Ryu Minjae sat on the edge of the black leather couch, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers spinning the silver ring on his index finger with practiced boredom. The manager’s office was all glass, steel, and sterile air. A perfectly modern trap. He'd been called in without context, which was never a good sign.
His manager, Mr. Han, stood with his back to him, facing the wide window. His silhouette was sharp, tailored to the hilt in one of those suits that screamed "I own you" in every stitch. The silence stretched long enough to irritate.
“I know that look,” Minjae finally muttered, voice cool and quiet. “You’re about to tell me something I’ll hate.”
Mr. Han turned slowly, the smile on his face too rehearsed to be anything but manipulative.
“We’ve struck a deal,” he said, easing into the chair behind his desk. “With Lyra Entertainment.”
Minjae arched a brow. “Good for them.”
“It involves you.”
That got his attention. Minjae sat up straighter, fingers stilling. “I already told you I’m not doing variety shows. Or fan call events. Especially not overseas.”
“It’s not that,” Han said smoothly. “It’s a publicity contract. A joint image campaign.”
Minjae's eyes narrowed. “Stop dressing it up and tell me what it really is.”
“A fake relationship.”
The words hit like a slap—cold and sharp.
Han didn't even flinch. He reached into a file folder, pulled out a glossy photograph, and slid it across the desk.
Minjae didn’t pick it up right away. His gaze lingered on Han, jaw tight, pulse ticking in his temple.
“She’s currently the biggest rising star in the industry,” Han continued. “Debuted just a year ago, but already sweeping every rookie award. Her name’s Seo Yuna. Stage name: Angelus. And the public adores her.”
Minjae finally looked down.
The girl in the picture looked like she had fallen out of a fairytale. Light blonde hair cascading in soft waves, big expressive eyes framed by long lashes, and a smile that could melt glaciers. She was caught mid-performance in the photo — wearing a flowing lavender gown embroidered with tiny, glimmering flowers. One hand held a microphone, the other lifted gracefully. She looked serene, delicate, like she didn’t belong in the same universe as someone like him.
Minjae pushed the photo back.
“No.”
“It’s not a question,” Han replied flatly.
Minjae let out a humorless breath, running a hand through his platinum hair. “You want me—cold, detached, tabloid poison—to fake-date Korea’s sweetheart? What kind of twisted fantasy are you trying to sell?”
“One the public will eat up,” Han said. “Opposites attract. The ice prince melts. She softens you, makes you relatable. You give her edge. It’s mutually beneficial.”
“You’re using her.”
“She knows what this is.”
That made Minjae pause.
“You already told her?” he asked quietly.
“She agreed. Her team agreed. And she’ll be here today—with her manager. You’ll all sit down, discuss terms, press timelines, curated moments.”
Minjae stood up. “And if I walk out?”
Han didn’t blink. “Then the next time you fuck a stranger and a photo leaks, we don’t clean it up. Your next comeback stalls. Your solo project disappears. And the label drops you within the year.”
Silence again.
Minjae looked out the window. Seoul shimmered in the afternoon sun, shiny and fake like everything else in his life.
“She’s not going to like me,” he said, voice flat.
Han smirked. “She doesn’t have to.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. The assistant peeked in. “They’ve arrived.”
Minjae didn’t move. For a second, his mind drifted—imagining this angelic girl sitting across from him, talking sweetly while knowing this was all lies. How would she look at him? With fear? Pity? Hope?
He hated that he cared.
The door opened, and in walked Seo Yuna and her manager.
She was even more ethereal in person. Same delicate build, same soft glow — like she wasn’t made of flesh and blood. She wore a cream blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, no performance gown this time, but she still moved with that ballerina grace. Her expression was unreadable.