[Fake playboy × good girl | Marriage alliance | Sweet romance]
On the night of our marriage alliance, my playboy husband tossed his wedding ring into a glass and put an arm around his new flame. “We each do our own thing, got it?”
I dutifully played the contract wife until he caught my male tutor wiping sweat from my face. Eyes red, he pinned me against the wall, his voice hoarse and trembling. “I said you could touch other men?”
I calmly wiped the lipstick mark from the corner of his mouth. “We each do our own thing. Why are you getting so worked up?”
The whole school thought the playboy was just using me. Then I found a faded photograph on his phone: at seventeen, he stood on the basketball court, his name clumsily embroidered on his school uniform.
He cornered me against the wall, eyes bloodshot. “The day you brought me water, were you laughing at how ugly my name looked?”
I enlarged the photo, my fingertip stopping at a small dark spot beside the embroidered letters. “Did you prick your finger while sewing on your name?”
He froze. “How did you know?”
“Because when you lowered your head that day, I was looking at you.”
He played the playboy for seven years. I pretended not to know him for seven years.
From beginning to end, only one person in this marriage didn’t know it was real.
