The boutique lights glowed warm against glass and polished tile, throwing soft reflections over racks of carefully curated outfits. RAZA's flagship in Jeju Mall always smelled faintly of cedarwood and new fabric, a scent meant to soothe shoppers into indulgence.

But Mirae barely noticed any of it.

Her entire attention was fixed on the man standing in front of the full-length mirror. Joon-ho shifted his weight as she fussed over him, adjusting the lapel of a blazer she'd just insisted he try on. The tailored cut hugged his broad shoulders too perfectly, the crisp white shirt beneath making him look like he'd walked out of a glossy spread.

Mirae's lips pursed as she studied him from different angles, circling once, then tugging at his sleeve to roll it halfway up his forearm. "Better," she murmured to herself. "Much better."

Joon-ho's brow arched slightly. "You're treating me like a mannequin."

She glanced up, caught by the faint smile playing at his lips. Her chest squeezed, but she covered it with a quick sniff and a firm nod. "You wear it too well for me to stop."

Hye-jin leaned against a display nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole scene with a smirk tugging at her mouth. "Honestly, Mirae, he could stand there in a burlap sack and people would still stare."

Mirae shot her a quick glare before turning back to smooth the line of fabric down Joon-ho's chest. "Not if I can help it. Tomorrow is important."

She stepped back, tilting her head, then shook her head quickly and pushed him toward the fitting room. "Change. Next outfit."

The routine continued — blazer and jeans, a soft knit pullover that clung too nicely, a casual cardigan that Mirae made him button and unbutton twice. Each time, she fussed with collars, pressed at seams, even tugged at hems until Joon-ho chuckled low in his throat.

"You do realize," he said as she bent to straighten the fall of trousers over his shoes, "that you're working harder than the stylists ever do on set."

She ignored him, eyes narrowed critically, lips caught between her teeth. He stood patient, enduring each switch of shoes and shirts, until finally she crossed her arms, nodded with satisfaction, and declared, "That one. That's it."

The chosen look was clean but easy — a fitted navy polo that skimmed his torso, khaki pants tailored just enough to look sharp, and loafers that added polish without effort. As backup, she laid aside a light button-up paired with dark trousers. Mirae's face lit up like she'd solved a puzzle, triumphant in her small victory.

"Perfect," she whispered, almost to herself. "You'll look perfect."

Joon-ho glanced at her glowing expression, the faintest warmth stirring in his chest. "If you say so."

Her grin widened.

While Joon-ho ducked back into the fitting room to change into his own clothes, the boutique quieted for a moment. Mirae smoothed the polo she held in her lap, unable to stop herself from running her fingers across the fabric as though his warmth still lingered there.

From the corner, Hye-jin broke the silence with a sly remark. "Do you really have to be this eager? You look like you're shopping for a husband, not a co-star."

Mirae's head snapped up, cheeks instantly pink. "Unnie!"

But Hye-jin's gaze was gentle under the teasing. She tilted her head, studying Mirae. "I'm serious. You're glowing more than I've seen in months."

Mirae ducked her head, letting out a small laugh, shy but honest. "There may never be another chance," she admitted softly. "My schedule's already packed… every week, every month, sealed by the agency. They won't even let me join Fashion Week in Seoul, even though I begged. Everything's booked."

Hye-jin's shoulders slumped slightly, her smirk fading. "I know. And I'm sorry. Sometimes I feel like all I do is shuffle you from one cage to another. I just manage what they hand me."

Mirae shook her head quickly, reaching across to squeeze her manager's hand. "Don't apologize. You've been on my side from the start. That's more than most can say." She hesitated, then smiled with quiet determination. "Besides, it's only one more year. After that, I'll find another agency. One that doesn't chain me down like this."

For a moment, surprise flickered in Hye-jin's eyes. Then, almost shyly, she confessed, "I've been thinking about quitting too. Maybe try something new. I don't know what yet. But the thought's been there for a while."

They both fell quiet, the weight of their words settling. The boutique's muffled music and the distant murmur of shoppers faded into the background. Together, they let themselves imagine a different kind of life — freer, slower, one not dictated by contracts and camera flashes.

Inside the fitting room, Joon-ho paused as he buttoned his shirt. Mirae's words carried faintly through the thin door — "only one more year… another agency…" — followed by Hye-jin's weary sigh. His brows knit, his fingers stilled on the buttons. He didn't catch every word, but enough to stir a low unease inside him.

He finished dressing in silence, rolling the cuffs of his shirt neatly before stepping back out. Mirae looked up instantly, her face brightening at the sight of him as though nothing else mattered.

At the counter, Mirae moved to take out her card, but Joon-ho stepped forward first, sliding his across the polished wood. "I'll take it."

She blinked, startled. "Oppa, you don't have to—"

"I want to." His tone left little room for protest.

The boutique manager, who had hovered attentively throughout, personally rang up the purchase, her hands almost too careful as she folded each item. When the transaction was done, she hesitated, glancing between them with a nervous smile.

"Would it be terribly rude," she asked softly, "if we… took a photo together? Just one, for the staff. You both… look wonderful."

Before Mirae or Hye-jin could respond, Joon-ho inclined his head. "Of course."

The manager's relief was palpable. She called over two salesgirls, all of them buzzing with excitement. Joon-ho stepped easily beside Mirae, his presence steady, unflustered. Hye-jin took the phone, positioning them in the center as the staff clustered happily around.

"Say cheese!"

The shutter clicked.

Mirae glanced up at Joon-ho just as the flash faded, her heart tripping at how effortlessly he blended into the moment — as if he'd been doing this his whole life.

They stepped out of the boutique together, shopping bags in hand. The mall's evening glow spilled across the polished floors, but Mirae hardly noticed; her pulse was still light from the small, ridiculous thrill of standing next to him in that photo.

Behind them, the manager and staff were still grinning, whispering among themselves.

As they walked, Hye-jin shook her head with a half-laugh. "You really are something else, Joon-ho. The way you handled that just now — and even how you spoke with the PD earlier — you're like a veteran actor."

Mirae nodded eagerly, her pride obvious, but Joon-ho only gave a small shrug. "It's nothing. I've just dealt with clients for years. Situations like these… aren't so different."

Hye-jin studied him carefully, her steps slowing a little. He blended so easily into every environment, no matter how foreign, no matter how tense. She couldn't quite place it — was it upbringing, training, or simply charisma? It was more than experience. Something about him set him apart.

Mirae, oblivious to her thoughts, slipped her hand through Joon-ho's arm with a bright smile. "It's just his charm."

Hye-jin smirked knowingly. "Spoken like a girl hopelessly in love."

Mirae flushed scarlet, sputtering a denial that neither of them believed. Joon-ho only chuckled, letting her cling to his arm as they made their way back toward the hotel, the weight of the shopping bags lighter than the warmth lingering between them.

The Grand Hyatt suite was bathed in evening gold, the Jeju coastline beyond the windows turning dusky and soft. Mirae set the shopping bags carefully near the sofa, her heart still buoyed by the lightness of their mall excursion. For the first time in days, she felt almost normal — like an ordinary woman shopping with the man she loved.

Hye-jin stretched, rolling her shoulders, already reaching for her bag. "I'll leave you two here. You must be tired. Rest before tomorrow—"

"Stay."

The word cut cleanly across the room.

Both Mirae and Hye-jin turned. Joon-ho had set down his jacket and was standing near the dining table, his voice quiet but unmistakably firm. He gestured toward the chairs. "There's something I want to discuss. With both of you."

Mirae blinked, sensing the shift in him. He wasn't simply her boyfriend now, nor the calm presence who humored her shopping whims. There was a steadiness in his eyes that made her chest tighten.

Reluctantly, Hye-jin lowered her bag again, curiosity flickering across her face. She followed Mirae to the dining table, both of them taking seats opposite Joon-ho. The room seemed to hold its breath.

Joon-ho folded his hands on the table, his tone even but unyielding. "I need to know about Mirae's contract."

The words struck like a stone dropped into still water. Mirae stiffened instantly.

"Oppa…" she started, trying for a lightness that faltered almost at once. "It's fine. I only have a year left. Once that's done, I'll be free. There's nothing to worry about."

Her voice wavered on that last line, the lie thin as paper.

Joon-ho didn't press, not yet. His gaze shifted to Hye-jin instead. "Is that true?"

Hye-jin hesitated, her fingers curling against the edge of the table. For a long moment, she said nothing. Mirae's eyes darted toward her in alarm, silently pleading.

Finally, Hye-jin exhaled, a weary sigh. "It's… not that simple."

Mirae's stomach dropped.

Joon-ho's brows knit faintly. "Explain."

Hye-jin glanced at Mirae once more, then back at him. "The agency buried a clause in her contract. If they decide she's 'successful,' they can extend for five more years. No clear definition of what 'successful' means. It's deliberately vague. As long as she's working, they can twist it however they want."

Mirae's hands balled into fists on her lap. Shame crawled up her neck, painting her cheeks. She'd known, of course. She'd signed with eyes open, too desperate for opportunity to question the chains hidden in fine print. But she hadn't wanted Joon-ho to see her like this — trapped, helpless.

His gaze flickered toward her, steady but unreadable. "You knew."

Her throat worked. "I… yes. But I didn't want…" Her voice cracked, the words stumbling out. "I didn't want you to see me like this. I thought I could finish the year, endure it, and then it wouldn't matter anymore."

The air tightened between them, Mirae's shame swelling until it hurt to breathe.

Joon-ho's voice broke the silence, calm but insistent. "What about her schedule?"

Hye-jin leaned back, her expression grim. "Fully booked until the end of next year. Variety shows, commercials, promotional shoots, drama cameo — they've locked her calendar tight. And once that's done, they'll point to her numbers, her rising profile, and say, 'Look. She's successful. Extension triggered.' They'll squeeze every drop of value out of her."

Mirae's eyes burned as she stared down at the table. "I didn't want you to know," she whispered. "I didn't want to look… weak. Trapped."

Her voice trembled. "I didn't want to be a burden."

Her guilt pressed heavier with every word, the ugly truth of her situation laid bare in front of him. She felt stripped raw.

Joon-ho leaned forward, his tone steady. "What about penalties? Loopholes? Buyouts?"

Hye-jin straightened, almost startled by the directness. But she nodded, answering quickly. "I've checked. The contract can be broken if she pays back the original contract amount, plus training costs, plus five times her current endorsement value."

Joon-ho's gaze sharpened. "Numbers."

"Current endorsements stand around one million dollars," Hye-jin said, voice low but clear. "Add the contract and compensation — another million. Total comes to at least ten million USD."

The number hung in the air like a blade.

Mirae's breath hitched. Her chest felt hollow, her limbs heavy. Ten million. It was absurd. Impossible. The kind of figure designed to crush dreams before they could form.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Then the dam broke. "It's impossible," she choked out, tears welling hot. "I can't… I'll never… I never wanted you to see this ugly part of it—"

The words dissolved into sobs. She buried her face in her hands, trembling, the shame and guilt she'd buried for so long spilling out uncontrollably.

The scrape of a chair cut through her cries. In the next moment, Joon-ho was beside her, his presence grounding, unshakable. He eased her hands away from her face and pulled her gently into his chest.

Mirae resisted for half a breath, then broke, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing left in a collapsing world. Her sobs muffled against his shirt, raw and unrestrained.

"I don't want you burdened by this," she whispered brokenly against him. "You shouldn't have to carry it—"

His arm tightened around her shoulders, his other hand resting firm against her back. His voice, low and steady, rumbled against her ear. "You're not a burden. This isn't just your fight anymore."

Her tears came harder at that, but the tight knot inside her chest began to ease, just slightly.

Across the table, Hye-jin sat silent, her usual sharp retorts absent. She watched the two of them, something shifting quietly in her chest.

For years, she'd fought tooth and nail to shield Mirae where she could — from lecherous executives, from grueling schedules, from the loneliness of an industry that consumed more than it gave. But she'd always known, deep down, that she was just a stopgap, a manager with limited power against contracts signed in desperation.

Now, watching Mirae sob into Joon-ho's chest while he held her with a steadiness that didn't falter, Hye-jin felt the strangest mix of relief and melancholy. For the first time, Mirae had someone who wouldn't sell her out, wouldn't trade her peace for profit. Someone who looked at her chains not as inconveniences, but as something to break.

She looked away, blinking hard, conflicted. Respect wasn't something she handed out easily, but she felt it all the same.

The suite settled into quiet, Mirae's sobs softening into shaky breaths. Joon-ho smoothed her hair gently, his touch unhurried, patient.

Outside, Jeju's night pulsed with unseen energy — phones buzzing with SNS chatter, photos spreading, comments multiplying by the second. But inside the suite, the storm was different. Not hashtags or trending topics, but contracts, chains, and the staggering cost of freedom.

Mirae pressed her tear-streaked face deeper into Joon-ho's chest, his heartbeat steady against her ear. His hand stayed firm at her back, as if promising he wouldn't let go.

And for the first time in a long time, she let herself believe it.

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