The glare of a hundred camera flashes felt like a physical assault, each pop a tiny, violent explosion against my already frayed nerves. I stared straight ahead, a rigid smile plastered on my face, the scent of too many lilies from the stage decorations doing nothing to calm the acidic churn in my stomach. Beside me, Seok Jin-woo looked effortlessly composed, his gaze coolly scanning the sea of hungry faces. His arm rested lightly on the small of my back—a performative gesture mandated by Min-joon, no doubt, but one that still radiated heat through my thin silk dress.
“...and so, the rumors are true,” Min-joon’s voice, amplified by the hall’s acoustics, boomed with an almost manic cheerfulness. “We are delighted to confirm the upcoming union of OmniStar’s own Kwon Yuri and independent artist Seok Jin-woo!”
Polite applause, quickly swallowed by the expectant murmur of the press. This was it. The official unveiling of my gilded cage. I could almost hear Past Yuri’s smug chuckle in my head, a phantom echo of her last video message.
“Ms. Kwon,” a sharp, female voice cut through the air, belonging to a correspondent from *Entertainment Insight*. Her gaze fixed on me. “For years, you were hailed as a prodigy. The youngest composer ever to score a feature film, ‘Crimson Whisper,’ at seventeen. Then… nothing. A decade of jingles and a notorious departure from the ‘Crimson Whisper’ sequel due to ‘creative differences.’ Some might say a spectacular flameout. Are we to believe this sudden union is a genuine connection, or merely a last-ditch attempt to revive a stalled career?”
The air thickened. The polite murmurs evaporated. Every lens in the room swung to me. My rigid smile faltered. ‘Creative differences.’ That’s what they called it. The polite lie. The truth was a black hole I’d buried so deep I rarely let myself even think about it. The pressure, the expectation, the sheer, paralyzing fear of not living up to *her* – Past Yuri’s – impossible standards. I’d crumbled. Walked out. Humiliated myself and my agency, vanishing into the abyss of commercial jingles. The memory, a coiled viper, struck without warning.
Air caught behind my ribs. The lights seemed to intensify, baking the powder on my cheeks. My vision blurred at the edges, the faces in the gallery morphing into a single, sneering entity. My palms grew slick. I could feel the tremor starting in my fingers, threatening to betray my carefully constructed composure. Min-joon shifted, his eyes darting frantically, ready to jump in, but he was too slow.
A shadow fell over me. A subtle movement, yet it dominated the stage. Seok Jin-woo had stepped in front, not entirely blocking me, but subtly interposing himself. His posture was relaxed, almost languid, but the casual tilt of his head carried an undeniable authority. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even look at her, instead addressing the entire room in a tone that was both mild and utterly unyielding.
“With all due respect,” Jin-woo’s voice was a low, resonant hum, cutting through the sudden, stunned silence. “This press conference is to announce our marriage. Not to dissect Ms. Kwon’s past artistic decisions. My appreciation for her work, both public and private, is well-documented in my own circles. Her music, even the jingles you dismiss so easily, possesses a unique brilliance. And as her future husband, I would appreciate a focus on the present, and on the exciting future we’re building, rather than rehashing tabloid fodder.”
He paused, his eyes finally settling on the *Entertainment Insight* reporter, a cool, unblinking stare that held no malice, only an iron-clad dismissal. The correspondent visibly flinched, shrinking back into her seat. The entire press corps, usually a ravenous pack, sat in stunned silence. Jin-woo, the quiet indie rocker, had just disarmed a hostile journalist with the composure of a seasoned diplomat. He hadn’t snapped, hadn’t raised his voice, just delivered a calm, protective barrier that left me, and everyone else, completely bewildered. My racing pulse began to slow, replaced by a strange, tingling sensation. Protection. From Jin-woo. The fake husband.
Before anyone could recover, Min-joon, ever the opportunist, seized the moment. “Excellent point, Jin-woo! Any questions pertaining to the happy couple’s future plans?”
Another hand shot up, this time from a well-groomed man in the third row, his face vaguely familiar. He wasn't holding a mic, but his voice carried. “Han Jae-sung, film director. My question isn’t about the nuptials, though I wish you both well.” He turned his gaze, not to Jin-woo, but directly to me. A genuine smile touched his lips. “Ms. Kwon, your score for ‘Crimson Whisper’ remains, to this day, one of the most evocative and haunting pieces of film music I’ve ever heard. The emotional depth, the subtle dissonances… it was truly groundbreaking. I’ve always admired your work, and honestly, mourned your absence from the cinematic world.”
I blinked. Han Jae-sung. The filmmaker behind *Aethel’s Echo*. The blockbuster, fantasy epic, the one project I’d been secretly, desperately coveting. The one Min-joon had said was utterly out of my reach. My mind reeled. Was this… a coincidence? No. Not with Past Yuri involved. Never a coincidence.
The auteur continued, oblivious to my internal meltdown. “I understand you’ve been… exploring different genres. But a composer of your caliber… I have to ask, Ms. Kwon, have you considered returning to feature film work? Specifically, for a project with the kind of expansive world-building that might truly challenge and inspire you?” His eyes held a knowing glint. “A project, perhaps, with a certain mythical, ancient energy?”
The implication hung in the air, glittering like a diamond. *Aethel’s Echo*. He wasn’t just a fan. He was offering an open invitation. An opportunity so impossibly perfect, it could only be the work of my mad, manipulative past self. This entire sham marriage, the public spectacle, the humiliation… it wasn't just to save my career. It was to throw me into this spotlight, for this exact moment. To force my hand. To make me visible to the one person who could give me back my life, my name. My goal, once a desperate scramble for survival, crystallized into something fierce and hungry. I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was going to fight. I was going to win.
I met his gaze, my pulse steadying into iron focus. The trembling was gone, replaced by raw resolve. This was it. This was my chance. I opened my mouth, a defiant, confident answer already forming on my tongue, when my burner phone, tucked securely in my bra, vibrated against my skin. A new message. I didn't need to look. I knew. Past Yuri. Her final, cruel twist to this elaborately staged gambit. I knew she was watching. Waiting. And I knew, with absolute certainty, what her message would say.