After quitting my girl group, I was forced into an arranged marriage with a man I’d never even met. The groom didn’t even show up for the wedding. He just called me. “This marriage was my family’s idea,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “As long as you don’t cause trouble, I won’t interfere with your life in any way.” “I’m already in love with someone. In two years, we’ll get a divorce, and I’ll compensate you handsomely.” So what was with the diary in his room, the one filled with page after page about how much he loved me…? 1 While I was still in school, I secretly became a trainee for a girl group, using a stage name to hide my identity. I’d like to think I worked hard. I practiced until midnight every day, sometimes even sleeping in a split. But in the end, I just wasn’t popular enough. I missed the final debut spot. My parents, on the other hand, were ecstatic. You’d think they would have set off fireworks to celebrate. The moment I graduated, they dragged me back home to marry Tag Vance, the heir to the Vance Corporation. I’d never seen the man in my life. All I’d heard were rumors—that he was aloof, ruthless, and cold-hearted. My friends all said he had the face of a saint—refined, elegant, with an almost ascetic appeal that drew people in. But in reality, he was a shark, a tyrant known for his brutal business tactics. They called him the Ice King. As my friends chatted, their tone slowly shifted from gossip to pity for me. “I’m so worried for Anna. How is she going to deal with a man that cold?” “Her life is going to be so hard from now on.” I turned off my phone, my gaze lost in the distance. All I could manage was a pair of bleak, hollow laughs. I closed the chat and logged into my fan platform account, the one with only a handful of followers. With a heavy heart, I posted the farewell message I had been preparing for weeks. 2 I might not have been a fan favorite among the trainees, but I had a few die-hard supporters. The second my farewell post went up, the familiar usernames flooded my DMs. Among the endless stream of messages, one fan stood out: ‘JV’. Throughout my four years as a trainee, he was a constant presence. Any post that mentioned me, he was there, cheering me on. He never missed a single one of my updates. If I attended an event, he would somehow post the most stunning, high-definition photos of me. He poured money and energy into promoting me, organizing fan support, and boosting my online presence. He was the ultimate stan. Other fans even called him our one-man PR team. His entire social media presence was a shrine to my best practice moments, all compiled and pinned to the top of his profile. Whenever I posted a new dance video, he would try to learn the choreography himself. He always hid his face and his movements were clumsy, but his sincerity shone through every awkward step. But it wasn’t just that. What truly made me remember him were his simple, earnest blessings, sent again and again. “Wishing you happiness and success.” No over-the-top praise, no gushing confessions of love. Just those five simple words. But today, he was different. He sent message after message, each one a mini-essay. He described the exact moment he first noticed me at a fan event, how thinking of me got him through his darkest days, how the highlight of his day was seeing a new post from me. His last message felt like the final thread of sanity he was clinging to after an emotional collapse. “I’m sorry. I know this might be overwhelming.” “But I can’t stop myself from telling you. Shani, you were a light that broke through the darkness of my life. The only color in my bleak world.” “For four years, from the moment I first saw you, you filled every day with hope.” “You’ve become an inseparable part of my life.” I read through his walls of text. Some words were misspelled, the sentences jumbled. He must have been so upset, his fingers trembling as he typed, his hands shaking so much he could barely hold his phone. Tears welled in my eyes. After I calmed down, I sent him a genuine reply. “Thank you so much for your love and support over these past four years. Wishing you happiness and success. Perhaps our paths will cross again.” 3 After replying to the last of the messages, I let out a long sigh and closed my eyes, preparing to delete the account for good. Suddenly, a notification exploded onto my screen, a breaking news alert featuring the name of my Ice King fiancé. #TagVanceBreaksDown Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped it, and a video immediately started playing. In the dim light of a car’s interior, Tag Vance’s handsome face was clearly visible. He was leaning back against the headrest, his eyes, streaked with tears, staring blankly at the ceiling. His expression slowly crumpled from sorrow into pure agony until he finally covered his face and sobbed, his whole body radiating a sense of shattered hope. The comment section was on fire. “OMG. The Ice King is crying. Did I miss the memo about the world ending today?” “Did he get possessed or something??” “This is terrifying. Demons, be gone! Leave Mr. Vance’s body at once!” “But for real, what could possibly make the great Tag Vance break down like this?” That question opened the floodgates. Some guessed he’d lost a major deal to a rival. Others speculated he was having a meltdown about being used as a pawn in an arranged marriage. Whatever the reason, I didn’t have the energy to care. I scrolled a few more times and then went to deal with the contract termination from my garbage agency. 4 That night, I collapsed onto my bed, utterly exhausted. Just as I caught my breath, my phone buzzed. It was a friend request. From the broken man in the viral video. The name was simple. “Tag Vance.” I hesitated for a moment, then decided to check his profile. His profile picture and background were solid black. He had no bio, and his username was just a period: ‘.’. He radiated a “stay away, mortals” vibe. I swept my hair from my face and, like a soldier marching to their doom, I tapped ‘accept’. Less than a second later, a voice message appeared. I pressed play, and a chill went down my spine. His tone was cold and impersonal, like he was dealing with an unpleasant task he was forced to complete, his politeness a thin veneer of civility. “Miss Anna Young, my name is Tag Vance. Your fiancé.” I was more of a texter. “Hello,” I typed back. He clearly had no interest in small talk. “Miss Young, I am already in love with someone. She is the only one for me, so I’d advise you not to waste any of your efforts on me.” “This marriage is a business transaction. I have no issue with you pursuing your own happiness; I will not stand in your way. Likewise, you will not interfere with my life.” “Furthermore, your family mentioned you have a crush on someone who’s about to return to the country. I don’t mind if you go to him. I can even provide you with a cover story.” I was so stunned the question slipped out before I could stop it. “Are you offering to help me get with my crush?” “Precisely.” “Frankly, I have no desire for any entanglements with you. The fact that you have someone else in mind is a relief.” … This was so unbelievably bizarre I didn’t know what to say. “Do you have anything else to add?” he asked after a moment of silence. “Our marriage will only last for two years,” he typed. “After two years, we will divorce. You will not try to prevent this. I have no desire for our families to be embarrassed.” “Fine by me,” I replied instantly. He seemed to relax. “In that case, there’s no need for a wedding ceremony. And we will not be expected to fulfill… marital duties.” “We also don’t need to announce our marriage publicly. I don’t want this getting out. It will be better for both of us in the long run.” I had zero objections. I agreed immediately. After laying down all his rules, Tag went silent for a long time, as if making sure he hadn’t missed anything. Twenty minutes later, a final message came through. “That should be everything for now.” “My apologies, Miss Young, but in a transaction of this nature, tangible agreements are paramount.” “To prevent any future misunderstandings, I would like to draw up a written contract for us both to sign.” “The agreement will detail everything we’ve just discussed, in addition to the division of assets post-divorce.” “How does that sound to you, Miss Young?” It sounded absolutely perfect. “Of course, Mr. Vance. Send it over when it’s ready.” “I can have it for you by tomorrow,” he replied, his tone audibly brighter. A thought occurred to me. “By the way, Mr. Vance, should we meet before we register the marriage?” His response was swift and decisive. “There’s no need to waste time. There’s nothing to see. We’ll just go directly to City Hall the day after tomorrow and sign the papers.” This was better than I could have imagined. “Perfect. No problem.” 5 At three in the morning, while I was dead asleep, Tag finalized the contract and sent it to me in three different file formats, as if he was terrified I’d back out. Even more ridiculously, at six a.m. sharp, he showed up at my door with the printed copies. My mom practically dragged me out of bed before my eyes were even open and shoved me into the bathroom. “Hurry up! Your father is downstairs trying to buy you some time!” Once she left, I crept to the top of the stairs and peeked down. Tag Vance was exactly as my friends had described. He was seated on the main sofa, his posture as perfect as a sculpture. The severe black suit was a stunning contrast to his refined, handsome face. It was a look that made you want to sin. Even sitting perfectly still, he radiated an aura of celibate allure. No wonder my dad was so proud of this match, insisting that Tag was the perfect man for me. Then, a flash of fluorescent blue caught my eye. It was the exact shade I had chosen with my fans as my official support color if I debuted. Who knew that behind that powerful, intimidating facade, Tag Vance had such a cute side, wearing a brightly colored little leather wristband. Interesting. 6 As my dad chatted with him in the living room, he kept shooting glances up the stairs, trying to signal me. Tag, however, sat like a Zen master, not even twitching an eyebrow, completely ignoring my father’s unsubtle hints. He was making it crystal clear: he had absolutely zero interest in his bride-to-be. My dad finally gave up on subtlety. “Tag, my boy, why don’t you stay for breakfast? Anna’s home, you two could finally meet.” “No, thank you.” Tag’s voice was low and final, leaving no room for argument. “We’ll have plenty of time to be tied together in the future. Missing one meeting now hardly matters. Don’t you agree, Mr. Young?” My dad opened his mouth to protest, but Tag cut him off coldly. “Well, that’s settled then. Goodbye, sir.” Before the words had even fully left his mouth, he was already striding towards the door. I happened to reach the living room just as he was leaving. He was close enough to hold the door, but he didn’t even bother to glance back. He might as well have had “NOT INTERESTED” tattooed on his back. 7 The moment he was out the door, a message popped up on my phone. “Miss Young, I’ve given the contract to your father. You can sign it after you’ve reviewed it. I’ll have my assistant pick it up.” I read the agreement from top to bottom. In addition to everything we’d discussed last night, there was a new clause at the end—any profits generated from our two-year marital alliance would be split between us. Seventy percent for me, thirty for him. This wasn’t just a number; it was set-for-life money. I read the entire contract again, counting the zeroes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. My initial reluctance was rapidly being replaced by a giddy anxiety over this unexpected windfall. I typed back cautiously, “Mr. Vance, I noticed there aren’t any clauses in the contract regarding you and the person you’re in love with. Was that an oversight?” I had to ask. This was a lot of money. My question seemed to annoy him. “Miss Young, there’s no need to beat around the bush.” “In our society, women are often at a disadvantage in a marriage. I assure you, during our time together, you will not be made a laughingstock.” I was speechless. Even through the phone, I could picture his face—eyebrows furrowed in irritation, probably muttering under his breath, “Who does this woman think she is, meddling in my affairs?” But his typed response was carefully controlled. “I refuse to let her be seen as the other woman. Not in any capacity.” He paused. When he continued, his cold tone had softened, warmed by the thought of his beloved. “I will wait until my marriage to you is completely and cleanly dissolved. Only then will I pursue her with my whole heart, confess my feelings, and ask her to marry me.” “Of course, that’s all contingent on her not being in love with someone else, and on her consent.” Well, well. The Ice King was quite the romantic. After his sentimental outburst, he went quiet again, as if savoring the thought. Then, suddenly: “Also, send me your passport number.” “What for?” I asked, immediately on guard. “I have a business trip the day we register the marriage. I’ll be flying to the country where your crush lives.” “I might as well book you a ticket. We can say it’s our honeymoon. It fulfills my promise to provide you with a cover story and help you pursue your love. Or are you not interested?” Tag explained. I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. He waited, and when I didn’t reply, he began to patiently persuade me. “This is a golden opportunity, Miss Young.” “A coincidence like this might not happen again.” “You should think it over carefully. An opportunity like this won’t knock twice.” I still didn’t answer. After that childhood crush ended in disaster, I had cut off all contact with that jerk. Tag persisted. “I heard from your father that you were heartbroken when he left the country.” “I have a friend who’s a relationship counselor, an expert in these sorts of situations.” “I could bring him along. Who knows, maybe you two will finally break the ice and your dream will come true.” He was starting to win me over. What the hell. I could treat it as a vacation. I sent him my passport number. “Well, thank you then, Mr. Vance.” “Don’t mention it.” His tone immediately brightened, and his attitude towards me warmed considerably. It was clear he was terrified I would actually become attached to him. 8 With the contract signed, I waited for Tag’s assistant to arrive. Just before the scheduled time, he sent me a last-minute message. “Apologies, Miss Young. I’ve been pulled into an emergency meeting, and my assistant is tied up. I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you to bring the contract to my home.” “I’d feel more secure if you delivered it personally. It’s best we finalize this today, so we both have peace of mind.” He had a point. He was afraid I’d go back on my word. And I was afraid he’d find out I’d added a few extra zeroes to my share. I looked outside. The sky was dark, lightning splitting the clouds. A storm was brewing. Screw it. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the contract and headed to Tag’s house. Thankfully, he lived just down the road, less than a five-minute drive. I peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Why did his furniture look so familiar? Where had I seen it before? I entered the code he’d given me. The layout was open and intuitive, and I quickly found his study. But… what was with the fluorescent blue door? I froze. The entire house was a symphony of black, white, and gray—minimalist, precise, and impeccably tasteful. But this one door was a jarring, brilliant slash of fluorescent blue, completely at odds with the cold, sterile aesthetic of the rest of the house. After a moment’s hesitation, I slowly pushed it open. And was immediately stunned into silence by a life-sized cardboard cutout. Good lord. It was me.
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