HIS ACCIDENTAL LOVER

CHAPTER THREE: DAMAGE CONTROL

The agency’s boardroom was filled with tension thick enough to choke on. Screens lined the walls, each flashing headlines of the scandal—

Han Jiwon’s secret woman?

Accident or affair?

Fans demand answers.

Executives argued across the table, voices sharp and frantic. Numbers and graphs splashed across the screens—stock drops, cancelled endorsements, angry fan petitions.

Finally, the scarlet-lipped manager raised her hand. Silence fell like a blade.

“Enough,” she said. Her voice was calm, too calm, the kind of calm that made everyone nervous. “We can’t erase the photos. We can’t silence the internet. Which means the only way forward is to twist it into something we can sell.”

She let the words hang before she continued.

“We make her the girlfriend.”

Several voices exploded at once. “Impossible—” “She’s a nobody—” “He’ll never agree—”

But the woman only smiled thinly. “The world already believes it. Denying it makes us liars. But if we play along, if we give them a love story? Suddenly, the narrative isn’t scandal—it’s romance. Fans eat that up. His image softens, sympathy rises, and we control every detail.”

The room quieted. One by one, the objections died. Because they all knew she was right.

She turned to Jiwon, who sat at the far end, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched.

“You don’t have a choice,” she told him.

His fingers tightened around the bottled water in front of him until the plastic crackled. His eyes, cold and unreadable, never left her face.

“How long?” he asked flatly.

“As long as it takes,” she replied. “First staged date tomorrow. Café setting. Handholding minimum, maybe more if the photos demand it. She’ll be styled, trained, and monitored. You’ll do what you’re told.”

Jiwon leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, as if swallowing down every curse he wanted to spit.

Then, without another word, he stood and walked out.

The woman smiled again, tapping her pen against the table. “Good. Damage control begins now.

Malina hadn’t left her apartment all day.

She sat curled on the couch, knees hugged to her chest, the blinds drawn tight against the world outside. Her phone lay silent on the table, its screen black, but she couldn’t shake the memory of the last text:

You’re mine until this ends.

The words gnawed at her like a parasite. She wanted to believe it was just his temper, that he’d said it to scare her. But the longer the silence stretched, the heavier the threat became.

Until the knock came.

Firm. Certain. Like whoever stood outside already knew she’d open.

Her stomach sank. She moved slowly, barefoot across the floor, and pressed her eye to the peephole.

Han Jiwon.

Her pulse jumped. He wore a plain hoodie pulled low and black sunglasses, like a poor attempt at blending in. But no disguise could hide who he was.

She cracked the door, keeping the chain lock in place. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid a thin envelope through the gap in the door. It landed at her feet.

“Your schedule,” he said flatly.

Malina blinked, staring at it as if it were a snake. “Schedule?”

“For us.” His jaw tightened. “For the dates. The interviews. The story they’re selling.”

Her fingers curled against the doorframe. “No. No, I’m not—”

“You don’t have a choice.” His voice cut through hers, low and final. “They already decided. The first appearance is tomorrow. You’ll be styled, trained, and walked in front of the cameras. If you don’t show, they’ll release your name. Your address. Everything.”

Her chest went cold. “That’s blackmail.”

“That’s reality.” He leaned closer, his voice a dangerous whisper. “And if you think the fans hate you now, imagine what they’ll do when they know exactly where to find you.”

The air seemed to thin around her.

Jiwon’s gaze lingered on her, sharp and unreadable. “You think I want this?” he muttered. “You think I asked for you? I didn’t. But now you’re in it, and so am I. So either you play your role, or you’ll drown. And I don’t save accidents.”

The words stabbed deeper than she expected. Her throat burned, but no sound came out.

With one last look, he straightened, pulling his hood further over his face. “Be ready by nine. I’ll send a car.”

Then he turned and walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing against the walls until the silence returned.

Malina stood frozen behind the door, staring at the envelope at her feet. Slowly, she bent to pick it up. Her name was printed on it in neat, bold letters.

Her hands trembled as she slid it open and read the first line:

Public appearance – Couple Date, Café, 9:30 AM. Dress: provided. Behavior: affectionate.

Her knees almost gave out.

Her life was no longer her own. She was a headline, a scandal, a script. And tomorrow, the entire world would be watching.

jiwon walked to the door and told malina tommorrow at 8am be ready to be transformed to someone worthy of me!!! .

The knock came at exactly eight.

Malina was still in her pajamas, hair a mess, when the door swung open without waiting for her to answer. Two women in black suits stepped inside, followed by a trio of stylists carrying garment bags and cases that clattered with brushes and bottles.

“Miss Malina?” one of them said crisply. “We’re here to prepare you.”

Malina backed against the wall. “Prepare me for what?”

The woman’s eyes flicked to the envelope on the table. “Your first outing with Mr. Han. The agency sent us.”

Before Malina could protest, she was pulled into the chair by the window. Lights flicked on, mirrors unfolded, and suddenly half a dozen hands were on her—powdering her face, combing through her hair, painting her lips.

“Too plain,” one muttered.

“Her skin tone needs warming,” another added.

“Dress her softer—innocent type sells better.”

She sat frozen as they remade her, stroke by stroke, stripping away the girl she was.

The garment bag unzipped with a hiss. A pale blue dress emerged, delicate and simple, designed to look effortless but costing more than her entire rent.

Malina’s throat tightened. “I don’t want this.”

“You don’t have to want it,” one of the women replied briskly, zipping her into the dress. “You just have to wear it.”

When they finally stepped back, the girl in the mirror was unrecognizable. Her hair fell in soft curls, her lips tinted like rose petals, the blue dress hugging her figure in ways that felt too exposed, too fragile.

She looked like someone who belonged on his arm.

Her stomach churned.

At exactly nine, a knock rattled the door again. The air in the room shifted—everyone straightened.

Then he walked in.

Han Jiwon.

Hood down, sunglasses gone. Even dressed casually in dark jeans and a white shirt, he looked like the kind of perfection people paid to see. His gaze swept over her, sharp and unreadable, before he spoke.

“She’ll do,” he said flatly.

Something in Malina snapped. “I’m not merchandise,” she spat.

For a moment, silence fell. One of the stylists gasped softly.

Jiwon’s eyes flickered, and his jaw tightened. Then, without a word, he turned to the handlers. “Car’s waiting.”

They ushered her to the door, heels clicking on the floor, her hand clutching the thin fabric of the dress as if it might shield her from what was coming.

The sunlight outside was blinding. As she slid into the sleek black car beside him, she caught her reflection in the tinted window.

She didn’t look like Malina anymore. She looked like a story.

And in less than an hour, the whole world would be watching.