A Contract Written in Tears

Lee Meong stepped into the house after a long day at university. As he closed the door behind him, he could hear hushed voices coming from the living room. His parents were sitting close together on the sofa, a document held between them, their expressions serious.

He quietly slipped off his shoes and walked toward them. Putting on a gentle smile, he leaned slightly toward his mom and dad.

“Mom, Dad… what’s that? What are you two talking about?” he asked, his tone light but curious.

His father suddenly stood up, the air around him turning tense. The shift in his expression made Lee Meong’s smile slowly fade.

With a hard voice, his father said,

“This is about your wedding. No—your wedding document. You’re not our responsibility anymore. We took money from them. Now sign it. No arguments. Period.”

He slammed the papers onto the table, the sound echoing through the room like a slap.

Lee Meong froze, staring at the document, his heart dropping.

Meong’s vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. His backpack slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.

A storm of emotions churned inside him—anger, sadness, hopelessness, regret—all mixing until he could barely breathe.

His voice cracked as he whispered,

“I… I can’t get into this marriage, Dad. And I’m not signing this.”

In an instant, his father’s rage exploded.

He stepped right in front of Meong and struck him across the cheek, the sharp sound slicing through the room.

“I said no argument.”

The sting burned, not just on his skin but deep inside his chest. His mother looked away, her hands trembling, unable to help.

Defeated, shaking, Meong picked up the pen with numb fingers.

And with tears falling onto the page, he signed the document.

His father cleared his throat and spoke again, voice cold and emotionless.

“In two days, you’re going to Min Yeonwo’s house.”

The name hit Meong like ice water.

Min Yeonwo.

A mafia heir. A man known for power, cruelty… and never letting go of what he owned.

The thought of living in his house—as his wife—made Meong’s knees weaken.

He already felt dead inside.

With a trembling voice, he whispered,

“You… you sold me, Dad?”

For the first time, his father flinched at the word. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, uncomfortable—caught.

Then, with a harsh, defensive tone, he snapped,

“Y-yes. So what? We needed money, and we sold you.”

The words cut deeper than the slap.

Deeper than the contract.

Deeper than anything else ever had.

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