Chapter 13: Gilded Reckoning
The flash of a thousand cameras was a physical heat. Min-ho stood with the other members on the crimson river of carpet, the rhythmic click-whirr-click a mechanized heartbeat beneath the screaming voices. “BET! Look here! Over here! D.A.R.K!” He turned his head on command, a slight, practiced tilt, his smile a perfect balance of approachable and untouchable. The suit Jae-Hyun had approved was black and sharp, but it felt like a surgical garment under the lights.
He heard the shift first. A wave of new shouts, louder, more frenzied, rolling down the carpet like a seismic tremor. “IVY! MARIA! THIS WAY!”
His body moved before his mind could engage. He turned.
She was stepping out of a black town car, one strappy heel finding the scarlet fabric. The world seemed to mute, the roar dissolving into a dull, underwater hum. Her hair was up, but loose strands of dark red and pink curled against her golden-toned neck. The dress was sheer black, tracing every curve he remembered and some he didn’t—a testament to the two years that had passed. Delicate, dark embroidery clustered over her chest and hips, a teasing armor of thread and shadow. She posed, a hand on her hip, chin lifted. She wasn’t smiling for them. She was assessing them. The Maria he knew.
Then she began to walk forward, a queen moving through her subjects. Her gaze swept the barrier of lenses and stopped. Landed on him.
Time folded. The noise rushed back, but it was irrelevant. Her eyes, even from twenty feet away, held a universe he’d been exiled from. She recognized him. Not BET, the idol. Him. A slow, soft smile touched her lips, not for the cameras, but private, real. It was a little sad around the edges. She raised her hand, just a slight, hesitant wave.
Min-ho’s arm lifted of its own volition. He waved back, his professional smile gone, replaced by something utterly bare and stunned.
A hand closed around his elbow, fingers digging in. Ji-hoon’s voice was a low, urgent rasp in his ear, cutting through the spell. “Not yet.”
The touch was an anchor, a tether yanking him back from the edge of a very public cliff. Min-ho blinked. The noise crashed over him again—the screams, the clicks, the dizzying glare. He dropped his hand. He gave a single, stiff nod, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He turned away, presenting his back to her, facing the wall of shouting photographers once more. His smile didn’t return.
“Eyes here, Bet! Good! Perfect!”
He obeyed. His body performed. But every cell in his being was oriented backward, toward where she was. He felt her presence like a change in atmospheric pressure, a static charge raising the hair on his arms.
The rest of the red carpet was a blur of light and sound. He moved when prodded, stood where placed. Inside, a silent, screaming war was raging. Not yet. What did that even mean? Not yet for what? A conversation? A scandal? A hello?
Backstage in the crowded, chaotic holding area, the air was thick with perfume, sweat, and the metallic tang of anxiety. Groups huddled with their managers, voices sharp with last-minute instructions. D.A.R.K. was ushered to a relatively quiet corner near the catering tables, a temporary bubble of semi-privacy.
Jae-Hyun was there, his face a mask of controlled stress. He looked at Min-ho, his eyes narrowing. “You looked like a ghost out there for a second. Get it together. You’re presenting Best New Artist. It’s a two-minute segment. Read the teleprompter. Smile. Do not improvise.”
Min-ho just stared at a water bottle on the table, its condensation making a dark ring on the linen. “I saw her.”
“We all saw her,” Jae-Hyun said flatly. “The whole world sees her. That’s the point. You are not to approach her. You are not to be photographed looking at her. You are a professional congratulating a fellow professional. That is the narrative. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Min-ho muttered.
Ji-hoon squeezed his shoulder briefly, a silent solidarity, before being pulled away by a producer for a sound check.
The ceremony began. They were seated in the third row, center aisle—prime placement. Min-ho’s skin crawled. He knew, with a certainty that vibrated in his bones, exactly where she was seated. He could feel it. He kept his eyes forward, on the stage, his hands clasped in his lap. During a thunderous pop performance, he risked a glance to his left, down the row. And there she was. Four seats over. In profile. Watching the stage, her head nodding slightly to the beat. The delicate embroidery on her shoulder glinted under the stage light wash. He watched the line of her throat as she swallowed. He looked away, heat flooding his face.
Time became a strange, elastic thing. Awards were given. Speeches were made. His category, Best Global Performance, was called. D.A.R.K. won. It was expected. They filed onto the stage, a unified front. Ji-hoon gave the speech, gracious and warm. Min-ho stood beside him, smiling, holding the trophy. It felt like holding a block of lead.
Then it was his segment. Best New Artist. His palms were damp. He walked to the podium, the stage lights blinding. The teleprompter scrolled. His voice came out smooth, practiced. “And the nominees are…”
A video package played. He didn’t see it. He was calculating the distance from the podium to the wings, to the darkness backstage.
“And the winner is… IVY!”
The arena erupted. The camera swung to capture her reaction. From the corner of his eye, he saw her stand, a hand flying to her mouth in genuine surprise. She hugged the people around her. Then she was walking, the sheer black dress flowing around her legs, heading for the stage. Heading for him.
She climbed the steps. The trophy was on the podium. He was supposed to hand it to her. This was the choreography.
She reached him. The scent hit him first—not perfume, but the orange blossom and vanilla of her hair oil, a smell he’d spent two years trying to forget. It bypassed his brain and went straight to his nervous system. Her eyes found his. Up close, he could see the gold dust on her eyelids, the slight tremble in her smile. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies.
“Congratulations,” he said in English, his voice hoarse. He picked up the heavy award and held it out.
“Thank you,” she said, her fingers brushing his as she took it. The contact lasted less than a second. It burned.
She turned to the microphone, collecting herself. He retreated a few steps, as protocol dictated, to give her the stage. He stood there, a statue, as she gave her speech. Her voice was steady, warm, full of a gratitude that sounded real. She thanked her team, her family in Argentina, her fans. She spoke about the power of raw stories. Her eyes flicked to him once, a quick, unreadable glance, before she finished with a cheerful “¡Gracias!”
The music swelled. She was shepherded off stage opposite him, following the winner’s route. He was ushered back the way he came. The moment was over. A public, sanitized, globally televised interaction.
It felt like a kidnapping.
Back in the warren of corridors, the chaos was overwhelming. Winners crying, publicists shrieking into headsets, stage managers barking orders. Jae-Hyun materialized, steering Min-ho by the arm. “Good. That was fine. Now, straight to the car. We’re skipping the after-parties. We have a 6 AM call for rehearsals.”
“I need air,” Min-ho said, pulling his arm free. “Two minutes. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Min-ho—”
“Two minutes!” he snapped, the control fraying. He turned and pushed through a heavy fire door, marked ‘EXIT’, not caring where it led.
It led to a concrete service corridor, starkly lit by fluorescent tubes, lined with industrial trash bins and pallets of bottled water. The roar of the ceremony was a distant thump. He leaned against the cold wall, tilting his head back, dragging in deep breaths that did nothing to calm the riot inside him.
The door hinges creaked again.
He opened his eyes.
She stood there, the trophy dangling from her hand, looking as surprised as he was. She’d clearly been seeking an escape of her own. For a long moment, they just stared at each other in the grim, gray light. The elaborate gown, the flawless makeup—it all seemed absurd here, against the concrete and the smell of disinfectant.
“Hi,” she finally said, the word soft.
“Hi,” he echoed.
Silence stretched, thick and unbearable. The last time they’d been truly alone, they’d been in a hotel room in LA, holding each other, making promises they both knew the system wouldn’t let them keep.
The memory was a physical ache between his ribs. He could still feel the wet heat of her tears on his shoulder, the frantic grip of her fingers on his back. This was different. This was a silent, screaming limbo.
He pushed off the wall. The air felt charged, too thin.
“I heard your song,” he said abruptly, the words leaving him like a punch. “‘Y si…?’”
She blinked, her composure faltering. She hadn’t expected him to speak first. “Oh,” she breathed, her knuckles white around the trophy’s base. “And what did you think?”
“Beautiful.” His voice was rough gravel. “A dream.”
A sad, knowing smile touched her lips. “Like another life?” she whispered, referencing her own final, haunting line.
“Yes…”
She took a tiny step closer. The orange blossom scent intensified. “I heard yours. Your ballad.”
Min-ho looked away, shame and defiance warring in his gut. He stared at a faded water stain on the concrete floor. “I externalized everything I feel.”
“Do you still feel it?”
His head snapped back toward her. The movement was violent. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his eyes black with a depth of longing so intense it stripped the air from the corridor. He nodded. Once. Slow and deliberate.
Maria’s eyes welled up instantly, a shine that broke into two perfect tears that tracked through her highlighter. She didn’t wipe them away. “Me too. My God… almost three years have passed and I still feel the same.” A choked, disbelieving laugh escaped her. “I haven’t been able to be with anyone else. I can’t even dance with another person without your face appearing in my mind.”
Min-ho squeezed his eyes shut, as if in physical pain. “The same happens to me.” He opened them, the confession tumbling out. “They’ve tried to get me to go out with actresses, idols, but the idea of having to pose next to them repulses me. I can’t stand other hands that aren’t—” He stopped, biting the sentence in half.
But Maria knew. Her breath hitched. “Other hands that aren’t mine.”
He gave another stiff, agonized nod.
She wrapped her arms around herself, the trophy a cold barrier against her chest. “I’m going to keep my promise. I won’t look for you, but my door will always be open for whenever you want to come find me.” It was a surrender. A release. She turned to go back through the heavy door, back to the world that owned him.
She only took one step.
Min-ho moved. It wasn’t a thought. It was a biological imperative. His hand shot out, his fingers closing around her bare upper arm. He pulled, spinning her back toward him. The trophy clattered to the concrete, rolling away with a hollow, metallic sound.
She gasped, turning to look at him, her eyes wide.
He didn’t hesitate. He crushed his mouth to hers.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. A desperate, hungry reclamation. Her lips were softer than he remembered, yet fierce, opening under his immediately. The taste of her—strawberry gloss and something inherently her—flooded his senses, short-circuiting every boundary, every rule. A raw, animal sound tore from his throat.
He backed her into the concrete wall, the impact shuddering through them both. His body pressed against hers, pinning her. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs digging into her jawline, tilting her head to take the kiss deeper, harder. She met him with equal desperation, her fingers twisting into the expensive wool of his suit jacket, pulling him closer until not a sliver of light existed between them.
They kissed knowing this was the last time. That knowledge fueled a brutal, exquisite urgency. It was all teeth and tongue and shared, ragged breaths. He bit her lower lip, and she moaned, the vibration going straight to his cock, which was already rigid and straining against his trousers. She dragged her nails down his back, a sharp, possessive sting through the fabric.
“Fuck, Maria,” he snarled against her mouth, his hips grinding against the softness of her stomach.
“I know,” she gasped, arching into him. “I know, just… please.”
His hands left her face, sliding down her neck, over the delicate embroidery covering her shoulders. He grasped the sheer fabric at her sleeves and pulled. A sick, satisfying tear echoed in the empty corridor. The fragile mesh gave way, exposing the smooth, golden skin of her shoulder and the black lace cup of her bra. He ducked his head, his mouth hot and wet on her collarbone, then lower, his teeth scraping the swell of her breast.
“Min-ho…” His name was a prayer and a curse on her lips.
He found the zipper of her dress, a tiny, hidden thing at her side. He yanked it down. The fabric sighed open. He pushed it off her shoulders, letting it pool at her waist, held up by her hips. She stood half-exposed in the grim fluorescent light, her chest heaving, her skin pebbled with goosebumps. He stared, his gaze ravenous. “You’re more beautiful,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Jesus, you’re…”
He didn’t finish. He covered her mouth with his again, swallowing her words. One hand cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing roughly over her nipple through the lace until it was a hard peak. The other hand fumbled with his belt, his fly. The click of the buckle was obscenely loud.
He shoved his trousers and briefs down just enough to free himself. He was painfully hard, the head slick with precum. He rutted against the soft skin of her bare thigh, leaving a wet streak.
“Now,” she demanded, her hands clawing at his hips, trying to guide him. “Don’t wait, don’t you fucking wait.”
He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. He braced her against the wall. There was no gentle guidance, no slow entry. He positioned himself and drove into her with one fierce, deep thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, broken sound that he muffled with another kiss. She was wet, so wet, but tight, and the feeling of her clamping around him after so many empty years was blinding. He saw white behind his eyelids. He held still, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to the concrete beside her head, panting.
“Move,” she begged, her inner muscles fluttering around him. “Please, move.”
He withdrew almost completely and slammed back in. A brutal, punishing rhythm. This wasn’t lovemaking. This was a fuck, a raw and dirty exorcism of three years of loneliness. The wall was cold and unyielding against her back, his body was a furnace against her front. Each thrust jolted through her, knocking a gasp or a moan from her lips. He fucked her with a focused, desperate intensity, his eyes locked on hers, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain.
His hand slid between their sweat-slick bodies, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, fast circles. “Come for me,” he grunted, his breath hot on her cheek. “Come on my cock, now.”
The pressure, the friction, the sheer illicit wrongness of it—it coiled her too tight and then snapped her apart. Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a silent, seizing wave that made her back arch and her cunt clench around him in rapid, milking pulses. She buried her face in his neck to stifle her scream, her teeth sinking into his skin.
Feeling her come undone triggered his own release. With a guttural groan, he pumped into her, deep, shuddering spurts of heat filling her. He held her there, impaled and trembling, as the last pulses left him. They stayed locked together, breathing in shattered, syncopated rasps, the reality of the corridor seeping back in around the edges of their oblivion.
The distant thump of the awards show bassline. The hum of the fluorescents. The smell of their sweat, her perfume, sex.
Slowly, he let her slide down the wall until her feet touched the floor. Her legs buckled and he caught her, holding her up. They were a mess. Her dress was torn at the shoulders, hanging off her waist. His suit was crumpled, his shirt untucked. He was still half-inside her, softening.
He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. Neither spoke. There were no words for this.
A sharp bang echoed from further down the corridor—a door slamming. Voices, distant but approaching.
The spell shattered.
They moved apart with a frantic, mechanical haste. He turned away, tucking himself in, fastening his trousers with clumsy fingers. She pulled her ruined dress up, holding it together at her chest. She couldn’t look at him. He bent, retrieving her trophy, and handed it to her without meeting her eyes. The metal was cold.
The footsteps and voices grew louder, echoing off the concrete.
Maria looked at the door to the main venue, then back at him, her face a masterpiece of devastation. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She turned and walked quickly, disappearing through the heavy door just as two stagehands rounded the corner with a dolly of equipment.
Min-ho leaned back against the wall where he’d just had her, the concrete now warm from their body heat. He stared at the space where she’d vanished. The taste of her was still in his mouth. The feel of her was still on his skin, inside him.
The stagehands passed him with a nod, oblivious.
He slid a hand into his pocket, his fingers closing around his phone. He pulled it out and stared at the black screen. His reflection was ghostly, smudged at the edges. He opened a new text message. The cursor blinked. His thumbs hovered over the keypad.
He typed one word. When?
He deleted it.
He stood there for a long time, until the noise from the show faded into a silence more complete than any he’d ever known.