Chapter 89 – The Woman Who Didn't Flinch
POV: Jaeheon Kang
It was supposed to be a simple photoshoot.
Promotional images for AUREUS' next global comeback. A luxury brand tie-in. Paris backdrop. Rooftop dusk.
The photographer was famous. Young. Bold. Known for her "artistic" lens. But that wasn't what set Jaeheon on edge.
It was the way she looked at him.
Like he wasn't a person. Like he was something she wanted to own, conquer, devour.
She dismissed the stylists. Closed the curtains. Said she needed "natural tension."
He didn't speak. He never did unless it was necessary.
"Why do you always look so untouchable?" she asked, camera clicking. "That's not sexy, you know. The world loves men who show desire."
He didn't answer.
She tilted her head. "Or maybe… you just need a reason."
Ten minutes later, she dropped the camera.
And her coat.
And then everything else.
Jaeheon didn't blink.
She stood there, bare skin under the studio lights, confident and shameless. She walked toward him slowly, deliberately, as if her nudity alone could undo him.
"It's okay," she whispered, running a finger up his chest, over his collarbone. "I won't tell anyone. You're tense. I can help."
He stepped back.
Not hurriedly. Not with panic. But with quiet finality.
"Get dressed," he said coldly.
She laughed. "Are you really turning this down? Do you know how many men—?"
"I'm not 'men.'" His voice was ice. "And I don't need help."
She scoffed. "Why? Because of that mystery woman? The one you keep writing songs for? The one who doesn't even want you?"
He didn't respond.
His face gave nothing away, but his jaw tensed just slightly.
She noticed. Smiled.
Hit a nerve.
"She's not here," the photographer murmured, circling him like a predator. "I am. Isn't that enough for a man like you?"
He looked down at her. Eyes empty. Voice flat.
"You don't even make the list."
She flinched.
It was the kind of rejection that burned because it wasn't emotional—it was factual. Objective.
Like she was a line of code that failed to run.
Later that night, he sat alone in his hotel suite.
He could have reported her.
He didn't.
He could have told the members.
He wouldn't.
Instead, he sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the Paris lights blur against the glass.
And he waited.
For a text.
For a call.
For anything.
Something to prove she cared.
But Anastasia Celeste Volkov was silent.
Of course she was.
Because she didn't care.
Not enough.
Not yet.
Maybe never.