#2 in fanfiction🏅
𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗙𝗜𝗔 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗗 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘
'𝘼𝙨 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙨 𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙎𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣'
Kim Y/n was meant to be a leverage, an arranged bride offered to the Ko...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I wake up to my blanket being ripped off me, followed by the sharp clatter of blinds being yanked open. Sunlight floods my room, merciless and unforgiving.
With a groan, I bury my face into my pillow, clinging to the last remnants of sleep.
It doesn't last.
A firm grip wraps around my ankle, pulling.
"Mom, I'm tired." My voice is muffled as I grumble into the mattress, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
My mother stands over me, unimpressed, arms crossed as she watches my pathetic attempt at resistance.
"You need to be up and ready," she says, her tone clipped. "There's no time for lounging. We have shopping to do, dresses to look at. Your future husband has made many arrangements." My stomach twists.
The reminder of my impending wedding settles like a weight against my ribs.
Reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed, already dreading the day ahead.
But my mother doesn't just expect obedience. She expects perfection.
She lingers, eyes sharp as I get ready, ensuring that every detail of my appearance is flawless. The way my hair falls. The precision of my concealer. The way my posture holds. Her gaze follows me as I reach for a skirt and sweater from my closet.
I don't even get the chance to slip them on before her hand clamps around my wrist, stopping me.
I meet her stare—eyes that mirror mine but colder, harsher, more unyielding.
I expected pushback from my mother.
No matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough for Mrs.Kim. She wants a daughter like her—poised, elegant, dutiful without question or emotion.
To her, I am too much.
Too emotional. Too inquisitive. Too bright.
'Men don't like women with their noses in books.'
One of many mantras from my mother.
And yet, I've never been able to stop myself from reaching for more than what she's willing to give.
My sister, on the other hand, is setting herself up to be unpredictable. My mother will have a much harder time taming her.
I pull my arm away with a sigh.
"You cannot wear that," she spits, disgust dripping from her tone. I lift a brow.
"And what would you have me wear, Mother?"
"Anything but those awful, matronly atrocities you claim to be clothes." She waves a dismissive hand toward my closet.
"You look like a librarian." A flicker of amusement tugs at my lips.
