The actress’s name was Lena Cho. She was radiant in a way that felt manufactured and natural all at once, a face the camera loved. She moved with the easy poise of someone who had grown up with attention.
She caught V’s eye at a charity gala holding a glass of champagne that's tilted at just the right angle. When she leaned in and asked if he wanted to join her for dinner sometime, it sounded casual. V agreed because it was expected. Saying no would’ve drawn more questions than he wanted to answer.
The restaurant’s glow wrapped around them: crystal glasses, hushed conversations, the glint of chandeliers over velvet booths. Lena was exquisite in ivory silk, her dark hair swept into waves that framed her face like it belonged on a billboard. Heads turned when she walked in and they turned again when they saw who accompanied her.
V slid into the seat across from her. His every movement smooth. He wore his brightness like second skin.
“You’re not what I expected,” Lena said after the first glass of wine, studying him over the rim.
He raised a brow teasingly. “And what were you expecting?”
She leaned in. Her lips curving into an easy smile. “Distant and a bit cocky. You know how it is. When someone looks like that”—her gaze flicked over him with a raised brow—“people assume you’re untouchable.”
V laughed. “So my face betrayed me?”
“Exactly,” she muttered. “But you’re… lively and lovely. It’s almost unfair.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” He flashed a grin that made her laugh out loud.
The conversation was effortless. He told stories that had her leaning forward. He listened to her with the kind of focus that made her feel singular. To anyone watching, it looked like sparks were flying. Paparazzi caught the way her hand brushed his arm as they left and the way he leaned down to say something that made her smile too wide.
The tabloids didn’t hesitate. By morning, the rumors of “Lena Cho and V’s secret dinner” were already splashed across headlines with grainy photos blurred by flashbulbs.
And yet, beneath the sparkle, V felt the hollowness. He was good at this—too good. He knew how to shine, how to play the golden boy, how to keep the surface flawless. But as he scrolled through the photos online, his reflection ghosting over the screen, he thought of Kaimin. Of how Kaimin never needed him to be charming. How silence between them had been louder and more honest than any laughter across a glittering table.
He leaned back on his couch. He thought of the irony. He had left home so young determined to be true to himself. And now? He lived in a world built on expectations and performance where even happiness was something he rehearsed.
The theater was buzzing, velvet ropes guiding photographers and fans, the air thick with perfume and anticipation. V arrived with the usual flare in a sharp suit with a tie loose just enough to look effortless. Flashes lit him up like lightning with every smile he offered the cameras landed exactly where it should.
Inside, the hum softened into a curated elegance. He spotted Lena Cho near the entrance to the screening hall, gown a deep emerald that made her skin glow under the lights. She was surrounded by producers and critics, laughing at something one of them said, her posture relaxed.
When her gaze found him, her lips curved slow. “You again,” she said when he walked over, her voice lilting with amusement.
“Terrible coincidence,” he returned with an easy grin, though his chest felt tight for reasons he didn’t examine. “I was dragged here by a colleague.”
“Dragged?” she teased. “Not to congratulate me personally?”
“I like my peace too much,” he said playfully while tilting his head. “But I’ll make an exception. I’m sure the film is great.”
She glanced at him as though weighing something, then leaned a little closer. “You know, after that dinner, people keep asking me what you’re really like. If you’re as bright as you appear to be during interviews or as cold as you look in pictures.”
“And what did you tell them?” His smile widened but his eyes searched hers.
“Dangerous,” she said simply. “Dangerous in a good way for you but bad for the people around you.”
He chuckled, the sound smooth and golden. “You’re starting to sound like my PR.”
She laughed softly, brushing his arm with her hand as if to steady the moment. “No, your PR wishes they could package you like that. It’s just… you don’t seem real sometimes.”
V’s grin stayed bright but in his chest, the words echoed strangely. Unreal. That was what his whole life had become, wasn’t it? Every red carpet, every shoot, every dinner. A performance so polished that sometimes he wondered if even he believed it anymore.
The lights dimmed, and they slipped into their seats. The film began, laughter and applause filling the room at all the right beats. Lena leaned in once, whispering a sharp joke in his ear. He laughed louder than he meant to, smile dazzling enough for the people watching nearby.
But the truth slipped in anyway—he couldn’t stop the comparisons. Lena’s hand brushing his sleeve felt featherlight and charming. A move designed for effect. Kaimin’s hand, when it had rested on his jaw or at his nape, had been weight. One was a gesture for the cameras; the other had been for him alone.
Lena found him later at the after-party, away from the crowd, perched near the balcony with a glass in hand. The city lights glittered behind him, outlining his profile like something carved out of glass.
“You disappear fast,” she said, sliding into the space beside him.
He turned with that practiced smile. “Just giving the room a chance to miss me.”
She laughed, though her gaze lingered longer than before. “You know, I can’t figure you out. You’re bright, charming, everyone loves you… but sometimes it feels like you’re only lending us a piece of yourself. Like the real part is locked away somewhere.”
“That sounds dramatic,” V replied lightly, swirling his drink. “I promise, what you see is what you get.”
“Mm.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Maybe. Or maybe you’ve just mastered making people believe it.”
He grinned as though her words hadn’t hit home. But inside, her observation lodged sharp. If only you knew, Lena. If only you saw how little of me I keep left for myself.
She touched his wrist lightly. “Still… I like being around you. Even if I don’t get the full story.”
Her sincerity caught him off guard. For a moment, he almost wanted to let her in, to see what she’d say if he pulled up the curtains. But the thought of exposing all that jaggedness, all that chaos, stopped him cold.
Instead, he leaned back. His smile never disappeared. “Then maybe we should give people more to talk about.”
Her laugh rang out and just like that, the rumors deepened.
It wasn’t just the screening.
Two weeks later, Lena was at a fashion gala he attended—standing just a few feet away on the carpet, her gown catching the flashbulbs like fire. Their eyes met, and instinctively, she reached for his arm when reporters called their names together. The headlines the next morning made it official: Lena Cho & V: The Industry’s Brightest Pair?
He laughed about it with his team, brushed it off in interviews, smiled wide when asked. But every time, Lena was right there so effortlessly open it almost made him envy her.
At a brand event weeks later, she slipped beside him again during a photoshoot, her hand brushing his as if testing a boundary. A model he worked from before passed by, offered V a playful wink, drawing whispers from the stylists.
“You attract attention without even trying,” Lena murmured under her breath. Her lips tilted in amusement.
“That’s the job,” V replied casually.
For the world, V was the golden boy. And beside him, Lena shone too, their images dovetailing so perfectly it almost looked real.
But he knew better.
Every rumor, photograph, and staged smile only deepened the irony that he had wanted to be true to himself. Yet somewhere along the way, he had become a man made of mirrors, giving everyone the reflection they wanted while burying the truth where no one could reach it.
And the cruelest part? He played the role so well that sometimes even he couldn’t tell where the act ended.
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