Shah
The Velvet Noose
The encore stage was a blur of confetti and booming bass, but for Stella, the world had narrowed down to the stinging heat between her thighs and the heavy weight of Martin’s gaze from the opposite side of the stage. Cortis and Hearts 2 Hearts were standing side-by-side for the final farewell, a sea of idols bowing to a screaming ocean of fans.
In the eyes of the public, they were the ultimate rivals—the King and Queen of the charts, distant and professional. But beneath the layers of silk and sequins, Stella could feel the territorial mark Martin had left on her soul. Every time her hip brushed against his during the final bow, a jolt of electricity shot through her, reminding her of the broken door, the shattered vanity, and the way he had claimed her in the elevator.
As the cameras cut and the idols began to file off toward the wings, Martin leaned in, his shoulder bumping hers with a calculated roughness.
"Don't go to your dressing room," he murmured, his voice so low it was nearly swallowed by the fading music. "Go to the parking garage. Level four. Black sedan."
Stella didn't even look at him. She kept her chin high, her stage persona perfectly intact. "And why would I do that? I have a wrap-up meeting with my manager."
"Tell him you’re sick. Tell him you fainted. I don't care what lie you use," Martin said, his fingers grazing her wrist for a split second, his grip bruisingly tight. "If you aren't in that car in ten minutes, I’m coming back upstairs to find you. And I won't be as quiet as I was in the elevator."
He pulled away before she could respond, disappearing into the crowd of stylists and bodyguards. Stella stood frozen for a moment, her heart hammering against her ribs. She should say no. She should go back to her dorm, lock the door, and scrub the scent of him off her skin. But the thought of his anger—that dark, possessive jealousy that made him look at her like she was the only thing in the world worth destroying—made her blood sing.
Ten minutes later, she was slipping past the security monitors, her face hidden behind a mask and a bucket hat. The parking garage was cold and smelled of exhaust and damp concrete. She found the black sedan idling in the furthest corner, tucked away in the shadows where the CCTV cameras didn't reach.
The door unlocked with a soft click as she approached. She slid into the leather interior, the scent of expensive sandalwood and tobacco immediately wrapping around her like a shroud. Martin was in the back seat, his tuxedo jacket discarded, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He looked like a king in exile—disheveled, dangerous, and utterly in control.
"You’re late," he said, not looking at her. He was staring out the tinted window, his jaw tight.
"I had to dodge my leader," Stella replied, trying to sound bored, though her breath was shallow. "You’re being reckless, Martin. If a sasaeng followed you—"
"I don't give a damn about the fans right now," he snapped, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the same predatory hunger she had seen in the dressing room. "I’m still thinking about the way you let that boy touch you. I’m thinking about how you looked at him, trying to use him to get to me."
"It worked, didn't it?" Stella challenged, a small, defiant smirk tugging at her lips. "You looked like you were ready to commit murder."
In one fluid motion, Martin lunged across the seat. He grabbed her by the waist and hauled her onto his lap, her back hitting the door on the opposite side. The space was cramped, the leather creaking under their weight.
"You think it’s a game?" he hissed, his hand winding into her hair and pulling her head back until she was forced to look at him. "You think my patience is infinite? I told you, Stella. You belong to me. Every breath you take is because I allow it. Every time you feel pleasure, it’s because I’m the one giving it to you."
"You don't own me," she whispered, even as she arched her back, her body betraying her words.
"Don't I?" He reached down, his hand sliding up her thigh, pushing aside the fabric of her skirt. He found the dampness he had left there earlier, his fingers tracing the edge of her core with a clinical, agonizing slowness. "You’re still dripping with me. You haven't even washed me off yet."
Stella gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders. "Martin... stop."
"Stop?" He chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. "You didn't want me to stop in the elevator. You didn't want me to stop when you were screaming my name so loud the staff could probably hear you through the vents."
He shifted, unbuckling his belt with his free hand. The sound of the metal clinking was deafening in the silence of the car. He didn't take his eyes off hers as he freed himself, his length thick and pulsing, a physical manifestation of the rage and lust he had been nursing all night.
"Ride it," he commanded, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone that made her insides melt.
"What?"
"You heard me. You want to act like a brat? You want to play with other men? Then you can work for what you want," he said, his grip on her waist tightening until his fingers sank into her flesh. "Get on top and show me how much you missed me while you were pretending with Minho."
Stella’s pride flared for a second, but it was quickly drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming need to have him inside her again. She shifted, straddling his lap, her knees digging into the leather seats. She guided him to her entrance, her breath hitching as she felt the blunt heat of him.
She lowered herself slowly, her eyes locked on his. He was too big, stretching her to the limit, but she didn't look away. She wanted him to see her take every inch. When she was fully seated, she let out a long, shuddering breath, her head falling back against the window.
"Move," he ordered, his hands moving to her hips to guide the rhythm.
Stella began to move, her movements slow and deliberate at first. She set the pace, grinding her hips against him, feeling the way he filled her, the way he hit her deepest spots with every downward thrust. The friction was incredible, the heat between them building until the windows of the car began to fog.
"That’s it," Martin groaned, his head falling back against the headrest. "Good girl. Show me how much you want it."
"Daddy... please," she whispered, the title slipping out before she could stop it.
The word hit him like a physical blow. His eyes snapped open, blazing with a renewed intensity. He stopped her downward movement, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew she would have bruises by morning.
"Say it again," he demanded, his voice a low growl.
"Daddy," she whimpered, her pace increasing as she lost control of the rhythm. "Please, I need... I need you to hit me harder."
Martin didn't need to be told twice. He took over the motion, his hips bucking upward to meet her descents, the impact of their bodies echoing in the small space. It was a brutal, primal rhythm, a conversation of flesh and bone that bypassed words. He was hitting her cervix, bottoming out with a ruthlessness that made her vision blur.
"You’re mine," he panted, his sweat dripping onto her chest. "Tell me. Whose are you?"
"Yours!" she shrieked, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, her nails leaving red welts on his skin. "I’m yours, Daddy! Only yours!"
The jealousy that had been simmering in him all night finally boiled over. He flipped her over in the cramped space, pinning her face-down against the seat while he remained inside her. The new angle was overwhelming, his length hitting a spot that sent sparks through her entire nervous system.
He reached around, his hand finding her clit and rubbing it with a punishing pressure. The combination of the friction and the deep, rhythmic pounding was too much. Stella felt the coil inside her tighten to the breaking point.
"That’s it, take it all," Martin whispered, his voice a dark caress in her ear. "Take every inch of me so you don't have room for anyone else."
He pulled back almost entirely before slamming back in, the force of the impact making the car rock on its suspension. Stella’s climax hit her like a tidal wave, her internal muscles clenching around him in violent, uncontrollable waves. She cried out his name, her body shaking as she collapsed against the leather.
Hearing her break sent Martin over the edge. He let out a low, guttural roar, his thrusts becoming short and desperate as he filled her, his own release hitting him with the force of a freight train. He collapsed onto her back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart hammering against her spine.
For a long time, the only sound was the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant hum of the city above them. Martin eventually pulled away, the loss of his warmth making Stella shiver. He reached for a silk handkerchief in his pocket and cleaned her with a surprising gentleness, his touch lingering on the bruises he had left on her hips.
"You’re going to have to cover those up for the photoshoot tomorrow," he said, his voice returning to its smooth, professional tone, though there was a hint of a smirk in it.
Stella sat up, adjusting her clothes with trembling hands. She looked at him—the Golden Boy of the industry, the man who had just dismantled her in the back of a car. "You’re a monster, Martin."
"And you’re the one who keeps coming back for more," he replied, leaning over to kiss the corner of her mouth. It was a soft, almost sweet gesture that felt more dangerous than any of his threats. "Go home, Stella. Sleep well. And remember who you’re dreaming about."
He unlocked the door for her. Stella stepped out into the cold air of the garage, her legs shaking so badly she had to lean against the car for a moment to steady herself. She didn't look back as she walked toward her own van, but she could feel his eyes on her the entire way.
The war between them had changed. It was no longer about charts or trophies or public perception. It was about the marks on her skin and the way her body hummed at the sound of his voice. She had tried to make him jealous, and in doing so, she had only tightened the noose he had around her neck.
And the worst part—the part that terrified her more than anything—was how much she loved the feeling of it tightening.