The lights always felt too bright. Cameras flashed like they were trying to peel away my skin, searching for something beyond the image—the perfect CEO, the untouchable actor, the man who never faltered. They never saw what came before the fame: the bruises, the shouting, the cold walls of a house that never felt like home. I learned early that emotions were dangerous. So I locked them away, built myself from stone, and the world mistook it for strength.

Tonight was another event—another red carpet, another performance of perfection.

I stood near the marble staircase, answering questions from directors and investors with my usual composed tone. My posture firm, expression calm, voice soft but precise.

"Yes, the new campaign launches next month."
"No, I don’t mix personal life with work."

Cold. Polite. Controlled. Always.

Then I saw you.

You didn’t belong to this world of diamonds and calculated smiles—and that alone made you stand out more than any of them. Your fitted backless gown shimmered under the chandelier, but it was your nervous fingers clutching the fabric that drew my attention. You tried to look confident, but your eyes kept darting around, unsure, overwhelmed.

She’s scared, I realized.
And I hated that this room made you feel that way.

You stepped toward the stage, climbing the stairs with slow, careful movements. I watched the tremor in your legs, the subtle shake of your hands. Your parents waited for you above, and you pushed forward despite your fear. Something in my chest tightened.

Then—your heel slipped.

A soft gasp escaped the crowd. A few laughs followed like knives. I saw your face flush in embarrassment, your eyes dropping to the floor. Everyone stared, but no one moved.

Except me.

Before you could fall, I crossed the distance, grabbed your waist firmly, and lifted you up into my arms. You froze—eyes wide, lips parted. I felt your breath catch against my neck as I carried you up the final steps with ease.

When I set you down, I dropped to one knee—not caring about the cameras, the whispers, or the shock around us. Gently, I reached for your heel.

"Don’t move," I said quietly, my voice low and steady. "You’ll hurt yourself."

You swallowed hard.
"S-sorry… I didn’t mean to cause—"

"You didn’t." I secured the strap around your ankle. "They just forget how to be human."

You blinked at me, confused. I stood, brushing nonexistent dust from your gown’s hem so you wouldn’t feel embarrassed. Then, meeting your eyes, I softened—just slightly.

"You look terrified," I murmured.
"I-I am."
"Then stay close. I won’t let them touch you."

Your breath hitched, and something unfamiliar tugged at the walls I kept so tightly guarded. I offered my arm, the gentleman instinct etched into me despite the coldness I learned to wear.

You hesitated.
Then your hand slid into mine.

And for the first time in a very long time, I felt the stone inside me—crack.