After the call ended, silence filled the apartment like a heavy fog.
The city's hum drifted faintly through the window, but Hye-rin barely heard it.
Her mind had already slipped back home—to Busan, to the tiny kitchen of Haerang Restaurant, where the scent of soy broth and grilled fish always clung to the air.
She could still see her father standing by the counter the night she told them.
"Marriage?" he had repeated, knife hovering midair.
She'd nodded, hands trembling. "It's… a contract. Just for a year."
Her mother's face had gone pale. "To him? Kang Hye-rin, to that boy—"
"It's not like that," she'd rushed to explain. "It'll help with the loan. You and Appa won't lose the house."
Silence had fallen—thick and suffocating.
Her father had set the knife down slowly. "You don't owe us this," he'd said, voice rough. "We'll find another way."
But she'd seen the weariness in his eyes, the guilt that had been eating him alive since the accident. Her younger brother still couldn't walk properly without therapy. The medical bills had piled high, and the restaurant barely kept up. He had mortgaged the house in desperation—and lost sleep every night because of it.
So she'd forced a smile. "It's just business, Appa. I'll be fine."
But a few days later, when the news broke, the restaurant changed.
Students from Baeksu High—her old school—had wandered in, whispering behind menus.
"She's marrying him?"
"The one who humiliated her?"
"Guess money fixes everything."
Her mother had smiled through it, serving dishes as if nothing was wrong.
Her father had stayed in the kitchen, scrubbing pots that didn't need cleaning.
And Hye-rin had stood by the counter, pretending not to hear the laughter that still burned like salt in her chest.
Now, weeks later, sitting in Joon-hyuk's pristine penthouse, she wondered if any amount of money could ever wash that feeling away.
Because no matter how much she tried to tell herself it was business—
It didn't feel like a contract.
It felt like punishment.