The day began in a blur of professional tension. Ms. Kim had laid out an impossibly demanding schedule: a morning show appearance, a quick luncheon with producers, and a major interview with a global fashion magazine.
Bok Soo was in his element. On camera, he was flawless—witty, charming, and effortlessly cool. I was his shadow, constantly organizing notes, managing hydration, and enduring the occasional, icy command.
But the moment we were in the elevator, the mask would crack.
We were crammed into a tiny service elevator at the TV studio, along with two burly security guards. Bok Soo was facing the door, looking completely detached. I stood behind him, managing a stack of heavy files.
The moment the doors closed, his hand shot back, reaching for me without looking. His fingers found the small of my back, right where my professional blazer ended, and pressed down—a firm, possessive claim.
His hand remained there for the entire fifteen-second ride, an illicit touch that sent a jolt of heat through my body. The audacity of his public intimacy was staggering. He was using the crowd, the security, and the small space to hide his secret dependency.
The luncheon with the producers was chaotic. Flashbulbs popped outside the restaurant, and the entire room was thick with industry pressure. Bok Soo was struggling. I saw the signs: the rapid blinking, the subtle, forced smile that didn't reach his eyes. The New York pressure was getting to him.
Ms. Kim signaled to me, her eyes sharp: Fix him.
Bok Soo excused himself to the restroom. I followed him instantly.
The restroom was empty, sleek black marble, and terrifyingly silent. Bok Soo splashed cold water on his face, his breathing uneven.
"I need five minutes, Peter Bella," he muttered, his voice strained. "The crowd is too much. They're too loud."
"I know," I replied, grabbing a hand towel for him. "Breathe. You have a ten-minute break before the interview. Focus on the water."
He took the towel, but instead of drying his face, he threw it onto the counter. He reached out and grabbed my wrists, pulling me up against the cool marble counter with sudden force.
"I don't need breathing exercises!" he growled, the pressure and anxiety fueling his anger. "I need you! I need the quiet, the darkness, the truth."
He didn't care about the risk; his anxiety was overriding his control. He pressed his hips against mine, his body hard and demanding.
"We can't," I choked out, my voice tight with fear and want. "Someone will come in. The security—"
"No one is coming," he whispered fiercely, his eyes blazing with a mix of fear and lust. He lowered his head, not for a kiss, but to bury his face into the sensitive curve of my shoulder, the same spot where his lips had rested in the jet. "Just hold me, Peter Bella. Hold the lie."
His intense physical presence—the hard muscle of his chest, the demanding pressure of his body—was the only anchor that mattered to him. I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, holding him tightly, hiding his anxious face from the mirror.
It was a feverish, illicit moment of total surrender. I was supporting his emotional breakdown while enduring the agonizing pressure of his physical desire.
He clung to me for a long, agonizing minute. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was steady. The panic was gone, replaced by a devastating intensity.
He looked down at my mouth, his eyes dark with the memory of the kiss. He lifted his hand and ran his thumb over my lower lip—a silent, possessive claim.
"You smell like calm," he murmured, his voice low and ragged. He released me abruptly, his cold, professional mask snapping back into place.
He adjusted his suit, his face utterly unreadable. "Five minutes left. Get the notes ready."
He had used me, relied on me, and then dismissed me, all within the confines of a public restroom. I was his indispensable secret, and the burden of that knowledge was growing heavier—and more addictive—by the hour.