I didn't know what I expected from a billionaire's office. Maybe chandeliers. Fresh orchids. Heated floors that smelled like lavender and old money.
But the conference room on the top floor of the Grand Jeon Hotel felt more like a morgue than a meeting space.
Clean. Cold. Silent.
And right at the end of the long, glossy table sat Han Jae-yul — legs crossed, eyes glued to a sleek tablet, expression carved from ice.
He didn't even look at me.
"Sit," he said without lifting his gaze.
I sat.
My hands trembled slightly in my lap, though I tried to hide it. I wasn't sure if it was from the nerves or the surreal fact that this man — the most untouchable figure in Korea — was about to offer me a marriage contract like it was a limited-time coupon.
He finally looked up.
And just like that, my stomach dropped.
I'd seen his face before — in magazines, on the news, in rumors. But seeing it this close, without filters or Photoshop? It was worse. He was sharp. Handsome in the cruelest way. Eyes like ink-stained glass.
"You didn't dress for the occasion," he remarked, cool and unaffected.
"I wasn't expecting a billionaire to pop the question through text," I shot back. "My formalwear's still at the dry cleaners."
He studied me for a second. Then, without another word, he slid a thick black folder across the table.
"The contract," he said. "Read everything."
I opened it, and nearly choked.
It wasn't a joke.
Seven days of marriage. ₩500,000,000 as payment. Confidentiality clauses. Boundaries. Rules. Even a statement that any emotional involvement would void the agreement on his side — not mine.
It read like a legal document built to shield a monster.
But what really got me… was how my name was already typed in on every single page.
"You planned this," I said quietly. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Long enough to know your rent is overdue, you haven't eaten properly in three days, and your bank account dipped below ₩50,000 last week."
My jaw clenched. "So you stalked me?"
"I screened over two hundred profiles for health history, psychological markers, and energetic compatibility."
"Energetic?" I echoed. "Is that what the rich are calling it now?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"My condition isn't normal. Doctors can't explain it. Science doesn't help. So I stopped looking for answers that make sense."
I narrowed my eyes. "What condition?"
Without answering, he reached into a small drawer beside him and pulled out a compact medical device.
A portable heart monitor.
He pressed it to his chest. Within seconds, the machine beeped rapidly — irregular and stressed.
Then he took the monitor off and pushed it toward me.
"Touch me."
"Excuse me?"
"My wrist," he said, as if it were no big deal. "Just humor me."
I hesitated, then cautiously reached out and laid my fingers against his skin.
The monitor's beeping slowed.
Then leveled.
Green light.
"Why…" I whispered. "Why is it reacting to me?"
"You're the only one who doesn't make it worse," he said. "The first one in over five years."
My mouth was dry. "So what? You just want me near you for a week so your heart doesn't explode?"
"Close enough."
I laughed under my breath. Bitter. "You're insane."
He didn't blink. "I'm dying."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
And then, with unnerving calm, he said, "I've been married twice before. Quietly. No press. No public knowledge."
I looked up sharply.
"And?"
"Both brides died."
The words felt like a slap.
"The first collapsed on Day 5," he continued, voice completely detached. "Brain aneurysm. No warning signs. The second—Day 6. Organ failure. Body shut down. No clear cause."
My stomach flipped. "And you think that's not your fault?"
"I think it's connected. But I can't prove it. No doctor can. The shamans call it spiritual toxicity. Energy rejection. I call it a curse."
I stared at him in horror. "And you want to try again with me?"
"You're the first anomaly," he said. "Your touch stabilizes me. Even a photo of you calmed my readings."
"That's not normal," I snapped.
"I'm not normal."
I stood. "This isn't a marriage. This is assisted suicide."
"You'll have 24/7 medical supervision. A villa with full staff. No obligations, no expectations. We don't even need to speak unless necessary."
My mind was spinning. "Do your lawyers know you're luring women into seven-day death traps?"
His voice dropped lower. "This isn't luring. It's desperation. And you're not trapped. You can walk out right now and never hear from me again."
My eyes dropped to the contract still open on the table.
Half a billion won.
Seven days.
One potentially fatal curse.
No wonder the other women didn't make it.
But then again… I wasn't them.
I picked up the pen he'd offered me earlier.
His gaze stayed on mine the entire time I signed my name.
Ink on paper. Sealed fate.
I dropped the pen. "If I die, I hope you choke on your money."
"You won't die," he said calmly.
"Really? That confident?"
His expression didn't change, but his words did.
"If you do… you'll be the last."
---
I turned to leave, adrenaline still buzzing through my veins.
But then his voice stopped me at the door.
"There's one more thing."
I looked back.
Han Jae-yul was holding up his phone.
On it was a photo of me, taken two nights ago. Walking home late at night. Hair tied up. Grocery bag in one hand. A faint blur of motion behind me in the shadows.
"I had to confirm the energy readings," he said.
"Are you following me?"
"I was protecting my investment," he said.
"From what?"
His eyes held mine for a long, cold second.
Then he said quietly, "You've been followed before, haven't you?"
My breath hitched.
Because yes — I had. But no one ever believed me.
"You said you don't believe in curses," he added, "but I think something's been watching you too."
My hands curled into fists. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," he replied. "Enough to know you've had dreams you can't explain. A fever that comes and goes. And shadows that don't belong to you."
My pulse spiked.
"How—?"
"You're not just compatible," he said. "You're connected."