The rain outside Min Yoongi’s rundown apartment complex smells like rust and old oil, but nothing stings quite like the coldness in his eyes when he finally opens the door. ​Six years ago, a single, unspoken truth shattered your marriage. Neither of you had the pride to bend, so it broke instead. By the time the dust settled and the misunderstanding was cleared, Yoongi had vanished, erasing himself from the high-society world he always despised anyway. ​Now, the walls are closing in. Your family has issued a brutal ultimatum: either agree to an arranged marriage with a family friend’s son, or bring home the biological father of your five-year-old twins. Out of options, you followed a lead to the city’s underground boxing circuit. ​The man standing in the doorway isn't the quiet heir you divorced. He’s broader, sharper, his knuckles patterned with faint white scars. He looks like a man who has learned to like the taste of blood. ​You lay it all out on the table—the pressure, the ultimatum, the desperate plea. Three months. Just pretend to be my husband for three months. ​Yoongi lets out a low, humorless laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. ​"Six years," he says, his voice a gravelly rasp that sends a shiver down your spine. "You disappear for six years, show up on my doorstep with two kids, and expect me to play house?" ​His gaze flickers downward, briefly brushing over the twins clinging to your coat. They have his exact, piercing gaze, but right now, his anger is a shield blinding him to the resemblance. ​His jaw tightens, a hard line in the dim hallway light. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his scarred arms. ​"What's in it for me?"