Dating the Devil

The first time Ayla saw Zayn Min in real life, he was bleeding. Not on stage. Not in a music video. Not behind glass or velvet ropes. But in the hallway of a K-pop agency building, leaning against a marble wall with blood dripping from his knuckles—his breath shallow, his eyes unreadable. And the terrifying part? He smiled. Twelve hours earlier, Ayla’s life had been quiet. Too quiet for someone chasing stardom. She was just another faceless backup dancer in a city flooded with talent. A Pakistani girl with sharp moves, no money, and a dream that clung to her ribs like hunger. Every morning was rehearsals. Every night there was ramen. Hope was a drug, and she was overdosing quietly. That morning, she hadn’t expected anything different—until someone tapped her on the shoulder during a break. "You're Ayla, right?" The voice belonged to a tall woman in all-black, wearing red lipstick and the kind of cold, calculated expression that meant business. Ayla blinked. "Yeah...?" The woman smiled—tight, professional. “We need you to go upstairs. The head executive wants to see you.” She laughed. “Me? I think you’ve got the wrong dancer—” “We don’t.” The elevator doors opened on the 20th floor, and Ayla stepped into another universe. Floor-to-ceiling glass. White marble. Golden logos carved into every corner. It didn’t feel like Seoul anymore—it felt like Olympus. She was led to a private conference room where three people in suits sat waiting, folders open, expressions sharp. And in the center of the table… a contract. “What is this?” Ayla asked slowly. One of the men cleared his throat. “Miss Rehman, due to recent scandals involving our top artist, Zayn Min, we are initiating a controlled public relationship campaign. You’ve been selected.” "Selected?" she echoed. “You’re to become his girlfriend. Publicly.” Ayla’s stomach dropped. "You’re joking." “No,” said the woman from earlier. “You’ll be compensated well.” All expenses paid. Living arrangements handled. We’ll release a press statement next week. In the public eye, you’ll be Zayn Min’s partner.” “But I’m just—” she shook her head—“a background dancer.” “Exactly. You’re clean. Unknown. Controllable.” The way she said it made Ayla feel like a tool. An object. Something to be dressed and displayed. “And if I say no?” The man smiled politely. “Then your contract with us is terminated. Effective immediately.” Ayla’s hands trembled. They were cornering her. Luring her into a cage with a paycheck wrapped in golden ribbon. She looked down at the contract again. And that’s when she saw his name. Zayn Min. Her heart skipped. The idol who had millions screaming for him. The one whose gaze could shatter glass. The one who smiled like he had nothing left to lose. And suddenly, her world tilted. Later that day, she saw him. Zayn Min. In the hallway. Bleeding. She had just stepped out of the office with the signed contract in her bag when she froze. There he was—leaning against the wall, his head tilted back, his hand dripping red. "Are you okay?" she asked before she could stop herself. His eyes opened. Slowly. Dark and unreadable. And then… he smiled. “You’re her, aren’t you?” he said softly. Ayla’s throat tightened. “Her?” “The new leash they gave me.” She swallowed. “I didn’t ask for this.” "No one ever asks to burn," Zayn said. He pushed off the wall, walking toward her like a shadow sliding over marble. His presence wrapped around her—slow, suffocating, beautiful. "They just end up as ash." He stopped inches away, eyes flickering to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "You’ll smile for the cameras ” he murmured, his voice low, dangerous. You’ll stand beside me. Wear dresses. Say the lines." "And if I don’t?" she whispered. Zayn leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing her ear. "Then I’ll make you wish you had." Her heart thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else. And just like that—he was gone. Vanished down the hall like smoke. The next week was a blur of madness. She was dressed, styled, trained, coached. Her entire i********: was rebranded. Photographers followed her like shadows. Makeup artists whispered Zayn’s name like a god’s. Then came the first public appearance. They were seated together at an awards show, cameras flashing so bright she saw stars. Zayn’s hand rested on her thigh like it had always belonged there. His smile was perfect. But his fingers? They gripped her like steel. He leaned close, whispering through the applause. “Smile wider, Ayla. Or I’ll kiss you so hard they’ll know it’s real.” She did. She smiled like she was in love. Even though the only thing she could feel was terror... and the faint, horrifying thrill of it all. That night, when they were finally alone in the black car with tinted windows, she turned to him. “Why me?” she asked quietly. Zayn didn’t look at her. His fingers traced the edge of his jaw, eyes half-lidded. “Because you’re nobody.” The words stung. But then he added, almost too softly: “And nobody tries to leave.” Her breath hitched. “What does that mean?” Zayn finally looked at her. And at that moment, the idol disappeared. All that was left… was the devil. “You’ll learn, sweetheart,” he whispered. I don’t fake love. I possess it ”