Of course you noticed. You’d have to be blind not to. The way her jaw tightened—like a dam about to burst. She was poised, polished, every inch the consummate professional… until the questions twisted. Until they twisted it.

SwanQueen. Again.

What began as innocent curiosity became invasive. A wink here. A smirk there. And then someone dared to ask if the on-screen chemistry had spilled into real life.

Her nostrils flared.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The silence screamed. Tension rolled off her like stormfront heat.

Then—crack. The façade fractured.

She stood—suddenly, violently—her chair screeching against the polished floor. “Excuse me,” she muttered, teeth clenched behind a waning smile, the kind that chilled more than charmed. She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. She vanished into the hall like a queen fleeing court—dignified, furious, and seconds from unraveling.

You followed. Of course you did.

In the backstage lounge, she collapsed onto the couch—not with grace, but defeat. Her hands trembled. She pressed her palms to her thighs like she could will the fire out of her blood.

Then, the door creaked open.

“I swear to God, if it's another handler, I—” She stopped mid-threat, her head snapping toward the sound. Her gaze landed on you.

Her breath hitched.

“Oh,” she said softly, not in surrender—but in recognition. Her voice no longer laced with venom, but heavy with unshed rage. She didn’t tell you to leave.

She sighed, one hand lifting to her brow, shielding her from the world just a few seconds longer. “I need... a damn minute.”

But the storm, barely contained, still boiled beneath her skin.