Chapter 3: The Contract

Emily’s POV

Oh god. Oh no. No, no, no, no.

This isn't happening. This is a dream. A stress-induced, pre-interview nightmare. I’m still asleep. I just need to pinch myself.

Ouch.

Okay, not asleep.

Breathe, Emily. Just breathe. But breathing feels impossible. My heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape the scene of the crime. My mouth is desert-dry, my head is pounding with the distinct rhythm of a regret-filled hangover.

What did I do? What did I DO?

Fragments of the night before flash in my mind, sharp and terrifying. The elevator ride up, my palms sweating. The stark, minimalist opulence of his office. Baek Jin himself, even more imposing in person, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch. The interview starting, my voice surprisingly steady. Then… a offered drink. A glass of amber liquid. Another. His surprisingly sharp, dry wit that matched my own nervous sarcasm. The professional walls crumbling, laughter replacing questions. The feeling of being seen, not just as a journalist, but as… me.

And then… nothing. A blur. A blackout.

And now this.

I’m in a bed that is decidedly not mine. The sheets are a high-thread-count charcoal gray, the room is all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows showing a skyline I usually only see from the street. And next to me, sleeping soundly, is Baek Jin.

His dark hair is mussed, his features relaxed in sleep, the sharp, calculating intensity gone. He looks… younger. And infuriatingly handsome. One arm is thrown over his head, the other… oh god, the other is resting possessively on my hip under the sheets.

I freeze, every muscle locked in pure, unadulterated panic.

Kevin. Oh my god, Kevin. He trusted me. He called in a monumental favor. He gave me the shot of a lifetime. And I didn’t just blow the interview. I apparently slept with the subject.

“Punctuality is what these men treasure the most,” he said. I wonder what he values more? Punctuality or not sleeping with the journalists, he grants a precious ten minutes to?

A hysterical sob threatens to escape my throat, and I clamp a hand over my mouth. I need to get out. I need to vanish. I need to spontaneously combust and let my ashes be swept away by his undoubtedly efficient cleaning staff.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I begin to extricate myself. I slide away from his touch, the silk of the sheets whispering against my skin—skin that is currently very, very naked. Naked. I’m naked in Baek Jin’s bed.

My feet hit the cool hardwood floor. I spot my beautiful emerald green top draped neatly over a chair. My tailored trousers are folded beside it. My shoes are lined up neatly by the door. The care with which they’ve been placed makes my stomach lurch with a fresh wave of nausea.

I’m sure I was not the one who placed them that way, meaning either he did that or someone already came inside the room and folded my clothes.

I’m not even sure which one of those scenarios is worse.

I dress with the silent, frantic speed of a bomb disposal expert, my hands trembling so badly I can barely button my trousers. I don’t dare look back at the bed. I grab my portfolio and recorder from the bedside table—at least I didn’t lose those—and practically sprint on tiptoe to the massive suite’s door.

I pause with my hand on the cool metal handle, one last, horrifying thought striking me.

The interview.

I didn’t just sleep with him. I have no idea if I actually got the interview. My recorder is blank, or worse, filled with the sounds of… whatever this was.

My hand was on the cool metal of the doorknob, freedom just a turn away. I could still make a clean getaway. I could pretend this never happened. I could—

“Do you always leave without saying goodbye?”

The voice was a low, sleep-roughened rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor and up into my bones. I froze, my entire body going rigid. Oh, god. No.

Slowly, painfully, I turned around.

Baek Jin was propped up on one elbow, the sheets pooled around his waist, revealing a torso that was all lean muscle and smooth skin. His dark hair was deliciously messy, but his deep blue eyes were clear and acutely awake, watching me with an unnerving intensity. There was no trace of sleep in them. Had he been awake the whole time?

“I… uh…” My brain short-circuited. Every clever retort, every shred of professional composure I’d ever possessed, evaporated. “I didn’t want to… disturb you.” The lie was weak and pathetic, even to my own ears.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Leaving me alone in a bed you so thoroughly disturbed seems a greater slight than a simple goodbye, don’t you think?”

My face flamed. I was sure I was the color of a stop sign. Thoroughly disturbed? What did that even mean? The fragments I couldn’t remember taunted me, a blur of sensation and shame.

“Right. Well.” I gestured vaguely with my portfolio, which now felt like a pathetic prop. “Goodbye, then. Thank you for the… interview.” The word tasted like ash.

He didn’t move, his gaze unwavering. “Did you get what you needed?”

The question hung in the air, loaded and impossible to answer. Did I get the scoop on his new biomedical facility? No. Did I get an exclusive look into the mind of a genius? Probably not. Did I get a firsthand experience of the man himself? Apparently, yes. Oh god.

“I’m… not sure,” I stammered, my grip tightening on the recorder. “My equipment might have… malfunctioned.”

His smile widened a fraction, a flash of white in the dim room. It wasn’t a friendly smile; it was knowing. Amused. “A pity. All that… effort. Wasted.”

I was going to die. Right here on his pristine hardwood floor. I would simply expire from sheer mortification. “Yes. Well. These things happen.” I sounded like a complete idiot. These things happen? Sleeping with your once-in-a-lifetime interview subject? That did not just “happen.”

I turned back to the door, my escape now a desperate, urgent need.

“Sit down, Emily.”

The command was quiet, but it carried an authority that stopped me dead. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument. My editor didn’t even say my name with that much weight.

I turned back to him, my heart in my throat. “Mr. Baek, I really should—”

“Jin,” he corrected softly. “I think we are past formalities. And sit. Please.” He gestured to a sleek armchair near the bed. “I have a proposal for you.”

A proposal. The word sent a fresh jolt of terror through me. What could he possibly propose? An NDA? A hush payment? A recommendation for a job on another continent?

Swallowing hard, my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else, I walked on unsteady feet to the chair and perched on the very edge of it, my portfolio clutched to my chest like a shield. I couldn’t look at him directly, so I focused on a spot on the wall just past his shoulder.

He watched me for a moment, the silence stretching, thick and uncomfortable. “You are not what I expected,” he said finally.

“I get that a lot,” I mumbled, then wanted to kick myself. Stop talking, Emily! Just stop!

“The woman who showed up last night was sharp, witty, and… refreshingly unimpressed by all of this.” He gestured vaguely around the penthouse. “The woman trying to flee my bedroom this morning seems to have been replaced by a terrified rabbit.”

That stung. It was also entirely accurate.

“I’m not terrified,” I lied, my voice barely a whisper.

“Aren’t you?” He shifted, sitting up fully, and my traitorous eyes flickered to him for a second before darting away. “You’re afraid you’ve ruined your career. You’re afraid of what your editor will say. You’re afraid of what you can’t remember.” He paused, letting each fear land like a blow. “And you’re afraid of me.”

I finally forced myself to meet his gaze. “Shouldn’t I be?”

His expression was unreadable. “Should you be?” He countered.

“That depends on the proposal,” I said, my voice a little stronger now, fueled by a spark of defiance. “Are you going to have me sign an NDA? Pay me off? Because I might be a terrified rabbit, but I’m not for sale.” The words sounded braver than I felt.

Jin’s lips twitched. “An NDA is a given. The pay-off… is more of a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He leaned back against the headboard, the picture of relaxed power. “I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

The words didn’t compute. They just hung in the air between us, nonsensical and absurd. I blinked. Once. Twice. “I’m sorry,” I said, certain I’d misheard. “You want me to… what?”

“Be my girlfriend. For the foreseeable future. In public, at least.” He said it as if he were proposing a new business merger. Calm. Rational. Utterly insane.

I’m sure someone up there is having a blast. Am I some sort of rom-com for the ones high above?

A disbelieving laugh burst out of me, sharp and brittle. “You’re joking. This is a joke. A really weird, post-hookup hazing ritual.” I shook my head, staring at him. “Why on earth would you want that? You’re Baek Jin. You could have anyone. Supermodels. Heiresses. Actual, real, non-terrified journalists who didn’t black out and make a spectacular fool of themselves.”

He watched me, that infuriatingly calm expression never slipping. “Precisely. They would want something. They would have expectations. They would see it as a stepping stone.” He gestured vaguely in my direction. “You, on the other hand, just want to get out of that door as fast as your trembling legs can carry you. Your expectations seem refreshingly low.”

The insult was so casually delivered that it took a second to land. “Gee, thanks,” I muttered, my cheeks burning again.

“It’s not an insult. It’s a practical observation.” He sighed, a faint hint of exasperation finally coloring his tone. “I am thirty-two years old. My family, particularly my mother, believes my sole purpose now is to provide her with grandchildren and secure the ‘dynasty’.” He said the word with palpable distaste. “The blind dates have become… relentless. They are a distraction I can no longer afford.”

I just stared at him, trying to process it. The most elusive billionaire on the planet, a man who could buy and sell small countries, was being hounded by his mom to settle down. It was so bizarrely, hilariously human that it was almost believable.

“So you want to… rent a girlfriend?” I asked, the concept feeling ludicrous even as I said it.

“I want to contract a solution. A temporary one,” he clarified. “You would accompany me to a limited number of family functions. Dinners. Perhaps a charity gala. We would be seen together in a context that suggests a serious, committed relationship. It would grant me a reprieve from their matchmaking efforts and allow me to focus on my work.”

My mind was reeling, a whirlwind of objections. “And you chose me because… I’m conveniently disposable? Because I have no connections to your world and you can toss me aside when you’re done without any fallout?”

“I chose you,” he said, his voice dropping, “because last night, for a few hours, you didn’t look at me like I was a bank account or a corporation. You argued with me about economic policy. You laughed at a joke I made that wasn’t particularly funny. You saw me as a person, not a prospect. That is a rare and useful quality for this… arrangement.”

The compliment, backhanded as it was, momentarily stunned me into silence. He remembered arguing about economic policy? I had no memory of that at all.

Wait a minute… what the hell do I know about economic policies?!

“This is insane,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

“It is a business proposition,” he countered smoothly. “One that comes with significant compensation. You would be paid, of course. Handsomely. I’m also going to give you an exclusive interview after we break up.”

Kevin. The magazine. My stomach twisted. He was offering me a way out. A golden parachute. But at what cost?

“And what happens when this ‘contract’ is over?” I asked,  crossing my arms over my chest. “You just dump me? And I have to explain to everyone, including my boss, why I briefly dated a billionaire and then got unceremoniously dumped?”

“The narrative will be that we amicably parted ways due to the demands of our respective careers. A common, believable story. And as for your boss…” He paused. “The exclusive, sit-down interview with me that you originally came for will be yours to publish. The real one. No malfunctions.”

My breath caught in my throat. The interview. The career-making story. It was being dangled in front of me again, tied to the most absurd string imaginable.

He was offering me everything I wanted. All I had to do was sign that contract.

“Draft it, and after I read it, we can talk.”