Chapter 2 — How About Marriage?

The call came out of nowhere.

“Ayla Kwon?”

“Who are you?”

The woman on the other end fell silent. Rian Sol leaned back in his chair, spoon paused over a steaming bowl of seolleongtang, and tried to remember if a name like that had ever crossed his path. Thirty-three years, a life hardened by precision and discipline—why would he know a woman like this?

Across the table, Chan-Young Bae was devouring his meal, oblivious to the tension gripping Rian. The silence stretched, testing his patience, until a calm, low voice finally spoke.

> “This is Ayla Kwon. Daughter of Kyung-Jun Gyeong, CEO of Kyleum Law Firm.”

Rian froze. A flash of memory—black mourning clothes, dark hair, eyes deep as a galaxy, pale as porcelain. Those eyes had carried exhaustion, anger, and something infinitely sharper.

Ayla.

That woman.

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Later, in a small, cluttered building across from the Seoul Central District Prosecutors’ Office, the scene felt oddly surreal. Cream and yellow walls, chipped paint, debris on the floor—a stark contrast to the woman standing there.

And then she appeared.

Pink hair.

From crown to tip.

Gone was the black mourning attire. Instead, a dusty denim shirt, stained sneakers, pale skin beneath the unusual hue of her hair. Yet the air around her carried the same commanding presence.

“This is Ayla Kwon,” she said, extending her hand.

“……This is Rian Sol,” he replied.

It wasn’t just his hand that moved. His eyes traced every detail: the chopsticks pinning her hair, the stray strands over her pale brows, the dark, alert eyes, the thin lips—dry, precise, unreadable.

“You can take your time,” she said, tilting her chin toward his hand.

Rian flinched, withdrawing immediately.

“I’m sorry. It’s… unexpected.”

She didn’t clarify, didn’t comment on her pink hair. Instead, she warned quietly, “Please sit. Watch your step,” and disappeared briefly into the back. When she returned, it was with a laptop. She placed it on the table, slid a bottle of water toward him, and resumed working.

The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate.

Finally, unable to hold back, Rian asked,

“What would interest me?”

“Wait a moment,” she said, her frown small but commanding—a quiet order to stay still.

So he waited. Click. Click. Click. Her fingers paused, and she finally raised her head, eyes locking with his, steady and unreadable.

“Are you satisfied with the results of the first Colbein trial?”

Rian’s chest tightened. “Colbein?”

“Yes.” Her voice was calm, unhurried. “Unlike the usual approach of the prosecutor, you concluded swiftly. I understand why—speed was necessary to protect evidence. Now, with Kyleum co-defending, the appeal will be brutal.”

Rian’s gaze sharpened.

“And what exactly are you saying?”

“I want to help you with the appeal,” she said simply.

He blinked.

“……Help me?”

“Yes. The Colbein trial,” Ayla stated, clear and precise.

She leaned back, rubbing her neck, faint exhaustion flickering across her pale face. And for the first time, Rian found himself nearly speechless—unprepared for the quiet authority, intelligence, and confidence she radiated.

He forced himself to gather his thoughts.

“How exactly can you help me?”

Ayla studied him, slow and meticulous, as if calculating every outcome.

Then, in a voice so calm it cut through the tension like a blade, she said:

> “How about marrying me?”

The words hung between them, impossible to ignore, sharp as ice.

Rian’s heart skipped, mind racing, awareness snapping into overdrive. This was no ordinary proposal—it was a challenge, a test, and a lure all at once.

And just like that, the slow-burn between them ignited, tension thick enough to slice through the air.

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