Wedding Next Door

The sharp, rhythmic clink-clink-clink of a silver spoon tapping against a crystal champagne flute cut through the heavy, suffocating air of the Grand Ballroom.

To anyone else, the sound signaled a celebration. To Park Sungho, it sounded like a countdown to his own public execution.

“A toast,” a booming voice echoed through the microphone, vibrating deep within Sungho’s chest. “To the sudden, unexpected, and completely miraculous union of the Myung family’s youngest son, and his lovely new fiancé... Park Sungho.”

The room erupted into blinding flashes of white light. Paparazzi lenses whirred. Society columnists scribbled frantically on digital tablets. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned instantly to the center table, boring holes into the back of Sungho’s stiff, tailored black tuxedo.

Sungho swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. Underneath the pristine white linen tablecloth, his hands were trembling so violently he had to squeeze his knees just to stay still. This was a high-society wedding of the year. The flowers alone cost more than the annual revenue of his independent bookstore-cafe. The guests wore diamonds that could buy his entire apartment building.

And every single bit of it was a lie.

“Smile, Sungho-ya,” a deep, velvety voice whispered right against the shell of his ear. “The reporters are watching your left profile. You look like you’re about to vomit.”

Sungho didn’t turn his head. He didn’t dare. Instead, he forced a tight, artificial smile through his teeth. “That is because I am about to vomit, Myung Jaehyun. If one more camera flashes in my face, I am going to throw up right into this 300,000-won lobster bisque.”

Beside him, Myung Jaehyun chuckled. It was a beautiful, rich sound—the kind of effortless, performative laugh that belonged to a man who had been raised in front of cameras and flashing lights. Jaehyun shifted slightly, his broad shoulders shifting beneath a bespoke midnight-blue velvet suit. With agonizing slowness, he reached across the table.

His large, warm hand slipped over Sungho’s freezing fingers, wrapping around them completely.

The physical contact sent a jolt of pure electric adrenaline straight up Sungho’s spine. His breath hitched. His eyes involuntarily darted down to their joined hands. On his ring finger sat a heavy, custom-cut platinum band that caught the ballroom’s light with blinding brilliance.

Item 4 of the Mutual Coexistence Agreement, Sungho’s internal voice recited frantically. Skinship shall be permitted only when necessary to maintain public perception. Any unscripted physical contact outside of public view is strictly prohibited.

Jaehyun’s thumb gently stroked the back of Sungho’s hand, a soothing, rhythmic motion that felt devastatingly real. “Just look at me,” Jaehyun murmured, his voice dropping low, losing its performative edge, replacing it with something raw and grounding. “Forget the cameras. Forget my parents. Just look at the man next door.”

Sungho turned his head. He locked eyes with Jaehyun. Up close, he could see the slight tension in Jaehyun’s sharp jawline, the way his dark eyes searched Sungho’s face for reassurance. For a terrifying, breathless second, the ballroom faded into white noise. The flashing lights felt like distant stars. The heavy weight of the fake ring on his finger suddenly felt terrifyingly permanent.

How had he let things get this far?

Exactly forty-eight hours ago, Myung Jaehyun was just the loud, chaotic, excessively handsome architectural designer who lived on the other side of his balcony. He was the guy who played K-drama OSTs too loud at midnight, the neighbor who left premium cat treats on the ledger for Sungho’s chubby tabby cat, Gumiho. He was an annoyance. A distraction. A stranger.

Now, he was holding Sungho’s hand in front of the entire Seoul elite, claiming him as his forever.

Sungho’s mind raced back to the contract sitting in his desk drawer next door. Fifty million won. That was the price of his freedom. That was the price to save his bookstore. All he had to do was stand by this man’s side, play the part of the deeply infatuated lover, and survive a three-month countdown without breaking the most important rule of all.

He couldn’t fall in love.

But as Jaehyun leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Sungho’s cheek for the cameras, sending a stampede of butterflies roaring through Sungho’s stomach, he realized something terrifying.

The contract hadn’t even officially begun yet, and he was already breaking the rules.