The black rose sat on Seol's workbench in "The Glass Greenhouse," its waxy, unnatural petals a stark contrast to the delicate, living blooms around it. It was a constant reminder of the bargain she had made. A week had passed since she signed Yoon Siheon's clinical contract, and the weight of it felt like a stone in her pocket.
"It's creepy," Soo-ji declared, poking the rose with a fern frond. "Who gives a black rose as a first gift? It's like he's saying, 'Welcome to our gothic tragedy.'"
"It's not a gift, it's a prop," Seol corrected, her voice tight as she wired a cascade of ivy into a bridal bouquet. "And the tragedy is my bank account if I don't play my part."
Her first "official" outing as Yoon Siheon's girlfriend was tonight. According to the schedule Siheon's assistant had emailed her—because of course it was scheduled—they were attending a gallery opening. A low-key, high-society event where they would be seen, but not interrogated. The perfect soft launch for their fictional romance.
The contract, which she had studied like a sacred text, specified her attire: "Elegant but approachable. A palette of muted tones. Nothing that would distract from the primary narrative." She had chosen a simple sheath dress in pale lavender, the color of wistfulness. It felt like a costume.
A black sedan picked her up precisely on time. Siheon was already inside, illuminated by the soft glow of his tablet. He didn't look up as she slid in.
"Ha Seol-ssi," he acknowledged, his fingers tapping on the screen. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark grey suit, looking every inch the aloof intellectual.
"Yoon Ssiheon-nim," she replied, smoothing her dress.
The silence in the car was thick and heavy. This was part of the experiment, she supposed. The "awkward attraction" phase. She decided to use her skills, to treat him like a difficult client whose emotional needs she had to decipher.
"You're working on your next book?" she asked, aiming for polite interest.
"I am reviewing notes on behavioral cues for public displays of affection in new couples," he said, finally turning the tablet toward her. It displayed a bulleted list: Subtle leaning, brief hand-to-lower-back contact, prolonged eye contact (3.2 seconds average).
Seol blinked. "You're… researching how to act like you're in a relationship?"
"I am assembling data to construct a believable performance," he clarified, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Emotion is a chaotic variable. I prefer structure."
"But the most believable performances come from genuine feeling," she countered, falling back on her florist's wisdom. "When I make a bouquet for a grieving widow, I don't just throw together white flowers. I listen to her stories about her husband. I learn he loved gardening, so I add a sprig of rosemary for remembrance. The feeling is in the specific details, not the general rules."
Siheon studied her, his dark eyes unreadable. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something—interest, not in her as a person, but as a peculiar specimen. "An interesting hypothesis," he conceded. "But feelings are unreliable. A contract is not."
He turned his gaze back to his tablet, effectively ending the conversation.
At the gallery, the performance began. The moment they stepped out of the car, his entire demeanor shifted. The cold, analytical writer was gone, replaced by a man who was reserved, yes, but whose eyes softened when they looked at her. His hand found the small of her back, his touch light but possessive, exactly as his data had prescribed.
It was unnerving. He was a flawless actor.
"Yoon Siheon-ssi! What a surprise!" a portly man exclaimed, rushing over. Seol recognized him as a famous film director.
"Park Director," Siheon said with a polite nod. His arm subtly tightened around Seol, pulling her forward into the spotlight. "This is Ha Seol."
"A pleasure," Seol said, offering her most charming, slightly shy smile. She felt Siheon's gaze on her, observing, cataloging.
"The mysterious muse," the director boomed, looking her up and down. "You've been hiding her, Siheon-ssi! No wonder the inspiration is flowing again."
"Some things are too precious to share lightly," Siheon replied, his voice a low, intimate murmur that was meant for her, but pitched perfectly to be overheard. He looked down at her, and for a terrifying second, even she was fooled by the warmth in his eyes. It was a masterpiece of manipulation.
As they moved through the crowd, he played his part impeccably. He would lean in to whisper a comment about a painting, his breath ghosting her ear. He would gently steer her through the throng, his hand a constant, guiding presence. He was writing their romance in real-time, and she was his living, breathing protagonist.
During a quiet moment near a dramatic sculpture, he handed her a flute of champagne. "You're performing adequately," he stated, the warmth vanishing from his tone the second they were isolated.
"Adequate?" she whispered back, a spark of irritation cutting through her nerves. "I'm giving you an award-winning performance."
"Your micro-expressions are correct. The dilation of your pupils when I touch you, the slight flush on your neck—it's convincing." He took a sip of his water. "But it's a performance. I can see you calculating. A real feeling has a certain… chaos to it. A lack of control."
"You want chaos?" she asked, her voice tight. "You're paying me to be controlled. You can't have it both ways."
He considered this, his head tilted. "A paradox. Perhaps that is the core of the narrative conflict."
The evening ended as it began, in the silent cocoon of the sedan. The moment the car door closed, the charming boyfriend persona evaporated, leaving the cold novelist in its place. He pulled out his tablet again.
"The first public test was successful," he noted, typing. "Minimal errors. The subject's adaptability is high."
Seol stared out the window at the passing lights, feeling used and hollow. She had been a collection of data points, a puppet on a string of his own design.
He dropped her off at her shop without another word. As the car pulled away, she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion.
Inside, the familiar scent of earth and flowers was a comfort. She went to her workbench, needing to touch something real, something alive. And then she froze.
The black rose was gone.
In its place was a single, pristine white gardenia, floating in a shallow bowl of water. Its sweet, heavy fragrance filled the air. A note was tucked beside it, written in a sharp, precise hand she was coming to dread.
'Gardenia jasminoides. A symbol of secret love, purity, and joy. It was also the favorite flower of the victim in my second novel, 'The Silent Garden.' She kept a vase of them on her windowsill, never knowing her admirer was watching from the bushes outside. Your performance tonight was… inspiring. Let's see how the character develops.'
Seol's blood ran cold. She snatched her hand back from the flower as if it had burned her.
Was this part of the game? A twisted writer's joke to keep her on edge? Or was it a warning?
She looked from the innocent, fragrant gardenia to the contract on her counter. He wasn't just observing their romance. He was scripting it. And for the first time, the terrifying thought crystallized in her mind:
What if, in the final draft of their story, her character's arc ended with a knife and a beautifully arranged bouquet on a grave?