Her father’s death was ruled an accident. She calls it opportunity.When she and her mother push the powerful Park family for compensation, they expect control but Jimin, the heir, doesn’t bend. He investigates her instead.What begins as a simple encounter turns into a quiet war, each of them holding truths that could destroy the other.So he offers her a choice:Disappear or marry him which is a solution neither of them wants, but both might need.
✿ Status: next chapter in progress
✿ Pairings: CEO heir!! Park Jimin x reader
✿ Rating: 18+ (if you’re minor skip)
✿ Genre/Trope: Contract Marriage!! Power imbalances!! Slow burn!! Mutual Blackmail!! Smut!! Enemies to lovers (90% enemies)!! Forced proximity!!
✿ Warning: This story contains trauma, grief, violence, mentions of sexual assault (not involving the male lead), and mature sexual content.
A/n: This is my third book after writing and deleting fellow armies please support a girl but anyways I hope you enjoy it btw Jimin in that Arirang tour looks fine as hell!!! Imagine they have tumblr or Wattpad whatever enjoy the fan fiction babes and bros!! I hope y’all love it and enjoy it. Please don’t copy or edit my work and ideas take inspiration but don’t steal it counts as plagiarism
Special thank you to @oddinary4bts for inspiring me to go back to writing with the fire story Iris
🫧🫧🫧
She bad and her head bad
Escaping, her van is a Wonderland
And it's half-past six
Read skies 'cause time don't exist
But when the stars shine back to the crib
Superstar lines back at the crib
And we can test out the tables
We got some brand new tables
All glass and it's four feet wide
But it's a must to get us ten feet high
She give me sex in a handbag
I get her wetter than a wet nap
🫧🫧🫧
House of balloons/Glass table girls - The Weeknd
CHAPTER 1 “Accidents Don’t Exist”
A public mistake turns their first meeting into humiliation and conflict.
CHAPTER 2 “Names That Don’t Belong to You”
Learning each other’s identities makes the tension worse.
CHAPTER 3 “Paper Thin Mercy”
The past resurfaces and forces their families to clash.
CHAPTER 4 “Smiling for Strangers”
They fake perfection in public while hating each other in private.
CHAPTER 5 “Rules of the Arrangement”
An agreement binds them together with strict boundaries.
CHAPTER 6 “Soft Lies Sound the Same”
Misunderstandings make everything more complicated.
CHAPTER 7 “Something Almost Human”
A brief moment of vulnerability is quickly denied.
CHAPTER 8 “Damage Control”
Outside pressure forces them to cooperate.
CHAPTER 9 “Stay Where You Are”
A crossed line changes how they see each other.
CHAPTER 10 “Almost Safe”
They find a fragile and uneasy balance.
CHAPTER 11 “Don’t Misinterpret This”
Care shows through in indirect, guarded ways.
CHAPTER 12 “Borrowed Closures”
Old wounds reveal hidden truths about their pasts.
CHAPTER 13 “Wrong Timing”
Just as they understand each other, distance returns.
CHAPTER 14 “What We Never Said”
Unspoken feelings build beneath restraint.
CHAPTER 15 “Almost Meant Nothing”
A final choice leaves everything unresolved.
All right reserved to @inkh3art , 2026. Do not copy, repost or translate.
Her father’s death was ruled an accident. She calls it opportunity.When she and her mother push the powerful Park family for compensation, they expect control but Jimin, the heir, doesn’t bend. He investigates her instead.What begins as a simple encounter turns into a quiet war, each of them holding truths that could destroy the other.So he offers her a choice:Disappear or marry him which is a solution neither of them wants, but both might need.
✿Rating:18+ (if minor please skip)
✿Pairings:CEO heir!!Park Jimin x reader
✿Genre/Trope:Contract Marriage!!Power imbalances!!Slow burn!!Mutual Blackmail! Enemies to lovers!! Forced Proxmity!!
✿Warning: Themes of child abuse,trauma,neglect,emotional manipulation and refrences to past sexual exploitation. If it triggers you do not read or read with care.
🫧🫧🫧
She bad and her head bad
Escaping her van is a Wonderland
And its half past six
Read skies cause time don't exist
But when the stars shine back to the crib
Superstar lines back at the crib
And we test out the tables
All glasses and four feet wide
But its a must to get us ten feet high
She give me sex in a handbag
I get her wetter than a wet nap
🫧🫧🫧
House of balloons/Glass table girls-The Weeknd
The sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of a room bigger than your entire apartment.For a moment, your mind blanked and everything felt foreign letting the silk sheets to sink beneath your fingers.
The scent of expensive candles lingering in the air along with the deafening silence. Then reality crashed back into you.
The mansion.
The gala.
The devil himself.
Park Jimin.
And his stupid arrangement.
Your stomach dropped. You gripped the sheets beneath you as the room spun slightly. Nausea climbed up your throat, but nothing came out. It simply sat there, heavy and suffocating. A knock sounded at the door before it opened without waiting for an answer.
A maid walked inside carrying an envelope sealed with the Park family crest.“Mr Park is out of town, but he requested you read this immediately.”
You frowned, taking it from her she however didn't waste time bowing politely before excusing herself, leaving you alone once more. Leaving you to open it. At the top, written in neat black lettering, were four words.
RULES OF THE AGREEMENT
You couldn't help but scoff he was such a bitch, of course that man would turn your entire life into a contract. As you began reading it you felt your freedom crumble.
Rule One: Never embarrass the Park family publicly. Your actions represent me before they represent yourself.
Rule Two: The media is not your friend. Any statement released without my approval will have consequences.
Rule Three: You will attend every event, dinner, meeting, and gathering requested of you. Excuses will not be tolerated.
Rule Four: You will not seek employment. Your responsibility is to maintain the image we are creating.
Rule Five: My family comes before your comfort. Their words are to be respected, regardless of your feelings.
Rule Six: This engagement is a partnership, not a fairytale. Do not mistake my actions for affection.
Rule Seven: Your safety is now my concern. My security will accompany you wherever necessary.
Rule Eight: Defiance has consequences. Test my patience once, and you’ll understand that very quickly.
You stared at the page your eye twitching.“What a fucking asshole,” you mutter, immediately reaching for your phone.
He answers after two rings.
“Jimin, who the fuck do you think you are?”
A chuckle echoes through the speaker does this think this is a joke or is the man just missing a few screws.
“Hello to you too.” He mutters in a smug tone, I could almost see him on the otherside of the phone tilting his head slightly his dark eyes narrowed with amusement, the corner of his mouth pulled into that infuriating smirk he wore wherever someone else's misery entertained him.
“This contract is absurd.”
“Says the poor one.” He says quietly. "It almost funny how people with nothing always seem to have the loudest opinions like your father but he's silent now."
You freeze.
His voice remains calm and cold, almost like he's bored. “You forget where you stand very easily.”
Your jaw tightens.
God.
He was such a bitch.
“Where is my mother supposed to stay?” you ask.
He scoffs almost like he doesn't care maybe because he doesn't or maybe because he had everything easy. “Am I her keeper?”
“I won’t agree unless she gets a home.” You didn't care what the consequences of saying that were but as much as your mother contributed in your trauma she's the only one who cared enough to try who hated herself for birthing you for the wrong man.
Silence.
Then an irritated sigh. “Fine.”
Your brows furrow as that was almost too easy but after he spoke your judgment faded.
“I’ll arrange a house and a maid.”
He pauses.
“She’s clearly not stable enough to live alone.”
You freeze.
His words knock the air from your lungs and suddenly you’re three years old again in a dress not suitable for winter, bruises painted on your skin ones you barely understood. You could see your mother running through the apartment your father chasing her.
A broken bottle in his hand her screams echo in your mind almost like it's happening right now. Like he's still here hands on your arms forcing you towards an old man with yellow teeth and dark eyes. You can hear her begging and telling him to stop giving you away.
To stop hurting you.
You remember hiding under a table, hands over your ears, waiting for it to end.
It never did.
He was dead, but he had left pieces of himself behind, marks that no longer lived on your skin but had been permanently carved into your mind. His abuse ended physically, yet it never truly ended at all.
Even now you could still see them.
Those unfamiliar men reaching their hands out to you. The exchange of cash passing from their hands into his. The proud smile he wore afterwards.
You could still hear his voice.
"You're doing great for the family."
"This is how I show my love."
Love
What a disgusting thing to call it, I never experienced pure love but I was certain it wasn't meant to leave bruises behind or make a child feel like a transaction.
“Are you listening?”Jimin’s voice snaps you back to reality.
You blink.
“Unfortunately.” You mutter your voice lacking it's usual bite as heat rushed through my body before leaving a cold shiver leaving you nauseous.
He lets out a humourless laugh. "Good. Memorise the rules.” he said with a terrifying calmness one you wished for at this moment.
A pause.
“Then burn the paper.”
You scoff.
“And if I don’t?” you ask quietly hating how the words lack sharpness. You hated how your mind was too busy fighting ghosts from your past to properly fight the man standing in your present. You had spoken weakness to one man you refused to fall victim to it again.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Then you’ll learn why I don’t repeat myself.”
The line goes dead leaving you to stare at the phone.
Then at the paper.
Then around the room.
The expensive room.
The expensive house.
The expensive prison.
And for the first time since agreeing to this arrangement…It hits you as you didn’t just agree to marry Park Jimin.
You agreed to survive him....
You couldn't fight it anymore, you shot up from his bed you knees buckling beneath you as a wave of nausea crashed over your body. Your lungs burned refusing to take in enough air as you stumbled towards the bathroom.
Then it all came out as your hands gripped the edge of the toilet sear, your entire body trembling as tears streamed uncontrollably down your cheeks.
The memories seeped back in your fathers voice echoed inside your head. "You're weak, you bitch"
Your breathing became uneven as you tried thinking of something else.
Anything else.
Then another image surfaced.
Your mother.
You could see her cowering in fear before rushing towards you as your small body went limp years ago. "You're not useless. You're special. Look at me....don't fade away." Her voice lightly cracked as she carried on. "I'm sorry. If i had been brave enough, I would've run away with you. But I'm weak now."
The memory shattering something inside you. You wiped your mouth with your shaking hands as you adjusted yourself against the cold tiles.
No one was going to save you.
No knight in shining armor.
Not your mother.
This arrangement wasn't about finding joy in money.
It was about survival because if there was one thing life taught you, it was that happiness is temporary.
Survival wasn't.
And right now your mother's happiness mattered more than your own.
All rights reserved to @inkh3art ,2026. Do not copy,repost or translate.
Her father’s death was ruled an accident. She calls it opportunity.
When she and her mother push the powerful Park family for compensation, they expect control but Jimin, the heir, doesn’t bend. He investigates her instead.
What begins as a simple encounter turns into a quiet war, each of them holding truths that could destroy the other.
So he offers her a choice: Disappear… or marry him which is a solution neither of them wants, but both might need.
✿ Rating: 18+ (if you’re minor skip)
✿ Pairings: CEO heir!! Park Jimin x reader
✿ Genre/Trope: Contract Marriage!! Power imbalances!! Slow burn!! Mutual Blackmail!! Smut!! Enemies to lovers (90% enemies)!! Forced proximity!!
✿ Warning: This story contains trauma, grief, violence, mentions of sexual assault (not involving the male lead), and mature sexual content.
A/n : I missed a day so made it worth a while I hope sorry for the delay!!
🫧🫧🫧
She bad and her head bad
Escaping, her van is a Wonderland
And it's half-past six
Read skies 'cause time don't exist
But when the stars shine back to the crib
Superstar lines back at the crib
And we can test out the tables
We got some brand new tables
All glass and it's four feet wide
But it's a must to get us ten feet high
She give me sex in a handbag
I get her wetter than a wet nap
🫧🫧🫧
House of balloons/ Glass table girls - The Weeknd
Your head rests on your mother’s lap as her fingers move slowly through your hair, gentle for once. Too gentle. “You could insure it,” she murmurs, like this is normal. “After everything I’ve done for thirty years with that man… you owe me at least that.” You don’t respond, your eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling above you. Thirty years with a demon, and somehow, you were the one who paid for it. You never understood her you never understood how she could look at you and not see what had been taken, what had been used. Your father gambled everything away, drank through what was left, and when there was nothing else to give, you became the solution.
You remember being thirteen, curled in pain from your first cramps, searching for something to numb it, only to find something else hidden deep in her cupboard a powder, carefully tucked away like a secret she thought you were too naive to notice.
She was never fully there after that. Not when it mattered. Not when you needed her. She played the part of a mother just enough to survive judgment, but never enough to love you properly. And love you don’t even know what that looks like.
Which explains him. Your ex. A liar wrapped in soft words and empty promises, whispering things you were stupid enough to believe, touching you like it meant something when it didn’t. You thought it was real. You thought he was real. Until Valentine’s Day, until you found him with someone younger, someone easier. Your chest tightens at the memory, and you sit up abruptly.
“I’m going to get ready…” you mutter, your voice flat. She hums absentmindedly, already somewhere else in her own head.
You reach for your phone and see three missed calls from Jimin. You roll your eyes before calling back, letting it ring three times before he answers.
“Oh,” he mutters, voice low, edged with sarcasm. “So you do know how to use a phone.”
There’s movement on his end there’s fabric shifting, something soft brushing against the microphone, a quiet breath that doesn’t belong to him. Your jaw tightens instantly. You don’t need to see it to understand it. The faint rhythm in the background, the way his voice dips in and out of focus, like his attention is split between you and something or someone else. You close your eyes briefly, steadying yourself. “I see I called at the wrong time.”
A quiet chuckle slips through the line, amused, unbothered. “You’ve got sharp ears,” he says. “But that’s not the issue. You ignored me.”
You walk into your room, dropping onto your bed, staring at the wall like it might keep you grounded. “I was busy. I don’t jump every time you call.” There’s a pause, a soft exhale from his end, followed by a faint sound that makes your stomach twist in irritation. He doesn’t even bother hiding it. “You really know how to kill a mood,” he mutters.
“I don’t live to fix yours,” you shoot back, your voice colder now.
Another pause, longer this time, followed by a quiet command…“Leave.” A muffled protest, then movement, fabric shifting again, a door closing somewhere in the background. Silence replaces the noise, and when he speaks again, his voice is sharper, cleaner, entirely focused. “I’m sending a driver. Don’t bother getting ready. I’ll have that handled.”
You gag slightly at the tone. Outside, kids are shouting, their laughter too loud for this hour, scraping against your already frayed nerves. You walk to the door and yank it open. “Go home!” you snap, your voice cutting through the night. They scatter immediately, muttering apologies as they grab their worn-out bikes. You shut the door harder than necessary, leaning against it for a second before lifting the phone again. “And for the record,” you say, your voice tight, “I agreed to marry you. Not become your fucking doll.”
Silence answers you at first. “That’s where you’re wrong.” His voice drops, colder than before. “The second you tried to drag my family through the dirt, you showed exactly what you are,” he says. “And the moment you agreed to marry me?” A pause. “You sold yourself.” Your grip tightens around the phone.
“So don’t confuse this with choice,” he continues. “You don’t get those anymore.” You hang up before he can say anything else, your chest rising and falling unevenly.
The shower is too short, the water too cold, your thoughts too loud. You change into jeans and a t-shirt, waiting by the window until the car arrives. When it does, it feels unreal a matte grey Bentley, sleek and silent, the kind of car you’ve only ever seen in magazines. You slide inside carefully, like you don’t belong touching anything in it.
The drive stretches long, the city slowly fading into something cleaner, richer, untouchable. The houses grow larger, the streets quieter, until the gates appear they’re massive, black and guarded. Armed men stand on either side, wires curling behind their ears, eyes sharp and watchful. A card is scanned, the gates open, and your breath catches.
A fountain greets you first, water spilling in controlled, perfect patterns, like even nature is disciplined here. To the right, open land stretches out beneath dim lighting; to the left, a garden trimmed so precisely it doesn’t feel real. Workers move quietly in the background, efficient, invisible.
The car stops in front of the mansion, and for a second, you forget how to move. It’s not just a house, it’s a statement
Dark stone, towering glass windows glowing with warm light, every detail deliberate, expensive, unreachable. You step out slowly, your shoes barely making a sound against the ground.
A maid approaches, dressed in modest black, her expression calm but tired. “Follow me,” she says softly, and you do. Inside, the house is just as overwhelming with a high ceilings, soft ambient lighting, minimalistic but suffocatingly expensive. It doesn’t feel lived in. It feels displayed.
“East wing,” she says. “Third room.” You walk upstairs, your steps slower now, and open the door.
The dress stops you cold. Cream silk, draped perfectly across the bed, the fabric soft and fluid, catching the light in a way that makes it look almost liquid. The neckline dips low, elegant but bold, while the waist cinches just enough before falling smoothly down, hugging your body in all the right places. Beside it sit heels with blood red soles, glossy, unmistakable.
For a moment, your chest tightens, a memory flashing through your mind. A younger version of you, holding up a magazine, eyes bright. “Mommy, I want these!” You blink, forcing the memory away.
“Sit,” a voice snaps, pulling you back. The stylist moves quickly, hands already on you before you can react. Time blurs with makeup brushed onto your skin, your hair straightened and shaped into soft, controlled waves that frame your face perfectly. When you stand again, you barely recognise yourself. You look expensive. Like you belong somewhere better.
Downstairs, Jimin is waiting. He sits like he owns the room, his charcoal suit tailored to perfection, vest fitted snug beneath his jacket, tie sharp against his collar. A cigar rests between his fingers as he glances up, his eyes scanning you once before he looks away. “You finally look like you belong,” he says, his tone flat, double-edged. Not a compliment. Never a compliment.
You expected a press conference. Cameras. Statements. Something controlled. Instead, the car brings you to a gala with lights spilling across polished floors, music humming through the air, laughter echoing from people who have never had to worry about anything real. Your stomach drops as you step inside. “What the hell is this?” you mutter, your voice low. Jimin’s hand slides to your waist, firm, unyielding.
“Smile,” he murmurs, close enough for only you to hear. “Or I’ll make you.” You freeze, then force a smile onto your face, one that feels foreign but looks perfect.
People notice immediately. Whispers ripple through the room, eyes following the two of you. “Is that—?” “Park Jimin?” “Who is she?” His grip tightens slightly as he leans closer. “Kiss my cheek,” he says under his breath. “Absolutely not—” His fingers press harder into your waist.
“Do it.” You do. Applause rises somewhere nearby, cameras flashing, capturing something that isn’t real.
His friends gather, smirking, amused. “Didn’t think you’d settle down,” one of them says. Jimin rolls his eyes. “She’s not a pet.” “Could’ve fooled me,” another mutters. Your jaw tightens, but before you can react, Jimin speaks again, smooth and effortless. “I’m marrying her.” The reaction is immediate surprise, curiosity, interest. He leans down then, his lips brushing against your neck in a way that feels far too intimate for something fake. “I’m in love with her,” he adds, his voice convincing enough to fool anyone listening.
You hate how real it sounds.
His mother appears later, composed and elegant, her eyes sharp as they settle on you. “So this is the girl,” she says, her tone measured. You bow slightly. “Yes, ma’am.” She studies you for a moment too long. “We’ll discuss you later.” His father barely spares you a glance. “Handle your mess,” he mutters to Jimin. “I am,” Jimin replies, unbothered.
By the time you’re back in the car, the silence feels heavier than anything else. You turn to him, anger finally breaking through. “You don’t have to touch me like that,” you snap. “We’re faking this, not—” He moves before you can finish, grabbing your jaw and pulling you into a kiss that isn’t gentle, isn’t soft, it’s control, dominance, a reminder of exactly where you stand. When he pulls back, your breathing is uneven, your chest tight.
“I’m a man with needs,” he says quietly, his hand still at your neck. “You’re my fiancée.” A pause. “That includes this.”
All rights reserved to @inkh3art , 2026. Do not copy, repost or translate.
Her father’s death was ruled an accident. She calls it opportunity.When she and her mother push the powerful Park family for compensation, they expect control but Jimin, the heir, doesn’t bend. He investigates her instead.What begins as a simple encounter turns into a quiet war, each of them holding truths that could destroy the other.So he offers her a choice: Disappear or marry him which is a solution neither of them wants, but both might need.
✿ Pairings: CEO heir!! Park Jimin x reader
✿ Rating: 18+ (if you’re minor skip)
✿ Genre/Trope: Contract Marriage!! Power imbalances!! Slow burn!! Mutual Blackmail!! Smut!! Enemies to lovers (90% enemies)!! Forced proximity!!
✿ Warning: This story contains trauma, grief, violence, mentions of sexual assault (not involving the male lead), and mature sexual content.
🫧🫧🫧
She bad and her head bad
Escaping, her van is a Wonderland
And it's half-past six
Read skies 'cause time don't exist
But when the stars shine back to the crib
Superstar lines back at the crib
And we can test out the tables
We got some brand new tables
All glass and it's four feet wide
But it's a must to get us ten feet high
She give me sex in a handbag
I get her wetter than a wet nap
🫧🫧🫧
House of balloons/Glass table girls - The Weeknd
You stop outside the club, staring up at the address he sent.
High class.
Of course it is.
Glass, lights, polished doors everything about it screams money, power… people like him.
Not people like you.
You shift in your dress tight, short, resale. The fabric clings in all the wrong ways, like it’s trying too hard to be expensive and failing. Your heels dig into your feet, cheap enough that you can feel every step through them.
You spent your last bit of money getting here.
Fuck him.
A thought creeps in anyway.
You’ve sold your body before, maybe that’s what he expects tonight rich men do thrive on loose ends.
Maybe that’s why he called you.
You step forward.
The bouncer scans the QR code Jimin sent, barely sparing you a glance. His face twists slightly, like you already irritate him.
“Move,” he mutters.
Another man gestures. “Follow me.”
You walk into pure chaos.
Music slamming through the room, bass vibrating under your feet. Bodies pressed together, grinding, hands wandering like boundaries don’t exist. A girl laughs too loudly, someone’s hand gripping her waist like she belongs to him. A man shoves another against the wall.
A drink spills.
No one cares, no one looks twice.
Then it changes upstairs is different.
Quieter.
Cleaner.
Controlled.
You’re led to two large double doors. The man beside you hesitates for a second, glancing at you and you sense that there’s something there.
Pity.
That should’ve been enough to make you turn around.
You don’t.
The door opens you walk in eyes darting around.
And there he is.
Park Jimin.
Sitting like the room belongs to him.
Legs spread, dress pants fitted perfectly. White shirt open just enough at the collar, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled carelessly. His tie hangs loose like he stopped caring halfway through a rolex sits heavy on his wrist.
His hair is slicked back.
Sharp.
Untouchable.
He’s holding a glass, swirling the alcohol slowly but he doesn’t look at you.
Not yet.
His eyes are fixed on a Korean woman dancing on a pole in the corner. Her body moves slow, deliberate, barely covered, built to be watched.
You follow his gaze.
Of course.
You don’t move closer.
You don’t greet him you stand there waiting for him to get over whatever raging hormones he has.
He lifts a finger.
That’s it.
The woman stops immediately.
Steps off leaving the room like she knew she was disposable .
His guards follow, shutting the door behind them and now it’s just you and him.
Silence settles in.
Thick.
Uncomfortable.
“Where’s the smart mouth now?” he says, finally, finishing his drink without even looking at you.
“Right here just waiting for you to say something worth responding to.” you state eyeing him with no warmth in your gaze.
That gets his attention.
Slowly he looks at you like he’s deciding if you’re worth the effort.
Then he stands.
Unhurried.
Controlled.
He sets the glass down and pulls out a cigar, lighting it without breaking eye contact this time.
The flame flickers.
He inhales.
Exhales.
Smoke drifts toward you.
“You’ve got a dirty mouth,” he mutters. “Guess it’s all you’re good for must be warm too.”
Your jaw tightens.
“For someone who probably killed my father, you talk too much.”
He lets out a quiet laugh.
Low.
Unimpressed.
“You really believe that?” he asks. “Or you just needed attention that badly?”
You don’t answer.
You stare and he steps closer.
His gaze moves like it owns time slow, deliberate, almost disrespectful.
From your face… down to the dress clinging just right…then your legs… then your shoes almost like he’s deciding what you’re worth without saying a word.
A pause.
“Jesus,” he exhales. “You look like you dragged yourself out of some back alley and called it an outfit.”
Something in your chest twists,“What I wear isn’t your concern.”
“It is when you walk in here looking like you’re selling yourself,” he shoots back. “Or is that exactly what this is?”
Your stomach drops and you hate that it hits,“Watch your mouth,” you snap trying to seem put together.
He steps closer, slow, unhurried, a cigar settling between his lips as he flicks the lighter open. The flame glows briefly against his face before he inhales, eyes still on you a ring of smoke curls out, deliberate.
Close enough now that you can smell it tobacco, alcohol, something expensive and clean that doesn’t belong anywhere near you, “Or what?” he murmurs.
Then he exhales right into your face.
You hold your ground or atleast you try.
“You think I don’t know what kind of life you’ve lived?” he continues. “You think I didn’t dig into every ugly detail before calling you here?”
Your heart stutters.
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know enough,” he says. “Enough to know you weren’t crying over that man. You were performing.”
Your hands curl into fists.
“Say what you called me here for.”
He watches you for a second, “I want you to marry me.” He says like it’s the most normal thing ever.
Silence.
“…You’re sick.”
“I’m efficient.”
You laugh, bitter. “You insult me, drag me into this place, and that’s your genius plan?”
“It works.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does,” he says calmly. “You become the girl who lost her mind because she couldn’t keep a man. The one who made a scene because she got rejected.” Your stomach twists.
“And you?”
“I stay untouchable.”
Of course he does.
“I’m not marrying you,” you say flatly.
He moves fast.
Grabs your arm with great force.
You’re pulled forward, your body colliding with his before you can react. His hand slides into your hair, gripping just enough to tilt your head back. Your breath catches as the cigar hovers near your face.
Too close.
Not touching but close enough to make your skin prickle.
“Don’t stand there like you’ve got any dignity,” he murmurs. “You walked into a private room dressed like that—what, you thought you’d be taken seriously?”
“Let go.”
“You act like you weren’t ready to drop to your knees if I waved money in your face,” he continues, voice colder. “Don’t pretend you’ve got standards now.”
Something in you snaps.“I’m not yours to degrade,” you spit.
He tilts his head slightly.
“You already were,” he replies. “Just not for me.”
That lands.
Hard.
“You’re disgusting,” you say.
“And you’re useful,” he shoots back.
His grip tightens for a second then he lets go stepping back like you’re nothing.
“Marrying you fixes everything,” he continues. “Media spins your little outburst into jealousy. You look unstable. I look controlled.”
Your pulse pounds as you speak, “I’d rather be rot.”
He smiles.
Cold.
“Then I’ll make sure you do.”
Your breath stills.
“or… I can take your house,” he says casually. “Your neighbourhood and turn it into something profitable.” Your heart drops.
Not just you.
Everyone.
“You’re sick you’ll be putting kids on the street,” you mutter, your heart racing.
He doesn’t flinch.
If anything, his mouth twitches almost bored.
“They were already on the street,” he replies coolly, adjusting his cufflink like this is a meeting, not a threat. “I’m just deciding what gets built over it.”
Your jaw tightens. “You think that makes it better?”
“No,” he says, finally looking at you properly. “I just don’t care enough for it to matter.”
“Aren’t there other women for you to bother?” you ask, your voice tight.
“There are,” he says.
A beat.
His eyes drag over you slow and dismissive.
“But you’re easier to use.”
Your stomach twists again.
“My worker’s daughter,” he continues, voice dropping. “The one who stood there pretending to mourn the man who sold her like she was nothing.” Your chest tightens at his words.
“How do you—”
“I did my homework,” he cuts in. “Every dirty little detail, most is not that hard to see I mean you do look like a slut.”
Your hand moves before you think.
Smack.
The sound echoes sharply.
For a second everything freezes until he coldly smiles.
Slow.
Dangerous.
His hand wraps around your wrist instantly.“Do that again,” he says softly, “and you won’t like that follows.”
Fear flickers.
You hate it.
“I’ll do it,” you say quietly you mumble words taste like ash on your tongue.
He releases you out of satisfaction.“Good girl.” He mutters like you just proved him right.
“I’ll organise a press conference tomorrow,” he continues, fixing his tie, adjusting his cufflinks like none of this mattered. “You’ll show up looking decent for once.” He says as his eyes drag over you again, disgust remains evident in his facial expressions.
“Don’t wear anything from that… pathetic closet of yours.” He says as he steps back with distance and control.
“Leave.”Just like that.
Dismissed like you were never equal which in fact you weren’t.
You turn walking out.Past the doors, past the guards.Back into the noise, the bodies, the heat.
But everything feels different now much heavier. Because deep down you know the truth. This wasn’t an offer.It was a threat or maybe even a promise.
And you just said yes.
All rights reserved to @inkh3art , 2026. Do not copy, repost or translate.
Her father’s death was ruled an accident. She calls it opportunity.When she and her mother push the powerful Park family for compensation, they expect control but Jimin, the heir, doesn’t bend. He investigates her instead.What begins as a simple encounter turns into a quiet war, each of them holding truths that could destroy the other.So he offers her a choice: Disappear or marry him which is a solution neither of them wants, but both might need.
✿ Pairings: CEO heir!! Park Jimin x reader
✿ Rating: 18+ (if you’re minor skip)
✿ Genre/Trope: Contract Marriage!! Power imbalances!! Slow burn!! Mutual Blackmail!! Smut!! Enemies to lovers (90% enemies)!! Forced proximity!!
✿ Warning: This story contains trauma, grief, violence, mentions of sexual assault (not involving the male lead), and mature sexual content.
🫧🫧🫧
She bad and her head bad
Escaping, her van is a Wonderland
And it's half-past six
Read skies 'cause time don't exist
But when the stars shine back to the crib
Superstar lines back at the crib
And we can test out the tables
We got some brand new tables
All glass and it's four feet wide
But it's a must to get us ten feet high
She give me sex in a handbag
I get her wetter than a wet nap
🫧 🫧🫧
House of balloons/Glass table girls - The Weeknd
It was the day of the memorial. Everyone who claimed to be your father’s friend showed up, dressed in black, offering condolences like they meant something. You stood there in a heavy black funeral hanbok, the fabric suffocating, weighing you down like it wanted you buried with him. You didn’t cry. You couldn’t.
You just stood there while the memories came anyway uninvited and unwanted.
His hands. Rough. Possessive. Shoving you forward like you were nothing. “Be useful for once.” Men always men. Twice your age, older, married, laughing like it was normal. Your mother’s voice in the background, breaking, begging, “Please, stop she’s just a child.” And him laughing. Always laughing. You were thirteen when your body stopped belonging to you. The first time, you remember everything, the smell, the weight, the pain, how you whispered “please” like it would save you, how it didn’t. Afterward, you lay there shaking, hearing your mother cry through the wall, hearing him shout, “She’ll earn her keep one way or another.” It didn’t stop. It never stopped.
Years blurred together like that. Your body passed around like it meant nothing it was like you meant nothing. At some point, you stopped saying no. At some point, you stopped feeling anything at all. Numb was easier. Numb meant you could survive it. And yet there you were, standing at his memorial, honouring a man who had destroyed you. You hated him. You hated him in ways words couldn’t carry.
Your gaze shifted to your mother, sitting nearby, crying like she had lost something precious. “Why are you crying?” you wanted to ask. “What did he ever give you except pain?” But the words stayed in your throat, heavy and useless.
A man approached it was one of his “friends.” Your stomach twisted the moment you recognised him. Of course you did. They never forgot you. “You’ve grown,” he murmured, like it was a compliment. His arms wrapped around you before you could move, his hand sliding lower than it should. You stiffened. “Still shy, I see,” he added under his breath. You pushed away quickly, your voice low. “Don’t touch me.” He only smiled, slow and knowing, like you’d said nothing at all.
Then you saw them. Expensive shoes first clean, polished, untouchable. Your eyes lifted slowly. Mr. Park. Your father’s boss. His wife beside him, grief sitting neatly on her like it belonged there. And behind them —him. The café. The voice. The arrogance. The man who got you fired. Park Jimin. Of course it was him. Of course everything in your life was somehow connected to them.
Mr. Park stepped forward, holding out an envelope. “This is for your loss,” he said smoothly. Your mother took it immediately, bowing over and over. “Thank you, sir, thank you ” Her voice trembled like she was grateful. Like this fixed anything.
You didn’t move. You just stared. “You killed him,” you said quietly.
Mr. Park paused, tilting his head slightly. “I’m sorry?”
“You killed him,” you repeated, louder now. Your voice cut through the murmurs. “And not just him. How many people died in that factory? How many families did you hand envelopes to like this?”
“Watch your tone,” he said, his voice dropping, polite but sharp underneath.
Your mother grabbed your arm hard enough to hurt. “Stop it,” she whispered urgently. “Apologise. Right now.”
“No,” you said.
“You come here pretending to care,” you continued, your voice shaking but rising, “like this isn’t your fault. Like money makes it clean.”
“Enough,” your mother hissed. “Do you want us starving? Who’s going to feed us?”
“Was it because he was Black?” you shot back, louder now. The room went silent. “Is that why it didn’t matter?”
Gasps. Whispers.
“Or is it because you’re mixed?” you added, your voice dropping, sharper than before. “Does that make you less human to them too?”
Mrs. Park stiffened. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice cold, offended.
And Jimin…
He was already looking at you.
Not shocked. Not guilty.
Annoyed.
Like you had just inconvenienced him.
“Let’s go,” he said flatly, glancing at his father. “This is getting embarrassing.”
Something in you snapped at that“Embarrassing?” you laughed, the sound bitter. “What’s embarrassing is people dying under your company and you walking around like nothing happened.”
His eyes flicked back to you, sharp now. For a second just a second there was something there it wasn’t guilt.
Neither was it anger, it was just a calculation.
“You’re making a scene,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Be careful. Scenes have consequences.”
You stepped closer without thinking. “Good,” you whispered back. “Maybe someone should finally face them.”His jaw tightened.
That was it.
That was the reaction it was small but real. “Let’s go,” he repeated, firmer this time.
People were already recording. Phones lifted. Whispers spreading like wildfire.Mr. Park’s expression hardened. “We’ll handle this,” he said quietly before turning away.
Jimin guided his mother out, his hand steady, controlled. But as he passed you then he stopped, just for a second.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said under his breath, voice calm, almost bored. It wasn’t a threat but a promise. Then he walked away.
Days passed, and the videos spread. Every word. Every accusation. Every crack in your voice online.
“You’re brave,” some said.
“You’re stupid,” others replied.
“Do you know who you’re talking about?”
“The Park family doesn’t lose.”
You read it all over and over. And then your phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
You stared at it for a long second before answering, “…Hello?”
Silence.
Then he mutters his voice soothing annoyingly, “Have you calmed down?”
His voice.
Cold.
Familiar.
Park Jimin.
Your grip tightened on the phone. “…What do you want?”
A pause.
Then a quiet exhale. “I think it’s time we talked,” he said.
And somehow—that sounded worse than a threat.
All rights reserved to @inkh3art , 2026. Do not copy, repost or translate.
Her father’s death was ruled an accident. She calls it opportunity.When she and her mother push the powerful Park family for compensation, they expect control but Jimin, the heir, doesn’t bend. He investigates her instead.What begins as a simple encounter turns into a quiet war, each of them holding truths that could destroy the other.So he offers her a choice: Disappear or marry him which is a solution neither of them wants, but both might need.
✿ Pairings: CEO heir!! Park Jimin x reader
✿ Rating: 18+ (if you’re minor skip)
✿ Genre/Trope: Contract Marriage!! Power imbalances!! Slow burn!! Mutual Blackmail!! Smut!! Enemies to lovers (90% enemies)!! Forced proximity!!
✿ Warning: This story contains trauma, grief, violence, mentions of sexual assault (not involving the male lead)
🫧🫧🫧
She bad and her head bad
Escaping, her van is a Wonderland
And it's half-past six
Read skies 'cause time don't exist
But when the stars shine back to the crib
Superstar lines back at the crib
And we can test out the tables
We got some brand new tables
All glass and it's four feet wide
But it's a must to get us ten feet high
She give me sex in a handbag
I get her wetter than a wet nap
🫧🫧🫧
House of balloons/Glass table girls - The Weeknd
No one questioned it.
Not the police. Not the press. Not the people who signed the papers and buried them right alongside him. It was convenient. Final.
An accident.
You stood beside your mother when a worker named Mr. Choi arrived with news of your father’s death.
Your expression didn’t move, even as your heartbeat tried to climb out of your chest. He was tall and slim, his eyes dark and tired, like he’d said this story too many times. He placed a blue box on the table.Your mother rushed forward, hands shaking as she opened it.Inside were your father’s overalls.
And his last salary.
“It’s a lie. Where is his body?” she snapped, grabbing Mr. Choi’s arm. He pulled back instantly, like her touch burned.
“It burned in the fire, ma’am.” Her knees gave out.
You caught her before she hit the floor, one arm around her as she broke apart prayers mixing with curses, grief twisting into something ugly. Mr. Choi helped her onto the couch.
“Thank you, Mr. Choi. It’s just hard to accept,” you said, bowing slightly like you’d been taught. He left without another word. You shut the door.
Silence.
Then you scoffed. That demon was dead. Finally. But relief never lasted long in your life.
You turned.
Your mother was still crying. Over him. “Are you going to keep crying like he ever loved you?” you asked flatly.
She laughed.
Not normal laughter sharp, cracked, wrong. Then she reached for the envelope of money, tossing it in the air like it meant nothing. She grabbed your arm, smiling too wide.
“Mom, are you—”
“The Park family,” she muttered.
You blinked. “What about them?”
“They’re rich.”
“No way. I never would’ve guessed.” Her grip tightened. “Do you think your father’s death was really an accident?” You didn’t answer. Because it obviously wasn’t. But you also didn’t care enough to dig up a truth that wouldn’t change anything.
“Exactly,” she said, like you agreed with her.
She sat back down, suddenly calm, like a switch had flipped.“We could use this,” she added. “We could expose it. The media would eat it alive. Negligence. Corporate failure. Maybe even discrimination—”
“That’s kinda insane, Mom.”
She ignored you. “I don’t have time for this,” you said, already walking away. “I have a shift.”
“Think about it,” she called after you, voice turning sharper. “Not all winners work for gold. Sometimes it costs a life.”
You paused in the hallway. “That’s even worse when you say it like that. She didn’t respond.
You changed quickly jeans, shirt, hair thrown into a messy bun while she kept spiralling in the background like it was a hobby. “Your father didn’t just die,” she said suddenly, quieter now. “They let it happen.”
You froze for half a second. Then kept moving. “We can’t even afford rent,” you said. “We are not taking on whatever billionaire villain arc you’re imagining.”
“Useless,” she muttered. You left before she could utter more.
The city was already loud when you stepped out.
Kids screaming. Workers rushing. Luxury cars sliding past like they owned the air itself. Everyone looked like they belonged somewhere. You didn’t. Twenty minutes later, you reached your job.
Maison de Lune.
Fancy name. Terrible pay. You slipped behind the counter, fixing your apron and name badge in one motion.
“You’re late again,” Soojin said without looking at you.
“Five minutes,” you muttered.
“That’s still late.” She says as a matter of fact.
You ignored her and got to work.
One customer after another.
People who lived in worlds you’d only seen through glass. Then the bell chimed again.
You looked up.
A man walked in.
Black suit. Perfect fit. Expensive enough to make the whole room feel cheaper. Phone in hand, attention elsewhere. Blonde hair falling slightly over sharp features. He didn’t look around nor greet anyone.
Just walked straight to the counter like the world had already been scheduled around him. Something about him made the air feel tighter.
He stopped.
“I ordered online. Where is it.”
No hello. No patience. Just expectation.
Of course. You smiled anyway. Customer mode.
“What did you order, sir?”
“Flat white. Extra hot. No foam.”
You checked the system.
Nothing.You asked for details. He showed you his phone like you were the inconvenience.
You apologised and moved fast to fix it. Too fast.
You turned…
Collision.
The drink spilled instantly across the counter. A sharp silence dropped.
Soojin froze.
You froze.
When you looked up
he was already staring at you. Not shocked. Not surprised. Just… assessing.
Like you were something that had interrupted his schedule. “This will be reported,” he said calmly. “And the shop as well.”
“I can remake it—”
“No need.” His disgust was quiet. Controlled.
Final. He turned away like you were already irrelevant.
And left.
The bell chimed softly behind him. The door closed. And somehow, the whole place felt smaller.
You didn’t know his name.
Not yet.
But men like that didn’t stay random for long. And men like that didn’t forget.
You got home that evening and dropped onto your bed, still stressed, still replaying the café guy in your head. “Who does he think he is?” you muttered, picturing him getting run over with a calm, satisfied smile.
Then your phone rang. Your boss’s voice came through quiet and apologetic. “We’ve had to let you go. A very important client complained, and with your lateness… management decided this is the end.”
You stared at the ceiling for a moment. “So that’s it?” you asked flatly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ll transfer your last wage.” You exhaled. “Right. Thanks.” The call ended.
“Fuck you,” you muttered into the silence, tossing your phone aside. Lying there, your mind drifted back to your mother earlier. “The Parks,” she had said, eyes bright. “We could exploit it. Expose them. The media would eat it alive.”
You’d called it insane then, but now it stuck in your head differently. The more you thought about it, the more it didn’t feel like nonsense it felt like a plan forming. And for the first time, you didn’t immediately shut it down.
All rights reserved to @inkh3art , 2026. Do not copy, repost or translate.
