Ninety-Day Husband

The NDA was forty-three pages. The contract was sixty-one. The man sitting across from my manager's conference table was reading every word.

"Clause 7B," he said. "No overnight guests of the opposite sex for either party. Does that include family?"

My manager, Celeste, waved a hand. "Family's fine. The optics clause is about—"

"I can read. I'm asking about edge cases." He looked up. Blue eyes, laugh lines, a face built for mid-budget rom-coms. Exactly why Celeste had picked him.

My name is Sera Kwon. Two Grammys, one scandal, and a public image in freefall. Ninety days of marriage to a wholesome nobody was supposed to fix everything.

The wholesome nobody was named Daniel Park, and he was already annoying me.

---

We married at a courthouse with two paparazzi Celeste had tipped off. I wore white. Daniel held my hand like it was made of glass.

"Smile," Celeste hissed from behind her phone.

I smiled. Sera Kwon, America's sweetheart. Redemption arc: activated.

Daniel smiled too—but his was real, and that somehow made it worse.

---

The apartment Celeste rented for us was a penthouse in Tribeca. Two bedrooms, but we had to share when the housekeeper came because word travels.

Day three, Daniel made breakfast. Not performatively. He just woke up early and made pancakes because, quote, "I always make pancakes on Wednesdays."

"It's Thursday," I said.

"Time zones," he said, which made no sense. He slid a plate toward me. Blueberry. Still warm.

I ate them standing at the counter, and they were the best pancakes I'd had in years, and I hated that.

---

Week two: a "date night" at a restaurant where we'd be photographed. I wore a red dress. Daniel wore a suit that fit too well for a man supposedly plucked from obscurity.

"You clean up nice," I admitted.

"You sound surprised."

"I'm surprised you own a suit."

"I own three. I was an accountant before this."

"Before this?"

"Before my ninety-day career as your husband." He grinned. "The pay's better. Benefits are weird though."

I laughed—real, loud, startled out of me. Three tables turned. A phone went up. Tomorrow's headline: *Sera Kwon laughing with mystery husband. Sources say she's smitten.*

Good press. That's all it was.

---

Week four. The talk shows started calling. We did one together—a morning slot, soft lighting, scripted questions Celeste had pre-approved.

"What's your favorite thing about married life?" the host asked.

Daniel didn't hesitate. "She sings in the shower. Not performing. Just... singing. It's different. Quieter. I like that version."

I stared at him. That wasn't scripted.

"Daniel," I said after, in the car. "You can't go off-book."

"I didn't. That was true."

"That's the problem."

He looked out the window. "Is it?"

---

Day fifty-something. I stopped counting. We'd fallen into a routine—pancakes, coffee, the crossword he insisted on doing in pen. He was wrong half the time but committed.

One night I came home from the studio at 2 a.m., exhausted, voice raw. Daniel was asleep on the couch with a documentary playing. He'd left the hall light on for me. A glass of water on the counter with a Post-it: *Drink this. You forget.*

I stood in the kitchen holding that Post-it note and felt something crack open in my chest.

This wasn't the contract. The contract didn't say *leave the light on.* The contract didn't say *remember she forgets to hydrate.* The contract said ninety days and a clean exit.

I didn't want a clean exit.

---

Day eighty-eight. Celeste called a meeting.