They decided not to air my drama.
That was the first real hit.
It was supposed to be my biggest project yet.
My name in bold letters on Netflix banners, press tours across Asia, interviews lined up in three languages.
But the scandal changed everything.
They said it was "not the right time."
They didn't want ratings to tank because of me.
And they were probably right.
Because no one wants to watch a love story starring the "homewrecker."
My endorsement deals started dropping too.
Brands that once fought to have me in their shoots now sent quiet emails backing out.
None of them asked for my side.
None of them cared if it was true.
They just did what everyone here does.
Follow the crowd.
Do what's safe.
Pretend neutrality while cutting me loose.
It's humiliating if you think about it too long.
But i try not to.
I tell myself it's fine.
That it's part of the job.
That if i want this dream badly enough, I have to survive this too.
I have to keep going.
For the work.
For the life i built here.
Even if sometimes it feels like being on a leash.
You do what you're told.
You don't talk back.
You don't explain.
You just nod, apologize, show up looking pretty, and pretend you're not drowning.
Because that's the cost of wanting this life so badly you'd let them chain you to it.
And no matter how much it hurt, no matter how many times i thought about running, I stayed.
Because even now, even now, I still want it.
I still want to be here.
So i wiped my tears.
Fixed my makeup.
And kept going.
Because no one else was going to fight for me if I didn't fight for myself.
—
ETHAN'S POV:
When people talk about Solstice, they usually say legendary.
They don't mean it lightly.
Debuted eight years ago.
Seven members, all visuals, all vocals.
No weak links.
We trained for years in the basement floors of Aurora Entertainment.
Cramped dorms.
Blistered feet.
Endless evaluations that told us we were never enough.
But when we debuted?
Everything changed.
First album went triple platinum in Korea.
Topped charts in Japan and China. Sold out Asia tours in minutes.
We won Best New Artist.
Then Artist of the Year.
Song of the Year.
Daesangs in every major award show for eight years straight.
Hundred-plus trophies, easily.
Our faces on billboards from Seoul to LA.
Forbes lists.
Brand deals.
Fashion weeks.
Luxury campaigns.
Our fandom, Eiries, is a monster. Loyal. Fierce. Organized.
If there's a metric for "Global K-pop domination," we hit it.
But it wasn't just hype.
We worked for it.
Sang live.
Choreographed until dawn.
We wrote half our own songs.
We lived for the stage.
And I lived for them, my brothers.
Me, Ethan Kim. Leader. 28. Main vocal, eldest.
The responsible one who kept them from killing each other.
There was Daeho—our other main vocal, soulful, sharp-tongued.
Minsoo—rapper, creative director in training.
Jihoon—lead dancer, our clown, mood-maker.
Yunjae—sub-vocal, lyricist, the quiet genius.
Taemin—visual center, unstoppable flirt.
And Jisung—maknae, baby of the group, 21 but thinks he's the boss.
We weren't perfect, but we were family.
Which is why the last few months had been hell.
The meeting was dragging.
I'd been in enough of these to know how it would go.
Mr. Gu listing our next month's schedule.
Choreography revisions.
Music video concept approval.
Brand shoots.
We all sat there in polite silence.
Jisung was scribbling notes like we had a test.
Daeho looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Taemin kept checking the time.
I just kept nodding when spoken to.
Leader's job.
Then the door opened without a knock.
Mr. Gu didn't look surprised.
Margaux Serene Imperial walked in.
Actress. Aurora's big investment.
The room went quiet.
We all glanced up for half a second, reflex—and then back down.
It wasn't our place to say anything.
But we couldn't help hearing.
She didn't greet anyone.
Didn't even look at us.
She went straight to Mr. Gu's desk, voice low but sharp.
"So we're just letting them kill my career?"
No one at our table moved.
You don't butt in.
You don't react.
We were idols, trained for this.
Mr. Gu didn't even blink.
"That's enough, Margaux-ssi."
She didn't back down.
"They're all pulling their endorsements. Delaying the drama. No one's even checking the truth. They're just following the crowd."
She sounded furious.
But also, tired.
Exhausted.
Mr. Gu's voice was cool as ice.
"Lower your voice. We have guests."
He didn't glance at us.
She did, just once.
Her gaze swept the table like we were furniture.
We kept our faces blank.
This wasn't our fight.
"Is this how you handle your talents?" she snapped.
Silence.
My pen was frozen over the paper.
Nobody wrote.
Nobody spoke.
Mr. Gu leaned back.
"We'll talk about this privately."
Her jaw clenched.
For a second, she looked like she might say more.
But she didn't.
She turned on her heel and left, the door shutting hard behind her.
The tension in the room crackled for half a beat.
Mr. Gu adjusted his tie.
"Now, about the sponsor shoot next week."
He didn't acknowledge what just happened.
Neither did we.
I cleared my throat.
"Yes," I said. "We'll make it work."
He continued the briefing like nothing happened.
And that was that.
—
As soon as we left the conference room, none of us spoke right away.
We walked down the hallway, footsteps echoing under the fluorescent lights.
Staff passed us like nothing had happened.
Because in this world, you pretend everything's fine until you can't anymore.
Inside the elevator, Daeho broke the silence first.
"That was brutal."
No one answered at first.
But we all knew what he meant.
Jisung was fidgeting with his phone. "They're dragging her everywhere," he muttered.
"Online, i mean. The comments are insane."
Taemin leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed. "She didn't even look like herself. She looked—"
He paused.
"Like someone barely holding on."
I didn't say anything. But i was thinking the same thing.
We'd seen Margaux Serene Imperial on screen dozens of times.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Stunning.
The kind of actress who made you forget she was acting.
We were fans, all of us.
Minho, the quietest in our group, spoke up.
"I watched Hearts Like Winter last night," he said, eyes still forward. "She was so good in that. Even in the last scene, when she didn't say anything, you could just... feel it."
"She's always like that," Jisung added. "Even in Midnight Letters. Remember that monologue? The one on the bridge?"
We all nodded.
Of course we remembered.
Everyone in Korea did.
Margaux wasn't just famous.
She was respected.
Even before she crossed over internationally.
She was the kind of actress that made you want to work harder.
And now?
One scandal.
One leak.
One silence too long.
And the world was burning her like she lit the match herself.
"People don't care if you're good," Daeho said finally. "Not when there's blood in the water."
No one argued.
Because he was right.
In this industry, one wrong move, even if it's not yours can end everything.
I leaned against the back of the elevator, staring at the blinking floor numbers.
"I get why she snapped," I said quietly. "That wasn't just damage control. That was survival."
We all fell quiet again.
Not because we didn't care.
But because we knew how this world worked.
You don't speak out unless you're ready to burn with the person you're defending.
And we weren't stupid.
But that didn't mean we didn't feel it.
Because if someone like Margaux could fall that hard, so could anyone.
Even us.
The elevator doors slid open.
Time for dance practice.
Time to smile.
Time to move on at least on the outside.
But none of us said what we were really thinking.
That maybe… just maybe…
the industry didn't deserve someone like her.