The grand front door slammed against the gilded frame with the force of a cannon blast, rattling the crystal chandelier overhead. Celeste stormed into the vast drawing room, her designer bag whipping across the velvet settee like a defiant banner.
"Gosh, it was all your fault!" she snapped, every word laced with accusation and frustration, her voice echoing off the marble floors.
Ronnie straightened in the armchair, chest heaving. "My fault, you say? It was because of your constant talking that I got distracted!" His jaw clenched as he stood, fury and confusion warring in his gaze.
"Can the both of you be quiet already?" K.D. demanded from the corner, rubbing his temples as if to stave off the headache rising behind his eyes. His tone was sharp—an undercurrent of exhaustion masked by authority.
Celeste rolled her eyes so dramatically it was nearly comical, but the tight knot in her stomach betrayed her panic. "It's Ronnie's fault."
"My fault? You're always—" Ronnie began, but his words strangled in his throat.
A hush swept the room as the faint, measured click of footsteps descended the grand staircase.
Jimin.
He appeared halfway down the stairs, silhouette carved by the morning light. Dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans, he wore confidence-like armor. Every head turned; even the arguing siblings fell silent.
"What's happening here?" His voice was calm—too calm—like a placid sea hiding a storm beneath.
Celeste forgot her indignation in an instant. She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around his waist in a desperate hug. "I've missed you so much, brother," she whispered, burying her face in his chest, seeking the comfort she'd craved for weeks.
Jimin's chuckle was soft, almost melancholy. "It was just a month you were away," he murmured, his hands resting gently on her shoulders, betraying the relief he felt.
Her arms tightened. "It still didn't matter," she insisted, lifting her head to meet his eyes, searching for reassurance.
Jimin smiled then, but it lingered in his eyes—a flicker of sadness. "I missed you too." His words were sincere, a rare truth in their world of half-spoken lies.
Ronnie cleared his throat, stepping forward like a man who'd just walked through fire. "I heard what happened. Are you okay?" His voice shook with concern and guilt, as though he blamed himself for Jimin's pain.
Jimin's lips curved into a sly smile. "What do you think?" he answered, his tone edged with dark amusement.
"I rushed back here thinking you'd lock yourself away, crying your eyes out," Ronnie admitted, head bowed. "But I'm surprised to find you standing—and looking… untouched."
Jimin's gaze sharpened. He straightened, the weight of his next words heavy in the charged air. "I've got everything any woman could ever want," he said quietly, voice drifting like smoke. "Why would I waste my tears on her? She's my past now—and doesn't deserve my tears."
He's right we can't afford to be late, Jimin muttered with a smirk.
Silence thudded in the room as his words landed like a verdict.
Holland, who had been lingering by the doorway, cleared his throat. "All right, we should get moving. I've got a shoot waiting." His attempt at normalcy was thin, but it signaled the painful shift: the moment to leave this tension-soaked stage.
Then he turned, his silhouette slipping into the hall like a shadow reclaiming its shape.
Starlight Modeling — The Arena of Reinvention
The air backstage was electric—an invisible current of anticipation crackling beneath fluorescent lights. Jimin stood at the edge of the dressing area, his reflection fractured by mirror edges, each shard capturing a different facet of his metamorphosis: the confidence in his jaw, the fire in his stare, the silent promise of dominion.
Holland hovered nearby, the tension in his posture betraying a rare flicker of nerves. He cleared his throat. "You feeling nervous?" he asked, voice soft against the hum of activity.
Jimin's eyes didn't waver. He smoothed the crisp hem of his white polo, the fabric cool against his fingertips. "Why would I be nervous? This isn't my first shoot." His tone was casual—too casual, like ice sliding over glass. Yet beneath it, a coiled readiness glinted.
Holland nodded, though his eyes gleamed with awe. "I know, but this is different from the others. Everyone's talking about you."
A slow smile curved Jimin's lips. "Good. Let them talk. The old me is dead. In this new version, I can do anything." His voice held a quiet menace, as though he spoke of power no one could challenge.
Holland folded his arms, admiration, and concern warring in his gaze. "You're incredible."
Jimin's eyes flicked toward the runway entrance. "I can't wait to see their faces."
---
THE RUNWAY FLOOR
The models aligned like soldiers in formation, their gazes flicking toward the entrance as tension thickened. Whispers rose:
> "Is that really Jimin?" "He never entered a 'Hottest Male Idol' competition before…" "Too pretty. He's not rugged enough."
All chatter died as Jimin stepped into view. His stride was deliberate—each step measured, commanding. He wore white baggy jeans, a fitted polo, and a matching jacket that caught the spotlights and refracted them like shards of shattered glass.
Gasps and stares rippled through the crowd. Male models straightened, trying to catch his eye; female models parted like curtains, eyes trailing his form as if seeking an invitation to worship.
Elara's breath caught in her throat. She had always seen him as careless, almost unkempt—like a diamond hidden in coal. Now the diamond was polished to a lethal shine, and her hand trembled as she grabbed the edge of the table for support.
Aldrin's jaw clenched as jealousy ignited inside him. His fist tightened into a white-knuckled knot. How dare his half-brother outshine him so effortlessly?
Holland stood off to the side, an unreadable grin stretching across his face as he watched every expression flicker across the crowd.
The director leaned forward from the judges' table, eyes wide. "Oh my goodness, Jimin... your transformation is astounding." His voice shook with genuine amazement.
Jimin inclined his head once—polite, detached. "Thank you. Let's get to work."
His gaze swept the room and paused on Elara—but he merely scoffed before turning away. The caveat hung like a guillotine: he saw her, but he refused to honor her presence.
An hour later. The backstage area felt strangely hollow after the roar of the cameras and the snap of flashbulbs. The adrenaline had drained from Jimin's veins, leaving him cool, poised—almost untouchable—like an ivory statue in the dim light.
Celeste rushed over, eyes shimmering with excitement. "Jimin, you were excellent, please just marry me," she whined, voice brimming with awe and hope.
Jimin leaned back against a steel wardrobe, arms casually crossed, his posture effortless. He chuckled, the sound low and distant. "Then when would be our wedding?" he asked, tone teasing but distant as if he spoke from behind thick glass.
Celeste's face brightened like a sunrise. "If not—you're my brother I would say tomorrow. Oh my goddess, you look more than handsome," she gushed, pressing a hand to her heart.
"You're something else, Celeste," Jimin muttered, amusement flickering in his eyes as he allowed her brief moment of delusion.
Celeste hesitated, then bent to scoop her bag and phone from the floor. "Give me a few minutes, let me get my things. We'll get going," she said, too breathless to notice the chill in his gaze.
Jimin gave a single nod before striding away down the hallway. He pulled out his phone, thumbs working the screen. The internet was ablaze—his images from the shoot flooded every feed, fan pages multiplying by the second. He watched the numbers climb: likes, shares, comments. Inevitable, they seemed to whisper.
A soft voice from behind cut through his focus. "Babe," Elara called.
He didn't turn. The single word felt like a challenge.
Still, she placed herself directly in his path and waited until he looked up. "What do you want?" he asked, voice flat.
Jimin, I know what I did was wrong, but please, hear me out; I still love you. I…
His jaw tightened. "Why?" he asked, cutting her off, an edge to his words like a blade's whisper.
"Why do you still love me?" he asked again, stepping closer so the distance between them felt electric, charged.
"Elara…" she began, desperation trembling in her voice.
"You know what? Enough, Lara. I don't love you. I regret ever having anything to do with you, so stay the hell away from me," he said, each word coated in finality.
"Elara, you can't do this. I know you still love me," she insisted, tears pooling in her eyes as she reached for his arm.
Jimin's expression darkened. He gripped her wrist gently but firmly, his fingers white with pressure. "Yes, I love you, but…" His voice trailed off, a silent storm crackling in his gaze. "That was then," he muttered.
Elara's lower lip quivered. "Jimin, you're hurting me," she whispered.
He let out a humorless laugh. "Hurting you? You don't deserve to use that word." He released her arm, taking a step back as if distancing himself from a wound.
"I'll warn you, Elara. Stay far away from me," he snapped angrily, tone icy.
Before he could walk away, she grabbed his hand. Jimin froze, his eyes narrowing.
"That hand—remove it before I break it for you," he said, voice low and lethal, as though the threat were a gift wrapped in velvet.
Elara's grip slipped away instantly. "Prove it to me, Jimin. I know you're just doing this because you're hurt, but I promise to be good from now on," she pleaded, voice taut with hope and pain.
Jimin squared his shoulders and raised his voice, earning attention from the gathering staff.
"Attention, everyone," he called out. Conversation ground to a halt, all eyes on him.
"I'm officially announcing my break up with Elara. I'm now a single person, free like a bird. There's no form of relationship between us any longer. You can help me publish that," he said, each syllable a hammer striking cold iron.
Elara stared after him, mouth parted in shock. Never in her wildest hopes had she imagined he'd denounce her so publicly.
Jimin flashed her a last, sharp smirk. "I warned you. I feel nothing for you," he said, then turned on his heel and walked away.
Elara remained rooted in place, confusion, and despair warring in her gaze as the room buzzed with stunned whispers.
The Club
The club's neon lights throbbed like a restless heartbeat, bass pulsing through the floorboards into Queenie's bones. She sat on the edge of the plush leather bench, the stylist's hands moving over her hair and makeup with mechanical precision. But Queenie's mind was anywhere but here.
She stared at the glittering reflection of her own face in the mirror—eyes wide, tear-bright, lips painted in defiance. Every swipe of the brush felt like another reminder that she was selling her freedom for a price. She flexed numb fingers, wondering if she still had the right to hope.
The stylist patted her shoulder. "You're ready," the woman said softly, voice distant through Queenie's fog of desperation.
Queenie nodded, though her throat had gone dry. She rose, smoothing the train of her dress over hips that trembled with fear and resolve.
… … …
BIDDING ROOM
She stepped into the mirrored auction hall and swallowed hard. The room was a sea of hungry eyes and half-hidden smiles. Men in tailored suits and gold chains circled the stage, their gazes appraising her like a prized horse in a show ring.
"Ten thousand dollars!" the first man called out, voice booming.
"Fifteen thousand!" another shouted, bidding shielded by shadows.
Each number sounded like a verdict, hammering nails into her resolve. Queenie's hands floated to her chest as if to hold her heart in place. She prayed in silence, her lips moving without sound: Please, let this end soon. Please let me live.
Mother, why did you abandon me in this cruel life? she thought, bitterness coating her thoughts like acid.
"Thirty thousand dollars, final!" the old man's gravelly voice cut through her spiral, dragging her back to reality.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. The thought of spending a night with that leering stranger made her stomach churn. She wanted to flee—run until the city lights blurred into anonymity. But she was trapped, painted, and primed, with nowhere left to turn.
And then—a new voice sliced through the tension like a dagger.
"Fifty thousand," a man declared, his tone smooth and cold.
Queenie's head snapped up. The room hushed, eyes shifting to the stage entrance as a tall figure stepped forward.
The auction manager stammered, "The bidding is closed, sir—perhaps you could wait for the next—"
But the man ignored him.
"One hundred thousand dollars," he said, every syllable crisp and deliberate. "I want her."
The first bidder's face contorted in fury. "That's not possible! I bought her first!" he roared, slapping a hand on the table.
Queenie's knees wobbled. Without thinking, she darted behind the stranger—Jimin—clutching his crisp white shirt at the chest. Her breath hitched.
"Please don't let them take me away," she murmured, voice shaking so fiercely it threatened to crack.
Jimin's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "I don't plan on letting you go either, angel," he said softly, his eyes stark with the promise of protection.
The manager swallowed hard. "Sir, the previous bid stands—"
"Highest bidder gets the girl," Jimin repeated voice calm steel. He grasped her hand, strong and sure, and led her from the stage.
Murmurs swelled into a stunned hush. The first bidder bellowed in outrage; the shadows of the room seemed to lean in, eager for the fallout.
He led her away.
And in that moment—Queenie didn't know if she'd stepped out of hell…
…or into something far more dangerous.