The footsteps stopped right outside the door. My pulse surged against my throat. I shoved the second phone, still glowing with Min-joon’s traitorous conversation history, into the deepest recess of the open compartment, hoping the faint luminescence wouldn’t betray it. Too late. The door swung inward, revealing Min-joon. His hair was slightly damp, a faint scent of rain clinging to his suit jacket. He carried a disposable cup of something steaming, probably another one of his herbal concoctions for stress relief.
He offered me a tired smile, the kind he always wore when he thought I was being difficult but couldn't quite say it. “Still at it, Yuri-ssi? You’ll burn out. I brought you a ginger tea. Good for the late nights.” He walked to his desk, placed the cup down, and then his gaze sharpened, falling directly on the slightly ajar cabinet. The one where I’d just hidden the evidence.
My breath caught. Had I closed it fully? No, a tiny sliver of light, almost imperceptible, seemed to leak from the crack. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the wood. My spine stiffened, every muscle tensing for the inevitable.
“Ah, I must have left this open,” he murmured, pulling the slide out wider. My eyes darted to the phone, now fully exposed. His hand hovered, then moved past it, retrieving a small, neatly folded fabric square from beneath a pile of old documents. A microfiber cloth for his screen. He used it to wipe his glasses, then placed it back in the tray, pushing it shut with a soft thud.
He hadn't seen it. Chill prickled down my neck, not from fear of discovery, but from the sheer, crushing reality of his casual deception. This man, my confidant for years, was a stranger. A puppet master pulling my strings with a smile.
“Yuri-ssi?” he prompted, a slight frown creasing his brow. “You look a little… pale. Are you alright?”
I forced a smile, one that felt like tearing my own face. “Just tired, Min-joon-oppa. Long night. I think I’m going to head home.” I stood, my legs feeling like brittle porcelain. I had to get out. Air was what I craved. I could not remain in the same room as this man.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. “Yuri-ssi, wait.”
I paused, my hand on the doorknob. This was it. He knew. Or he was about to confess. Either way, the dam was about to break.
He sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the strain of the entire OmniStar building. He didn’t look at me. His gaze was fixed on the city lights shimmering outside his window, reflecting the nascent rain. “I… I think there’s something you need to see.”
He walked back to his desk, his movements slow, burdened. He pulled open the same compartment, the one that held the truth, and this time, he retrieved not the microfiber cloth, but the plain black device. My gaze fixated on it, the same phone I'd seen in the previous chapter. He held it out to me, his hand trembling slightly.
“Past Yuri… she knew,” he began, his voice barely a whisper. “She learned about my family’s debt, the clinic, the loan sharks closing in. She said she could make it all disappear, make sure my sister got the surgery she required. All I had to do was… follow her directives. For your own good, she kept saying.” His eyes finally met mine, and the raw, desperate guilt in them was almost unbearable.
“Blackmail?” I managed, the word tasting like ash. “You sold me out for blackmail?”
He flinched. “It wasn’t just a debt, Yuri-ssi. My family stood to lose the house, the clinic, all of it. She had files. Specifics. She even knew about the forged signatures on my mother’s medical forms. I had no choice.” He swallowed hard, his eyes pleading. “She presented it as a way to *save* you, to force you back into the spotlight. She said you needed a push, a catalyst. That you were wasting your talent writing… easy tunes.”
I remembered the humiliating jingle demos Past Yuri had leaked. The ones that had cornered me into this sham marriage. “She orchestrated the whole mess? The cafe, the ‘affair,’ the marriage?”
He nodded, his head bowed. “Every step. She said it was the only way to get you the 'Aethel's Echo' role, to reclaim your name. She knew Director Go Min-jae was a fan of your old work. The press conference, Jin-woo-ssi’s ‘heroic’ defense – all planned to appeal to him. The timing of the questions, the setup… she accounted for every variable.” He pushed the phone closer. “She left one final directive for me. After you secure the film score.”
My fingers, cold and numb, closed around the device. He didn't resist. I scrolled through the screen, ignoring the endless stream of messages, my eyes seeking out the final directive. It was a data packet, labeled simply: ‘THE FINAL ACT.dat’.
I opened it. A single, stark sentence glowed on the screen: *After 'Aethel's Echo' is secured, orchestrate a messy, public breakup. Ensure maximal sympathy for Kwon Yuri.* Below it, a meticulously detailed plan: staged arguments, leaked photos of Jin-woo with another 'mystery woman' (a paid actress, the plan specified), tearful interviews from me. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it sent a tremor through me.
“A public breakup?” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “She planned for us to break up? After all this? After Jin-woo and I have… gone through everything?” My voice rose, a raw, wounded sound. “She’s not just an agent from hell, Min-joon-oppa. She’s a sadist.”
Min-joon finally looked up, his face crumpled with despair. “She said it was to solidify your image as the tragically wronged artist, to create a narrative that would propel you into superstardom. That Jin-woo-ssi understood, that he had his own reasons for agreeing to it.”
“His own reasons?” I scoffed, hot tears blurring my vision. “He’s a person, Min-joon! He has feelings! We have… we have something real, I think, and she’s just going to tear it apart for a *narrative*?” The betrayal, the manipulation, the sheer disregard for my agency and for Jin-woo’s feelings, was a suffocating weight. My past self wasn't trying to help me; she was trying to *own* me.
I couldn’t stay. Not another second. I stumbled back, shaking my head, the parting memo still burned into my mind. I threw the phone onto his desk, the plastic clattering against the wood. “I can’t do this,” I choked out, and then I was running. Out the office door, past the stunned receptionist, down the corridor, and out into the Seoul night.
The rain had intensified, now a torrential downpour, washing over me in cold sheets. I didn’t care. I welcomed the biting chill, the way it masked the burning tears that streamed down my face. My hair, my clothes, everything was soaked within seconds, but the external storm was nothing compared to the tempest raging inside me. Jin-woo.
I ran blindly, not caring where I was going, until I collided with something solid. A wall, I thought, but it moved, a hand steadying my arm. I looked up, rain plastering my hair to my face, and saw him. Jin-woo. His usually composed expression was etched with concern, his dark coat already glistening with rain.
“Yuri-ssi! What are you doing out here? I was looking for you,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the drumming rain. “Min-joon said you left the office looking… distressed.”
He had been looking for me. Tears, hot and bitter, coursed down my cheeks. The words tumbled out, raw and broken, a desperate confession to the one person who shouldn’t have to hear it. “It’s all fake, Jin-woo. All of it. This marriage, our media persona… every single piece. It was all a setup. My past self, she engineered it. To get me the film, to make me famous again. And the ending… the ending is a public, messy breakup. She wants us to destroy each other for the headlines.” I gasped, struggling to breathe, the rain mingling with my tears, blurring the lines between us.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched me, his dark eyes unwavering. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out, pulling me into his embrace. The warmth of his body, even through our soaked clothes, was a stark contrast to the cold rain. His arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, a silent anchor in my storm.
“I don’t care if it started fake,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my wet hair. “It’s not anymore. Not for me.”
My chin jerked up, searching his face through the downpour. The sincerity in his gaze was terrifying. He wasn't just saying it; he *meant* it. Right then, as the rain poured down around us, washing away the carefully constructed lies of my life, I knew. The game had changed. The rules were broken. And my past self, the architect of my misery, had just accidentally built something she could never tear down.