The cameras flashed like lightning as Jaeon stepped onto the crimson carpet, a calm storm wrapped in tailored black. His sleeveless, double-buckled top and dark slacks turned heads, but his expression remained unreadable—sharp jaw set, eyes half-lidded, indifferent. He posed, adjusted the mic at his jawline, and let the crowd feed on his curated mystery.

Just a few feet down the carpet, she arrived.

Venna.

The crowd's roar doubled instantly. Her short blonde waves bounced as she walked, her black sparkly crop top glittering under the lights, plaid skirt swaying with every step. Her fishnets, platform Converse, and punk-edged accessories made her look like a rebellious angel straight out of a fever dream.

They locked eyes as photographers screamed for a staged face-off. Venna tilted her head with that mocking little smile that had made headlines, and Jaeon raised a single brow, letting his lips curve into a smirk made of cold steel.

“JAEON AND VENNA: FEUD CONTINUES ON RED CARPET,” the headlines would scream. And that was the plan.

But then he stepped in.

A pop idol from another label. Arrogant. Shirt unbuttoned a little too low. Flashing his perfect teeth a little too eagerly as he leaned in close to Venna, whispering something into her ear that made her laugh—laugh.

Jaeon’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists behind his back, hidden by his blazer.

He had no right to interfere. Not here. Not in public.

So he turned away, walked up the carpet, and posed like nothing burned in his chest. But it did. Every second of it. Watching some smug bastard talk to her like he could touch her—like she was available. Like she didn’t already belong to someone. To him.

The rest of the event blurred by in a haze of interviews, applause, fake smiles, and stares. Jaeon’s eyes never stopped searching for her. And then—finally—he saw her slipping away, alone, toward the hallway behind the stage. Toward the restrooms.

He didn’t hesitate.

Checking once to make sure no cameras or managers were looking, Jaeon left his table and followed her down the dim corridor. His footsteps silent against the marble floor. She didn’t see him until he caught up just behind her.

“Venna.”

She turned—and before she could react, he grabbed her wrist gently but firmly and pulled her down a side hall, around a corner, through an unmarked service door. It clicked shut behind them.

They stood in a small storage room—empty, dusty, quiet. A single light buzzed overhead.

Venna blinked at him, stunned for half a second. Then her posture relaxed, just a little.

“Someone could’ve seen you,” she whispered.

“I don’t care,” he snapped. His voice was low, tight, full of tension. “What the hell was that out there?”

Her brows rose. “What?”

“That guy. Talking to you. Touching your arm like he had a chance.”

Venna crossed her arms, her bracelets jingling. “I didn’t exactly invite him. What was I supposed to do? Punch him on the red carpet?”

Jaeon stepped forward, crowding her against the shelves. “You were laughing.”

“I was playing the game, Jaeon,” she hissed. “Same as you were when you smirked at me like you wanted to throw me into traffic.”

“I do want to throw you into traffic,” he muttered, eyes burning into hers. “Right after I kiss you until you can’t walk straight.”

She stared at him. Then she smiled—slow, wicked, knowing. That smile that ruined him every time.

“Well, too bad,” she said. “You’ll have to wait until the end of the night for that.”

He leaned in, one hand braced beside her head, his other still wrapped gently around her wrist. “You keep doing that, and I swear, Venna…”

Her expression softened. “You’re jealous.”

“Of course I’m jealous.” He sounded almost broken now. “I watch you pretend to hate me in front of the whole world, and then I see someone else looking at you like you’re touchable—like they can have you. And I can’t do anything.”

Her hand came up slowly, brushing along his jaw. “You don’t have to do anything. You already have me.”