I didn't mean to grab her wrist, but I did.
Not hard—just enough to anchor her before she slipped somewhere I couldn't follow.
Ji-eun stood frozen under the sickly parking garage light, her phone screen still lit, casting a pale glow across her face. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
The message said it all:
Nice ring. How long do you think you can keep this act up?
I'd written a hundred stalker threats in a hundred bad dramas.
I never expected to be inside one.
"Ji-eun," I said quietly. "Hey. Look at me."
She didn't.
Her thumb hovered above the screen like she wasn't sure if pressing it again would make the message disappear—or multiply.
"Do you know who it is?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
"Ji-eun."
Finally, she spoke. "They used that photo."
"What photo?"
"The one of the ring. I—I sent it to my stylist. Privately. She's the only one I texted it to. I asked if it looked too masculine. I deleted it right after."
I felt something cold curl around the base of my spine.
"Someone saw it before you deleted it."
"Someone got into my phone," she said. "Or hers."
I scanned the garage. It was empty. Silent. But that didn't mean anything. Cameras could be anywhere. Microphones. People with telephoto lenses and infinite time.
"You need to tell your agency," I said.
"No."
"Why not?"
"They'll kill the marriage before it even starts."
I stared at her. "Ji-eun, they're going to find out either way if someone's leaking this."
"Not if we control the leak," she said.
That was when I realized something—maybe the first thing I understood clearly about her since the moment we met:
Ji-eun didn't react to danger like normal people.
She didn't freeze.
She didn't flee.
She plotted.
"We need to get rid of the phones," she muttered, already pulling hers apart. "SIM card first. I'll get a burner tomorrow. You too."
"I can't afford a burner."
"I'll buy it. It'll be part of the marriage budget."
"The marriage budget?"
She glanced up. "I itemize."
Of course she did.
She snapped her phone shut and dropped the pieces in her purse like they were roaches she meant to drown later.
"I need to go," she said.
"Go where?"
"Home. Change. Then the hair salon. I have a shoot tomorrow. If I cancel now, they'll ask why."
She was already walking away.
"Wait," I called after her. "You're just gonna act like nothing happened?"
She stopped. Turned halfway. Her expression unreadable.
"No," she said. "I'm going to act like everything's fine. That's not the same thing."
Then she vanished around the corner.
And I was left standing there.
Engaged to a woman I barely knew.
With proof someone was watching us.
And absolutely no idea what the hell I'd signed up for.
When I got back to my apartment, I tossed the envelope of documents on the kitchen table and stared at it like it might come alive and bite me.
What did I even know about her?
That she was famous.
That she hated her own scripts.
That she lied with terrifying fluency—and with an even more terrifying sense of calm.
I checked my phone.
No new messages.
Then I remembered what she'd said—get rid of it.
I turned it off. Pulled the SIM. Flushed it down the toilet like a bad habit.
The silence that followed was immediate and thick.
No pings.
No notifications.
No online rabbit holes to fall into.
Just me.
And the ring.
I pulled it out of the drawer where I'd stashed it earlier. Black titanium. Smooth. Cool to the touch. It felt heavier than it looked.
Like it knew what it meant before I did.
I slid it onto my finger and stared at it under the kitchen light.
Some part of me—probably the part that once dreamed about being a novelist instead of a drama ghostwriter—thought it was funny. Poetic, even.
I'd spent years writing about fake love.
Now I was starring in it.
And somehow… the audience was already watching.
I was still staring at the ring when I heard the knock.
Three quick raps.
Then silence.
I froze.
No one knocked on my door.
Ever.
I stood.
Crossed the floor slowly.
Looked through the peephole.
And stopped breathing.
Because standing in the hallway…
Was Park Do-yoon.
My oldest friend.
My ex-roommate.
And a tabloid reporter.
Holding a file.
With my name on it.
The file in Do-yoon's hands was thin, beige, and unassuming.
The kind of folder people always open in thrillers right before they lose everything.
"Yoon Jae," he said, like he hadn't just knocked on my door like a debt collector. "Got a second?"
My mouth moved before my brain caught up. "Do I have a choice?"
"You do," he said cheerfully. "But I'll assume yes."
He pushed past me before I could stop him, walking into my apartment like it still belonged to him—which, to be fair, it had four years ago. Same broken coffee table. Same moth-bitten couch. Same pile of unopened mail by the sink.
"You really haven't changed," he muttered.
"I have a new trash can."
"Bold."
He tossed the file on the table, sat on the arm of the couch, and crossed his arms like a man staging an intervention.
I didn't sit.
I stood at the edge of the table, arms folded, ring burning a phantom line on my finger. I'd pocketed it the moment he knocked. Instinct.
He didn't notice.
Or pretended not to.
"What's in the folder?" I asked.
"Let's play a game."
"Can we not?"
"I ask, you answer. Easy. One question per page."
He flipped the folder open and pulled out the first sheet.
I saw it upside down—Kang Ji-eun's name in bold font.
"Why were you at the Seoul Family Court this morning?" he asked.
My stomach dropped.
He smiled.
I said nothing.
"Come on," he said. "I know you were there. I have photos."
"You stalking me now?"
"Nope. Stalking her. You were a bonus."
"Charming."
He flipped to the second sheet.
"Who was the woman you were with?" he asked.
"You already know the answer."
"Humor me."
"Does this feel like humor?"
"Yoon Jae," he said, and now the grin was gone. "Why is your name attached to a marriage registration form?"
My breath stopped.
He flipped the third page.
There it was.
A blurry phone photo of a clerk's desk.
My name. Her name.
In ink.
In public record.
"I thought marriage registrations weren't public," I said.
"They're not. But people talk. And phones leak."
"Who sent this to you?"
"An anonymous tip. Same source who said Ji-eun might be trying to bury a scandal."
He leaned in.
"And that she's doing it by marrying someone outside the industry."
Silence.
I didn't move.
He studied me for a long moment, his voice softening.
"I didn't believe it at first. I mean—come on. You? And her? It doesn't make sense."
I shrugged, trying not to let anything show. "Because I'm not famous?"
"Because you're not her type."
I bit down on the inside of my cheek. "What do you think her type is?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stood, walked to my sink, and filled a glass of water like he was stalling for time. Like he wasn't sure what he was about to say next.
Then he turned, leaned against the counter, and said:
"Are you in love with her?"
I choked.
Laughed.
Snorted.
All three at once.
"No," I said. "God, no."
His gaze didn't shift.
"Are you using her?"
"No."
"Is she using you?"
That one landed harder than I expected.
I didn't answer right away.
He watched me, eyes sharp. Less friend now, more reporter. Not Do-yoon the guy I used to get drunk with on the roof—but Park Do-yoon, investigative bloodhound for one of Seoul's most aggressive entertainment sites.
And still—underneath it—someone who maybe cared.
"Whatever you think this is," I said finally, "you're wrong."
He didn't flinch. "Then tell me what it is."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not mine to tell."
He looked at me for a long, long time.
Then he walked back to the table. Closed the folder. Straightened it neatly like a man trying not to leave fingerprints.
When he spoke again, his voice was low.
"You should be careful, Jae."
I met his eyes.
"Is that a threat?"
"No," he said. "It's a promise."
He walked to the door.
Paused with his hand on the knob.
"I'm your friend," he said without turning. "But if this blows up—and it will—I can't protect you."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And I stood there, staring at the folder on the table.
At my name.
At hers.
At everything we'd signed, thinking it would stay secret.
But someone already knew.
Someone with a camera.
And a source.
And now, someone with a reason.
Absolutely—let's bring Chapter 3 to a close with Part 3, and as promised, we'll build slowly, richly, and end with a cliffhanger that flips everything upside down.
Recap:
Yoon Jae just got visited by his childhood friend Do-yoon, now a reporter, who knows about the marriage registration.
Someone is leaking.
And Ji-eun hasn't called… yet.
She picked the worst possible place to meet.
A brightly lit juice bar in Sinsa, crawling with diet-obsessed influencers and café vloggers holding ring lights like sacred artifacts. K-pop idol heaven. And a privacy nightmare.
I spotted her instantly, tucked into the corner, hoodie low, oversized sunglasses on, sipping something violently green through a steel straw.
When I approached, she didn't look up. She just slid her phone across the table.
I sat down, my skin already prickling.
On her screen: an Instagram story. Ten seconds. Just long enough to ruin us.
> [@starwatchent]
"BREAKING: Is JI.EUN of Velvet Rouge hiding a relationship?"
(photo zoomed in: a blurry hand—her hand—with a ring that wasn't there last week)
Then a second clip.
> "Sources claim she was spotted at the Seoul Family Court. Who's the mystery man?"
(photo blurred, faces obscured… but not enough)
I recognized my own silhouette.
My hair. My goddamn backpack.
"That's from this morning," I whispered.
"Posted twenty minutes ago," she said.
I stared at the screen like it might erase itself.
"Who sent it to you?"
"No one. I saw it trending."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"We're going to be exposed."
"We're not," she said quickly. "Not if we move now."
"Move how?"
"We'll bury it. I'll post something harmless—a work thing, a selfie with a product placement. You disappear. Delete socials, change phones, avoid public. Give it seventy-two hours. The fandom will turn on the rumor, eat it alive, and focus on something shinier."
"Shinier than a secret husband?"
Her jaw flexed.
She set the drink down.
"Someone is leaking," she said.
I leaned in. "You think it's that woman from the courthouse?"
"She doesn't have access to my phone."
"Then who?"
She didn't answer right away.
I watched her. The way she fiddled with the metal lid of the straw, her thumbnail clicking against it. Her breathing was calm—but her body language screamed something else.
Fear.
"I thought I deleted everything," she said. "Messages. Old chats. Photos. But they were recovered."
I stared at her.
"You're telling me this isn't just about us."
She nodded. "This started before you. This is just the fallout."
"Then who's after you?"
Her fingers curled around the plastic cup until it crinkled.
And then, finally, she spoke.
"There was someone. A long time ago."
"An ex?"
"Yes," she said. "But not the kind people write songs about. The kind you hope never finds your name again."
I let the silence stretch.
Then I asked, very quietly:
"What's his name?"
She didn't answer.
She wouldn't look at me.
I leaned back slowly, the pieces starting to shift in my head.
"You think he's behind this," I said.
Her jaw moved like she wanted to deny it, but couldn't quite form the words.
"I think," she said finally, "he's reminding me that I don't get to leave things behind."
And then her phone buzzed again.
She checked it.
Turned white.
I reached across the table. "What?"
She showed me the screen.
Another message.
Unknown number. Again.
Cute story. But you forgot to tell your husband what you did to me.
I stared at the text.
And felt the ground tilt under us both.