Title: The Audience of One
I returned to the Royal Palace Hotel exactly thirty minutes later, smelling of good coffee and armed with a cold resolve. I found Kang Bok Soo in the suite's private dining room, surrounded by his management team, smoothly discussing his rescheduled appearance.
He didn't look at me until everyone else had left. The moment the door clicked shut, his easy smile vanished, replaced by the tense exhaustion I had seen the night before.
"The team is gone," he stated, walking toward the bedroom door. "Ms. Kim has the schedule. We are off the clock until tomorrow afternoon." He stopped at the door, turning to look at me, his gaze heavy and possessive. "You, however, are not."
I gripped my small bag tighter. "What do you require, Mr. Kang?"
"My next project is a drama. I have a difficult scene to prepare," he said, walking into the bedroom. "It's a confrontation. A confession of deep, hidden pain." He pointed to a small script lying on the large bed. "I need a scene partner who understands real despair."
My throat went dry. He was using the secret I had shared with him—my financial desperation, my self-loathing, the tears over my mother—as a tool. It was cruel, and yet, it was the most honest thing he had ever asked of me.
"Read the dialogue for the other character," he commanded. "No acting. Just read the words. I need your reaction to be real."
I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the rich weight of the silk duvet beneath my cheap jeans. The scene was intense. The other character, "Ji-hoon," was confessing his failure to protect the person he loved, his voice full of self-hatred.
I started reading my lines—the simple, accusatory responses of the person being confessed to.
Kang Bok Soo began the scene. His arrogance vanished instantly. He became the character. He wasn't just performing; he was channeling his own anxiety, his own hidden pressure.
His eyes, usually cold and challenging, were suddenly wide with genuine fear and pain. The deep, rolling words of the confession poured out, reflecting the emotional chaos I had witnessed during his panic attack. He walked toward me slowly, steadily, just like he had in the agency hallway, but this time, the tension was heartbreak, not anger.
"I tried to build the perfect world for you," he recited, his voice cracking, "but my hands were too dirty. I was always too weak, too afraid. I failed the one person who deserved happiness."
His words hit me like a physical blow. He wasn't just reading the script; he was speaking to me. He was referencing the life he saved, the loan he covered, and his shame at having needed to be saved himself last night.
My eyes welled up instantly, my own pain overwhelming the fictional dialogue.
"You look at me like I'm a god," he whispered, stepping close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, his voice dropping to that husky, intimate rumble. He reached out and cupped the back of my neck, his thumb resting gently on my pulse point. "But you've seen the cost of my perfection, haven't you, Peter Bella?"
My breath hitched. This was no longer acting. This was a confession.
"You look at me and you know I need this—" he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips, his thumb pressing lightly into my skin, "—just as much as you needed that money."
His intense stare and the sudden proximity were overwhelming. My entire body surged with that familiar, forbidden heat. I knew this was his non-verbal way of demanding a response, of forcing our emotional intimacy to the surface. He was demanding that I fall for the man he truly was.
I pulled on my strength, the resolve I had forged in the coffee shop. I reached up and carefully gripped his wrist, pulling his hand away from my neck.
"Your confession was beautiful, Mr. Kang," I said, my voice shaking but firm. "It was honest. But the character you're playing is weak."
His eyes widened, startled by my defiance.
"You are not weak," I stated, my own voice now strong. "You are generous and powerful. You saved my family. Now, finish the scene. The script says the person you failed forgives you. Show me the relief."
I had turned his cruel test into a challenge.
He stared at me, his eyes burning with an unreadable mix of fury and intense fascination. Then, a slow, predatory smile—not arrogant, but genuine and delighted—curved his lips. He understood. I was fighting back, and he found it irresistible.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, and the relief—the genuine, raw relief of letting his secret out—flooded his face.
"Perfect," he sighed, the single word meant for the scene, but also for me. He looked at the script. "Scene over."
He stepped away, walking to the far side of the room. The moment of intimacy was broken, but the connection was permanent.
"You will stay in the suite tonight," he commanded, his back to me. "I don't need another panic attack. You are my anchor. Sleep on the sofa. And Peter Bella?"
He turned just his head, his eyes catching mine. "Don't forget that I am still the villain in your story."