Chapter Text
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind him, but Kim Taehyung strolled into the pristine glass-walled office like he owned the building — like his name hadn’t just trended on social media for the wrong reason, for the third time this month.
Lounging in his oversized charcoal hoodie, sunglasses perched in his honey-brown curls, he looked less like Korea’s most famous actor and more like a rockstar recovering from a hangover. He slumped onto the plush velvet couch without invitation, legs spread, arms over the backrest like he was posing for a photoshoot.
“What did I say about punching influencers, Taehyung.”
Park Jimin’s voice cut through the silence like a knife — sharp, exhausted, and laced with ice.
Taehyung yawned dramatically. “That I should stop aiming for the face because it leaves evidence?”
Jimin’s nostrils flared. He stood behind his glass desk, arms folded, lips pressed into a line so tight it could snap. Outside, the skyline of Gangnam shimmered behind him, but his attention was fixed solely on the disaster lounging before him.
“You threw a drink on someone, Tae. At a private club. In front of twenty other people. Who all had phones.”
“I didn’t throw it on him. I just… missed his drink and it accidentally landed on his ugly ass shirt.” Taehyung twirled one of his rings lazily. “Besides, I’m the victim here. He called me a ‘media-made actor.’ I’m method, Jimin. Method actors are passionate.”
“Passionate?” Jimin barked a humorless laugh and slammed his hand on the desk. “You’re a goddamn walking hazard, that’s what you are!”
Taehyung just shrugged.
The room was expensive — minimalist, high-end furniture, soft lighting, and the scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air. But it suddenly felt suffocating. Jimin’s jaw ticked as he began pacing the floor, Prada shoes clicking against the marble tiles.
“This is the third fucking time in two weeks. Two weeks!” He held up three fingers. “First, you yell at a director. Then, you get into a screaming match with that rookie actor during a CF shoot—”
“He tried to give me acting tips, Jimin. Tips. He’s been in the industry for five minutes.”
“And now this?” Jimin snapped, whirling to face him. “I covered for you the first two. I paid people off. Buried the footage. Twisted the story to make you look like the misunderstood artist. But this one? This club incident? I can’t make this one disappear overnight!”
Taehyung clicked his tongue. “Why not? You're Park Jimin, the PR genius. Can’t you just... I don't know, call it a performance art piece?”
Jimin stared at him. Blinked once. Twice.
Then he walked over, leaned down, and slapped a copy of today’s Dispatch front page on the coffee table.
TAEHYUNG STRIKES AGAIN: ACTOR CAUSES A SCENE IN SEOUL'S EXCLUSIVE NIGHTCLUB
Under it was a blurry but unmistakable photo of Taehyung mid-throw, mouth open in a furious yell, while a glass of whiskey flew through the air.
Taehyung grimaced. “Okay… yeah, that’s not a flattering angle.”
“You’re a public figure, Taehyung. People adore you, yes, but they’re starting to question if you're worth the drama. Production houses are getting nervous. Brands are hesitant. If this keeps up, you'll be labeled 'unprofessional' — you’ll become a liability.” Jimin ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, ruffling it. “Do you want to tank your career by thirty?”
“Better than dying fake,” Taehyung muttered.
Jimin froze.
“What?” he asked, voice low.
“I said—at least I’m not like him.” Taehyung pulled off his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes. “Kim Seokjin. Mr. Golden Boy. Doesn’t fart without his PR team's permission. Perfect, polished, pristine. A fucking wax statue in a Gucci suit.”
“You're comparing yourself to Seokjin now?” Jimin asked, laughing bitterly. “You two are nothing alike.”
“Exactly,” Taehyung said with a smirk. “He’s boring.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet, here we are.” He stood, cracking his neck, moving toward the door. “Let me know when the world’s ready for the real me. Until then, I’ll be at home — not apologizing.”
And with that, he opened the glass door, winked at Jimin’s assistant, and disappeared down the hallway like the storm he always was.
The room was silent again.
Jimin stood frozen in place for a full ten seconds, blinking at the now-empty couch.
Then he groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. And collapsed into his chair like his soul just left his body.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging slow circles into his pounding temples.
“This boy will be the end of me.”
He stared at the ceiling. The headlines. The ruined deals.
Taehyung was a mess.
But Taehyung was his mess. His friend. His family.
He couldn’t let him fall.
And then — just as he was on the verge of spiraling — an idea slipped into his mind. A flash of genius. Wild. Unhinged. But potentially golden.
His eyes widened.
"...Wait."
He stood abruptly, chair skidding back with a screech. He marched to the door and poked his head out.
“Minji,” he called to his assistant. “Get me a meeting. Top priority.”
“With who, sir?”
Jimin’s lips curled upward slowly, devilishly.
“Jeon Jungkook. CEO of Jeon Productions. Tell him Park Entertainment is offering a very lucrative collaboration.”
-
The private dining room of Sangdo was a work of art.
Soft gold lighting bathed the minimalist interior, the walls tastefully adorned with abstract pieces by renowned local artists. The low hum of jazz floated in from the restaurant’s main hall, muffled behind soundproof sliding doors. A single round table sat in the center of the room, set meticulously for two, with wine already poured, untouched.
Park Jimin sat alone.
Leg crossed over the other, dressed in a fitted black turtleneck and cream blazer, fingers idly drumming the table as he stared at the closed door.
He checked the time again. 7:59 p.m.
Always punctual. Of course he was.
Right on cue, the door slid open with a soft swish.
And in walked Jeon Jungkook.
Black suit, black shirt, no tie. Understated, clean, and powerful. The kind of aura that didn’t need loud clothes or heavy accessories to command attention. His hair was slicked back, sharp jawline on full display, and his dark gaze flickered once around the room before landing on Jimin.
“You’re early,” he said, lips tilting into a smirk as he approached.
“I don’t like wasting time,” Jimin replied, rising with a smile and offering his hand. “Especially not yours.”
Jungkook took it, firm handshake. “I like that.”
They sat. Waiters appeared silently, filling water glasses and presenting a curated selection of appetizers. Neither touched the food.
“So,” Jungkook said, folding his hands neatly on the table. “You said this was urgent.”
Jimin leaned forward slightly, the air between them taut with the weight of unspoken strategy.
“Taehyung,” he said simply.
A beat. Jungkook raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Only lifted his glass of wine and took a sip.
Jimin continued. “You’ve seen the headlines. You’ve probably read all three articles, scrolled through the videos, the hashtags, the memes.”
“I don’t read tabloids,” Jungkook said smoothly. “But my team sends me summaries. I’m aware.”
Jimin smirked. “Then you know he’s in trouble.”
“He’s always in trouble.”
“True.” Jimin nodded. “But this time… he’s neck-deep. And sinking fast.”
Jungkook tilted his head, expression unreadable. “And you called me here to… what? Lecture me about your boy's recklessness?”
“No.” Jimin reached into his jacket, pulled out a crisp black folder, and slid it across the table. “I called you because I have a proposal.”
Jungkook didn’t touch it. “A PR stunt.”
Jimin’s smile widened. “You’re quick.”
“I didn’t become CEO of Jeon Productions by being slow.”
“Then you’ll want to hear this.”
He gestured at the folder. Jungkook finally opened it. Inside was a full-blown plan — projected media cycles, mock interviews, appearance schedules, metrics on audience sentiment, brand impact forecasts. All perfectly structured. Polished. Ruthless.
At the center of it all were two names:
Kim Taehyung × Kim Seokjin.
“Reel Rivals, Real Friends” — the headline read.
Jungkook’s lips quirked. “You want Jin… to fake a friendship… with Taehyung?”
“I want the world to believe they’ve buried the hatchet,” Jimin said calmly. “I want them seen at events, interviews, behind-the-scenes clips — candid smiles, inside jokes, shared banter. I want the fans eating out of our hands. Again.”
“You mean your fans,” Jungkook corrected.
“I mean everyone’s fans,” Jimin replied. “The internet loves enemies turned friends. Give them a narrative they can romanticize — the redemption arc, the mutual respect, the 'maybe-they’ve-always-cared' drama. We make them trend again — not for scandals, but for charisma.”
Jungkook shut the folder. Looked up at him with dark eyes that sparkled with calculation. “And what do I get?”
Jimin didn’t flinch. “Money. Influence. And brands lined up at your door begging for the new ‘dream duo.’ I know you’ve been pushing for a luxury fragrance line. You get Jin and Taehyung on one campaign together, and you won’t even have to pitch. They’ll be throwing bags at you.”
Jungkook hummed. “You’re not wrong.”
“I never am.”
“And what does Jin think about this?”
Jimin’s smirk softened, almost devilishly. “He’ll hate it.”
“Perfect,” Jungkook said instantly, eyes gleaming. “I’m in.”
That caught Jimin off guard.
“You’re not even going to fight me on it?”
“Why would I?” Jungkook shrugged. “Business is business. This is gonna be fun.”
They both laughed — the kind of soft, classy laughter that happened only when two devils in disguise recognized each other across enemy lines.
“But there’s a condition,” Jungkook said, swirling his wine lazily. “You want my golden boy’s face next to your wildfire actor, I want creative control. Over everything. Interviews, visuals, branding, location schedules. I get final say.”
“Done.”
“And a cut of whatever brand deals come from this duo collab.”
“Done.”
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man who’d just made a deal with the devil — or perhaps became the devil himself.
“I’ll have my legal team reach out,” he said casually. “Give me two days.”
“You’ll have the signed contract tomorrow,” Jimin replied.
Their eyes locked.
A slow, knowing smile curled on both of their faces.
One thing was certain — the storm was coming.
And both devils were ready to set fire to the world if it meant a bigger profit.
-
The air in Jeon Productions’ top floor office was always cool. Crisp. Intimidatingly clean — as if not even dust had the audacity to settle here.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls surrounded the space, revealing a glittering view of the Seoul skyline. At the center of the room sat Jeon Jungkook, CEO, leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed, sipping an espresso like he had all the time in the world.
But the man pacing in front of his desk?
He was anything but relaxed.
Kim Seokjin, Korea’s most sought-after actor — sharp-jawed, colder-eyed, and dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that screamed quiet power — didn’t pace often. He didn’t need to. But right now, he was stalking across the room like a panther forced into a cage.
“You want me to what?” Jin’s voice sliced through the silence like a scalpel.
Jungkook didn’t even blink. “Pretend to be friends with Kim Taehyung. In public. For a few weeks.”
“Are you on drugs?” Jin snapped, whirling around. “Do you know what you’re asking me?”
“I do,” Jungkook said calmly, placing his espresso down on the desk. “And I also know Park Jimin is offering a seven-figure deal for this PR stunt.”
Jin froze mid-step.
Jungkook smiled, slow and dangerous. “Now I have your attention.”
“Seven figures,” Jin repeated, tone unreadable.
“Three brand deals already confirmed. One global. Luxury. High exposure. They want you both. Together. On billboards in Tokyo, Paris, Seoul. Everywhere.”
Jin exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He turned his back to the desk, facing the window, hands clenched into fists in his pockets.
“Why him?”
“Because you two are the industry's most watched duo — for all the wrong reasons,” Jungkook said. “The public sees you as rivals. Enemies. The chemistry is already there. We don’t have to fabricate anything except the reconciliation.”
“You want me to smile beside him?” Jin asked coldly. “Pretend I don’t want to bash his skull in with a mic stand?”
“Basically, yes.”
“No.” Jin turned around, eyes burning. “Absolutely not. That man is an insufferable, reckless, overgrown child with zero impulse control. He picks fights like it’s his hobby and breathes controversy for breakfast. And now I’m supposed to babysit him for the media?”
Jungkook raised a brow. “You’d be babysitting a million-dollar opportunity, Jin. Think of it as… performance art.”
Jin scoffed. “I’m not a fool, Jungkook.”
“No,” Jungkook said quietly, standing now. “You’re smart. And you don’t turn down a deal that gets your face plastered across every luxury campaign in Asia. You don’t turn down something that benefits you.”
There it was.
The magic phrase.
Jin didn’t do charity. He didn’t do favors. He didn’t do emotion.
He did results. Outcomes. Returns.
Silence settled between them as Jungkook walked slowly to the minibar, poured a glass of bourbon, and set it in front of Jin. No words — just a silent invitation to sit and listen.
After a moment, Jin sighed heavily. He sat.
Jungkook leaned against the edge of his desk.
“I know you hate him,” Jungkook said plainly. “But people love the fantasy that enemies can become friends. Or more. The industry loves buzz. Speculation. Your name tied with Taehyung’s for something positive? It’s the ultimate clickbait.”
“I don’t need buzz. I have respect.”
“You’ll have both. And control. We’ll be setting the narrative. Not Dispatch. Not Twitter. Us.”
Jin swirled the bourbon, his expression unreadable.
“He’s going to make this difficult.”
“I expect nothing less.”
“He’ll push. Provoke. Say shit to get under my skin.”
“And you’ll do what you do best — act like you’re above it all. Because you are.” Jungkook smirked. “The composed, unshakable, morally gray prince.”
Jin’s lips twitched, but didn’t quite smile.
“He doesn’t deserve this opportunity,” he said at last.
“No,” Jungkook said. “But you do. And this is how you get it.”
The silence that followed was different. Heavy. Still.
Jin leaned back in the chair, looking at the glass in his hand, then at Jungkook.
“And when this blows up?”
“Then we’ll light the fuse ourselves. And make money from the explosion.”
A long pause.
Then Jin drained the bourbon in one clean gulp and set the glass down with a definitive clink.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not shaking his hand unless it’s scripted.”
Jungkook grinned.
“Welcome to hell, hyung. Hope you packed your patience.”
“I packed enough knives.”
-
The sun was just beginning to set, casting golden streaks across the sprawling skyline as Kim Taehyung lounged on the floor of his apartment, half-splayed on a vintage Persian rug, lazily flipping through an art book he’d already skimmed a dozen times.
A record played softly in the background — some obscure French jazz number — the needle crackling under the worn vinyl.
He was barefoot, wearing nothing but black sweats and a loose white shirt that hung off one shoulder, hair still damp from a long, indulgent shower.
It should’ve been a peaceful evening.
Should have.
But peace never lasted long in Taehyung’s world — especially not when Park Jimin came stomping through his door like the harbinger of chaos he so often was.
The door burst open. No knock. No warning. Just Park Jimin, looking like a man who was either about to commit a felony or beg for forgiveness.
“Tae,” Jimin said, short and clipped.
Taehyung didn’t even look up. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to knock?”
Jimin walked straight to the middle of the room and planted himself in front of the lounging actor like an immovable storm cloud. “Cut the crap and listen, We’re gonna talk about your image now.”
Taehyung shut the book. Sat up slowly. Blinked.
“Oh no,” he drawled. “It’s that voice. The PR voice. The ‘I’ve sold your soul to the devil’ voice. What did you do?”
Jimin took a deep breath. “I fixed it.”
“You fixed what?”
“Your career.”
“Didn’t know it was broken.”
“Oh, it’s cracking like cheap foundation,” Jimin snapped, pulling out his phone and scrolling to something. “Three scandals in two weeks. Headlines calling you unhinged. Sponsors pulling out of deals. Tae, you’re a walking lawsuit at this point.”
“So you came to give me another lecture?” Taehyung stood now, arms folded. “I told you I don’t care what those bastards write about me. They don’t know me.”
“I do know you!” Jimin nearly shouted. “Which is why I know you're gonna blow everything up unless I put a leash on you!”
“Try that and I’ll bite.”
“Noted,” Jimin muttered. “Which is why I’m giving you a co-star.”
There was a beat of silence. Stillness. Only the crackle of jazz in the background.
Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “Co-star for what?”
“Your life.”
“…Huh?”
“PR stunt,” Jimin said flatly. “Fake friendship. Public bonding. Brand rescue. It’s all scheduled.”
Taehyung stared at him. “No.”
“You haven’t even heard the name—”
“No.”
“You’re contractually obligated—”
“I’ll burn the contract.”
Jimin rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tae—”
“Who is it?” he snapped, stepping closer. “Who the hell did you sell me out to?”
Jimin hesitated.
And that was all Taehyung needed to know.
He blinked once. Then whispered:
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Jimin—no.”
“Yes, Taehyung. It’s him.”
Kim Taehyung spun on his heel, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Out of everyone in the entire fucking country, you chose him? What, was the Grim Reaper not available?”
“Jin’s the safest bet,” Jimin said, trying to keep his voice even. “He’s scandal-free. Loved by the public. The ideal contrast to your disaster energy.”
“Disaster energy?!” Taehyung growled.
Jimin raised a brow. “Did or did you not launch a whiskey glass at someone less than 48 hours ago?”
“That’s not— okay, fine, but that doesn’t mean I have to parade around with him.”
Jimin crossed his arms. “This isn’t a request.”
“Oh, so you’re just going to force me to pretend to like Kim Seokjin? The most arrogant, smug, uptight, I-smell-like-wealth-and-judgment bastard in the industry?”
“He’s not that uptight—”
“He once called me ‘an uncultured peasant’ because I used the wrong fork at a press dinner.”
“Okay, he is that uptight.”
Taehyung groaned dramatically and collapsed back onto the rug. “I would rather let Dispatch release my club footage than hold that man’s hand in public.”
“You’re not holding hands, you’re posing for photos.”
“Same thing!”
“Look,” Jimin crouched beside him, voice softer now. “This is temporary. A few months. Some brand deals, joint interviews, press conferences. Maybe an Insta live or two—”
“Insta live?” Taehyung sat bolt upright. “Oh my God, you want me to go live with Kim Seokjin?”
“Yes, and you’ll both pretend you like each other, smile a lot, maybe toss in a fake inside joke or two. The internet eats that shit up.”
Taehyung stared at him like he’d been asked to walk barefoot through broken glass. “I hope you know he’ll ruin this.”
“He already agreed.”
“…What?”
“Seokjin said yes. Jungkook convinced him.”
“He agreed?” Taehyung’s voice dropped, as if betrayed.
“Yep. Came with conditions, of course.”
“Of course,” Tae hissed. “Because he’s a self-serving, emotionally unavailable—”
“Hot bastard.”
“Don’t.” Taehyung pointed at him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare call him hot in my apartment.”
Jimin grinned, standing again. “Come on. You two are perfect opposites. Fire and ice. Hate each other’s guts. It’s basically fanfiction waiting to happen.”
“I swear to God, Jimin…”
“Look,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “You show up to the meeting tomorrow. Fake smile. Say yes. And in six months, you’ll be back on magazine covers with adoring fans and six more brand deals under your belt.”
Taehyung dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this is my life.”
“I can. You’re a drama magnet with a face that needs saving.”
“Remind me why I still talk to you?”
“Because no one else would dare deal with you.”
He left with a wink, leaving Taehyung sitting in the center of his too-expensive, too-quiet apartment, surrounded by fading music and the crushing weight of the worst idea in the history of PR.
Kim Seokjin.
He was going to have to work with Kim Seokjin.
God help him.
-
The conference room in Jeon Productions was as cold and intimidating as its reputation — all sleek glass walls, matte black panels, and a massive obsidian table stretching across the length of the room. The kind of space designed to make even A-list celebrities sweat.
At the head of the table sat Jeon Jungkook, sharp in a navy pinstripe suit, sipping from a double espresso with the calm elegance of a man born into power. On his left was Kim Seokjin, dressed immaculately in slate grey, sitting with one ankle over his knee, perfectly composed. On his right was Park Jimin, CEO of Park Entertainment, thumbing through notes, the gold rings on his fingers catching the light every time he turned a page.
The room was packed — PR heads, brand reps, two lawyers, two assistants, and a few senior strategists from both companies.
But the chair across from Seokjin remained empty.
Jimin checked the time on his Rolex and muttered under his breath, “If that idiot says it was traffic one more time—”
And as if summoned by the devil himself, the door burst open.
“Sorry, sorry, the traffic was murder,” Kim Taehyung announced breathlessly, stepping into the room like he hadn’t just woken up twenty minutes ago. He wore a black turtleneck tucked into tan slacks, a long brown coat slung over his arm, and dark glasses he didn’t bother taking off.
Several heads turned. A few whispers. But most people just nodded politely.
Except for one.
Seokjin didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just slowly — deliberately — turned his head toward Taehyung.
And glared.
Taehyung’s eyes, hidden behind the lenses, found Seokjin’s instantly.
The air crackled.
If looks could kill, there would’ve been a murder right there, in front of twenty witnesses and two lawyers. They locked eyes for a second too long, and everyone in the room felt it — the tension, sharp as glass.
Jimin sighed.
“Great,” he muttered. “We’ve reached stage one: mutual loathing.”
Taehyung took his seat directly across from Jin, dramatically removing his sunglasses and setting them on the table with a flair that screamed, I’m here to ruin your day, Kim Seokjin.
“Let’s start,” Jimin said, clapping his hands lightly to regain the room’s attention. “First off, thank you, everyone, for joining on such short notice. As we all know, this is a collaborative PR project between Park Entertainment and Jeon Productions to manage public image and leverage dual branding. And our focus —” he gestured at the two glaring men, “— is on these two.”
Taehyung grinned, resting his chin on his hand. “Lucky us.”
Jin smiled tightly. “Truly, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“And let’s hope it stays that way,” Jimin muttered under his breath before continuing. “Let’s go over the schedule first. You’ll be seen together at the HwaYoung Film Gala next weekend. Walk the red carpet together. Interact publicly. Minimal bickering. Preferably no physical violence.”
Taehyung leaned back in his chair. “Define ‘physical violence.’ Like... throwing hands? Or can I throw shade?”
“Both are discouraged,” Jungkook said without looking up from his tablet. “Unless it trends well.”
There were a few chuckles.
Jin didn’t smile.
“As for brand appearances,” a PR rep continued, “We’ve confirmed a joint photoshoot for VOGUE Korea — first week of next month. After that, the HanSae jewelry campaign — they want a more intimate visual angle. Close contact. Eye contact. Possibly some—”
“I’m not kissing him,” Jin interrupted coolly.
Taehyung scoffed. “Like I’d let you.”
“Let’s not rule anything out,” Jungkook said with a pointed smirk.
“I have conditions,” Jin said, now addressing the room, voice smooth but commanding. “I will not tolerate unapproved unscripted interviews. No last-minute public appearances. No surprise Insta lives. I decide when and where I’m seen.”
Jimin rubbed his temples. “Jesus.”
Taehyung rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. Heaven forbid Kim Seokjin doesn’t control every room he walks into.”
“I prefer order over chaos.”
“Then maybe don’t sign up to work with me.”
“I didn’t sign up. I was dragged in by capitalism and your inability to act like an adult.”
“And you act like a mannequin with a superiority complex—”
“Okay!” Jimin clapped loudly. “Back to the agenda!”
A long silence followed. A few awkward coughs.
Eventually, Taehyung sat back, jaw tight.
Jin remained still, unbothered.
“Both parties will be given personal PR managers,” Jimin continued. “You’ll have scriptwriters for your interviews and a social media strategy team. We’ll maintain an illusion of camaraderie — shared posts, video snippets, candid interactions. Nothing over the top—”
“What if they go a little over the top?” Jungkook asked casually, sipping his coffee.
Jimin looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”
Jungkook leaned forward, tone playful. “I’m just saying… if they act a little couply — you know, the occasional lingering glance, maybe a whispered joke, accidental touch — it might boost the public response. Give the shippers something to chew on.”
Jin’s head turned so sharply it was a miracle his neck didn’t snap.
He glared at Jungkook like he’d just suggested live execution.
“You want me to act romantic with him?” Jin growled.
Jungkook blinked innocently. “Just enemies-to-lovers energy. Think of the fan edits.”
Taehyung leaned forward, chin resting on his hand again.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll hold his hand if he starts crying.”
Jin shot him a look so lethal it could strip paint. “And I’ll kiss your forehead when you finally behave like a professional.”
Taehyung smiled sweetly. “Aw. Look at us. Already flirting.”
Jimin sighed. Jungkook chuckled.
The contracts were brought in — thick folders with bold legal print. One by one, each party signed at the designated lines. Flashbulbs from an internal photographer went off to document the “deal.”
And when the last page was stamped, Jungkook leaned over to Jimin and whispered, "We're going to hell for this."
Jimin whispered back, "At least we’ll be rich."
Across the table, Taehyung and Seokjin were still staring at each other.
Still glaring.
Still refusing to blink first.
-
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Kim Taehyung stepped into his penthouse like a man returning from war.
He didn’t bother removing his shoes or coat. Didn’t glance at the skyline view, which usually calmed him. His eyes were dark, focused, his jaw tense as he headed straight — beelined — to the corner of the room where his bar cart sat gleaming under the amber lights.
One glass. Whiskey. No ice.
He downed the first sip like it was medicine.
It burned.
Good.
He poured more.
His mind was still trapped in that godforsaken conference room. The memory of Kim Seokjin’s perfectly carved face sitting across from him, cold eyes that never wavered, that maddening calmness — like he owned the whole damn table — was still burning in the back of his eyelids.
Taehyung let out a breath, slow and bitter, resting the edge of the glass against his lips.
Kim fucking Seokjin.
The nation's beloved prince. The man with the face of an angel and the soul of a damn glacier. The one who bowed politely to every fan, smiled like a saint on screen, donated anonymously to charities, and had fanbases writing poetry about his gentle heart.
Gentle heart, his ass.
Taehyung had known him off-screen. Behind the lenses. Behind the award show speeches and the carefully curated Instagram posts.
He remembered it — the very first time they met. Three years ago. A commercial shoot for some skincare line. Taehyung, still fairly new but rising fast. Seokjin, already a household name, already the untouchable top-tier.
He’d walked in, bowed respectfully, offered a handshake.
And Jin had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Try not to fuck up. This brand actually matters.”
No smile. No warmth. Just that infuriating voice — low, clipped, clinical — that made Taehyung feel like a rookie who should’ve stayed in acting school.
Since that day, Jin hadn’t let up. Cold indifference on good days. Passive-aggressive comments on most. Direct insults when they were alone. And always, always, this undercurrent of disdain — like Taehyung’s very presence offended him.
But outside those walls?
To the world?
Jin was perfection.
Taehyung scoffed and took another sip of whiskey, pacing now.
“No one would believe me,” he muttered to the room, running a hand through his hair. “No one would believe a word.”
Because how could they?
How could anyone believe that Kim Seokjin — the man who laughed softly in interviews, who was the heartthrob of the whole industry — was actually an emotionally constipated, judgmental, impossible-to-please bastard?
No one saw the way he narrowed his eyes when Taehyung forgot a line.
No one heard the things he said under his breath.
No one felt the ice in his voice when he said Taehyung’s work was “flashy but forgettable.”
To everyone else, Jin was charisma incarnate.
To Taehyung, he was a perfectly packaged lie.
But God — the lie was beautiful.
His glass paused mid-air.
There it was again. That cursed little voice. That smug, traitorous whisper in the back of his mind.
He’s still the hottest man you’ve ever seen.
Taehyung clenched his jaw. Hard.
He hated how true it was.
No amount of irritation or resentment could change the fact that Seokjin was ridiculously attractive. Unfairly so. Not just the face — though the face deserved its own shrine — but the way he moved. How he carried himself. How his words always landed, deliberate, slow, like a man who never felt rushed because the world bent to his tempo.
He hated that his mind remembered stupid things.
The way Jin adjusted his cufflinks before stepping onto a red carpet.
The way his voice dipped low when he was annoyed.
The way he laughed — that real laugh, deep and rare — which Taehyung had only heard once. And he’d spent a week trying not to think about it after.
It infuriated him.
Because if anyone else treated him like Jin did, Taehyung would’ve burned them out of his life with one match and a middle finger. But with Seokjin, it was different. The hate was... charged. Dense. Like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap or spark — and Taehyung still hadn’t decided which would come first.
He downed the rest of the glass and leaned both palms against the counter, head bowed.
This is going to be hell.
Pretending to like that man. Smiling at events. Acting like they shared inside jokes instead of a mutual desire to strangle each other. Watching Jin play the beloved hero while Taehyung carried the weight of their truth in silence.
And still, Taehyung couldn’t shake the image burned into his brain — Jin sitting across the table earlier that day, jaw set, fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass surface, eyes locked on Taehyung’s like he was reading thoughts he had no right to know.
The whiskey wasn’t helping.
Nothing would help.
Because Taehyung knew — this arrangement, this act — it wasn’t going to just test his patience.
It was going to drag every buried feeling he had about Kim Seokjin to the surface.
And that was more terrifying than any headline.