← Back to overview

Eugh

The Crimson Stage

The "Golden Harmony" special was less of a concert and more of a battlefield. The air in the backstage corridors was thick with the scent of hairspray, expensive perfume, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline. Staff members scurried past with headsets and clipboards, their movements frantic as the live broadcast countdown ticked toward zero.

Stella stood before the full-length mirror in her private dressing room, her reflection a stranger. Her stylists had gone for a "dark siren" aesthetic—a corset of midnight-blue leather, sheer lace sleeves, and boots that climbed past her knees. Her hair was slicked back, emphasizing the sharp, predatory line of her eyeliner.

A soft knock at the door preceded her manager’s entrance. "Five minutes, Stella. The opening VCR is playing now. Cortis is already in the wings."

Stella nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wasn't nervous about the performance; she could do the choreography in her sleep. She was nervous about the proximity. Performing on the same stage as Martin while their skin still burned from the previous night was a dangerous game of chicken.

As she stepped out into the hallway, she saw him. The members of Cortis were lined up on the left side of the stage entrance, dressed in matching white and silver uniforms that made them look like celestial princes. Martin stood at the front, his hands tucked into his pockets. The white silk of his shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of the silver chain she had gripped so tightly just hours ago.

He didn't look at her at first. He was listening to his leader’s notes, nodding with a stoic expression. But as Stella approached, his head turned. His gaze swept over her outfit, his eyes darkening as they lingered on the curve of her waist and the exposed skin of her shoulders.

"H2H, you're on the right," a stage director barked.

Stella led her group past them. As she brushed by Martin, the space was too narrow to avoid contact. Her shoulder grazed his chest, and for a fleeting second, the world narrowed down to the scent of woodsmoke.

"Don't trip on that lace, Stella," Martin murmured, his voice so low it was meant only for her. "It would be a shame to ruin such a... revealing look."

Stella didn't miss a beat. She stopped, turning her head just enough to meet his eyes. "Worry about your own footwork, Martin. I’d hate for you to lose your 'Golden Boy' status because you were too busy looking at my legs."

She saw his jaw tighten, a muscle leaping in his cheek. Satisfied, she moved to her position.

The lights dimmed, the roar of thirty thousand fans erupting like a physical wave. The music started—a heavy, bass-driven remix of their rival hits. The concept of the special stage was a "Dance Battle." H2H and Cortis would trade verses, weaving in and out of each other’s formations until a final, joint explosion of choreography.

When the first beat dropped, Stella transformed. She was a blur of precision and aggression, every movement designed to command attention. She knew exactly where Martin was at all times. He was a shadow on the periphery, his presence a constant pressure against her back.

During the second chorus, the two groups merged. This was the moment the fans had been waiting for—the "rivalry" personified. Stella found herself center stage, flanked by Martin. They had to perform a synchronized sequence that required them to mirror each other’s movements.

As they moved, Martin’s energy was suffocating. He wasn't just dancing; he was dominating the space. Every time their hands neared each other, she felt the static of his touch. During a floor move, he leaned over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. For a split second, his eyes locked onto hers—raw, hungry, and dangerously possessive. It wasn't the look of a rival. It was the look of a man who wanted to drag her off the stage and reclaim her in front of the world.

The performance ended in a pyrotechnic explosion, both groups frozen in a final pose. Stella was breathing hard, her chest heaving. Martin was inches away, his hand resting on her hip as part of the choreographed finale. His fingers dug into the leather of her corset, a silent, bruising reminder of his claim.

The moment the lights went black, the professional facade cracked.

As they filed off stage, the adrenaline was still screaming through Stella’s veins. She headed toward the quick-change area, but a hand clamped around her wrist, pulling her into a narrow alcove behind a stack of equipment crates.

"What do you think you're doing?" Stella hissed, though she didn't pull away.

Martin pinned her against the cold metal of a flight case, his face inches from hers. He was sweating, his hair damp and messy, looking nothing like the polished idol the cameras had just captured. "You did that on purpose."

"Did what? My job?"

"That move in the second chorus," he growled, his voice vibrating in his chest. "You added that hip roll. That wasn't in the rehearsal."

Stella smirked, her confidence surging. "I felt inspired. Did it bother you, Martin? I thought you were a professional."

"I am a professional," he said, his hand sliding up from her wrist to grip the back of her neck. "But I’m also a man who spent all night marking that skin, only for you to flaunt it in front of thirty thousand people and a live broadcast."

"You’re jealous again," she whispered, her heart racing. "It’s becoming a habit."

"I’m not jealous of the fans, Stella. I’m jealous of the fact that I have to stand three feet away from you and pretend I don't know exactly how you sound when you're coming."

Stella’s breath hitched. The boldness of his words in the middle of a crowded stadium was intoxicating. "Someone will hear you."

"Let them," he muttered, though he lowered his voice even further. "I saw J-Min watching you from the artist lounge. He didn't take his eyes off you for the entire set."

"Is that why you gripped my hip so hard at the end? To mark your territory?"

"I shouldn't have to mark it," Martin said, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. "You should know where you belong."

Before she could respond, his mouth was on hers. It wasn't the slow, lingering kiss from the morning. This was frantic and desperate, fueled by the lingering high of the performance and the stifling heat of the backstage area. Stella wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her fingers tangling in his damp hair.

The sound of footsteps and muffled laughter echoed nearby. A group of dancers was walking past the alcove. Stella froze, her heart leaping into her throat, but Martin didn't pull away. He merely shifted his body to shield her completely from view, his back acting as a barrier against the world.

When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless.

"You’re insane," Stella whispered, her eyes wide. "If we get caught—"

"We won't," Martin interrupted, his gaze intense. "But I’m not done with you. This 'rivalry' bit is exhausting. I’m tired of watching other men think they have a chance."

"They don't," she said, her voice softening. "You know they don't."

"I need to hear it," he demanded. "Tell me again."

Stella reached out, straightening the collar of his white shirt, her fingers lingering on the skin of his throat. "I’m here, aren't I? I’m not in J-Min’s dressing room. I’m not looking at anyone else on that stage. It’s always been you, Martin. Even when I hated you, it was only you."

The tension in his shoulders finally dissipated. He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a brief moment of peace amidst the chaos. "I hate that you have this much power over me."

"Good," she teased. "It keeps you humble."

A sharp whistle blew nearby—the stage manager calling for the final curtain call where all artists would gather on stage to wave goodbye.

"We have to go," Stella said, pushing gently against his chest.

Martin sighed, stepping back and smoothing his hair. He looked back at her, the "Golden Boy" mask sliding back into place, but his eyes remained dark. "Tonight. My place. And Stella?"

"Yes?"

"Wear that blue leather. I want to take it off you slowly."

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked out of the alcove, blending seamlessly back into the flow of idols heading toward the stage.

Stella lingered for a second, pressing her cool hands to her flushed cheeks. She checked her reflection in the polished metal of a crate, fixing her lipstick with a trembling finger. When she finally stepped out, she saw J-Min standing near the stage entrance. He smiled at her, stepping forward as if to strike up a conversation.

"Stella! That was an amazing performance. You really stole the show," the rookie said, his eyes bright with admiration.

"Thanks, J-Min," Stella said, her tone polite but clipped.

"I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink after the wrap party? A few of us are heading to—"

"I’m busy," she interrupted, not unkindly, but with a finality that left no room for argument.

"Oh. Another time then?"

"Actually, I don't think so," Stella said, her eyes drifting toward the stage where Martin was already standing, looking back at her with a subtle, knowing smirk. "I have a lot of work to do. Rivalry is a full-time job, you know?"

She walked past the stunned rookie without a second glance.

The final curtain call was a blur of streamers, confetti, and deafening cheers. As the idols stood in a long line at the edge of the stage, waving to the fans, Stella found herself standing a few groups away from Cortis.

The cameras were panned out, capturing the grand scale of the event. Under the cover of the falling glitter and the chaotic waving of hands, Martin caught her eye. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He simply raised his hand to his neck, slowly adjusting his silver chain in a gesture that was purely, vibrantly possessive.

Stella felt a shiver race down her spine. She looked away, a small, secret smile playing on her lips as she waved to the fans in the front row.

The world saw two rivals at the peak of their careers, fighting for dominance in an industry that demanded perfection. They saw the cold glares and the sharp tongues. They saw the competition.

But as the house lights came up and the fans began to spill out into the night, Stella knew better. The rivalry was just the packaging. The real story was written in the bruises hidden by lace, the whispered confessions in the dark, and the way her heart beat in sync with a man who was supposed to be her greatest enemy.

She wasn't just a member of H2H. She wasn't just a rival.

She was his. And tonight, she was going to remind him that he was hers, too—every arrogant, jealous, beautiful inch of him.