Shah
The Green-Eyed Monster
The backstage area of the Mnet Countdown was a labyrinth of frantic stylists, rolling racks of glittery costumes, and the heavy scent of hairspray. For Stella, it was usually her sanctuary, the place where the adrenaline of performance drowned out the complexities of her personal life. But today, the air felt thick, charged with the lingering tension of the previous night. Every time she caught a glimpse of a black tuxedo or smelled a hint of sandalwood, her breath hitched.
Martin was everywhere. Even when he wasn't physically in the room, his presence loomed over her like a shadow. He had sent her a single text that morning: *Don't overwork those legs, princess. I have plans for them later.*
The sheer audacity of him made her blood boil, but the traitorous ache between her thighs reminded her exactly why she hadn't blocked his number. She needed to break his hold over her. She needed to prove that he didn't own the air she breathed or the desires of her body.
That was why, when Minho, the charismatic lead dancer of the group Zenith, had invited her into a secluded dressing room to "discuss a potential collaboration," she hadn't said no. Minho was charming, handsome, and most importantly, he wasn't Martin.
"You seem distracted today, Stella," Minho said, his voice smooth as silk. He was leaning against a vanity table, his stage outfit—a sheer black shirt unbuttoned halfway—leaving little to the imagination.
Stella leaned back against the locked door, a defiant smirk playing on her lips. "Just a lot on my mind, Minho. Maybe I need a distraction."
She knew Martin was in the hallway. She had seen him through the cracked door of his own dressing room just minutes ago, watching her follow Minho. She knew his ego wouldn't let him ignore it. She wanted him to see. She wanted to hurt him the way his possessiveness hurt her.
Minho didn't need a second invitation. He crossed the small room, his hands finding Stella’s waist. He was gentle, his touch lacks the raw, territorial edge that Martin’s possessed. When he kissed her, it was sweet, almost hesitant. Stella forced herself to respond, winding her arms around his neck, but her eyes were fixed on the frosted glass of the door’s upper panel.
A shadow flickered outside.
Stella’s heart hammered against her ribs. She pulled Minho closer, her movements becoming more frantic, more performative. She hoisted herself up onto the vanity, knocking over a jar of makeup brushes. The clatter was loud in the small space.
"Stella?" Minho whispered, surprised by her sudden intensity.
"Don't talk," she commanded, her voice loud enough to carry. "Just make me forget everything else."
She guided his hands to the hem of her short performance skirt. Minho, emboldened by her forwardness, began to kiss her neck. It was nice, but it didn't make her skin catch fire. It didn't make her feel like she was being consumed.
Suddenly, the door handle rattled. Then, a heavy thud followed—someone leaning their weight against the wood. Stella knew that weight. She knew the silent, suffocating fury radiating from the other side of that door.
"Is someone there?" Minho asked, pulling back slightly.
"Ignore it," Stella gasped, her eyes locked on the door handle as it turned slowly, then stopped, held back by the lock. "Keep going. Please."
She reached for Minho’s belt, her fingers trembling. She needed to go further. She needed to push the knife in. She pulled him between her legs, her skirt bunched around her hips. Minho was breathing hard now, lost in the moment, unaware that he was a pawn in a much more dangerous game.
Outside, a fist slammed against the wall beside the door. The sound was muffled but unmistakable. Martin was right there. He was watching through the narrow gap where the door met the frame, or perhaps he was simply listening to the rhythmic creak of the vanity.
Stella let out a loud, arched moan, throwing her head back. "Oh, god, yes... right there..."
She wasn't even feeling it, but the thought of Martin’s face—the jaw clenched, the eyes darkening with a murderous jealousy—sent a genuine thrill of electricity through her.
"You're so beautiful," Minho muttered, his hands fumbling with his trousers.
The door didn't just rattle this time; it groaned under a sudden, violent pressure. Stella felt a surge of triumph. She had broken him.
"Minho, wait," Stella suddenly whispered, her voice dropping. The game had reached its peak, and the reality of what she was doing started to clash with the hollow feeling in her chest.
But before Minho could respond, the door didn't just open—it practically exploded inward. The lock gave way with a sickening crack of splintering wood.
Minho jumped back, nearly tripping over a chair. Stella scrambled to pull her skirt down, her heart leaping into her throat.
Martin stood in the doorway. He looked like a storm given human form. His stage makeup was still perfect, but his eyes were wild, rimmed with a red-hot rage that made the air in the room feel thin. His chest heaved, his fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"Out," Martin said. The word wasn't loud, but it vibrated with a lethal authority that left no room for argument.
"Hey, man, what's your problem?" Minho started, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.
Martin took one step into the room, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. He didn't even look at Minho; his gaze was fixed entirely on Stella, pinned to her like a spear. "I said. Get. Out. Before I forget there are cameras in this hallway."
Minho looked at Stella, then at the sheer predatory aura radiating from the leader of Cortis. He wasn't a fighter, and he certainly wasn't going to risk his career over a girl who had clearly been using him as a shield. He grabbed his jacket and bolted, disappearing into the hallway without another word.
Martin kicked the broken door shut. It didn't lock anymore, but he didn't care. He leaned his back against it, staring at Stella. The silence was deafening.
"Did you enjoy your little show?" Martin asked, his voice dangerously low.
Stella straightened her hair, trying to summon her usual bravado, though her knees were shaking. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just having a private moment with a friend."
In a blur of motion, Martin was across the room. He grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over, pinning her stomach-down against the same vanity table where Minho had just been kissing her. The transition was so fast Stella didn't have time to scream.
"A private moment?" Martin hissed into her ear, his hand gripping the back of her neck, forcing her face down toward the mirror. "I watched you. I watched you look at the door. You weren't thinking about him for a single second. You were thinking about me."
"Let go of me, Martin!" she cried, struggling against his weight.
"No," he growled. He reached down, his large hand sliding under her skirt, ripping the delicate lace of her underwear with a single, violent tug. "You wanted to see me jealous? You wanted to see what happens when you try to give what belongs to me to someone else? Fine. Look."
He forced her to look in the mirror. Stella saw her own reflection—flushed, disheveled, and wide-eyed with a mix of terror and skyrocketing arousal. Behind her, Martin looked like a demon. He was already unzipping his pants, his movements efficient and cold.
"You're mine, Stella," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "Every inch. Every breath. If I ever see another man's hands on you again, I'll ruin him. And then I'll ruin you."
He didn't use any preamble. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks, and drove himself into her from behind.
Stella let out a strangled scream, her fingers clawing at the smooth surface of the vanity. He was harder than he had been the night before, driven by a raw, possessive fury that demanded total submission. He slammed into her with a rhythmic, punishing force that made the vanity slide a few inches across the floor.
"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his voice a guttural rasp. He pulled back until he was almost out before lunging forward again, hitting her so deep she felt her breath leave her lungs.
"You... you..." she sobbed, her head hanging low.
"I can't hear you over the sound of you taking my cock," he spat, his pace increasing until it was a frantic, blurring friction. "Say it. Tell me who your daddy is."
The humiliation and the pleasure were indistinguishable now. Stella felt her walls tightening around him, her body betraying her mind. She wanted this. She wanted the marks he was leaving, the way he was claiming her in the wreckage of a dressing room.
"You, Daddy! Please!" she shrieked, her voice breaking. "Only you!"
The words acted like fuel to his fire. Martin reached around, grabbing her breast and squeezing it firmly, his thumb flicking over her nipple through the fabric of her stage top. He was relentless, his thrusts coming so fast and so hard that Stella’s vision began to swim with white spots.
"That's right," he groaned, his own composure finally cracking. "Good girl. Take it all. Show me how much you missed this while you were pretending with that pathetic loser."
He shifted his grip, lifting one of her legs and draping it over his shoulder, allowing him to go even deeper. The new angle was overwhelming. Stella felt the climax building like a pressure cooker, her entire body vibrating with the force of his movements.
"Martin, I'm... I'm going to—"
"Do it," he commanded, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder. "Come for me, Stella. Scream my name so the whole building knows who owns you."
Stella didn't have a choice. Her body exploded into a million shards of light, her internal muscles pulsing in violent, rhythmic contractions that milked him dry. She screamed his name, the sound echoing off the cold walls of the dressing room, raw and unfiltered.
Martin followed a second later. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, a low, primal roar escaping his throat as he spent himself inside her. He held her there, pinned against the vanity, his heart thundering against her back like a war drum.
The aftermath was silent, save for their ragged breathing. Martin didn't pull away immediately. He stayed buried inside her, his hands still gripping her hips as if he were afraid she might vanish if he let go.
Slowly, he withdrew. He reached for a box of tissues on the vanity, cleaning her with a clinical, almost possessive care before straightening his own clothes. He looked in the mirror, fixing his hair as if he hadn't just stormed a room and reclaimed a woman in a fit of rage.
Stella stayed slumped against the table, her legs weak, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She looked at the bruises already forming on her hips—his fingerprints, a permanent brand.
Martin leaned down, pressing a lingering, almost sweet kiss to the top of her head. The contrast was jarring.
"Next time you want to make me jealous, princess," he whispered, his voice returning to its smooth, idol-perfect tone, "remember that I don't play games. I win them."
He walked to the door, stepping over the splintered wood. He paused, looking back at her one last time.
"Ten minutes until your stage, Stella. I'll be watching from the wings. Don't miss a step."
As the door clicked shut—or as close to shut as it could get in its broken state—Stella finally found the strength to stand. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her lips were swollen, her eyes were bright, and she looked more alive than she had in years.
She hated him. She absolutely loathed him.
But as she straightened her skirt and wiped away a stray tear of pure, unadulterated adrenaline, she knew she would never look at Minho—or any other man—ever again. Martin had seen to that. The war was far from over, but the terms of surrender had never felt so intoxicating.