The next morning, Seoul woke to chaos online.
Trending on every feed were two blurry airport photos:
> “Idol Sangwoo caught holding a woman’s hand?”
“Mystery girl sparks dating rumors!”
Tara didn’t even know she was famous—for the wrong reason—until her new colleague at the fashion company gasped, showing her a phone screen.
“Isn’t this… you?”
The photo was grainy but unmistakable. Her pale pink shirt, her messy bun, Sangwoo’s hand catching her wrist—frozen in the middle of that crowded airport.
“I— I don’t even know him,” Tara stammered, mortified.
Her coworker gave a low whistle. “Lucky girl or doomed one. His fans are wild. You should hide.”
Tara laughed nervously, but her heart thudded hard enough to hurt. By lunch, her social media was flooded with messages—some curious, some cruel. She shut her phone off, wishing she could disappear.
Meanwhile, on the top floor of a tall glass building, Sangwoo sat with his manager.
“Who leaked this?” his voice was quiet but carried weight.
“Probably a fan camera. It’s spreading too fast. We can deny it, say she’s just a staff member.”
Sangwoo’s jaw tightened. “No.”
His manager blinked. “No?”
“She’s not staff. Don’t lie.”
“Then what is she, Sangwoo?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes had gone distant, dark. The manager sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll handle it. Just keep your distance for a while, okay? We don’t need another scandal.”
But Sangwoo wasn’t listening. Keep your distance?
How could he, when that accidental moment had branded itself under his skin?
Three nights later, he found himself in disguise—hoodie, mask, cap—walking through a quiet street near the Han River. He told himself he wasn’t following anyone, yet somehow his steps stopped near the building he had already memorized.
Through the window of a small studio, Tara sat alone, sketching designs on her tablet. The soft glow from the screen brushed against her face, calm and focused.
She didn’t look like someone who wanted fame. She looked like peace—something he hadn’t felt in years.
But he didn’t go in. He just watched from the shadows, breath slow, eyes tracing the shape of her world.
When his phone buzzed, he ignored it. Only when she stood, turning off the light, did he finally move.
This is madness, he thought. She’s just a girl.
Yet every instinct screamed otherwise—like some part of him already belonged to her.
The next morning, Tara received a delivery: a small box tied with a silk ribbon, no sender name.
Inside was a white rose, fresh and cold, with a note that read in delicate handwriting:
> You dropped this at the airport.
Her breath hitched. She hadn’t dropped any flower—but she knew who might have sent it.
She looked out the window again, half expecting a car parked below. There was nothing. Only the wind moving through autumn leaves.
Still, something deep inside whispered she was being watched—not in fear, but in strange, forbidden awareness.
Across town, Sangwoo sat on the edge of his hotel bed, scrolling through her photo once more—the one he shouldn’t have saved. The scandal had made his company furious, but he couldn’t bring himself to delete it.
He whispered her name like a confession.
“Tara…”
It sounded dangerous. Addictive.
The idol the world adored was slowly unraveling—and only one girl didn’t know she held the thread.
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