$31.08
IVE's Wonyoung x M!Reader
Note: Oh you think that Mina one was an anomaly? Nah, we're going angsy with this one.
I had so much fun writing this fr. Special thank you to @kwilquib for hosting the prompt, and @wonyology for being my first victim lmao.
Man, I'm so down bad for Wonyoung wearing this black dress ughhhh...
Also cover made by me yippee. might keep doing this for future fics
TW: angst, a sht ton of swearing
(7.8k words)
You stare at the cracked ceiling of your room, the kind that peels like old sunburnt skin, while your cracked phone screen glows dimly in your hand. Numbers mock you from the banking appâso small they could fit on a grain of rice. Rentâs coming, tuitionâs next, and the electricity bill has a lovely red stamp on it that screams FINAL NOTICE. Your part-time job? Pays you in tips so tiny you could lose them under the fridge.
The math doesnât add up no matter how many times you punch the calculator app. Subtract rent, minus groceries, minus bills. Whatâs left is the kind of figure that makes you wonder if air counts as a meal.
$31.08. What the fuck are you going to do with only $31.08?
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.
âParty tonight. Big one. Come through.â
âNo excuses, man. Weâre dragging you if you donât.â
âYou need to stop being depressed and live a little.â
You sigh, tossing your phone onto the bed like it personally wronged you. These obnoxious fucker again. The âfriendsâ 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 daddyâs money.
You know how this goes. Theyâll invite you, claim itâs all in good fun, then spend the night poking at you like youâre their charity case. The âordinaryâ one. Whatever their favourite punchline is.
But before you can type out the usual excuseâwork, studying, not feeling wellâanother message drops. âRelax. Weâll cover your entry. Drinks too.â
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Theyâll 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 isnât from the clearance aisle, and a night where you donât have to think about overdue notices in exchange for ridicule.
You exhale, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. âScrew it.â
Your phone buzzes again, like itâs mocking your surrender. âKnew youâd cave, dumbass. Donât embarrass us too much.â
You mutter to yourself as you pull the least-wrinkled shirt from your closet, âYeah, because Iâm just here to make you fuckers look good, right?â
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 donât 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.
-
âŠmaybe 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 cornerâitâs the kind of environment where even the air feels expensive. Everyone is dressed like theyâre either nepo babies or they actually are nepo babies, and you⊠youâre praying no one notices that your shirt has a frayed cuff or that little stain you couldnât get rid of.
Your "friends", meanwhile, are already in their element. They throw their jackets at the coat check like itâs a sport, grab champagne flutes from silver trays like itâs water, and slide into the crowd with ease.
âYo, relax, man,â one of them claps you on the back, nearly knocking the glass out of your hand. âWe told you already, tonightâs on us. Just⊠donât brood in a corner, alright?â
Remember, free food.
You force a smile and give them an uninterested "sure". But itâs 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 youâre sinking deeper into water you canât 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, thatâs 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. Youâve heard the name tossed around campus like itâs 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 leaksârare, untouchable, never meant for the likes of you.
And seeing her in person? Yeah, it makes sense.
Sheâs radiant in a way that makes the room tilt. Every step, every glance, itâs 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. Sheâs that girl, the one who doesnât have to try.
Not that it matters. Sheâs definitely not your type. Too polished, too arrogant, too unreachable. Youâve 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. âAh, Miss Jang, hey! It's been a long time. This is our guy, donât mind him, heâs shy.â She gives you the briefest glance, a polite nod, then goes back to sipping her wine. Perfect. Easy.
Until it isnât.
Because suddenly, a crowd of suitors descends on her like moths to a flame.
âMiss Jang, Iâve been meaning to ask, would you care for a drive in my fatherâs new Maybach?â
âYour dress is stunning tonight. Did you have it tailored in Paris? I could recommend ââ
âYou know, my familyâs hosting a gala next week. You should come. Weâd be honoured.â
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 doesnât want this. But they donât care.
And then she looked at you, as if you two shared the same distaste towards this obnoxious crowdâŠthen 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.
âBabe,â she says smoothly, loud enough for the whole group to hear. Her smile blooms, but now itâs sharp, purposeful. âSorry I kept you waiting.â
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.
âHim?â 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. âYes. Problem?â
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. âWhat the actual fuck was that?â
âQuiet.â She doesnât flinch. Too busy to check her black nails than to look at you. âSix months. Pretend to be my boyfriend. Iâll pay you.â
You furrowed your brow. â...What bull shit is this?â
Finally, her eyes flick to yours. Theyâre sharp, clear, cutting right through you. âDonât make me repeat myself. Six months. You play the boyfriend role, and youâll never have to worry about money again.â
You laugh, bitter. âOk, I donât know who the hell you think I am, but Iâm not some fuckingâ â
âDo it or else.â She cuts you off, her tone flat, dismissive. Like youâre already signed, sealed, delivered.
âOr else what?â you snap, more from panic than pride.
Her lips curl into something that isnât quite a smile. âOr else I tell everyone here that you threatened me to call you babe. And trust me⊠theyâll believe me.â
Your blood runs cold. âY-yeah fuck nââ
âWhat are you gonna do then, broke boy? Waggling your tail behind those three guys? You think I didn't notice?â
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.
ââŠHow much?â 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 clichĂ© 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 wasnât dressed like the heiress youâd overheard your friends gushing about that nightâ just jeans and a tucked-in shirtâbut the air around her bent differently, like she was gravity and everyone else was debris.
âYouâre late,â you muttered when she slid into the seat across from you.
âYouâre poor,â she shot back with the sweetest smile. âBut we canât have everything we want, can we?â
You blinked, thrown off, before scowling. âWas that really fucking necessary?â
âIt's amusing.â She smoothed the cuff of her sleeve, barely glancing at you. âNow, letâs talk business.â
The way she said business made your stomach twist. Like you werenât sitting in some cafĂ© near the subway station, but at the negotiating table of a multi-million-dollar merger.
âI already told youââ
âYou already told me nothing,â she interrupted, plucking the coffee menu from the stand and flipping through it like she was at a salon. âYou mumbled, cursed, and sulked. Thatâs not communication.â
Your jaw clenched. âI didnât agree to anything.â
Her eyes flicked up then, sharp enough to slice. âYou did, actually. The second you stayed in that room and asked how much. That is consent, sweetheart. Donât you know your contract law?â
You leaned back in your chair, muttering under your breath. âWhat bullshit...â
âAnyway, letâs not waste my time.â She set the menu down and folded her hands neatly. âLetâs establish terms again.â
âTerms?â
âAs I said, six months,â she cut in again. âYouâre my boyfriend in public, in front of suitors, family, business associates. No exceptions.â
âAnd private?â you asked flatly.
âPrivate?â She let the word hang in the air like she was savouring it. Then she smiled, mocking, victorious. âYou donât know me. I donât know you. Separate lives.â
You laughed, bitter. âGreat, so Iâm just an act.â
âCongratulations, you caught on quick.â She tilted her head, studying you like a lab rat whoâd done a trick. âBut donât worry. You won't have to work at Starbucks for cash. You work for me.â
âI donât like being owned.â
âYouâre not owned,â she corrected, sweet as poison. âYouâre hired. Big difference.â
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.
âAnything else?â you muttered.
âYes. Next, not falling for each other.â She said it so casually, like she was warning you not to step on wet paint.
âTsk.â You scoffed. âDonât flatter yourself. Youâre not my type.â
âGood,â she replied instantly. âAnd youâre definitely not mine even in my next life. So we agree.â
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. ââŠWhatâs this?â
âYour new role.â
You opened it and almost choked. Resumes. Certificates. Company IDs. Bank statements. All meticulously crafted. You werenât just anyone anymore. According to this file, you were a bright young intern at Samsung, on the path to middle management glory.
âThisâŠâ Your voice cracked. âYou forged all this?â
âSuch an ugly word.â She sipped her iced Americano, perfectly calm. âI prefer⊠curated.â
âAre you fucked in the head? If anyone finds out ââ
âThey wonât. I won't get caught.â She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand, her gaze locking onto yours. âAnd neither will you, if youâre smart enough to play your part.â
Your hands tightened around the folder. âThis is blackmail.â
âThis is survivalâŠwell for you, I suppose.â She corrected it smoothly. âUnless, of course, you want to go back to your dignity and struggle with rent while I find someone else for the role.â
You opened your mouth to retort, but nothing came out. The images of unpaid bills, of your landlordâs cold eyes, of the suffocating weight of reality⊠they were louder than your pride.
âThought so,â she said, victorious, before pulling a sleek pen from her bag and sliding it across to you. âSign it.â
You stared at the pen like it was a blade pressed against your throat. âYou really think you can justâŠdo shits like this?â
Her smile widened, serene and smug. âOh no. I donât think. I know.â
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.
âGood boy,â 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 werenât anyoneâs dog. But all you could do was sit there, staring at the ink drying on the contract, knowing youâd just sold yourself into the most humiliating role of your life.
You leaned back, exhaling through your nose. ââŠGreat. Canât wait to meet the in-laws.â
Her smirk deepened. âOh, donât worry. Thatâs next week.â
You nearly choked on your own spit. âWHAT THE Fââ
-
You had been told to âdress nicelyâ for tonight, but Wonyoungâs 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 familyâs 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. âHm. Passable,â she said flatly, before leaning in close enough for her perfume to brush your skin. âDonât speak unless spoken to. Smile. And remember, youâre a Samsung intern, not⊠whatever you usually are.â
âI know,â you muttered, tugging on your sleeves. âYou already drilled it into my fucking head five times.â
âSix,â she corrected with a faint smirk. âAnd itâs still not enough. Also get rid of your foul mouth.â
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.
âThis must be him,â her mother said warmly, extending a hand. âThe young man you told us about.â
âYes, Mom,â 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. âThis is my lovely boyfriend. Heâs an intern at Samsungâs headquarters.â
That single lie rolled off her tongue like silk, and you had to nod quickly before her parentsâ eyes bored through you.
âYes, ma'am. Itâs⊠an honour,â you said, fumbling slightly, but catching yourself at the last second. You forced a polite smile, praying it didnât look too strained.
Her father stood behind, brow raised. âSamsung? Which department?â
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.
âR&D,â you said quickly, voice steady only because you knew sheâd dig deeper into your hand if you faltered.
Her father leaned back, studying you. âImpressive. Competitive to get in. You must be very capable.â
You nodded again, feeling your stomach churn. âI⊠do my best, sir.â
Throughout the dinner, you spoke only when asked, each word carefully filtered through the silent threats in Wonyoungâs 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, dependableâthe 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. âNot bad,â she said, already beginning to head inside without a glance back. âYou didnât embarrass me. You might actually be useful.â
âGlad to be of the fucking service,â you muttered under your breath.
She paused, half-turning with a smile. âCareful. Props donât talk back.â
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.
âBabyâ sheâd say loudly, brushing her hair back with exaggerated fondness, âwalk me to class, please?â
The crowd would melt. Youâd play along, smile like a fool, even squeeze her hand. And when the crowd dispersed, when the attention shifted elsewhere, sheâd drop your hand like it burned her.
âThatâll be $3000 for you.â sheâd 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. âA fine example of humility, Jang Wonyoung.â
âSo what?â she cut in sharply, eyes gleaming. âYou agreed to this. Donât start acting like youâre the victim.â
Another day, she leaned into your shoulder at the campus cafĂ©, sighing dramatically loud enough for the group at the next table to hear. âYouâre so sweet, paying for my coffee again. How did I get so lucky?â
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.
âReimbursement,â she whispered, tone dripping with mock kindness. âFor being so obedient.â
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 wasnât your girlfriendâshe 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 âhome dateâ 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 youâd 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.
âCorporate Finance. Week five.â She groaned, stabbing her pen at the screen. âWhy is this shit so hard? Discounted cash flow? Net present value? IRR? What the fuck is this...â
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 â???â.
ââŠWhy donât you just, you know, pay someone to do it?â you asked flatly, because honestly, wasnât that her whole way of life? Throw money at problems until they disappear.
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing. âIf I could, donât you think I wouldâve already? Daddy said if he catches me outsourcing work again, heâs cutting off my platinum card. No Amex, no driver, no weekend spa trips.â She said this as if it were the cruellest punishment imaginable.
You raised a brow. âSo basically⊠your entire ecosystem of survival. What a fucking cheat.â
She clicked her tongue. âDonât act like you donât get it. Youâd die without money too. The difference is, youâd just starve. Iâd lose my whole lifestyle.â
You wanted to argue, but she wasnât wrong. Still, you glanced back at her sheet and sighed. âAlright, move over. Let me see this shit.â
Wonyoung blinked. âYou? What are you gonna do? Throw some sad, broken-man wisdom at my work?â
âBroke-man wisdom probably has more accuracy than⊠whatever the fuck this is.â You gestured to her file. âLook, this assignment isnât that hard. Youâre just overcomplicating it.â
She gave you a dubious look but shifted over, chair squeaking as you pulled it toward the desk.
âOkay, so.â You pointed at the problem statement. âTheyâre asking you to evaluate a projectâfigure out if itâs worth investing in. First step: you take the projected cash flowsââ
"Wait. Cash flow is just⊠money in and money out, right?â
âBasically. But you need to think in terms of time value of money. A dollar today is worth more than a dollar tomorrow.â
She blinked. âWhy?â
âBecause of opportunity cost. You could invest that dollar today, earn returns, so by next year itâd be worth more. Thatâs why you discount future cash flows back to present value.â
ââŠOkay, fine, professor.â 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 itâs 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.
âAnd IRR?â she asked quietly.
âUrmâŠInternal Rate of Return. Itâs basically the discount rate that makes your NPV equal zero. Companies like to compare it to their hurdle rateâif IRRâs higher, the investmentâs good.â
She actually nodded this time, no sarcasm. ââŠOkay. That kind of makes sense. Wait, so the discount rate⊠what even is that?â
âThink of it likeâŠuhâŠthe required rate of return. Usually, itâs tied to the cost of capital. You know, like WACCâWeighted Average Cost of Capital.â
Her nose wrinkled. âThat sounds awful.â
âIt isâŠbut it matters. A companyâs not gonna put money in something unless the returnâs higher than the cost of funding it.â
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.
âSee? Clean. NPV is positive, IRR is twelve percent. The project's viable.â
ââŠYou make it look easy,â she muttered, almost grudgingly.
âShit's not easy. You just panic instead of thinking.â
She gave you a side-eye. âDonât act all superior. You probably learned this to survive, huh? Counting pennies on your grocery runs.â
âBetter than not knowing what the fuck an interest rate is.â
Her mouth fell open. âI do know! Itâs⊠itâs that number the bank slaps on your credit card!â
"Fuck, damn." You snorted. âRevolutionary insight. Harvard Business School is fucking shaking.â
She shoved your shoulder lightly, cheeks puffed. ââŠShut up. Iâm trying.â
For once, the edge in her voice wasnât 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.
âYouâre not that damn bad at this, you know,â you muttered.
Her head tilted. âDonât fucking lie.â
âWell, I fucking not. You justâŠâ you tapped her notes ââŠdonât trust yourself enough to think through the steps.â
Silence lingered between you, broken only by the clacking of keys. Finally, she leaned back with a sigh. ââŠThanks. I guess.â
-
At first, earning your new role as her impromptu tutor was like dragging a cat into a bathtub. Sheâd 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.
âWonyoung, you canât justââ you sighed, tapping the whiteboard app on your tablet. âRevenue minus cost of goods sold. That's a gross margin. But if you subtract operating expenses, then you get net. Write it down.â
She didnât even look up, lazily twirling her straw in a pink cocktail. âMhm. So⊠if I spend 50k on a Chanel bag showcase and sell it to my friends for 70k, the gross margin is⊠twenty, right?â
âNot⊠exactly.â You pinched your nose. âOne, you donât âsellâ bag showcases. Two, youâre missing fixed costs. Venue rental, staff, lighting, the security guard who looks like he eats diamonds for breakfastââ
Finally, she looked at you, pouting. âUgh. Why do you make it sound so boring? Just say yes.â
âFuck no. Because your professor wonât.â
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). Sheâd glare at you like she was two seconds away from firing you, but instead of snapping back, sheâd 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, youâd hear her mutter your exact words under her breath, â...you fucking serious?â in that clipped, annoyed tone that used to be yours alone. Basically, she swore more often just like you.
But it didnât stop there. One night, around 2 AM, your phone lit up. You groaned, rolled over, and saw her name.
You picked up, voice rough. âWhat.â
âExplain elasticity again.â
ââŠYou fucking serious?â
âYes, 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?â
"You fuckingâŠ" You sat up, rubbing your temples. ââŠ.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 itâs expensive.â
There was a pause on the other end. Then a quiet laugh. âSo Iâm a walking case study?â
âGlad youâre self-aware, Jang Wonyoungâ you muttered, collapsing back onto your pillow. âNow let me sleep, will you?â
âMm. Fine. Thanks, babe. Sleep tight.â
You hung up, staring at the ceiling. Wonyoung, of all people, studying at 2 AM? You didnât know whether to be annoyed or impressed.
Other times, sheâd drag you out against your will.
You once had to storm into the VIP lounge of a Gangnam club because she wouldnât stop spamming your phone. She was waiting with a notebook open among champagne bottles and expensive fruits.
âSit.â She patted the seat beside her, like you were some kind of dog.
You groaned. âYouâre seriously making me teach you here?â
âYes. I already skipped three classes. You said I was wasting time.â She slid her notebook closer, eyes uncharacteristically big and expectant. âDonât let me waste it, my shitty boyfriend.â
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 Porterâs 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 thenâŠher 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.
âLook! I passed!â she beamed. âDo you know how many people thought I was going to fail out? Hah!â
You gave her a once-over. âNot bad. Still not an A though.â
âExcuse you?â She smacked your arm with the rolled-up paper. âThis is basically an A for me. You should be honoured. My dad didnât even believe I wrote the essay myself.â
ââŠDid you?â
âYes!â She puffed out her cheeks, glaring at you. âI stayed up all night, typing and deleting. And donât give me that shitty grin, I only cried twice.â
You chuckled despite telling yourself not to. âFine. Good job.â
Her eyes widened, then she smiled a little too brightly. âY-you actually mean that?â
âWhy would I waste my damn energy lying to you?â
For a moment, she froze, lips twitching. Then she turned away, suddenly shy. ââŠWell. Keep complimenting me like that, and maybe Iâll even aim for an A next time.â
-
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 youâd noticed sheâd been doing with her Montblanc pen for weeks now.
The door opened without so much as a knock.
âAgain?â 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.
âYa, did you hear the latest about the Han family?â she said, words muffled slightly as she chewed. âTheir 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.â
You didnât look up. âYou sound way too damn happy about someone elseâs shit.â
Her grin widened, sharp and satisfied. âOf course I am. He once told me I âlacked the work ethic for graduate schoolâ when we first met. Look how that fucker turned out.â She leaned closer, tilting her head toward your screen. âWhat are you even doing this time? Looks like hell.â
âQuarterly projections,â you muttered. âNot that youâd care.â
âTrue,â she said airily, throwing a piece of Haribo into her mouth. âBut 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.â
You finally looked at her, brow furrowed. âWhyâŠdo you even know these things, Wonyoung?â
She smirked, popping another into her mouth. âBecause gossip travels faster in penthouses than it does in classrooms. You wouldnât understand.â
You shook your head, returning to your spreadsheet, but she didnât leave. Instead, she slouched in her chair, one elbow propped against the table, scrolling through her phone with idle taps. The silence wasnât 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 didnât even flinch anymore. Sheâd been barging into your place too often for it to feel foreign.
âHye, want to know which dumb rich guys are secretly dating a B-list actress?â she asked suddenly, eyes glittering with mischief.
You gave her a deadpan look. âNot particularly.â
She leaned in anyway, lowering her voice conspiratorially. âI wonât tell anyone else. Just you.â
You exhaled, exasperated. âWhy me?â
She blinked once, then smirked. âBecause youâre boring enough to keep secrets.â
"Rude.â
âAccurate,â 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. âThatâs mine.â
âMhm, fuck that. Your shit, my shit.â 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. âUgh. I hate that I like this now.â
Your brow arched. âDidnât you once call itâwhat was itâârecycled battery acidâ?â
âMy point still stands.â She smirked, setting the can back down but keeping it close to her side of the table, as if it was hers now. âBut itâsâŠaddictive. And way cheaper than the syrupy shit I used to waste thirty bucks on.â
âWelcome to the commonerâs economy, princess.â you muttered.
âDonât use that tone on me, mister.â She tapped her nails against the aluminum, a habit that mirrored the way you always fidgeted with your pen. âItâs just⊠practical. Convenient. Doesnât come in an obnoxious cup with my name spelled wrong.â She shot you a sideways glance, her grin playful. âHappy? Youâve fucked me up.â
You kept your face straight. âFinally, some good shit Iâve taught you.â
She laughed, leaning into you, the sound bubbling up without her usual effort to control it. âWow. Youâre actually proud. Cute.â
âI do not remember saying thatâ you dismissed, unknowingly did her usual gesture like it was natural.
âSure, sure.â She settled more comfortably against your shoulder, like sheâd 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.
âAnd becauseâŠI guessâŠurmâŠâ She paused, eyes still on the screen but voice low. ââŠyou actually listen.â
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 werenât her diary, werenât her late-night therapist, werenât her safe little vault for secrets. But you didnât.
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 toâŠwarm up.
And maybe you are tooâŠ
-
By the fifth month, something had shifted.
You noticed it in the smallest ways. Wonyoung no longer clutched her iced lattes from high-end cafĂ©s with gold-leaf foam; instead, you always see her with a dented can of black coffeeâthe kind youâd been forcing down for years because it was cheap and everywhere. She still wrinkled her nose at the taste, but she drank it anyway. Sheâd 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 didâstretching out those last few seconds like you didnât 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 couldnât 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 didnât 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 âfake boyfriend.â Not to her impromptu tutor. But to something else, something she herself couldnât seem to name.
And against your better judgment, against all the bitterness youâd 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 wasnât different. Of course she was just like the rest of them - throwing you away when you're out of use. You shouldâve never expected anything more. It was over for you.
To her howeverâŠit wasnât.
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 cafĂ© you two had been visiting for months, the starting place of the whole contract, the âset pieceâ of your little arrangement, the one place that had always seen you both smiling a little too brightly for the sake of appearances. Â
âYouâre late,â you said flatly.
Her lips twitched. âThatâs what youâre starting with?â
âYou came. I came. Now sit.â
It wasnât 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.
âSo thatâs it?â she snapped suddenly. âYou donât care where Iâve been?â
âYouâve been at parties,â you replied, eyes fixed on your drink and stopping the spoon. âCongratulations. Want me to clap?â
Her chest tightened. âYouâre heartless. I disappear for fucking weeks and thatâs all you have to say?â
âSo fucking what?â At last, you looked at her, your gaze sharp enough to cut. âPeople come and go, Wonyoung. You signed me for six months. Nothing more, nothing less.â
Her throat closed. âSo thatâs all I am to you? A contract?â
âI was a contract to you too. Mutual transaction, Wonyoung.â
The bluntness hit harder than a slap.
Her nails dug into her palms. âWhy do you always do this shit? Pretend you donât care, like youâre above everything, like nothing fucking touches youââ
âBecause none of this shit touches me.â Your tone was steady, too steady. âYou donât get it. Youâre spoiled, Wonyoung. You run to me when itâs convenient, then crawl back to your perfect little world the second it scares you. Donât act like this is more than what it is.â
Her breath hitched, tears threatening, but her pride held. âYou really think thatâs all Iâve been doing? Using you? Playing with you?â
âYes,â you said without hesitation.âWhat else?â
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. âYou think I wanted this? You think I fucking planned toââ she stopped herself, words catching.
You didnât move.
âI cannot change my feelings for you,â she blurted out. The tremor broke into rawness, eyes wet, hands trembling on the table. âBelieve me, I fucking tried.â
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 didnât. You smothered it down, buried it under the weight of everything you knew about her world. You couldnât afford to believe it. Not from her.Â
Anymore.
âWell,â you began, soft yet merciless, âI canât change my despise for you either.â
Her head jerked back as if youâd struck her. âWhatâŠ?â
âWonyoung.â You breathed, exhaling all the thoughts that you were bottling up. âI already donâtâŠlike your kind of people, especially those who whine and play around. BeingâŠfriends with you was the furthest I could go, and thatâs me being generous.
You swallowed, unsure if the word âfriendâ rolled off your tongue was sweet or bitter. "But this?â You pushed the expensive coffee cup aside like it was trash. âThis was a contract. And you broke it. Itâs over.â
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, âYouâre really ending it like this?! Just like that?!â
You stood, hands sliding into your pockets. ââŠThank you for the past six months, Jang Wonyoung.â
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 â unbranded, practical, the one youâd 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 didnât wait to see her reaction. Didnât dare.
The bell chimed as you walked out, dragging your feet unconsciously â 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 cafĂ©. 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 didnât 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 youâd already betrayed yourself by leaving her that gift.
ââââââââââââââââââââââ
Prompt masterlist here !
Pls check all of them, they are great
And also Part 2 here















