The Park residence, once filled with warmth and chatter, now echoed with a silence Jimin had grown used to. The curtains were drawn, the air thick with dust and unspoken grief. His father sat across from him at the long dining table, his fingers drumming restlessly against the polished wood. The sound gnawed at Jimin’s nerves.

“Jimin,” Mr. Park finally spoke, voice rough with exhaustion. “We can’t hold on much longer. The creditors… they’ll come knocking any day.”

Jimin pressed his lips together, willing himself not to flinch. He had known this for weeks, seen the numbers sink lower and lower, but hearing it aloud carved the reality deeper.

Before he could answer, the heavy double doors creaked open. Their butler’s voice trembled:

“Sir, Mr. Min has arrived. With his secretary.”

The air shifted. Mr. Park straightened instantly, masking his desperation with stiff pride. Jimin stayed seated, fingers curling around his glass of water, his pulse quickening.

Two figures entered.

First was Min Yoongi—sharp-eyed, deceptively calm, his suit pressed to perfection. He walked as though he owned every room, every inch of space bending to his will. His presence was quiet, but heavy with an unseen weight.

At his side was Kim Seokjin, Yoongi’s secretary. Tall, impeccably dressed, with a subtle confidence that radiated even when he wasn’t speaking. If Yoongi was the storm, Seokjin was the lightning that warned of it—charming, professional, but dangerous in his own way.

“Mr. Park,” Seokjin greeted smoothly, his voice like velvet laced with steel. “You know why we’re here.”

Jimin’s father stood, bowing slightly. “Of course. Please, sit.”

Yoongi’s gaze flickered to Jimin as he took his seat, brief but unsettling. Jimin looked away first.

Seokjin wasted no time. “We’ve reviewed your situation. The debts, the failing branches… You’re at risk of complete ruin.”

Jimin bristled. “You don’t need to remind us of what we already know.”

Seokjin’s lips curved faintly, as if amused by his sharpness. “Reality doesn’t bend for pride, young Park.”

Yoongi finally spoke, his voice low, detached:

“There’s a way to fix this. A deal.”

Jimin turned to him, chest tightening. “A deal?”

Seokjin leaned back, eyes narrowing with satisfaction. “A marriage. Between you and Mr. Min.”

The word fell like a stone into water. The silence that followed rang louder than any shout.

Jimin froze. His father didn’t. Mr. Park nodded slightly, as if this had been rehearsed.

“With Jimin,” Seokjin added, his gaze deliberate, “and Yoongi.”

The world tilted for Jimin. He rose abruptly, chair screeching.

“You can’t be serious. Marriage? Like I’m some pawn you can trade?”

“Watch your tone,” his father snapped, but his voice trembled.

Jimin’s chest ached with betrayal. “You knew about this?”

Mr. Park couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s for survival, Jimin. For the company. For us.”

Yoongi’s calm voice slid into the chaos.

“You don’t have to like it. But you’ll learn it’s easier to obey than to fight a storm you can’t control.”

Jimin’s gaze burned into his. “Then maybe I’d rather drown.”

The words hung between them, daring, reckless. Yoongi’s eyes didn’t waver, though something flickered there—amusement? Interest?