Eugh
The Echo of the After-Party
The wrap party was a cacophony of clinking glasses and forced laughter, a place where the industry’s elite gathered to celebrate another successful broadcast while secretly calculating their next move on the charts. It was the perfect stage for a performance of a different kind—the performance of indifference.
Stella stood at a high marble table, a glass of sparkling water in her hand. She was surrounded by her groupmates, but her mind was miles away, anchored in a luxury penthouse across the city. She felt the weight of eyes on her and didn't need to look up to know who they belonged to. Martin was standing by the balcony doors, flanked by his members, looking every bit the untouchable prince of K-pop.
"You're doing it again," Minji whispered, nudging Stella’s arm. "That thousand-yard stare. If you're tired, let's just tell the manager we're heading out."
"I'm fine," Stella replied, forcing a smile. "Just a bit of an adrenaline crash."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Minji teased, her eyes darting toward the Cortis table. "Because Martin looks like he’s about to punch a hole through the wall every time J-Min walks past us."
Stella glanced over. Indeed, the rookie from Zenith was hovering nearby again, seemingly gathering the courage to approach her one last time. Martin’s gaze was fixed on the back of J-Min’s head, his expression one of cold, calculated disdain. It was the look he usually reserved for critics who panned his music, not for juniors.
"He's just being protective of the industry's standards," Stella joked, though her heart did a nervous flutter.
"Right. And I’m the Queen of England," Minji snorted. "I’m going to get some of those shrimp skewers. Try not to start a scandal while I’m gone."
As soon as Minji moved away, J-Min seized his chance. He stepped into her space, smelling of too much hairspray and nervous energy. "Stella? I’m sorry to bother you again. I just wanted to say that your solo dance break was the highlight of the night for me. I’ve watched the fancam five times already."
Stella felt a prickle of discomfort. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Martin straighten up, his hand tightening around his drink. "Thank you, J-Min. That’s very kind of you."
"I was serious about that drink," the boy continued, emboldened by her polite response. "Maybe not tonight, but next week? I know a place that’s very private. No paparazzi."
"J-Min, I appreciate the interest, but I don't think—"
"She’s busy next week," a deep, resonant voice interrupted.
Martin had appeared out of nowhere, his presence suddenly looming over them like a storm cloud. He didn't look at J-Min; his eyes were locked on Stella, burning with a possessiveness that was barely contained by the public setting.
J-Min blinked, his face flushing a deep red. "Oh, Sunbaenim! I didn't see you there. I was just—"
"I heard what you were doing," Martin said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. He stepped closer, effectively cutting J-Min out of the conversation and forcing the younger idol to take a step back. "H2H and Cortis have a collaborative recording session all next week. Internal business. You understand, don't you?"
"I... I didn't know," J-Min stammered. "I’m sorry. I didn't mean to overstep."
"Then don't," Martin said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.
J-Min bowed hurriedly, nearly tripping over his own feet as he retreated toward the safety of his own group. Stella waited until he was out of earshot before she turned her glare on Martin.
"Collaborative recording session? Since when?" she demanded, her voice a sharp whisper.
"Since I decided I didn't want him breathing your air," Martin replied, his eyes finally softening as they moved over her face. "You were being too nice to him."
"I was being professional! You, on the other hand, looked like you were about to commit a felony in front of the CEO of Mnet."
Martin leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers as he pretended to reach for a napkin on the table. "I’m tired of being professional, Stella. I’ve spent four hours watching people look at you. I’ve spent two hours watching that kid try to flirt with you. My patience is gone."
"You're making a scene," she hissed, though the heat in her belly told a different story.
"Then let's leave," he countered. "My driver is waiting in the basement. Five minutes. If you aren't there, I’m coming back up here and I’m taking you out over my shoulder. I don't care who sees."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Stella standing there with her heart hammering against her ribs. She knew he wasn't bluffing. Martin was many things—arrogant, brilliant, stubborn—but he was never a liar.
Ten minutes later, Stella was sliding into the back of a black sedan with tinted windows. The interior was cool and smelled of leather and the familiar woodsmoke scent of his cologne. Martin was already there, sitting in the shadows of the far corner.
The moment the door clicked shut and the car pulled away from the curb, he lunged.
He didn't say a word as he pulled her across the seat and into his lap. His mouth found hers in a bruising, hungry kiss that tasted of the whiskey he’d been sipping at the party. Stella groaned, her hands flying to his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath the silk of his shirt.
"You're insane," she gasped when he broke the kiss to trail his lips down her jawline. "We're in a car, Martin! Your driver—"
"The partition is up," he growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear. "And he knows better than to look."
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his hands gripping her waist with a force that promised bruises. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? Standing there in that dress, letting him talk to you? I wanted to burn the whole room down just to get you alone."
"It was just a conversation," Stella said, though her voice was trembling. "He’s a kid, Martin. He’s a fan."
"I don't care if he’s the Dalai Lama," Martin snapped, his eyes flashing. "I don't want him looking at you. I don't want anyone looking at you. I want to lock you in my room and never let you leave."
"You’re so territorial," she whispered, her fingers unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. "It’s almost scary."
"It should be," he said, his voice dropping to a low vibrate. "Because I’m not playing a character anymore, Stella. This isn't for the cameras. This isn't for the charts. This is just me, and I’m losing my mind over you."
He moved his hand to the hem of her dress, sliding it up the length of her thigh. When his fingers met the lace of her stockings, he let out a low, guttural sound. "You wore them. You actually wore them."
"I told you I would," she breathed, arching her back as his hand moved higher. "I wanted to give you something to think about during the party."
"Mission accomplished," he muttered.
He shifted her, pressing her back against the door of the car while he remained seated, his body a heavy, warm weight against hers. The motion of the car was smooth, but every turn made Stella slide against him, the friction of their bodies sending sparks through her nerves.
"Tell me," he commanded, his thumb circling the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. "Tell me who you were thinking about when you were on that stage tonight."
"You," she confessed, her eyes fluttering shut. "I was looking for you in the wings. I wanted you to see everything."
"I saw," he said, his voice thick with desire. "I saw every move. I saw how the light hit your skin. I saw how you looked at the crowd, and I hated every single person who got to see you like that."
He leaned down, his mouth hovering just over hers. "But they don't get this. They don't get to hear you breathe. They don't get to feel how much you want me."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue tangling with hers in a way that made her head spin. His hand found the center of her lace panties, and Stella let out a sharp, broken cry against his lips. She was already slick, her body aching for the release only he could provide.
"Martin... please," she pleaded, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Not here," he whispered, though his fingers continued their torturous rhythm. "I want you in my bed. I want to see every inch of you under the lights. I want to make sure you can't walk tomorrow, let alone dance for anyone else."
The rest of the drive was a blur of heavy breathing and whispered promises. By the time the car pulled into the private garage of his apartment complex, Stella was a trembling mess of unfulfilled need. Martin didn't wait for the driver to open the door. He shoved it open himself, pulling Stella out and toward the elevator.
The moment the elevator doors closed, he had her pinned against the mirrored wall. He didn't waste time with words. He hiked her dress up to her waist, his hands moving with a frantic efficiency.
"I’ve been thinking about this since the moment you walked off that stage," he said, his voice raspy.
He unzipped his trousers, his length springing free, hot and heavy against her thigh. Stella wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels hooking behind his back. She was desperate now, the jealousy and the tension of the day boiling over into a raw, primal hunger.
"Now, Martin," she begged, her head falling back against the mirror. "Please."
He didn't need to be told twice. He guided himself to her entrance and pushed inside with one swift, deep thrust. Stella screamed into the crook of his neck, the sensation of him filling her so completely that her vision blurred. He was thick and hard, stretching her in a way that felt like home and havoc all at once.
He began to move, his pace punishing and fast. The elevator was rising, the digital floor numbers ticking upward, but the only thing Stella could feel was the rhythmic friction of his body against hers. The mirrors reflected their tangled limbs, a chaotic blur of midnight-blue leather and white silk.
"You're mine," Martin hissed, his teeth grazing her shoulder. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she sobbed, her internal muscles clenching around him. "I'm yours, Martin. Only yours."
He hit a spot deep inside her that made her entire body go rigid. The climax hit her like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over her until she couldn't breathe. She clung to him, her fingers leaving red marks on his back as she shook with the force of it.
The sensation triggered his own release. Martin let out a low, guttural roar, his body shuddering as he came inside her, his forehead resting against the mirror as he tried to catch his breath.
The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to his private floor.
Martin didn't let her down. He stepped out of the elevator, still buried deep inside her, and carried her toward his front door. He managed to punch in the code with one hand, the heavy mahogany door swinging open to reveal the dark, quiet sanctuary of his penthouse.
He kicked the door shut behind them and carried her straight to the bedroom. He dropped her onto the center of the massive bed, the silk sheets cool against her heated skin. He stripped off the rest of his clothes in one fluid motion, standing over her like a dark god of the industry.
"Round two," he said, his voice a low, predatory growl. "And this time, I’m taking my time."
Stella reached out for him, a slow, sultry smile spreading across her lips. The rivalry was a world away. The fans were quiet. The charts were frozen. Here, in the quiet of the night, there were no idols—only two people who had found a way to turn their resentment into something much more dangerous.
"Come here, Golden Boy," she whispered. "Show me exactly how territorial you can get."
Martin didn't hesitate. He dived back into the heat, and as the city lights twinkled outside the window, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic echo of a passion that no industry could ever hope to contain. Together, they burned brighter than any spotlight, a secret fire that would keep them warm long after the music stopped playing.