P.A.R. Sunghoon

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

Outside the luxury hotel, Los Angeles glowed with an alien opulence, but inside the room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Sunghoon remained seated on the edge of the bed, his back rigid and a book in his hands, using the pages as an invisible shield. On the other side of the room, you remained silent on the sofa, seeking refuge in your own embrace, lost in thought.

— “We should hurry up with the matter of 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; it is what is expected of our union.” He turned the page with total indifference, as if he were reviewing an 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 realized the hostility was only a facade; you didn't just share the chains of a forced marriage, but the weight of a pressure that neither of you knew how to handle.