A chaebol heir with crippling social anxiety and a former idol desperate for cash walk into an arrangement neither of them is ready for—what starts as one awkward evening spirals into something far darker than either expected.
The meds aren’t doing shit.
You’ve taken the prescribed dose. Maybe a little more. Doesn’t matter—you’re still pacing your penthouse like something caged, wearing grooves into hardwood that cost more than most people make in a year.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights blinking on below. Can’t appreciate any of it.
Your parents arranged this.
Arranged. Like you’re some kind of package that needs handling. Which—let’s be honest—you probably are. Twenty-five years old, heir to a fortune you didn’t earn, and you can’t even look a woman in the eye without your throat closing up.
They’ve tried everything. Therapy. Three different therapists, actually, each more expensive than the last. Social coaches. Those networking events where eligible women just happened to be seated next to you.
Nothing worked.
You’re still the same anxious virgin you were at sixteen. Just with more money and nicer apartments.
So they found another solution.
Park Chaewon. Stage name: Gowon. You’ve done your homework—spent the last three days deep-diving into her history. Former member of LOONA and LOOSSEMBLE, both disbanded after their company went bankrupt. She’s been freelancing since then: brand partnerships, YouTube collabs, Instagram sponsorships.
The kind of desperate hustle that tells you everything about her financial situation.
Perfect for your parents’ purposes. Low-risk. Not famous enough to create a scandal. No agency to navigate, no company to negotiate with.
Just her. Freelance and available.
The whiskey’s already out on your bar cart. Macallan M—a six-liter decanter that cost more than most people’s cars. The kind of bottle you buy when money means nothing and everything. You pour yourself a glass and down it, feeling the burn.
It doesn’t help. 7PM. The doorbell rings and you nearly drop your glass.
She’s not what you expected. Or maybe exactly what you expected. Which is worse.
Gowon stands in your doorway dressed in what you can only describe as calculated casual. Designer white sneakers that probably cost more than most people’s rent. White ankle socks. Distressed light-wash jeans with strategic rips at the thighs, held up by a purple belt with a silver ring buckle. A tight white crop top showing a sliver of toned midriff. Over it, an oversized pink and green plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder. A crossbody bag—also designer.
Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail with a scrunchie, face carefully made up but not overdone.
Pretty. Delicate features, small frame. Exactly the kind of girl who would’ve never looked at you twice in any normal circumstance.
She’s looking at your apartment. Not at you.
Eyes scanning the space with the calculating assessment of someone pricing everything in sight. The minimalist furniture, the modern art your decorator chose, the view.
You can practically hear the math running in her head.
“Nice place,” she says flatly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her tone suggests it’s anything but nice to her—or rather, that she’s not impressed by your money.
“Thanks,” you manage. “Can I get you—”
“I’m fine.”
She walks past you to your couch and sits down like she owns it, pulling out her phone immediately. The screen lights up her face as she starts scrolling, thumbs moving rapidly.
Not even pretending to be interested in you.
You close the door and stand there awkwardly. This is already going exactly as you feared. Worse, even. At least in your nightmares of this moment, the woman pretended to be interested for the first few minutes.
“So,” you try again, walking toward the seating area. “My parents said—”
“That they hired me to babysit their awkward son?” She doesn’t look up from her phone. “Yeah. I got the brief.”
Your face burns.
The humiliation is immediate. Total.
“I wouldn’t put it like that—”
“How would you put it?” Now she looks up, eyebrow raised. Expression polite in that way that’s actually worse than open contempt. “They’re paying me to spend time with you. To help you get ‘comfortable around women.’ That’s babysitting.”
You want to argue.
But she’s not wrong. That’s exactly what this is.
You sit down in the chair across from her, trying to salvage some dignity. “Look, I know this is weird—”
“It’s fine.” She’s already looking at her phone again, scrolling through what looks like Instagram. “It’s a job. Easy money, honestly. Just sit here for an hour, make small talk, collect the check. I’ve done worse gigs.”
The casual dismissal stings more than direct insult would.
You’re not even worth her full attention. Just another appearance fee, probably on the lower end of her rate card.
“Do you want something to drink?” you try. “I have—”
“I’m fine,” she repeats, not looking up. Her thumb pauses on her screen and she smiles slightly at something, then starts tapping rapidly.
You catch a glimpse. Cookie Run, of all things.
She’s playing a fucking mobile game while supposedly on a date with you.
You sit there in silence, watching her ignore you.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. She shifts on your couch, crossing her legs, completely absorbed in the game. At one point she actually laughs at something—probably cleared a level—a genuine sound that makes you realize you haven’t heard her real voice yet.
Everything she’s said to you has been in that flat, professional tone.
Fifteen minutes in, she checks the time on her phone and sighs.
“Look, no offense, but can we speed this up? I have another thing later and traffic’s gonna be hell.”
“Another… thing?”
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