Chapter 4:

Cracks

The next days blurred into weeks. Time in V’s world never truly stopped, only folded, compressed into rehearsals, fittings, photoshoots, and commercials.

This time, it was for a soda campaign. The studio was all white panels and polished chrome, the kind of place where silence had weight and every pair of eyes turned the moment he stepped in. V was used to it. He smiled when told to, tilted his head when the photographer raised a hand, adjusted his coat when the stylist frowned.

“Perfect. Hold it just like that,” the photographer called out. “Your eyes, yes, softer. That’s it.”

V obeyed, expression cutting from soft allure to a distant sort of happiness. He had learned how to translate whatever storm roared in his chest into marketable mystery.

Between takes, the makeup artist fussed over his lashes, muttering, “I swear, you’re not real. Who even has lashes this long?” Someone else laughed and whispered, “He’s prettier than any of the actresses I’ve shot.” V offered only a lopsided smile, as if the comments slid off him.

The photoshoot ended with polite applause, and V slipped back into his coat, phone buzzing with the next reminder. But this time, the message was different.

LMC chosen for Aurora magazine feature. Full spread. Group interview + photoshoot.

He stared at the words longer than necessary, pulse tightening. Aurora wasn’t just any magazine. It was prestige. The kind of publication that launched causes and careers into the public spotlight.

The fitting was held two days later in a boutique studio Aurora rented for the shoot. Racks of clothes filled the room—tailored suits, flowing dresses, experimental fabrics meant to project identity as much as fashion.

Soojin had already chosen her outfit: sleek black suit with gold detailing, polished and commanding. She looked like the architect of empires, and in many ways, she was.

Han tried on a dark blue ensemble with silver cufflinks. He tugged at the sleeves, muttering, “Too stiff. I’m a programmer, not a prince.”

“Stop complaining. You look good,” Hana said, laughing softly as she twirled in a silk dress the color of dusk, camera already hanging from her neck even in the fitting. “They’ll love you. You’re the reliable one.”

“Which makes you what?” Han shot back.

“The charming one,” Hana replied, grinning.

Suhyun had chosen a cream blouse tucked neatly into tailored trousers. She turned once in front of the mirror, then smiled to herself with quiet satisfaction.

Kaimin entered late. His suit was charcoal grey, tailored, paired with a black tie and pants. He didn’t preen, didn’t comment, just stood there as the tailor adjusted his cuffs. The others joked he looked like a CEO who’d come to buy the building. He didn’t deny it.

And then there was V. His stylist had chosen something different: a soft white blazer, pale silk shirt, trousers that shimmered faintly under the lights. Not masculine, not feminine. Simply striking. The kind of look that blurred lines and drew stares.

“Of course,” Han muttered. “They’re going to make you the centerpiece.”

V smirked. “Would you expect less?”

The day of the photoshoot was chaos. Assistants darted around with makeup kits, photographers barked instructions, flashes cracked like lightning.

The group shot was first.

“Closer,” the photographer ordered. “Shoulders touching. Yes, perfect.”

V felt the warmth at his side before he dared to glance. Kaimin. The suit made him sharper. Every line of his posture screamed control, and his nearness set V’s skin alight.

The photographer clicked.

“Han, serious but approachable. Hana, a touch of smile. Suhyun, more confident. Soojin, perfect. V—yes, hold that smile. Mr. Shin—don’t look so much like you’re preparing for war.”

The room laughed. Even V. But Kaimin’s lips only twitched, refusing to ease.

Then came the interview. A long table, microphones, recorders, cups of untouched coffee.

The first questions were simple. What inspired LMC? How do you balance roles?

Soojin answered crisply, outlining her vision. Han added detail about cybersecurity, emphasizing privacy for donors and guests. Hana spoke about the photographs, her hope that images could move hearts. Suhyun explained the transparency of their accounting, her tone steady but warm.

When it came to Kaimin, the air sharpened. His words clipped andefficient. “Physical security is my responsibility. No threat passes unnoticed. The guests are high-profile, and our work would be meaningless if we didn’t protect them.” His gaze didn’t shift from the table, but the weight of it made V’s chest feel uncomfortably tight.

Then it was V’s turn. He gave his usual grin, leaning back like the chair was his stage. “I keep things light. A smile at the entrance, a word here and there to make people feel welcome. Businessman, artist, student, orphan. It doesn’t matter. They all deserve warmth.”

“Host, then?” the interviewer prompted.

“Host, distraction. Whatever keeps them happy enough not to notice how much work the others are really doing.”

A ripple of laughter followed. Except from the man at his right. V didn’t need to look to know Kaimin’s jaw hadn’t moved.

The interviewer moved on. “Do you get along outside of LMC?”

“Yes,” Hana said instantly. “We fight, but it never lasts. Right, Han?”

Han groaned. “Only because you talk too much.”

“Better than you sulking in a corner like a kid.”

“I don’t sulk like a kid.”

“Fine. You sulk like an adult. Just like now. Happy?”

The room chuckled. V smirked, letting their bickering shield him.

“Soojin?” the interviewer asked.

“We’re not without disagreements,” she said smoothly. “But we know when to set them aside.”

Then Suhyun. Her voice was soft, thoughtful. “We argue because we care. If we didn’t, silence would’ve replaced us already.”

It should’ve ended there, but the interviewer looked at V, clearly expecting for him to contribute.

He tilted his head, smile too sharp. “Some of us more than others.”

“Care to elaborate?” the interviewer asked lightly.

“No,” V said, smile widening. He winked. “I think mystery suits us better.”

When the interview wrapped, they were ushered back into the dressing room to change. Jackets were draped over chairs, ties undone, the edge of exhaustion hanging over everyone.

V tugged at his collar dramatically. “If I suffocate in one more layer, I’m sending my ghost to haunt the stylist.”

“Your ghost would still ask for powder,” Hana muttered, reaching for her earrings.

“Correction: my ghost would be radiant. Can’t let the tabloids down.”

The laughter softened the room until another voice slid through, sharp enough to cut.

“You could try suffocating less and preparing more.”

Kaimin. By the mirror, eyes catching V’s in the reflection.

V’s smirk sharpened, though it felt brittle even to himself. “Oh? I thought I did fine. Even threw in a punchline or two for free.”

“That wasn’t comedy.”

“No?” V pushed off the counter, tilting his head with mock ease. “Seemed to land. Maybe you’re just a tough audience to please.”

“Am I?” Kaimin asked, tone measured but too steady to be anything but personal.

The words snagged like glass under skin. Still, V chuckled, light and airy, as if it rolled right off him. “Of course, you are Kaimin. Don't pretend that you don't know.”

The air thickened, not enough for anyone else to name it, but enough for V to feel the ground tilt beneath him.

Perfect. This was how they were before their entanglement. And everything felt aligned now. He had his life. The cameras, the scripts, the applause. Kaimin had his. The empire, the inheritance, the endless crown of expectation. They're heavenly planets, bound by gravity, but never meant to collide because if they did, everything would collapse. But despite constantly reminding himself that, his chest still tightened every time Kaimin’s eyes cut through him like they could see straight past the mask.

“Boys, please,” Hana sang, rolling her eyes. “Save it for the encore.”

Han groaned. “More like a cage match.”

V forced a grin, but stopped short when he caught Suhyun watching him. Watching them. She wasn’t laughing. Not even pretending to look away. Just quietly observing, as though the air between him and Kaimin was louder than any of their words.

The stare prickled beneath his skin.

Then Hana noticed too, brows arching at Suhyun. “What are you staring for, Su?”

Suhyun blinked, looking startled but then managed a chuckle. “Nothing. Just… they really do argue like an old married couple, don’t they?”

Laughter rippled again. Han’s groan, Hana’s clap, even Soojin’s soft chuckle. V laughed too, bright and careless, willing it to drown out the way Suhyun’s words lodged in his chest.

Because if he let himself think about it. If he admitted even for a second that the distance wasn’t enough, he wasn’t sure his world, or Kaimin’s, would survive the collapse.

The party was for the launch of a new luxury make-up line, the passion project of a famous actress V had once played opposite. The venue gleamed—mirrored walls, crystal chandeliers, soft ambient music strung tight beneath the buzz of cameras and chatter. V had been told, explicitly, to attend. “You’re invited,” his manager had said, “visibility opens up opportunities.”

He moved like he always did at these things—light on his feet, every smile timed just right, every laugh echoing just enough to seem natural. Of course, it's different when it camw to LMC parties. His heart felt like he belonged there. Here, everything seemed curated and insubstantial. Co-stars drifted by with glasses of champagne, stylists air-kissed him mid-step, reporters asked harmless questions about upcoming shoots.

Everything's manageable.

Until he saw him.

The world tilted—not from champagne, but from the sharp intrusion of something that did not belong here.

Standing at the far end of the hall, black suit, posture straighter than the marble pillars flanking him. He wasn’t mingling, not the way everyone else was. His presence carved through the room’s frivolity like a blade, his gaze sweeping once, precise, before landing—inevitably—on V.

V froze. His first instinct was to leave. He could vanish, blame it on an early call tomorrow, slip into the night where Kaimin’s gravity couldn’t reach him.

But then a co-star tugged at his sleeve, laughing, “Come on, V, you have to meet the brand’s creative director!” and suddenly he was being pulled forward, deeper into the crowd, closer to where Kaimin lingered like a shadow out of place.

He hated how aware he became of it—every step shrinking the distance, every heartbeat louder than the music.

When the chance finally broke—when he managed to excuse himself from polite introductions—he turned a corner near the champagne table only to nearly collide with him.

V almost turned on his heel. Nearly fled. Every inch of his body was screaming to escape. Instead, he forced his body to move forward, glass in hand, grin slipping into place like armor.

“Kaimin.” His own voice sounded strained, though he smoothed it quickly into something lighter. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Lost, are we? This isn’t exactly your kind of battlefield.”

Kaimin’s gaze didn’t waver. Up close, his presence was worse—sharper, heavier, the noise of the party muffled against the weight of those eyes. “Business.” His tone was cool, even, but not dismissive.

“So the Emperor leaves his tower for a make-up launch. That’s a headline worth printing.”

“This isn’t your stage, V.”

The words hit like a crack across his mask. Too pointed, too true. V laughed too quickly, lifting his glass in a mock toast, greeting a pair of co-stars as they passed by, anything to keep from folding under that gaze. “Well, you just seemed out of place. This party is for actors and artists to mingle, network, doing the whole champagne-and-smiles routine.”

V didn't even know what he was trying to say. The unexpected appearance of Kaimin made him stumble for words. He was clearly unprepared for tonight.

Kaimin didn’t answer. Not right away. He only watched him, before saying, evenly, “you’re really good at your craft.”

The glass wavered in V’s hand. His grin faltered. “What?”

“At pretending you’re something you’re not.”

The air seemed to thicken. V’s throat tightened, and for a second he couldn’t think of anything clever. He swallowed hard, the movement sharp against his throat, and forced a laugh that scraped like broken glass. “Everyone pretends, Kaimin. Not sure what you're getting at.”

He tried to brush it off with another grin, another wave at someone across the room. But his hand trembled against the crystal stem.

Then came the question. So simple it gutted him.

“Was it fun, V?”

The smile nearly collapsed off his face. His chest caved with the weight of it, because he knew what Kaimin meant. Not tonight. Not about champagne or flashes of cameras.

His first attempt at an answer stuck in his throat. He coughed it out. “Fun? Of course. I always do. Isn’t that the point of these things? To have fun?”

The lie burned. He could hear how false it sounded, but he pushed on, desperate, babbling as though words could plaster over the fracture. “I mean. You’d hate it. All this noise, all this surface level shine. But me? I’ve gotten used to it. It’s fun, like you said. That’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”

He hated how his voice cracked at the edges, hated the way his lungs strained for air as though Kaimin’s eyes had stripped him bare.

“I hope you had fun,” Kaimin said at last. “At least then I’d know that’s what it was. Having fun.”

V’s grip on his glass tightened until he thought it might shatter. His chest surged with words he almost said—It wasn’t just fun, it was you, it was everything, don’t you know that?—but his throat locked around them.

The silence between them burned.

And then—

“Kaimin!”

A woman’s voice. Bright, effortless, drawing the attention of the room. She stepped up beside Kaimin, smiling between them before her hand brushed Kaimin’s arm. V was sure Kaimin would look at the hand that touched him with a sharp glare like he always did, but he didn't react. “You promised me a moment. My friends been wanting me to introduce them to you,” she said smoothly, her gaze flicking politely to V. “If you’ll excuse us, V.”

V’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Kaimin didn’t glance back. He followed her into the crowd until his presence was swallowed by the sea of glittering laughter and clinking glasses as if he had never been there at all.

V stood frozen, champagne glass trembling in his hand, his mask cracked so wide he was afraid someone else in the crowd might see through it. He forced himself to lift it again, to sip, to smile, but his throat burned.

The music swelled, the party carried on.

And he was left with the echo of that question, lodged deep enough to hurt with every breath.