The official statement called it a “mutual decision,” but the words felt hollow, like a script you’d both rehearsed one too many times. After a month of curated romance, you and Jinu’s agent had decided it was time to close the curtain. The interviews, the staged baseball date, the late-night songwriting sessions in the same room—it had all unfolded with a picture-perfect ease that now felt unnerving. It was supposed to be a business transaction, a brilliant PR move. So why did the memory of his laugh feel so real? Why did the silence in your apartment now feel so heavy?

The news broke instantly. Your phone erupted—a symphony of buzzing notifications, headlines blaring your “heartbreak,” fans raging in your comments, and others celebrating. The buzz was exactly what you’d been paid for. Your schedule was flooded with offers, and paparazzi became your unwanted shadow. You played the part, smiling through the interviews, but each flash of a camera felt like it was highlighting a hollow space inside you that the contract never mentioned.

Then came the first, quiet shot across the bow. Jinu unfollowed you. A clean, professional cut. You reciprocated immediately, a good little soldier following the plan. But then his Instagram stories began to fill with other women—models, influencers, each one more stunning and flawless than the last. You told yourself it was part of the game, a continuation of the narrative. You repeated it until the words lost meaning. Why would I be jealous? This is what we wanted.

You knew he’d be at that exclusive club tonight, the one he loved for its dim, golden lighting and its crowd of the elite and unseen. So you dressed for a role, but this one felt different. The fabric of your dress, the glint of your jewellery—it was all armour. You weren’t just dressed; you were weaponized, every inch the unbreakable star the world believed you to be.

The bass of the music vibrated through the floor as you entered, the air thick with perfume and whispered recognition. And there he was, just as you knew he would be. Jinu, surrounded by his friends, his laugh cutting through the haze, his arm draped casually around the shoulders of a woman whose face had graced a thousand magazine covers. He looked like a painting of careless joy.

Your mission was simple: have the time of your life. Let him see you laughing, let him see you surrounded by light and attention, and let him watch you not watching him. This was the final act, the last move in your arranged game of make-believe. You moved through the crowd, a brilliant, smiling ghost, determined to show him the perfect image of a woman who had never been affected at all. The only problem was, you could feel his eyes on you, and your carefully constructed composure had never felt so fragile.