Chapter 4: Her Secrets, My Silence

There's a moment—right after your stomach drops, but right before your brain catches up—when the world feels like it's been unplugged. No sound. No time. Just pressure.

That was what the silence between us felt like.

I was staring at her phone. The message still glared back, white text in a black bubble.

> Cute story. But you forgot to tell your husband what you did to me.

I read it again.

Still didn't make sense.

But it didn't have to—not when I could see the way Ji-eun was trying to breathe without moving. Trying not to fall apart in a café full of curated avocado toast and matcha lattes.

I set the phone down gently. Like it might explode.

She still wasn't looking at me.

"Ji-eun," I said. "Talk to me."

Nothing.

"Who is he?"

Silence.

"What did he mean by what you did to him?"

Her shoulders tensed. Not flinched. Not shrugged. Tensed, like someone bracing for impact.

"I need context," I said. "Because we're not just in this mess together—we're tied together. If you don't tell me, I can't protect you."

"You don't need to protect me."

"Too late," I snapped. "I'm already in the blast zone."

That made her flinch.

Finally, she looked up.

And her eyes—dark, sharp, tired—weren't angry.

They were scared.

Not of me.

Of herself.

"His name is Ha Jun-woo," she said, voice low. "He used to be a staffer on my tour team. Logistics. Not high profile. Not under the agency's direct contract."

I waited.

"He was smart. Quiet. Paid attention. I thought he was just helpful. I didn't realize how much he was collecting."

"Collecting what?"

"Habits. Passwords. Screenshots. Conversations I didn't know were being recorded. He started showing up places he wasn't supposed to be. Texting late. Then watching me at practice. Waiting in parking lots."

My chest went tight. "Did you report it?"

She laughed—short and bitter.

"To who? The agency? They'd blame me for 'leading him on.' The press? They'd call it a scandal. He wasn't physical. He never touched me. Just—watched. Made me feel like I owed him something."

She reached for her drink again but didn't sip. Just held it, hand wrapped too tightly around the plastic.

"I told him to back off. He got quiet. I thought it was over. Then, six months ago, he sent a photo of me sleeping. In my hotel. Alone. Door locked."

I felt my pulse spike.

"And now," she said softly, "he knows I'm married. He knows I didn't tell the agency. He knows I gave him power without meaning to."

I leaned back in my seat. Trying to process. Trying to stay calm.

But my fists were clenched.

"You should have told me."

"I didn't think he'd come back."

"People like him always come back."

She nodded, slowly.

Then added, "And people like you always want to fix things."

That stopped me cold.

"You think I'm trying to fix you?"

She didn't look away.

"I think you want to. But this? This isn't yours to fix, Yoon Jae. You're a scriptwriter. You want a clean ending. This doesn't have one."

Maybe that was true.

But I wasn't just thinking like a writer anymore.

I was thinking like someone who was sick of watching her shake alone in coffee shops while pretending she was fine.

"We need to hit back," I said.

"How?"

"Control the story before he does. Leak something."

Her eyebrows lifted behind her sunglasses. "You want us to leak it?"

"Not the marriage. Just… enough. A fake dating scandal. A whisper campaign. Something to muddy the waters. If the tabloids bite the wrong bait, he'll lose leverage."

She stared at me.

Then, softly: "You're better at this than I thought."

I shrugged. "I write lies for a living."

Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Fine," she said. "But if we're faking a dating scandal… we're going to need photos."

I blinked. "Photos?"

"Of us. Together. Looking cozy."

"…You mean, romantic?"

"Exactly. If we want to make it convincing, we'll have to stage it. Paparazzi-style."

I already hated this plan.

But I hated the idea of him winning more.

"When?"

"Tonight," she said. "Rooftop bar in Itaewon. I'll handle wardrobe. You just show up."

I snorted. "You're going to dress me?"

"Yes. I refuse to be fake-dating someone who wears that."

I looked down. "What's wrong with this?"

"You look like a depressed librarian."

"Accurate."

She stood, sliding her phone into her jacket pocket. "Don't be late."

"Wait," I said, standing too. "Are you okay?"

She hesitated.

For the first time all day, she looked like she didn't know the answer.

"I will be," she said. "If you don't screw this up."

Then she turned and left.

Hours later, I was standing in my bedroom, staring at a collared shirt that still had the tag on it. One Ji-eun sent via motorbike messenger with a note taped to the packaging:

> Dark colors. Slightly mysterious. Don't look constipated.

Helpful.

I changed.

Was halfway out the door when I checked my phone again.

Still no new messages from her.

But there was one from an unknown number.

Not Jun-woo.

Not Ji-eun.

Just three words.

> She's still lying.

Itaewon at night felt like neon drowning in perfume.

The rooftop bar she picked was called VELLUM—one of those high-concept places that served cocktails named after emotions and charged extra if you asked for napkins. It sat at the top of a black-and-glass building like a crown nobody earned.

The air smelled like citrus, burnt sugar, and barely-contained secrets.

I was fifteen minutes early.

I wasn't trying to be. I just couldn't sit in my apartment any longer, stewing in the message on my phone: She's still lying.

I didn't reply. I didn't even know who I'd be replying to. But the words were still echoing in my head when I stepped out of the elevator into a glowing halo of ambient jazz and low laughter.

VELLUM was the kind of place where everyone was either pretending not to look at you or very much looking at you. And all of them were dressed like the cover of a luxury magazine. Which made me, in my Ji-eun-approved button-down and blazer, feel like a well-groomed imposter.

I scanned the room.

She wasn't there.

I found a seat by the edge of the glass railing, overlooking the sparkling veins of Seoul's traffic below. Ordered something that sounded mildly alcoholic and aggressively overpriced. Then waited.

Ten minutes passed.

Then five more.

And then—like a movie cue, right on beat—she arrived.

I saw her before anyone else did. Black dress, sleek and sharp, slashed with asymmetry like something carved instead of sewn. Lips dark red. Eyes rimmed in silver. Hair pulled back in a loose braid that somehow made her look even more dangerous.

She moved like she didn't want to be noticed.

She was noticed anyway.

She slid into the seat across from me without speaking.

"Wow," I said.

"You're late," she replied, eyes scanning the room. "I told you twenty minutes ago."

"You texted me five minutes ago."

"I meant to."

I sipped my drink. "Is that how time works now?"

She ignored the jab, adjusting her position so the light hit her left side just right. I realized, suddenly, that she'd chosen this table for a reason. It had the clearest line of sight from the nearest rooftop behind us—about a block and a half away. Prime tabloid sniper zone.

"This is your idea of a 'casual' date?" I asked, glancing at the glass railing.

"I need to look like someone who's trying not to be seen."

"Right. Because nothing says lowkey like looking like a villain at an awards show."

She smirked. "Jealous?"

"Concerned."

"About?"

"Getting caught in a headline like: 'Rogue Idol Caught Canoodling with Depressed Drama Writer.'"

"That's catchy," she said. "You should trademark it."

I leaned in slightly. "Are they watching?"

Her expression didn't change. "One rooftop behind. Another down the street. Possibly one inside."

"And you're okay with that?"

"No."

"But you're still here."

She paused, eyes on mine.

"I'd rather control what they shoot than run from what they already have."

The sentence sat heavy between us.

I turned my glass, watching the condensation gather along my fingers.

"You didn't tell me about Ha Jun-woo before," I said. "What else haven't you told me?"

She didn't blink. Didn't move.

But her hands stilled.

"I told you enough."

"That's not the same thing."

"It is in my world."

I let the silence stretch.

The longer we didn't speak, the more intimate it felt. Not romantic. Just raw. Like we were both balancing on the edge of something that would either pull us together or crack us apart.

Then she reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.

Tapped a few times.

And turned it so I could see the screen.

Live camera feed. Night-vision style.

Angle: from a rooftop across the street.

Framed perfectly on us.

"Is that—"

"Yes," she said. "Our paparazzi."

"You're streaming them streaming us?"

"Exactly."

"Why?"

"To see what they choose to capture. What angle they want the story from."

"And what if they hear us?"

"They won't."

"And if they do?"

She gave a small, humorless smile.

"I'll give them something better to listen to."

Then she leaned forward.

Closer.

Too close.

I stiffened as her fingers reached across the table and—very delicately—touched the edge of my jaw.

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Put your hand on my wrist."

I didn't move.

"They need a shot," she murmured. "They need a moment. This is the part where the world decides if they believe us."

I raised my hand.

Set it gently on her wrist.

Her skin was warm. Pulse fast. She was nervous, even if her face was carved from ice.

I met her eyes.

There was something there.

Something fragile. Flickering. Not performance.

But fear.

"Are we faking this for them," I said quietly, "or for us?"

She didn't answer.

Just looked at me.

And in that second—just one heartbeat too long—her defenses cracked.

Her thumb brushed the inside of my wrist.

Not for the camera.

For her.

A flash went off somewhere behind me.

Bright.

Fast.

Then another.

I let her fingers slide away.

She leaned back slowly, mask returning.

"Got the shot," she said, and her voice was suddenly cold again. "We're done."

I swallowed whatever I thought I'd just seen.

Whatever she'd just let slip.

"You okay?" I asked.

She didn't answer.

Instead, she stood.

And that's when it happened.

From across the bar, just past the edge of the neon signage—

A man.

Watching.

Not moving.

Just… watching her.

Eyes locked.

Ji-eun froze.

Her breath hitched so subtly, I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't still been looking at her.

"Who is that?" I asked, standing too.

But she didn't answer.

She was already walking toward the exit.

Fast.

Too fast.

And the man?

He didn't follow.

He just smiled.

Tilted his head.

And tapped the side of his phone.

Like he was waiting.

I didn't think.

I just moved.

By the time I reached the stairwell, Ji-eun was already halfway down it—heels in one hand, dress hitched up, moving like she was being chased. And maybe she was. Maybe not by a person, but by a memory that had claws.

"Ji-eun!"

She didn't stop.

Not until we hit the street level, where the neon from the bar above vanished behind us, replaced by cold asphalt, diesel fumes, and the staccato sound of her breath.

She turned down an alley—narrow, slick, lined with the back doors of restaurants and bars that were closing for the night.

I followed.

Because that's what you do when someone who says she doesn't need saving looks like she might collapse under the weight of her own armor.

She stopped halfway down the alley.

Pressed her back to the wall.

Didn't look at me.

I could see the tremble in her shoulders from six steps away.

"Was that him?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

Her hands were shaking.

She didn't speak.

"Ji-eun."

She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth.

Like if she opened it, something might escape she couldn't take back.

"Tell me the truth."

"I don't know if it was him," she said at last. "I didn't get a name. I didn't need one."

"You recognized his face."

"No," she whispered. "I recognized the feeling."

I took a careful step closer. "What feeling?"

"Like I didn't matter."

The words landed soft—but heavy.

"I've spent so long pretending I don't care what people think," she said, voice cracking around the edges. "But someone out there is twisting that truth into a weapon. And I'm—I'm so tired of pretending I'm not afraid."

I moved to her slowly.

Gave her the chance to pull away.

She didn't.

"You don't have to pretend with me," I said. "Not here."

She looked up at that.

And maybe it was the streetlight above us. Or the quiet. Or the fact that no camera could see us here.

But something shifted in her face.

Softened.

"You shouldn't have come after me," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because if you care…" Her voice faltered. "You'll get hurt."

I smiled. Bitter. "Too late."

She looked down.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Then, very quietly, she added, "His name was Jun-woo. Ha Jun-woo."

My breath caught.

"The one who messaged you?"

"Yes."

"The one who's threatening you?"

She nodded.

The name echoed in my head like a cracked bell.

"Was he the one tonight?"

She didn't answer.

But she didn't have to.

I leaned against the opposite wall, trying to gather the pieces of my thoughts before they scattered.

"You said you weren't sure."

"I'm not."

"But you think he's watching you."

She nodded once. Slow. Controlled.

"What did he mean?" I asked. "That you never told me what you did to him?"

She looked up. Met my eyes.

And said nothing.

A silence longer than either of us could afford.

"What aren't you telling me, Ji-eun?"

Her hands clenched at her sides.

"I ruined him," she said. "That's what he thinks. That I used him to get out of something. That I made him feel like he was close. And when I left, when I shut him out, he decided he'd get even."

"Even how?"

She looked away again. "By making sure no one ever believes me again."

I took a breath. Exhaled slow.

"He's not just after you," I said.

She nodded. "Not anymore."

"I need to know everything," I said. "I need the whole story."

"I'll tell you," she said. "But not here."

I hesitated. Then: "Where?"

She looked up at me.

And said: "Your place. Tonight. I don't trust mine anymore."

My chest tightened.

Not because of the words.

But the way she said them.

Like trust was a currency she didn't give out anymore.

And somehow, I had just been handed more than I knew what to do with.

We left the alley in silence.

No footsteps behind us.

No flashes.

No shadows that didn't belong.

I hailed a taxi.

We rode with the windows up and the lights off.

She didn't speak.

Didn't look at me.

But her hand brushed mine once—barely there—and didn't pull away.

I didn't hold it.

I didn't move.

But the space between us changed.

Got warmer.

Got real.

By the time we reached my apartment, I wasn't thinking about the marriage contract.

Or the ring.

Or the fake smiles for fake photos.

I was thinking about the way she'd looked in that alley.

And how little I still knew.

We stepped into my building. Took the stairs, not the elevator.

When I unlocked my door, she walked in first.

Paused.

Looked around.

"This where you write your love stories?" she asked softly.

"Sometimes," I said. "Mostly I just try not to burn the instant noodles."

She walked to the window.

Tugged the curtain shut.

Then turned.

And said:

"There's one more thing I need to tell you. And I don't know if you'll still want to help me when you hear it."

I stared at her.

"Tell me anyway."

She opened her mouth.

And just as she did—

My phone buzzed on the table.

I picked it up.

Another unknown number.

This time, with a photo.

Of me and Ji-eun in the alley.

Tonight.

Face visible.

Hands close.

Captioned only with:

> How long do you think you can keep her safe?