Chapter 7

JENNIE POV:

Jennie knew something was wrong the second she walked into dinner and saw both families smiling. Not normal smiling. Not social smiling. Not the kind of polished, expensive smile rich people used when they wanted to pretend they weren’t actively ruining your life. No, this was worse.

This was “we have already made a decision about your future without asking” smiling. Which, in Jennie’s experience, was basically a war crime. She slowed near the entrance of the private dining room and immediately considered turning around and walking right back out.

Unfortunately, Lisa was right behind her. And unfortunately, Lisa noticed everything.

“You feel it too, right?” Lisa murmured under her breath.

Jennie kept her face perfectly neutral. “Yes.”

“Cool.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“Mine wasn’t.”

Jennie glanced at her and immediately regretted it, because Lisa looked annoyingly good tonight. high waisted Dark trouser, black silk shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to make Jennie briefly forget what she was mad about for half a second, which was honestly offensive considering the circumstances.

And because life clearly enjoyed humiliating her personally, Lisa smelled good too. Like expensive perfume and very poor decisions. Jennie looked away before her own thoughts could get worse.

Too late.

They were already worse.

“Jennie, darling,” her mother said warmly, standing to greet her. “Lisa.”

Lisa, of course, switched into polished public mode immediately. Charming smile. Relaxed posture. Perfect rich daughter professionalism. Jennie hated how good she was at it.

“Mrs. Kim,” Lisa said smoothly, “you look terrifyingly elegant as always.”

Her mother actually smiled.

Traitor.

Jennie’s father gestured toward the table. “Sit. We’re waiting on one thing before dinner.”

Jennie paused. “One thing?”

No one answered properly. Which meant she instantly hated whatever it was. She sat anyway, because she had been raised with too much etiquette and not nearly enough freedom to commit arson.

Lisa pulled out the chair beside her and sat down with the kind of casual ease that made Jennie want to kick her under the table on purpose. She didn’t. And only because there were witnesses.

For now.

The room itself was exactly the sort of place families like theirs liked to call “intimate,” which usually meant expensive, private, and emotionally unsafe. Floor-to-ceiling windows. White orchids. Crystal glasses. Soft gold lighting. The kind of room where terrible news came with excellent wine.

Jennie folded her napkin onto her lap and immediately caught Lisa looking at her.

“What,” she said quietly, without turning her head.

Lisa blinked once. “You looked like you were mentally calculating murder.”

“I was.”

Lisa bit back a smile. Jennie looked away before she could accidentally acknowledge how irritatingly good that made her feel.

Then the doors opened.

And a man in a tailored navy suit walked in carrying a leather portfolio.

Jennie stared. Then slowly turned toward her mother.

“No.”

Her mother smiled. “Just hear us out.”

Jennie looked back at the stranger. Then at the folder. Then finally at Lisa. Lisa had gone completely still.

Uh oh.

That was never a good sign.

Because unlike Jennie, who reacted outwardly with ice and sarcasm, Lisa reacted by going eerily calm first. Which usually meant destruction was approaching.

The man set the folder on the table and gave a professional nod. “Good evening. I’m here to finalize the residence transition documents.”

Jennie blinked once.

Residence. Transition. Documents.

Absolutely not.

“No,” she repeated, firmer this time.

Her father folded his hands neatly. “This was always the practical next step.”

Jennie turned toward him so fast it almost counted as aggression. “What next step?”

Lisa spoke at the exact same time.

“What residence?”

The room fell silent for one ugly, perfect second.

Then Lisa’s mother said, with the tone of someone announcing dessert, “You’ll be moving into the penthouse.”

Jennie stared.

Lisa stared.

The lawyer opened the folder.

Jennie considered biting someone.

“The family-owned penthouse on Han River,” her mother continued, as if she had not just detonated Jennie’s last functioning nerve, “it’s private, secure, close to both headquarters, and ideal for your public image.”

Jennie laughed once. Not because it was funny. Because if she didn’t laugh, she might start throwing everything on that table.

“You want us to what.”

“Live together,” Lisa’s stepfather said simply. “Effective this week.”

Jennie turned slowly toward Lisa. Lisa turned slowly toward Jennie. And for one beautiful, horrifying second, they were completely united.

In rage.

“No,” they said at the same time.

Naturally, no one listened.

Her father leaned back in his chair. “The arrangement only works if it appears real.”

“It does appear real,” Jennie snapped. “We were literally photographed this morning.”

“Yes,” her mother said calmly. “And that coverage was excellent. Which is why consistency matters.”

Jennie looked at Lisa again. Lisa looked like she was one second away from corporate homicide.

Good.

Lisa set her wine glass down very carefully. “With  all do respect,” she said in the dangerously polite tone she used when she was trying not to become a problem, “you did not mention cohabitation starting immediately.”

The lawyer, incredibly, opened the contract to a marked page. Jennie leaned over to look, and there it was. Small, evil, legally binding print.

Residential cohabitation may be initiated at the discretion of both families to support public and business integration.

Jennie’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said flatly. “I must’ve missed the paragraph where my life becomes a hostage negotiation.”

Her mother sighed. “Jennie.”

“No, actually, I’d love to hear how this is normal.”

Lisa’s mother jumped in before anyone else could. “It’s temporary.”

Jennie laughed again. “Temporary is not the comforting word you all seem to think it is.”

Across from her, Lisa rubbed a hand over her mouth. Jennie turned to her sharply.

“You knew?”

Lisa looked personally offended. “No.”

Jennie narrowed her eyes. “Swear.”

Lisa turned fully toward her. “I did not know.”

And there it was.

That annoying, awful thing where Jennie could tell when Lisa was telling the truth.

She hated that.

Almost as much as she hated the tiny, immediate relief that followed.

Because if Lisa had known and not told her, Jennie might have actually killed her. But Lisa looked just as blindsided as she felt, which somehow made this whole thing worse.

Her father folded his hands again. “The penthouse is already prepared.”

Jennie stared. “Prepared.”

“Yes.”

“As in furnished.”

“Yes.”

“As in you all have been planning this behind our backs long enough to pick furniture.”

No one answered.

Which was, in fact, an answer.

Jennie leaned back in her chair and looked at the ceiling for strength. There was none. Only sunken lighting and betrayal.

Beside her, Lisa let out a slow breath through her nose. “So,” she said carefully, “just to clarify—you’ve all decided that forcing us into a legal arrangement, media rollout, public appearances, and now shared housing in less than forty-eight hours is somehow a reasonable business strategy.”

Her stepfather gave a single nod. “Yes.”

Lisa stared at him.

Then laughed.

Softly.

Dangerously.

“Okay,” Lisa said. “Interesting.”

Jennie turned her head slightly toward her.

No.

Lisa was not allowed to say interesting in that tone and then go emotionally silent. That usually meant she was about to either manipulate the room into submission or emotionally disassociate into comedy.

Neither would help Jennie right now.

Her mother reached for her wine. “You’ll have separate suites.”

Jennie froze.

Separate what.

Her father clarified. “It’s a duplex-style penthouse. Two bedroom wings. Separate dressing rooms. Shared living spaces.”

Jennie’s stomach did something weird and deeply unhelpful.

Shared living spaces.

Kitchen. Hallways. Mornings. Late nights.

Lisa existing in her apartment.

No.

Absolutely not.

Across from her, Lisa had gone still again too, which meant she was also picturing it. Which meant Jennie needed to stop picturing it immediately before she developed a problem.

Too late.

Problem developing.

Her mother continued, as if she were discussing flower arrangements. “It’s the best solution. Publicly, it strengthens the engagement. Privately, it gives you both structure.”

Jennie looked at her like she’d just suggested open-heart surgery as a bonding activity.

“Structure?”

Lisa spoke before she could.

“We are not lab rats.”

“No,” Lisa’s mother said mildly. “You’re heirs.”

Somehow, that was worse.

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END OF THIS CHAPTER 

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