IWM Ch 1

There were two conditions for independence.

The first was to bring a prospective spouse. This spouse had to be someone with respectable qualities, capable of living well and eating well without needing to inherit the bossam restaurant.

The man standing before him was undoubtedly such a person. From his long legs wrapped in black suit pants to his face, Chiyoon’s gaze slid over him as if it were a tongue licking its way up.

Even Chiyoon, who typically had little interest in worldly affairs, could tell. A custom-tailored suit worth tens of millions of won per piece, a luxury watch fitted perfectly to his wrist—the appraisal came together neatly.

And among all that, there was something even more valuable.

Sharp eyes reminiscent of a predator from the wild turned toward Chiyoon.

The man, mid-phone conversation, tilted his head as if asking what business had brought him here. Even in the simple motion of jutting his chin, his flawlessly smooth face was impeccable.

It was the rarest resource the man possessed—something money couldn’t buy—and the very factor that made Chiyoon rate him highly as a potential spouse.

A spring breeze pleasantly tousled his hair.

Along the promenade that followed the stream behind Ulchogu Cheongham Market, countless cherry blossom trees formed a cluster. Chiyoon walked toward the man, facing cherry blossom petals the same color as his cheeks.

He stopped after taking exactly two wide strides.

Then, boldly, he called out to him.

“Hey, honey.”

He didn’t even know his name yet.

The man seemed to chew over Chiyoon’s words before letting out a short laugh. As he did, cigarette smoke slipped from the corner of his mouth and dispersed into the air.

“Why, honey?”

He stubbed out his cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe and stepped right up to Chiyoon in a single stride. From the phone he’d been holding to his ear, an urgent voice leaked out loudly, “Director?” Then the call abruptly ended. As if willing to hear more, the man straightened his shoulders toward Chiyoon.

There were two things he knew about him.

First, he looked suitable to be someone he might live with face-to-face every day. Second, as evident from his refined attire, he was wealthy and held a high position—high enough to be called “Director.”

“Let’s get married.”

For Chiyoon, the textbooks on love and marriage consisted solely of web novels, webtoons, daily soap operas, and prime-time weekend melodramas.

That’s how he knew. The first step in any contract marriage had to be bold and aggressive. Without impact, it was game over.

“How old are you?”

The man stayed silent for a long while before speaking in a tone one might use with a child, dragging out his words.

“Old enough that you won’t get reported to the police?”

Chiyoon replied in a calm, matter-of-fact tone.

“Suspicious. That’s the kind of excuse middle schoolers use when they ask someone to buy them cigarettes.”

“Your age group selection is disappointing. I passed the age of buying cigarettes on my own a long time ago.”

“So, how old are you, kid? You’re not a minor, are you?”

“Lest our honey’s conscience crack, I’m twenty-one—twenty plus one full year.”

He was a proper adult, capable of filing a marriage registration without parental consent. Despite his going out of his way to consider his conscience, it seemed futile as he let out an incredulous laugh and sighed.

“Twenty-one and worried about my conscience… I guess it’s about time for me to kick the bucket. Maybe I’ll depart this life the day after tomorrow.”

“Then let’s stamp the marriage papers today, enjoy a day of honeymoon bliss, and wrap it up with a widowhood by the day after tomorrow—a perfect three-day plan. How is it you already understand my heart so well?”

Clap. Chiyoon’s hands came together with a sharp, satisfying sound.

It hadn’t even been half a day since his mother had shouted at him, forbidding independence and laying out its conditions. Right after that, he’d found someone suitable as a spouse, but this man was, of course, someone he’d only just met. Naturally, he’d anticipated this level of resistance.

[Director, the chairman is still unwavering in his stance. We can’t delay the schedule any longer…]

[He wants to see his one and only dominant alpha get married and produce a grandchild before he dies, doesn’t he?]

[…So, will you attend the arranged marriage meeting?]

[When did I say I would?]

[Brother, hyung, no, Director… Then what do I tell the chairman…?]

Clearly, from the man’s perspective, Chiyoon wasn’t a bad card to play. Yet, for some reason, he kept laughing, his face full of amusement.

Chiyoon’s eyebrows twitched in dissatisfaction. The clowning around seemed to have gone far enough; it was time to get serious about the contract talk.

Just then, a face as cold as a blade suddenly lowered toward him. The man’s gaze dissected Chiyoon piece by piece. A heavy, smoky scent of wood rode the breeze and tickled his nose.

“Kid, go home and look up what ‘Daeho’ does on the internet.”

“Going from ‘baby’ and ‘honey’ to ‘kid’? Are you trying to distance yourself from me right now?”

“Oh, you’re at that age where titles matter. It’s almost cute.”

“I’ve always been kind of cute.”

“But proposing to a stranger you just met doesn’t seem so cute.”

It was a roundabout rejection. Before he could even broach the subject of a contract, he’d become “the person who confessed and got shot down.” He was dumbfounded.

“I’m not done talking yet.”

“There’s more? I wouldn’t have known—this is my first time getting a proposal like this.”

“Have you seen a movie where the guy’s confessing with a sketchbook, flipping through the pages, and the heroine runs off in the middle? You just tore up my sketchbook—got it?”

His giggling was infuriatingly annoying. Chiyoon couldn’t hide his crumpled expression and glared at him.

“I’m kind of looking forward to it, but you should probably put this kid’s proposal on hold.”

The moment he opened his mouth again, he cut him off. His soothing, whispered voice brushed hotly against his cheek.

The man slipped a small, crisp rectangular piece of paper into the chest pocket of Chiyoon’s apron.

“I’m an employee who works around here.”

What he handed him was a business card.

<大虎>

On the front of the card, bold white Chinese characters stood out against a black background: “Daeho (大虎),” the company name he’d mentioned.

“I told you earlier—look up what this company does for a living, or ask your mom about it.”

What does that have to do with anything? He was about to say it when a large hand plopped onto his round head. It was a big, rough hand—not one you could call pretty even as a courtesy.

The heavy hand carefully brushed off the cherry blossom petals stuck in Chiyoon’s hair. Then, as if nothing had happened, he casually pulled his hand away and started walking past him toward the restaurant.

“Honey, this push-and-pull game is seriously annoying, you know?”

Chiyoon snapped at him as he turned to leave without hesitation.

“You’re still wet behind the ears and acting all cheeky… Don’t just look at weird stuff online, okay?”

He scolded him lightly before slipping into the restaurant.

Soon, the noise from inside the building spilled out into the open lot. It was the sound of a large group of customers leaving all at once—undoubtedly his party.

“What, don’t you know you’re supposed to hear someone out to the end in Korean?”

Feeling deflated, he pulled out the business card and checked the back. There was a name he’d never seen before: Cha Jihwon (車持𧤎), Executive Director of Daeho Construction. It had to be his name.

Still indignant, Chiyoon immediately pulled out his phone and searched for Daeho Construction. The search results were fairly clean—likely because the company cared about its image—but on some anonymous stock-related sites, there were whispers about a certain rumor.

Daeho Construction had supposedly grown from roots in organized crime. It was news to Chiyoon, who had zero interest in politics or economics.

So what?

Suddenly, Chiyoon looked up at the darkened shop sign.

In big white letters on a red background, it read “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam.” It was the home where Chiyoon was born and raised, the foundation his grandparents and parents had painstakingly built.

With narrowed, defiant eyes, Chiyoon shouted.

“No matter what! I’ll find a way to gain my independence!”

His booming voice echoed inside and outside the shop. It was Chiyoon’s desperate cry—he no longer wanted to burn his youth living a life tied to the family business.

Since ancient times, independence and marriage had been tales of struggle and conquest. For Chiyoon, the two were intertwined, making it all the more perfect. Love wasn’t even a necessity in this grand plan.

Jihwon was the only person he knew who met the conditions. But a contract marriage was still a marriage. And marriage, at its core, was a promise between two people. Just like clapping required two hands to make a sound.

Maeng Chiyoon needed Cha Jihwon.

He wanted independence—no, he wanted marriage. How could he refuse? The curtain was rising on his battle.