste my damn energy lying to you?”

For a moment, she froze, lips twitching. Then she turned away, suddenly shy. “…Well. Keep complimenting me like that, and maybe I’ll even aim for an A next time.”

-

You thought it was a phase.

Maybe something she did when she was bored, the same way she bought limited-edition heels and forgot about them a week later. But three months in and the pattern stayed.

One evening, you were hunched over your laptop at your tiny dining table, Excel open, cells glowing with endless columns of projected revenue and sponsorship figures. Your wrist ached from typing, but your pen spun absentmindedly between your fingers (three twirls, catch, three twirls, catch) the same nervous tic you’d noticed she’d been doing with her Montblanc pen for weeks now.

The door opened without so much as a knock.

“Again?” you muttered, not even looking up.

Of course, the Jang Wonyoung barged in without asking, as always, a plastic bag of snacks in her hand. She always did that annoying twirl, showing off her favourite Tommy Jeans black dress that hugs her tightly (you never see her wear that outside, though.) Instead of sitting across, she dragged the chair and sat beside you, throwing the bag on the table like she owned the whole room.

“Ya, did you hear the latest about the Han family?” she said, words muffled slightly as she chewed. “Their eldest son got caught cheating in his MBA program. Total fucking scandal. The dean over there is trying to keep it quiet, but everyone knows.”

You didn’t look up. “You sound way too damn happy about someone else’s shit.”

Her grin widened, sharp and satisfied. “Of course I am. He once told me I ‘lacked the work ethic for graduate school’ when we first met. Look how that fucker turned out.” She leaned closer, tilting her head toward your screen. “What are you even doing this time? Looks like hell.”

“Quarterly projections,” you muttered. “Not that you’d care.”

“True,” she said airily, throwing a piece of Haribo into her mouth. “But if you run out of numbers to stare at, I can tell you about which department store CEO just got blacklisted by LVMH for faking luxury collaborations.”

You finally looked at her, brow furrowed. “Why…do you even know these things, Wonyoung?”

She smirked, popping another into her mouth. “Because gossip travels faster in penthouses than it does in classrooms. You wouldn’t understand.”

You shook your head, returning to your spreadsheet, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she slouched in her chair, one elbow propped against the table, scrolling through her phone with idle taps. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore. Just… there.

Another night, you were sprawled in the lounge, a half-warm can of cheap coffee on the table, a documentary murmuring from the TV. She slid onto the couch beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, dropping her bag onto the floor without a care. You didn’t even flinch anymore. She’d been barging into your place too often for it to feel foreign.

“Hye, want to know which dumb rich guys are secretly dating a B-list actress?” she asked suddenly, eyes glittering with mischief.

You gave her a deadpan look. “Not particularly.”

She leaned in anyway, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I won’t tell anyone else. Just you.”

You exhaled, exasperated. “Why me?”

She blinked once, then smirked. “Because you’re boring enough to keep secrets.”

"Rude.”

“Accurate,” she shot back without missing a beat. Then, as if remembering something, she reached over, plucked your can of coffee from the table, and took a swig.

You frowned. “That’s mine.”

“Mhm, fuck that. Your shit, my shit.” she hummed, ignoring you, her long fingers wrapped around the dented aluminum. She tilted her head back, swallowed, then lowered the can with an approving look. “Ugh. I hate that I like this now.”

Your brow arched. “Didn’t you once call it—what was it—‘recycled battery acid’?”

“My point still stands.” She smirked, setting the can back down but keeping it close to her side of the table, as if it was hers now. “But it’s…addictive. And way cheaper than the syrupy shit I used to waste thirty bucks on.”

“Welcome to the commoner’s economy, princess.” you muttered.

“Don’t use that tone on me, mister.” She tapped her nails against the aluminum, a habit that mirrored the way you always fidgeted with your pen. “It’s just… practical. Convenient. Doesn’t come in an obnoxious cup with my name spelled wrong.” She shot you a sideways glance, her grin playful. “Happy? You’ve fucked me up.”

You kept your face straight. “Finally, some good shit I’ve taught you.”

She laughed, leaning into you, the sound bubbling up without her usual effort to control it. “Wow. You’re actually proud. Cute.”

“I do not remember saying that” you dismissed, unknowingly did her usual gesture like it was natural.

“Sure, sure.” She settled more comfortably against your shoulder, like she’d done it a hundred times before. Her hair tickled your arm, her perfume faint but familiar. She lifted the can again, took another sip, then sighed contentedly, her lips quaking into a softer smile this time.

“And because…I guess…urm…” She paused, eyes still on the screen but voice low. “…you actually listen.”

The documentary droned on in the background. Outside, neon lights bled through the blinds, painting the room in shifting pinks and blues. You were itching to push her off. To tell her you weren’t her diary, weren’t her late-night therapist, weren’t her safe little vault for secrets. But you didn’t.

You sat still, feeling the slight weight of her head, the warmth of her shoulder against yours, the soft clink of her nails against the can she stole.

And you realized, somewhere between each impromptu session and whispered gossip under neon lights like this, that the spoiled heiress who once saw you as nothing more than a background actor had started to…warm up.

And maybe you are too…

-

By the fifth month, something had shifted.

You noticed it in the smallest ways. Wonyoung no longer clutched her iced lattes from high-end cafés with gold-leaf foam; instead, you always see her with a dented can of black coffee—the kind you’d been forcing down for years because it was cheap and everywhere. She still wrinkled her nose at the taste, but she drank it anyway. She’d even pick up an extra can for you sometimes, sliding it across the table like it was nothing.

And you, without realizing, had started tapping your pen against notebooks in the same unorthodox rhythm she tapped her nails against glasses. Your head tilted the same way hers did when listening. Sometimes when you walked away from her driver waiting at the curb, you caught yourself dragging your feet just like she did—stretching out those last few seconds like you didn’t want the evening to end either.

At first, you dismissed it as habit, camouflage, a side effect of spending too much time together. But you couldn’t deny the pattern.

She laughed harder at your blunt, unpolished jokes than at any half-hearted punchline from the hordes that kept licking her boots. She didn’t argue back as much during case studies, even when you yelled at her for the fifth time in a week about mixing up fixed costs and variable costs. And sometimes, in the silence after your scolding, while she typed notes furiously into her laptop, her gaze would wander back to you. Not to her “fake boyfriend.” Not to her impromptu tutor. But to something else, something she herself couldn’t seem to name.

And against your better judgment, against all the bitterness you’d buried toward her kind of world, something cracked inside you.

Maybe you were wrong about her. Somehow.

And just as quickly as it appeared, the thought crumbled. Because she pulled away.

No messages.

No heads up.

Nothing.

Then one night you stumbled upon her again online, flashing lights bouncing off champagne towers, her name trending on Instagram stories full of sequins and afterparties. She fit there too perfectly, sliding back into the neon world of heirs and heiresses like the late nights of canned coffee and whispered gossip had been nothing but a detour.

She had vanished from your life like it was nothing. And you felt stupid for letting yourself think otherwise but just a contract.

You dropped whatever flicker of hope had sparked inside you. Snuffed it out before it could grow. Of course she wasn’t different. Of course she was just like the rest of them - throwing you away when you're out of use. You should’ve never expected anything more. It was over for you.

To her however…it wasn’t.

She hated how much she thought about you even after another Long Island. She hated how fake her laugh sounded when another rich kid told a joke, because she could only remember the way hers spilled out wholeheartedly at you, uncaring of your judgement. She hated how she heard your crude voice every time she glanced back at her Macbook.

And she hated most of all that she missed you.

She tried to drown it in neon lights, in alcohol and shallow conversation. But nothing worked. Not for a second.

So when you finally confronted her, it wasn't anything dramatic nor passionate. It was worse.

It was straight up a void.

She came back to the usual café you two had been visiting for months, the starting place of the whole contract, the “set piece” of your little arrangement, the one place that had always seen you both smiling a little too brightly for the sake of appearances.  

“You’re late,” you said flatly.

Her lips twitched. “That’s what you’re starting with?”

“You came. I came. Now sit.”

It wasn’t a request. And she hated how obediently she sat down anyway.

For minutes, neither of you bothered with the old charade. No leaning close for show. No playful act for the regulars to whisper about. Just silence, broken only by the clink of your spoon against the espresso cup. The same rhythm you had picked up from her.

Wonyoung hated every second of it. She could see the indifference in your face, the way your eyes wandered off as if you had other things on your mind. And she hated the fact that she could recognise that particular rhythm from the tapping. The hollow laughter or the unfiltered curse would be far better than that constant noise right now.

“So that’s it?” she snapped suddenly. “You don’t care where I’ve been?”

“You’ve been at parties,” you replied, eyes fixed on your drink and stopping the spoon. “Congratulations. Want me to clap?”

Her chest tightened. “You’re heartless. I disappear for fucking weeks and that’s all you have to say?”

“So fucking what?” At last, you looked at her, your gaze sharp enough to cut. “People come and go, Wonyoung. You signed me for six months. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Her throat closed. “So that’s all I am to you? A contract?”

“I was a contract to you too. Mutual transaction, Wonyoung.”

The bluntness hit harder than a slap.

Her nails dug into her palms. “Why do you always do this shit? Pretend you don’t care, like you’re above everything, like nothing fucking touches you—”

“Because none of this shit touches me.” Your tone was steady, too steady. “You don’t get it. You’re spoiled, Wonyoung. You run to me when it’s convenient, then crawl back to your perfect little world the second it scares you. Don’t act like this is more than what it is.”

Her breath hitched, tears threatening, but her pride held. “You really think that’s all I’ve been doing? Using you? Playing with you?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation.”What else?”

Her chest rose and fell sharply, like she was trying to keep herself from drowning. She bit down on her lip, eyes flashing with something raw. “You think I wanted this? You think I fucking planned to—” she stopped herself, words catching.

You didn’t move.

“I cannot change my feelings for you,” she blurted out. The tremor broke into rawness, eyes wet, hands trembling on the table. “Believe me, I fucking tried.”

Silence fell heavy, the café fading out around you both. For the first time, her mask was gone. No perfect smile, no practiced tone. Just Wonyoung, stripped raw, vulnerable, begging without saying the word. Begging that you would see her properly.

And a part of you wanted to forgive her. Ached to. Because she enjoyed your bitter canned coffee. Because you caught yourself chewing at straws the way she used to. Because she laughed for real with you and let herself listen without pretending she already knew. You wanted to reach across the table. You wanted to tell her you could try, just try.

But you didn’t. You smothered it down, buried it under the weight of everything you knew about her world. You couldn’t afford to believe it. Not from her. 

Anymore.

“Well,” you began, soft yet merciless, “I can’t change my despise for you either.”

Her head jerked back as if you’d struck her. “What…?”

“Wonyoung.” You breathed, exhaling all the thoughts that you were bottling up. “I already don’t…like your kind of people, especially those who whine and play around. Being…friends with you was the furthest I could go, and that’s me being generous.

You swallowed, unsure if the word ”friend” rolled off your tongue was sweet or bitter. "But this?” You pushed the expensive coffee cup aside like it was trash. “This was a contract. And you broke it. It’s over.”

Like you were clocking out of a shift.

Her body trembled as the tears finally fell, one after another, slipping down her flawless face. Her voice cracked as she screamed, “You’re really ending it like this?! Just like that?!”

You stood, hands sliding into your pockets. “…Thank you for the past six months, Jang Wonyoung.”

And you got up from your seat.

On the table, beside her untouched latte, you placed a small, neatly wrapped box. Inside was a silver pen — unbranded, practical, the one you’d once caught her admiring when you were scribbling notes beside her. Her birthday was only a few days away. It was the only kindness you allowed yourself.

You didn’t wait to see her reaction. Didn’t dare.

The bell chimed as you walked out, dragging your feet unconsciously — just like her.

Wonyoung could only crumble back into her seat, face buried in her hands, her sobs muffled against the perfect silence of the café. For the first time in her carefully curated life, her heart felt like it had been ripped apart. The first affection she thought might be real, the first person who didn’t look at her like a brand, a name, nor an heiress, was gone.

And you?

You walked into the street, your thumb already scrolling through job postings, your teeth chewing at your fingernail the way she used to chew straws.

A barista gig near the university. A bookstore clerk position. A part-time teaching assistant role if you got lucky. Anything to keep moving. Anything to keep the light on your head and food on the table. Anything to not get back to the time where you only had $31.08 on you. Anything but thinking about the girl crying her heart out behind you.

Because for her, it was never just a contract.

But for you, it had to be. Even if you’d already betrayed yourself by leaving her that gift.

——————————————————————

Prompt masterlist here !

Pls check all of them, they are great

"The fans wouldn't leave the garage," she says, her voice a mix of exhaustion and that breathless, desperate hunger she only shows you. She walks toward you, her eyes fixed on the silver ring on your left hand—the one that represents your "perfect" life. "And I had to make sure the manager was sufficiently... distracted."

She stops inches away from you, the scent of her Tom Ford perfume mixing with the smoke of your scotch. She reaches up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of your jaw, then moving down to tug at your silk tie.

"The 'People’s Assemblyman' looks tired," she whispers, her thumb brushing against your lower lip. "Did the session go poorly? Or did your wife nag you about the charity gala again?"

You set the glass down on the mahogany table. Your hand finds her waist, pulling her flush against you. The contrast is stark: your stiff, expensive wool suit against her soft, exposed skin. You represent the law; she represents everything you’re willing to do to break it.

"My wife is at her father’s estate in Daegu for the weekend," you mutter, your hand sliding down to the curve of her hip, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp. "And you know better than to mention her here."

"I like it when you get cold, Y/n-ah," she breathes, her hands sliding under your blazer to find the heat of your chest. She drops to her knees, looking up at you with the same eyes that millions of fans worship on screen, but here, she’s just a girl looking for her next payout—both financial and physical.

She unbuckles your Hermès belt with practiced ease. "The fans think I'm the 'Waterbomb Goddess.' They have no idea I belong to a man who writes the very laws that are supposed to keep me 'pure.'"

She peels your trousers down, and your cock snaps free, thick and pulsing with the suppressed rage of a day spent playing the "perfect citizen." She doesn't hesitate; she takes you into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head with a wet, heavy suction that makes the lights of Seoul blur in your vision.

You reach down, your fingers tangling in her dark hair, forcing her deeper. This is the only place in the world where you don't have to be the Honorable Park Y/n. Here, you're just the man who owns her.

"Faster," you command, your voice a low growl.

Eunbi obeys, her throat opening up to accommodate you, her hand moving to stroke your base. The risk of your position, the sheer weight of your secret, and the sight of Korea’s top soloist kneeling at your feet is a more potent drug than any alcohol.

The muffled, frantic vibration of your Samsung Galaxy Z Fold on the mahogany side table shatters the silence of the suite. The screen glows with a name that makes your blood run cold even in the heat of the moment: Chairman Choi – National Assembly Majority Leader.

You stiffen, your hand tightening instinctively in Eunbi’s hair. She lets out a small, choked sound, her eyes fluttering up to yours, dark and clouded with lust. She doesn't stop, her tongue continuing to swirl around the sensitive rim of your crown, oblivious to the fact that the man on the other end of that phone could end your career with a single leaked transcript.

"Eunbi. Stop," you rasp, your voice thick.

She pulls back slowly, a thin, silver thread of saliva connecting her lip to the head of your cock. She looks at the phone, then back at you, a playful, dangerous smirk tugging at her mouth.

"The Chairman?" she whispers, her hand continuing to stroke your length with a slow, agonizing rhythm. "He’s such a bore. Tell him you’re in a ‘closed-door session.’"

The phone vibrates again. You reach out, your fingers hovering over the glass. If you don't answer, he’ll call your wife’s father. If you do answer and he hears her...

"I have to take this," you mutter, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at you. "Not a sound. If you breathe too loud, I’ll cut your allowance for the next three months. Understand?"

Eunbi’s eyes flash—part fear, part thrill. She nods, then leans forward, her tongue darting out to lick the very tip of you before she settles her cheek against your thigh, looking up at you like a predator waiting for the signal.

You swipe the screen. "Chairman Choi. I apologize for the hour. I was just reviewing the final amendments for the Seoul Redevelopment Act."

Your voice is a masterpiece of political theater—steady, authoritative, and completely devoid of the fact that Korea’s most famous soloist is currently kneeling between your legs.

"Park Y/n," the Chairman’s voice crackles, gravelly and hurried. "We have a problem. The prosecution just executed a search warrant on the Dongdaemun District Office. They’re looking for the ledger on the ‘S-Project.’ Your name isn't on the warrant yet, but we need to move the offshore accounts by sunrise."

Beneath you, Eunbi decides to test your resolve. She leans in, her lips barely brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, her warm breath hitching as she listens to the man who holds your future in his hands.

"I understand, Chairman," you say, your knuckles turning white as you grip the edge of the table. "I’ll contact the trustees in Singapore immediately. We’ll scrub the digital trail before the morning session."

Eunbi’s hand slides up, her fingers wrapping around your base, squeezing firmly as she begins to move her hand in a slow, torturous slide. You feel a surge of heat hit the back of your throat. Your breath hitches—a fraction of a second too long.

"Park? You still there?" the Chairman asks, his tone sharpening. "You sound... out of breath. Are you at the gym this late?"

"Just... the stairs, Chairman," you manage, your teeth gritting as Eunbi’s tongue finds the head of your cock again, light and teasing. "The elevator is out for maintenance at my residence. I’ll call you from a secure line in ten minutes."

"Make it five," the Chairman grunts and hangs up.

The silence that follows is deafening. You drop the phone onto the carpet and look down at Eunbi. She’s looking up at you, her expression one of pure, unadulterated triumph. She knows she almost broke the "National Son-in-Law."

"You're a demon," you growl, reaching down and grabbing her by the waist, hoisting her up until she’s pinned against the floor-to-ceiling window.

"And you're a liar, Y/n-ah," she whispers, her legs wrapping around your waist, the black lace of her bodysuit scratching against your skin. "A very, very good one. Now... show me how you handle a real crisis."

The glass of the Signiel penthouse is cold against her back, but the heat radiating between your bodies is a physical weight. You don't bother with the bed; the adrenaline from the Chairman’s call has turned your blood into liquid fire, and the sight of Eunbi pinned against the skyline of the city you technically rule is too perfect a power trip to move.

You hoist her up, her legs wrapping around your waist with a desperate strength. The sheer La Perla lace of her bodysuit is the only thing between you until you reach down and tear the crotch aside, the delicate fabric giving way with a sharp, satisfying rip. You enter her in one smooth, heavy thrust, bottoming out against her cervix.

She lets out a high, broken cry that fogged the window, her head falling back against the reinforced glass. The contrast is intoxicating: the frozen, silent city 100 floors below and the wet, rhythmic friction of Korea’s most "virtuous" politician burying himself in its most coveted soloist.

You flip her around, pressing her chest against the window so she’s forced to look out at the National Assembly building in the distance—the very place where your face is plastered on campaign posters. From behind, you reach around, your large hands cupping her breasts. They are heavy and warm, spilling over your fingers as you knead the soft flesh, your thumbs rhythmically flicking her hardened nipples.

You lean down, your mouth finding the sensitive curve where her neck meets her shoulder. You bite—not enough to bleed, but enough to leave a signature that her stylists will have to work overtime to hide with Dermacol tomorrow.

"Look at it, Eunbi-ya," you growl into her ear, your hips slamming into her with a primal, unrelenting pace. "That’s my city. And you’re my favorite thing in it."

She groans, her forehead resting against the glass, her breath coming in short, ragged hitches. "Y/n... ah... slower... you're going to... break me..."

The friction is building to a flashpoint. Because it’s raw, you can feel every twitch of her internal muscles, the way she’s clenching around you as she nears her own peak. The sensation of skin-on-skin is a luxury your "perfect" life rarely allows, and the lack of a barrier makes every thrust feel electric.

As you reach the point of no return, your movements become frantic, your breath hitching just like it did on the phone. You’re seconds away from ruining everything—a child with a mistress would be the end of the "S-Project" and your seat in the Assembly.

Eunbi feels the change in your rhythm, the way your body stiffens as you prepare to let go. She reaches back, her hand fumbling for your thigh, squeezing hard to anchor you.

"Y/n... pull out," she gasps, her voice trembling with the force of her own orgasm. "Don't... don't put it inside. Remember the 'S-Project'... pull out..."

You hear her, but the haze of pleasure is thick. At the last possible second, you growl and yank yourself free, the wet sound of the withdrawal echoing in the silent suite. You spill across the small of her back and the glass of the window, the hot, white evidence of your betrayal of the state—and your wife—sliding down her skin in the moonlight.

"This isn't in my job description."

"So quit." She finally turns. Your eyes drop — tits spilling out of the floral top, wet, sun-kissed, nipples hard through the thin fabric. She catches you looking. Doesn't cover up. Pulls you down by your staff lanyard instead. Kisses you — slow, wet, deliberate. Her lips are ridiculous. Plush and sticky with gloss that tastes like cherry. She bites your bottom lip. Sucks on it until you groan. Lets go with a pop. "Work for me exclusively instead."

The bikini bottom's off. Red string dangling from one ankle. She's on the edge of the pool, legs in the water, pulling you between them. Her pussy's pretty. Swollen. Glistening and it's not from the pool.

"Fuck me. Right here."

You push in and her head drops back. Tits bouncing with every thrust, water splashing around your thighs. Her mouth — God, her mouth — lips parted, tongue running across the bottom one, pulling you down by the neck to kiss you filthy and wet between moans.

"You feel so fucking deep — harder — louder. There's nobody here —"

She's right. Every moan bounces off the tile. Every slap of wet skin carries across the empty pool deck. You grab her tits. Full handfuls, heavy and soft, thumbing her nipples until she whimpers into your mouth.

"Play with them — just like — fuck yes, like that —"

"My ass," she pants. Reaches back and spreads herself for you. "I want — switch. Put it in my ass. I want to feel you back there."

You do. Slow. Her rim stretches around you and she gasps — high and sharp. Grips the pool edge, knuckles white, water rippling around you both. Her ass swallows every inch.

"Oh fuck that's — don't be gentle, I didn't ask you over here to be gentle —" Her voice cracks. She bites her own lip. Hard. Those perfect, swollen, ruined lips. "Spank me. I want the whole resort to hear it."

You do. Her ass ripples. She clenches around you so tight your vision blurs.

She comes shaking in the shallow end — clamped around your cock, moaning into the echo of an empty pool, tits pressed against the wet tile.

Sunscreen bottle floating past her like nothing happened.

"...you missed a spot, by the way."