P.A.R. Sunghoon

Sunghoon and you had married out of obligation, a cold agreement between families who never bothered to ask what you wanted. That honeymoon wasn't a celebration, but just another clause in the contract; you had to ensure, at the very least, an heir.

Outside the luxury hotel, Los Angeles glittered with an alien opulence, but inside the room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Sunghoon sat on the edge of the bed, his back rigid, a book clutched in his hands, using the pages as an invisible shield. On the other side of the room, you sat silently on the beanbag, seeking refuge in your own embrace.

“We should hurry up with the heir,” he said without looking up, his voice distant and devoid of any warmth. “I don’t intend to disappoint my parents. I hope you don’t start making excuses; that’s what’s expected of our union.” He turned the page with complete indifference, as if he were going over some administrative procedure. Suddenly, he slammed the book shut and looked up. His eyes locked onto yours, icy and sharp. It was in that moment of mutual scrutiny that you understood the hostility was just a facade; you shared not only the chains of a forced marriage but also the weight of a pressure neither of you knew how to bear.