OFF THE RECORD

“Chapter 1: Universally Handsome, Completely Doomed ”

Lee Jin-ho's POV

I am about to die. Cause of death: boredom, and a seven thousand dollar Tom Ford suit I am strictly forbidden to stain.

The Fame Jewelry Gala is packed and not the wild, wonderful kind of packed I am used to. I am used to eighty thousand people screaming my name until their voices crack, light sticks turning a stadium into a sea of stars. This is far worse.

One hundred and fifty guests fill the entire sixty fifth floor of the Rainbow Room in Manhattan. Vogue editors who look at you like you already failed their final exam. Award winning actors who can cry beautifully on cue. Business tycoons who own half of Manhattan and look like they own the other half too. Even the influencers brought their own ring lights just to make sure no one misses them. Champagne towers three feet high sit on every table, each one costing more than my entire four years of university tuition combined.

Fame rented the whole venue. Floor to ceiling curved windows wrap all the way around, framing New York City glittering far below like someone dumped a treasure chest of diamonds across the pavement. It should feel magical. From up here, behind all the polite smiles and stiff small talk, it just looks cold. Beautiful, but untouchable. Like glass.

Tonight, LUMINA7 is not here. Only me.

The other six are back in Seoul, grinding through our comeback choreography until their legs give out. Jisung texted me ten minutes ago: Hyung, steal some steak for us. Please. I owe Haejun fifty bucks if you come home empty handed.

I got stuck in New York for this solo schedule. Fame picked me as the sole ambassador for their new Aurora Collection. One ambassador. One night. One midnight blue tuxedo that costs more than I made in my entire first year as a trainee.

Before leaving me to be eaten alive by high society, Manager Choi slapped a neon pink sticky note right on my tuxedo bag. Five rules written in his sharp, no nonsense handwriting:

One, pose properly at all times.

Two, wave warmly and never look bored.

Three, cheek heart pose for Vogue for exactly two seconds.

Four, do not spill champagne on the suit.

Five, do not be funny.

Number five is a personal attack. I am naturally funny. I am LUMINA7's oldest hyung. My whole job description is: be handsome, be mature, and tell terrible dad jokes until the members beg me to stop. I have a signature windshield wiper laugh I have been holding in for forty five minutes now, and it physically hurts to keep it locked inside.

So I do what I do best. I stand there and look expensive.

Three stylists and half a can of industrial strength hairspray made my hair look effortlessly perfect. My smile clicks into place at one hundred percent brightness, warm, polished, flawless. The exact one that makes fans line up at five in the morning just to catch a glimpse. To my left stands a security guard built like a refrigerator. To my right is Choi, grinning so wide his face might actually crack in half.

Jin-ho, over here. Turn left. Chin up. Flash. Flash. Flash.

I hit them with it. The smile. The cheek heart. The flying kiss I invented back in 2019 that my members still tease me about every single day. Exactly two seconds for Vogue, just like ordered. The crowd cheers politely.

See? Easy. I am mature. I am steady. I was built for this. I survived fourteen hour rehearsals, I survived making seaweed soup for six starving kids on their birthdays, I can definitely survive one fancy party.

Then the crowd shifts. Just half a heartbeat. A tiny gap opens between a photographer holding a lens the size of a bazooka and a champagne tower sitting one careless elbow away from disaster.

And I see her.

Far at the very edge of the room, pressed close to the curved glass windows. Completely alone. Which is impossible at a Fame gala. No one is ever alone here. Everyone drags an entourage, or clings to a plus one, just to trade business cards and climb another rung on the social ladder.

She has no one.

She wears a simple, elegant black dress that fits like it was stitched only for her and no one else. No flashy diamonds. No heavy jewels. Just long, glossy black hair falling loose over her shoulders, no stiff updo, no extra pins. Her clutch hangs open in one hand, her phone glowing bright inside it. She is not taking selfies. She is typing fast and furious like answering emails is infinitely more important than a party where people paid five thousand dollars just to walk through the door.

An older man walks up to her. Late fifties, sharp navy suit, silver streaks at his temples, the kind of man who owns the whole building without ever having to say a word.

Yoona, sweetheart. Please go mingle just a little.

She does not even glance up from her screen. Dad, the opening speech is done. I sent the Q4 report to the Seoul branch, approved the Fifth Avenue window display, and I still have forty two unread emails. Can we just leave? I want this to be over.

Her dad sighs. That soft, weary sigh only parents know, the exact same sigh my own dad lets out when I tell my hundredth terrible dad joke.

Yoona, you are the CEO. You run Song Global New York. Seoul is just our branch office. You cannot lead a company hiding in a corner behind your phone. You have no time for drama, no time for love, because you never give yourself time to breathe. Go mingle. Ten minutes. Just ten minutes. Then you can go back to being a workaholic.

She finally locks her phone and lifts her gaze. And honestly? I have been told I am flawless from every angle since I was nineteen. I have seen my face plastered across ten story LED screens in downtown Tokyo.

She is beautiful like a marble winter statue. Cool. Sharp edged. Angelic but the kind of angel who would review your whole life's work and stamp REJECTED without ever raising her voice.

I do not have time for this, she says, her voice low, flat, and worn thin. She is not being rude. She is just completely done. No time for drama. No time for love. I have a company to run. I just want this party to end.

Her dad pats her shoulder gently. Ten minutes. Talk to people. You are twenty five and you act like you are fifty. Your mother and I built this empire so you could live, not just work.

He walks back toward the VIP lounge, leaving her alone again.

And that is when my very professional, very mature, very steady oldest hyung heart just completely quit. Thump. Thump thump. This was definitely not in the script.

She thinks no one is watching. Quick and sneaky, hidden low where no camera can catch her, she slips off her right heel. Then the left. Just three seconds. She wiggles her toes against the cool marble floor, closes her eyes, and leans her forehead against the cold glass. She breathes out one long, tired sigh.

For three seconds, the Ice Queen CEO vanishes completely, and she just looks like a girl who wants nothing more than to go home, eat instant ramen straight from the pot, and sleep for twelve straight hours.

No one saw it. No one filmed it.

Except me.

I did not mean to stare so long. I did not mean to step closer, drawn like I was pulled by something invisible. I only took two steps forward before she straightened up fast, slipped her heels back on, and turned straight toward me. Her face settled back into that perfect, unreadable mask. Cold. Calm. Unbothered.

She walked right up to me, stopped barely an arm length away, and looked me up and down once, sharp and dismissive.

Excuse me, she said, her voice even and cool. I asked for warm water five minutes ago. Why is it taking so long? And do you actually carry band aids or not?

The world stopped.

I blinked. Twice.

Waiter? I managed.

She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, crossing her arms. Is that not what you are? You are standing by the wall like all the rest. You are wearing black. What else am I supposed to think?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I screamed inside my head. ME?! LEE JIN-HO?! THE UNIVERSALLY HANDSOME?! THE MAN WHO MADE WHOLE STADIUMS SCREAM HIS NAME?! I DID NOT SPEND THREE HOURS IN HAIR AND MAKEUP AND WEAR A SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLAR SUIT JUST TO BE MISTAKEN FOR A WAITER!

My smile twitched. Just a little.

I assure you, I said slowly, fighting every urge to laugh in disbelief. I am very much not on drink duty tonight.

Then what are you doing standing there staring? She challenged, though a faint pink was creeping up her neck now. You look like you are supposed to be doing something.

I leaned down just enough so only she could hear, eyes crinkling with amusement. I activated it. The look. The universally handsome, face card never declines look.

I was observing, I whispered. Observing that the most beautiful woman here thinks the most handsome man in the room works for her.

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. She looked properly at me then, really looked at my face, my build, the way the expensive fabric sat perfectly. The pink on her cheeks burned bright red all the way to her ears. She was mortified. She wanted to run so bad I could practically see her feet twitch. But she just lifted her chin higher.

Well, she said, voice steady despite everything. Your observation skills could use improvement. Next time, wear a name tag if you do not want people asking you for water.

And then she turned on her heel and walked away. Shoulders straight, steps confident, like she had not just made the most ridiculous mistake of her night. But she walked just a little faster than she needed to, like she was racing to get out of my sight before I could tease her more.

I watched her go, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt, until Choi stepped quietly beside me.

Where did you go just now, Jin-ho? he asked softly, following my gaze.

I did not answer. I just kept smiling that stupid, warm smile, and tapped his shoulder lightly.

Choi shook his head, but he was smiling too. He knew that look. He knew something had just shifted forever.

Then I felt it. A gaze steady, sharp, unblinking, fixed right on me.

I looked up. Straight through the sea of perfect strangers. Straight through the strobing camera lights.

Yoona. Stopped halfway across the room, looking back over her shoulder right at me. She had stopped walking. Her clutch was held tight in her hand.

Her cool, tired eyes locked onto mine for one heart stopping half second.

And she frowned. Exactly like she is thinking: I caught you staring, you weirdo waiter.

She lifted her chin, turned around, and disappeared into the crowd of tycoons and editors, leaving me standing there in my seven thousand dollar suit with her faint jasmine perfume still hanging soft in the air.

Oh no. She knows I was watching. And she has absolutely no idea I am already making it my life's mission to make her take those heels off again, but this time because she is laughing, not tired.

And for the first time tonight, I did not care if I stained the suit at all.

We are so, so doomed.