10 - Flashbulbs and Defiance

⋘ ⁕⁕⁕ ⋙ Mia

Thursday. The high from the morning’s grueling training session with Jae-won—a session that had graduated to basic blocking and a few more aggressive escapes—still hummed in my muscles. The physical exhaustion was a good kind of tired, the kind that promised strength.

Then there was a knock at the door of the flat. Not Jae-won’s firm, predictable rap. This was sharper, quicker.

I opened it to find Dal-mi. She looked… off. Her usual impeccable composure was frayed at the edges. Her mouth was a tight line, and there was a troubled shadow in her eyes that had nothing to do with work stress.

“What’s wrong? ” I asked, my own good mood evaporating. “Did someone die?”

“No,” she said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She didn’t take off her coat. She just stood there, clutching her tablet. “It’s about the shoot. The Vogue spread.”

My heart did a funny little stutter. The shoot yesterday had been a whirlwind. Terrifying at first, then… exhilarating. The makeup artists, the stylists fussing over me, and the photographer’s rapid-fire commands. For a few hours, I wasn’t Mia-on-the-run. I was a muse, a shape in beautiful clothes, powerful under the hot lights. The preliminary shots they’d shown me on the camera’s screen had been startling. I looked… fierce. Untouchable. A far cry from the woman crying on a beach bench.

“What about it?” I asked, dread beginning to pool in my stomach.

Dal-mi took a breath. “We can’t use the photos.”

The words landed like a physical blow. “What? Why? They were amazing!”

“They are amazing,” she corrected, her voice tight with frustration. “They’re some of the best work the studio has ever produced. But… legal and PR reviewed the final selects this morning. The exposure. Your face, Mia. It would be on newsstands, in digital editions, all over social media.” She looked at me, and the full weight of her meaning crashed down.

Greg.

If he saw my face on the cover of Vogue Korea, he wouldn’t just know I was alive and in the city. He would know exactly the circles I was moving in. The connection to Dal-mi, and by extension, to the world of Lee Min-ho, would be a beacon. He’d have a trail. A target.

The disappointment was so profound it felt like a sickness. It wasn’t just about the pictures. It was about the first real, tangible thing I’d built for myself in this new life—a moment of power, of beauty, of normalcy—being snatched away because of him. Again. The tears came hot and fast, a bitter flood of frustration and grief. I sank onto the arm of the sofa, covering my face. “I felt so good. I looked… I looked so hot. Fuck this man.”

Dal-mi moved to sit beside me, putting a tentative arm around my shoulders. “I know. I’m so sorry. We’ll kill the spread. We’ll say the film was corrupted. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. The anger that Jae-won was teaching me to channel, the defiance that had made me call him and demand training, rose up through the tears. It burned them away, leaving my vision clear and sharp.

I lowered my hands. My face was wet, but my voice was steady. “No.”

Dal-mi blinked. “What?”

“I said no. Use it. I give you permission. Run the spread.”

“Mia, you can’t be serious—”

“I am dead serious.” I stood up, pacing the small living room, the energy crackling through me. “If he wants to come for me, let him. I am not going to let him ruin the rest of my life. No more hiding. No more letting him dictate what I can and cannot do from hundreds of miles away. The only way he’ll get me to stop is if he kills me. And I am done playing the victim.” I turned to face her, my chest heaving. “I am done.”

Dal-mi stared at me, her shock plain. For a long moment, she was speechless. Then, a slow, fierce pride dawned in her eyes, mixing with the concern. “Are you sure? We don’t have to. Your safety is the only priority.”

“My safety is being trapped in a box by fear,” I shot back. “My safety is learning how to break a wrist and run five miles without stopping. My safety is looking that bastard in the eye on a magazine cover and saying, ‘I’m still here, and I’m fucking glorious.’ Use. The photos.”

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed insistently on the table. She glanced at it, and her professional mask snapped back into place, though her eyes were still wide. “I have to take this. It’s important.” She answered, speaking in rapid, low Korean, her eyes flicking to me. She stepped out into the hallway, but before she closed the door, she mouthed to me, ‘I’ll see you later.’

The flat was silent again, humming with the aftermath of my declaration. I felt shaky, exhilarated, and terrified. I had just potentially painted a target on my own back. But for the first time, it felt like I was holding the brush.

A few hours later, my phone buzzed with a text from Dal-mi.

Come over to Tae’s. Dinner. Drinks. Board games and terrible karaoke. Mandatory fun. Bring pajamas. You’re staying over.

It was exactly what I needed. An escape from the enormity of my own decision.

The night at Tae-min’s sprawling, art-filled penthouse was a beautiful, chaotic antidote to the tension. There was too much food, excellent wine, and the board games descended into hilarious, cutthroat competition. Tae-min was a surprisingly terrible singer but an enthusiastic one, belting out old K-pop ballads with dramatic flair. Dal-mi, flushed and happy, leaned into him, her laughter easy and real. I sang too, badly and without shame, feeling a simple, uncomplicated joy I hadn’t known in years.

Later, much later, I fell into the plush guest bed, my head buzzing pleasantly from the wine. Sleep came quickly.

I woke up sometime in the deep, dark heart of the night, thirsty and with the faint beginnings of a wine headache. I remembered Dal-mi mentioning a basket in the kitchen with painkillers and water.

Padding silently out of the guest room, I made my way down the dimly lit hallway towards the open-plan kitchen. The apartment was quiet.

Then I heard it.

A low, rhythmic groan, followed by a sharp, breathy gasp. Then a voice—Dal-mi’s voice—muffled but unmistakable, crying out in a ragged, desperate moan of pleasure that was almost a sob.

I froze, halfway to the kitchen island. The sounds were coming from behind the closed door of the master suite down the hall.

Oh.They were fucking.

A hot flush crawled up my neck. I felt like an intruder, a voyeur in this intimate space. I should turn around, go back to my room, and drown out the sounds with a pillow.

But I didn’t move. The sounds were… intense. Primal. There was a raw, unfiltered hunger in them that was both shocking and deeply private. I heard Tae-min’s voice, a guttural, possessive murmur I couldn’t make out, and Dal-mi’s answering cry, higher, shattered.

Damn. The thought, unbidden and utterly inappropriate, shot through my wine-fogged brain. The man knows what he is doing if he’s making her scream like that.

A strange, wistful pang hit me—not jealousy, but a longing for that kind of all-consuming connection, that trust, that abandon.

I finally remembered my mission. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and fumbled in the basket for the pills, my face burning. As I scurried back down the hall, another choked, pleading cry from Dal-mi followed me.

I slipped back into the guest room and closed the door, leaning against it. My heart was pounding. The headache was forgotten.

A slow, mischievous smile spread across my face in the dark. Oh, Dal-mi. In the morning, I am going to tease you so mercilessly about this.

The fear from earlier, the weight of the magazine decision, felt far away. Here, in this safe house full of love and life and noisy passion, I felt, for a moment, invincible.

⋘ ⁕⁕⁕ ⋙