Chapter 10
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Weon unleashed his bitterness in a torrent of words.
How could someone like Doha grasp the raw sting of self-doubt? The man embodied flawless assurance, the polar opposite of such turmoil.
“Don’t feed me lies,” he pressed.
Doha fixed him with a stern gaze. “Watch your language. Cameras will pick up every slip.”
Those eyes conveyed utter disappointment in his companion’s recklessness.
“Sooner or later, it’ll show.”
“I’ll keep it together,” Weon shot back. “Now explain.”
Doha sighed deeply, shutting his eyes in exhaustion.
Self-doubt haunted him constantly around the group.
Weon whipped his head around, stunned.
Lee Doha—the idol born for the spotlight—grappling with envy?
Even critics could only muster weak jabs: too polished, all an act, shrouded in mystery. The untouchable icon himself?
“You envied us?” Weon blurted, face twisted in disbelief. “Me? Because of this flawless profile? Is that your secret preference?”
Doha delivered the line straight-faced, prompting Weon to feign offense before inching nearer on the bed.
He levered himself up, elbow braced, peering down intently.
Puzzlement creased his brow no matter the angle.
“So what’s missing in your world? What more could you crave, you demanding wretch?”
Doha’s soft laugh broke the tension.
“Your families offer unbreakable sanctuary. Failures fade under their loyalty.”
Public adoration swelled high, but one stumble invited crashing disdain.
Spotlights dimmed eventually; memories faded.
Yet home endured as the ultimate haven.
Doha recognized the steeper the fame, the sharper the backlash.
The group possessed steadfast kin who would shelter them regardless.
No escape awaited him once admirers recoiled.
Weon responded not with words, but a light nudge to Doha’s side.
Bewilderment flashed across Doha’s features.
Weon savored the rare vulnerability, smirking wide.
He alone witnessed the idol’s unguarded truth.
“Why claim isolation? You’ll wound the haven right in front of you.”
Yewon bolted upright on the mattress at those words.
An urgent hunch warned her away from further eavesdropping.
Doha’s guarded nature stemmed from lacking roots—hence his chill dismissal of Ian’s weariness, shielding fans from letdown.
Few comprehended his burden like she did.
As a young performer, she’d clawed to evade universal scorn, desperate to please.
Never trigger global regret.
Her presence ought to spark delight in Lee Doha, not dismay.
She yearned to serve as his anchor too.
Convincing Weon to join the dorm felt urgent—for all their sakes.
Their exchange revealed unexpected warmth beneath the barbs.
A minor nudge could seal it.
Deep night had fallen when Yeongeo stormed through Doha’s door.
He clutched sacks from Jangchungdong Daewang Jokbal, grin beaming.
His audience offered no such cheer.
“Uh… what’s with the heavy vibe here?” Yeongeo faltered, sweat beading.
They’d dispatched Weon, GLEET’s sole ray of optimism, to brighten things.
Evidently, it backfired.
Even Weon’s usual spark had dulled. Despair gripped the home.
“Grabbed jokbal? Bossam too?”
“Half jokbal, half garlic bossam, plus big naengmyeon. I know what you crave.”
Weon claimed the bags in a subdued tone, dragging to the table. Doha trailed silently.
Yeongeo panicked, tugging Yewon aside in a hush.
“Yewon, what went down without me?”
He insisted on “uncle” despite matching their age—a poignant touch.
Pity flickered in Yewon’s gaze before a heavy exhale.
“Tears. An embrace.”
Those unbreakable souls shedding them?
A shiver traced Yeongeo’s back.
“From such fierce bonds?”
The claim strained credulity.
Yewon merely lifted her shoulders at his skepticism.
Take it or leave it.
Doubt lingered as the quartet settled into muted bites of jokbal and bossam.
“Yewon, pity you skip the spicy kind. Pure bliss.”
Weon’s tease masked mischief.
Yewon gripped her utensils tighter, seething inwardly.
Spicy delights—jokbal, tteokbokki—topped her list.
A child craving heat shattered her image utterly.
Actors guarded such inconsistencies fiercely.
“True. Spice upsets my stomach!”
Weon devoured a fiery piece with relish, expression smug.
Envy gnawed at her.
Infuriating to the core.
Her smile gleamed pure amid silent fury.
“Stay away. Rest up. Your hovering guilts me into withholding gigs.”
Doha’s icy tone targeted Yeongeo.
“I didn’t volunteer…”
“He’s earning his keep,” Weon cut in. “No one seeks out gloom on a free day. His face screams agenda.”
Doha scowled Yeongeo’s way.
“CEO inquired on progress…”
Yewon pieced it: the Fake Uncle deal, sealed by manager and Doha alone.
Now corporate ears buzzed.
She feigned ignorance, savoring bossam.
Funeral fallout ensured agency heads caught wind.
Industry savvy spared her naivety.
“Spilled it all. Classic CEO kin.”
Doha’s face darkened threateningly.
“I did!” Yeongeo blurted, eyes squeezed. “But it’s good!”
“What’s good? You mole, you leak—trust vanishes.”
Weon’s banter hid barbs.
“Really! CEO called it ideal!”
Three jaws slackened; chopsticks clattered as stares locked on Yeongeo.
