The silence that followed his words was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.

I stood frozen, my feet rooted to the cold ground. Minutes bled together. A sharp, piercing ache carved itself into my chest, so visceral it felt like a physical wound, but there was no release, no way to ease the pressure. I just had to stand there and feel it.

My jaw clenched so tight it ached. And the realisation that I couldn’t stay there for too long gawned at me. He would notice. The thought cut through the fog of pain, I couldn’t let him know I was here. I couldn’t give him that power to know that he had so effortlessly shattered my heart into millions of pieces.

And no weapon was required, his words were enough.

I drew in a slow, silent breath, feeling the icy air burn my lungs. One by one, I forced my muscles to relax. My brow smoothed. The tension around my mouth eased. I rebuilt the mask, layer by layer, until my face was a calm, unreadable slate. As if I had just arrived. As if I had heard nothing.

When the numbness settled, a cold clarity took over. I wouldn’t run. I would walk into this with my eyes open.

I didn’t step out immediately. Instead, I let my heel press down deliberately on a patch of brittle, frost-tipped leaves.

Crunch.

The sound was small in the vast garden, but it was a signal. I saw his silhouette by the fountain stiffen. He turned, his movement sharp, quickly slipping his phone into his pocket. He was on guard, composing himself for an audience.

My audience.

Now.

I stepped out from behind the evergreen, my posture straight, my expression the cool, detached one the world expected.

The "Ice Queen" in her natural habitat.

Our eyes met across the dim space.

For a fraction of a second, he moved, a small, instinctive step forward. Then he stopped himself, the gesture halting almost as soon as it began. That tiny, aborted motion, that slight pullback, spoke volumes more than any greeting ever could.

He had been waiting for me. But everything in his body language said he wished he wasn’t.

As I closed the distance, he offered a faint, formal smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Happy Birthday,” he said. His voice was its usual low, controlled baritone, but now I could hear the careful polish over it, the difference between a rehearsed line and the raw frustration he’d spilled moments before.

I simply gave him a nod. It was all I could manage. Words felt like stones in my throat.

Then, he presented a small, navy blue velvet box from his hand. My eyes dropped to it. A jewelry box. Of course.

He opened the lid with deliberate slowness. Inside, on a bed of black silk, lay a delicate silver chain. From it hung a pendant—a stunning, teardrop-shaped emerald, cut and set in an intricate, modern design. It was beautiful. It looked custom-made, thoughtful. Meant for everyday use.

A hollow ache throbbed behind my ribs.

He didn’t choose this, a cold voice inside me whispered. This must have been chosen by someone as well. His assistant did. Or maybe his father. A box to check. An obligation to fulfill. But couldn't be him.

“Here’s a birthday gift for you,” he said, extending it toward me.

My gaze lifted from the glittering stone back to his face. He was looking directly at me now, his expression unreadable, waiting for a reaction.

A birthday gift? Wrapped in velvet, paid for with family money, delivered out of duty?

I am never one to hold my tongue. In boardrooms, in society parlors, I speak my mind with a cold clarity that either earns respect or breeds fear. But here, in front of him, the man whose casual dismissal could shatter me, every possible word—every accusation, every plea, every question—withered and died before it could reach my lips.

The silence stretched, filled only by the distant splash of the fountain and the echo of his phone call.

“Thank you,” I finally said. My voice was steady, flat. Just two polite, empty words.

No confrontation. No “Why are you really here?” No “Who were you wishing was in my place?”

There was no need. He had already given me every answer I was too afraid to ask for. And the clarity of it was the coldest gift of all.

Just as my fingers were about to brush the velvet, he pulled the box back a fraction. My brows lifted in silent question.

I glanced up, confusion plain on my face. But he was already moving, his hands deftly freeing the delicate chain from its satin bed. He held it up, the emerald catching the faint garden light and casting a cool, green sparkle.

He met my gaze, and as if reading the quiet question in my eyes, he simply asked, “May I?”

Two words. A polite offer to put it on me. A gesture that was supposed to feel intimate, thoughtful.

For a long moment, I just stared. My slight confusion hardened into a faint, cold furrow between my brows. He was still acting. Still performing the part of the attentive, devoted fiancé, following a script written by duty, not desire. The curtain had fallen for me, but he was still on stage.

“Y/n?”

His voice, steady and expectant, pulled me back. I blinked, the mask snapping fully into place.

“Ah… yeah,” I said, the word soft and toneless. I turned, presenting my back to him.

With a slow, mechanical motion, I gathered my hair, pulling it over one shoulder, exposing the nape of my neck.

My expression didn’t change. If this had happened an hour ago—ten minutes ago—this simple act would have stolen my breath. I would have memorized the brush of his knuckles against my skin, the weight of the chain settling, as a precious treasure.

Now, it just felt hollow. A pantomime of affection.

And the coldest part? He wouldn’t even notice the difference. He was so accustomed to my stoicism, to the impassive face I’ve shown the world for years, that any fracture, any new layer of ice, would be invisible to him.

I had built my fortress so well, I’d forgotten how to signal a cry for help from within it.

No wonder they call me the Ice Queen, I thought, feeling the cold metal brush my skin as he fastened the clasp.

That title wasn’t just their perception anymore. It had become my armor, my prison, and my only true companion.

He finished, his hands dropping away. I turned slowly to face him again. His gaze flickered downward, lingering on the emerald pendant now resting against my collarbone.

“It suits you,” he said, his eyes fixed on the stone before lifting to meet mine.

Suits me..? I wondered if the words held any meaning for him at all, or if they were just another part of the presentation, like selecting the right tie for a business meeting.

I said nothing. The silence stretched, thin and brittle.

“I was about to come up myself,” he continued, his voice softening into that practiced, considerate tone. “But then I thought it would be good if we could spend some quality time together down here.” He offered that calm, familiar smile…the one I used to cling to.

Now, it felt like a carefully crafted prop. He was telling me he wanted this private moment, while the ghost of his phone call shouted the opposite. The dissonance was dizzying.

“It’s okay,” I said, my own voice unnervingly even. “I should take my leave. There are important guests I need to attend upstairs.”

I watched the change in him. The easy smile faltered, then faded completely.

A flicker of surprise, maybe even confusion, passed through his eyes. He wasn’t used to this. No matter how cold my exterior, I had always observed the basic decency of our arrangement, I stayed, I made polite conversation, I endured our mutual, heavy silences. We would sit for long minutes, two silent statues, because I never knew how to bridge the gap, and he never tried.

Today, I couldn’t bear even that shared quiet.

He seemed to process my dismissal, then gave a slight, slow nod. “If it’s important, then of course. Go ahead.” The smile returned, not broad, but that same placid, calm mask.

Then he stepped forward, closing the small distance between us.

My breath caught. His hand rose, moving toward my face with a deliberate slowness. The soft pads of his fingers touched my cheek, then cupped my jaw, tilting my face upward toward his.

He was so close now I could see the faint flecks of darker brown in his eyes. His gaze drifted, lingering on my lips for a heartbeat. Then, he began to lean in.

He was going to kiss me.

The air between us vanished. I could feel the warmth of his breath, see the faint shift in his gaze as it focused.

This was it, the moment that had defined my hope for three years.

Every previous kiss, every rare touch, had been a fragment of evidence I’d clung to, proof that beneath the duty, he might feel something.

But now I knew. Each touch, each carefully measured gesture, had been part of the script. A script that had kept me blind, playing a fool in love with a ghost.

His lips were a whisper away.

And something in me, something cold and clear and finally awake, snapped.

My hand came up, pressing flat against the solid wall of his chest, stopping him just before contact.

He went still. His eyes, which had begun to soften, sharpened with instant confusion. He looked down at my hand, then back at my face.

An excuse. I need an excuse.

“I’m… coming down with a cold,” I said, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. I didn’t finish the thought, just let the implication hang as I stepped back, breaking his hold on my face. “It’s better if we don’t.”

His hands remained suspended for a second before he let them fall awkwardly to his sides. The confusion on his face smoothed into a blank, polite mask. He gave a short, stiff nod. “Of course.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. He cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet garden.

“Alright. Go enjoy your party,” he said, his tone shifting back to business. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. We have the quarterly investors’ gala to attend.”

I simply nodded, already turning away, desperate for the clean escape.

I’d only taken two steps when his voice stopped me again.

“Y/n?”

I halted but didn’t turn. After a beat, I glanced over my shoulder, my profile cold in the moonlight.

His expression was unreadable, but his voice held a quiet, firm command. “Don’t take that pendant off.”

My lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. The beautiful emerald felt like a shackle against my skin, like a brand of ownership, and not love.

I held his gaze for a moment, then gave one final, curt nod.

Without another word, I turned and walked away, the weight of the jewel against my chest feeling heavier than stone.

///

—#[later that midnight]:[Y/n’s room]:

The numbers on the clock glowed a faint, relentless 3:17 AM.

I had been turning for hours, the sheets tangling around my legs. When sleep finally dragged me under, it was no escape. His words were waiting for me there, too. They weren't just memories anymore; they had a life of their own, twisting into a cruel, looping dream.

"You know the situation. I am marrying her out of obligation. A business alliance. Nothing more.”

“It is not my duty to play the doting fiancé…”

“...do not push this performance on me any further.”

Stop!!!

The silent scream tore through the dream as I jolted upright, gasping for air.

The room was dark, familiar, and utterly still. But the echo of his voice buzzed in my skull, a hundred times over.

A cold drop of sweat traced a path from my temple to my jaw. I wiped it away with a trembling hand.

Just a dream. He wasn't here. The words were spoken, but they were done. Yet they clung, sticky and inescapable.

I let my head fall forward, my eyes staring blankly at my empty hands in the moonlight. My hands…

A memory surfaced, sharp and clear. I was fifteen.

I had never baked anything in my life. The kitchen was the maids’ domain, a place of order and efficiency I never disturbed. But I’d overheard a girl at school, her voice bright with pride, saying she’d baked a cake for the boy she liked.

A simple, foolish idea took root: I could do that for him.

For Jungkook.

We were in the same class. He was the sun of our school, captain of the rowing team, effortlessly brilliant, surrounded by laughter and light. I was a satellite in his orbit, silent, watching. I didn’t know how to be anything else. Making friends felt like speaking a language I hadn’t been taught.

So, in the maid’s absence one afternoon, I decided to speak a different language.

Flour, eggs, sugar.

A recipe clumsily followed. I remember the searing pain, the sharp gasp as the hot oven rack branded my forearm while I pulled out the lopsided, smoking mess. The cake was ruined. My arm bore a faint, pink scar for weeks.

I was so naive. So stupidly, achingly hopeful. What did I even think would happen? That he’d taste a charred cupcake and finally see the quiet girl in the back of the room?

Back then, in my wildest, most secret fantasies, I never truly believed I could ever be his. He was a story I read about myself in. To be his fiancée at twenty-three felt like a miracle, a plot twist written by a merciful fate.

But, tonight…?

Tonight, I finally understood the real twist.

It wasn't fate. It was a contract.

And the hopeful, burning girl I was at fifteen… she had been dreaming all along. The engagement, the future, the fragile belief that he could ever look at me the way I’d always looked at him, it was all just an extension of that same, desperate dream.

The problem with dreams is, eventually, you have to wake up.

///

—#[the next morning: at the breakfast table]:

The next morning, the dining room felt heavier than usual. The scent of coffee and toast couldn't cut through the chill that had settled in my bones overnight.

I took my usual seat in silence, eyes fixed on the empty space before me. I didn’t wait for a maid or glance around the table. I just began serving myself, the clink of silverware against the fine china the only sound I offered.

But peace was a luxury this house never granted.

“Y/n, that’s such a beautiful necklace.”

The voice, sweet and familiar, slithered across the table. I didn’t need to look up. It was Ji-yeon.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze. She was beaming, but her eyes were locked not on my face, but on the base of my throat. On the emerald pendant. Jungkook’s gift.

I fell silent, the butter knife going still in my hand. Finally, I met her eyes. “Yes. Jungkook gave it to me yesterday.”

The effect was instant. Her bright, practiced smile vanished as if wiped clean. In its place was a blankness, a fraction of a second where her mask completely slipped.

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. I felt two other pairs of eyes snap toward me from the head of the table: my father, and her, I cut the thought short. Not my step-mother. His mistress.

That's what she is.

But I kept my focus on Ji-yeon. I watched, coldly fascinated, as the unpleasant truth settled over her features.

The slight tightening around her eyes, the almost imperceptible stiffening of her shoulders. It was all there, plain for me to see.

But she would never let it stay. Now, watch her perform.

Right on cue, a soft, gracious smile returned to her lips, more brittle than before. She looked up, meeting my gaze with flawless composure.

“Jungkook is really so considerate,” she said, her voice a melody of forced admiration. “He always provides you with the very best.”

I couldn't decide whether to scoff or smirk at her painfully forced compliment. The strain in her voice was a melody only I could hear.

But the moment shattered.

"Enough."

The single, sharp word came from the head of the table. We all turned. My father, Kang Jin-ho, had put down his paper, his gaze a cold weight shifting between Ji-yeon and me before settling firmly on my face.

"Jungkook must have informed you about the gala tonight," he stated, leaving no room for contradiction. "Be on time. Dress impeccably." He paused, tilting his head in a way that always preceded a command. "An important announcement will be made. You and Jungkook will be the center of attention."

My brow twitched. A ripple of unease went through me. This wasn't the usual directive for a business function. His tone held a finality, a weight I hadn't heard before.

What's different?

Then, he delivered the blow.

"Both families have decided to announce the marriage date tonight."

Marriage date…?

The words didn't sink in at first. They just hung in the air, stark and unbelievable. My breath hitched, a cold wave washing over me. My gaze, wide and searching, flicked across the table.

And there it was, the same shock, mirrored perfectly on Ji-yeon's face. Her carefully curated composure had fissured, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted.

For a single, crystal-clear moment, we weren't rivals or stepsisters. We were just two women, blindsided by the same devastating decree.

The silence that followed was deafening, thick with everything we couldn't say.

The pendant against my collarbone suddenly felt like a shackle, its weight finally explained. This wasn't just an announcement. It was a sentence.

I…needed to do something.

~