Chapter Six – The Ride Down
The tinted car windows turned the city into liquid light — streaks of sapphire and gold sliding past as they carved through late-night traffic. Inside, silence wrapped comfortably around them like a familiar coat.
Evan rested against the seat, one hand loose on his knee, gaze drifting out toward the blur. Beside him, Je-Min slouched lightly against the opposite door, earbuds dangling, eyes half-shut but alert. The faint bleed of sound from his headphones carried a familiar melody — one of the Maylion vocal drafts they’d layered together weeks back. Even winding down, Je-Min stayed tethered to the work.
Evan exhaled slowly, letting the night settle. The rooftop chaos — flashbulbs, laughter, Mara’s calculated orbit — had already dissolved into memory. What lingered instead was the green room.
Her parents.
Liliana Lee’s precision had been surgical yet warm, every question landing exactly where it needed to cut through pretense. But Jason Lee… Jason’s presence had been quieter, heavier. From the first handshake, Evan had felt the weight of his gaze — steady, appraising, moving over him like someone measuring not just success, but intent.
It wasn’t aggressive. Far from it. More like the calm scrutiny of a father who’d seen too many transients pass through his daughter’s orbit. Jason’s eyes had lingered a beat longer on Evan’s posture, his tone, the way he’d deferred without shrinking. A flicker of interest, protective but open. Evan could respect that — would have done the same himself.
His mind traced back unbidden to Jiyeon. The contrast hit sharper in the quiet. With her, connection had always hummed with subtext — her admiration tied tightly to his spotlight, her affection a mirror for her own climb. Leverage dressed as love. It had never settled right, even at its peak.
Claire’s family operated differently. No hunger for his name, no need to borrow shine. They had their foundation — art, business, each other — and assessed newcomers against that, not against what they could gain. That groundedness drew him more than any gala ever could.
Jae-Min shifted slightly, catching Evan’s drift without a word. “Long night?” he murmured, voice low.
Evan’s mouth quirked. “Good kind of long.”
“Her father?”
A soft huff escaped Evan — acknowledgment, not evasion. “Sees more than most. But fair about it.” He paused, then added, quieter, “I get why she leans on him.”
Jae-Min nodded once, letting it rest. Outside, the skyline softened into residential glow — normalcy reclaiming the night.
Evan watched a streetlamp slide past, its light fracturing briefly across his knuckles. For once, the silence felt like solid ground. No performances left to give. Just the hum of tires, Jae-Min’s steady presence, and the rare peace of knowing he’d been seen — and not found wanting.
Morning light floods the Celestine-Lee dining room, plates clattering amid laughter and the warm aroma of pancakes and coffee. Jason works the griddle with easy precision while Liliana arranges fruit platters, their pre-flight chaos a familiar rhythm.
Claire sips her tea, balcony glow still lingering, when Imogen bursts in—bag swinging, energy dialed to eleven. “Glitter casualties, report! Mara’s champagne fog didn’t wipe us out?” She claims a seat, eyeing the food. “Lucas was toast last night.”
Jason passes her a plate, smirking. “You ruled the rooftop, Imo.” Eli, 21 and Imogen’s gossip partner-in-crime, slouches at the table’s end with his sketchpad—ages close enough to make them a relentless intel duo. He’s the family’s living database, clocking every detail. He pulls an earbud. “It’s everywhere. Skip the play-by-play?”
Imogen brandishes her phone, glee uncontained. “Everywhere chef’s kiss! Us dominating trends—Strike’s tweet meltdown is carrying. But wait—” Eli leans in instantly, their dynamic firing: she amplifies, he verifies.
Liliana cuts through cleanly. “Claire’s?”
Imogen’s grin sharpens. “Double jackpot. Rooftop prime—Claire and Evan at the rail, fireworks exploding. Hands ghosting the edge, two inches max. Tabloids rabid: ‘Celestine Sparks!’ ‘Balcony Heat!’” She swipes. “And backup—art charity gala snaps resurfaced. Evan leaning in close over your shoulder, pointing at some painting. Nearly cheek-to-cheek vibe.”
Claire sputters. “That was just—”
“Intimate art talk,” Imogen trills, boy-crazed chaos in overdrive. “Two pics, months apart? Timeline’s ironclad—Mara’s damage control nightmare. You’re tabloid catnip!”
Eli’s memory banks whir. “Charity shot: October 12th, 8:47 PM. Rooftop: last night, 11:03. Photogs synced. Story’s hyped—someone’s feeding it.” His deadpan precision lands like evidence.
Jason pauses mid-pour, protective scan softening to a knowing half-smile. “Evan Kael. Doesn’t chase lights.” Liliana nods. “Mara needs watching. Tides turn.”
Imogen elbows Claire. “Boys, brushes, lean-ins—frenzy locked. Eli, dirt on the photographer?” He rattles timestamps while phones ping wildly, syrup passing as laughter buffers the storm.
Claire’s screen flashes—Evan. Imogen and Eli’s gossip engine spins buzz into game; family makes the madness survivable.
Morning sun warms Evan’s balcony as he cradles coffee, notifications buzzing—art gala close-up resurfaced (his shoulder brushing Claire’s as he points to a canvas stroke), rooftop rail shot glowing under fireworks. Tabloids howl “Celestine Inferno!” He’s weathered storms before; Claire’s wide-eyed texts hint she’s reeling.
He dials. She answers instantly, voice bright but edged—already perched on her balcony two buildings over, close enough to spot each other through the urban haze. She waves first, exaggerated and playful; he mirrors it with a slow grin, lifting his mug like a toast across the gap.
Evan: Claire-ssi. Surviving the headline apocalypse?
Claire: Barely. (laughs) Look—they dug up that gala pic. You were practically on me pointing at brushwork. Rooftop sealed it. I’m dumbfounded. Thought I’d get airport peace with my parents first.
Evan: (teasing warmth) Pattern’s too good. Photog’s a fan—pure chemistry hunt, not Mara’s script. Her plan was Strike sparks, right? We hijacked it. (pauses, voice dropping playful) Wave again. Closer view from here.
She does, leaning forward with a mock pout, blowing an exaggerated kiss his way. He catches it mid-air theatrically, pressing it to his chest—boundaries stretched just for them. Their laughter crackles through the line.
Claire: Flirting across rooftops now? Bold. This place is sacred though—no lenses in the building. Restaurant downstairs, back deck… our safe havens. We can play here.
Evan: (low chuckle) Exactly. Enjoy family time—parents, Eli, Imogen chaos. Airport run’s yours. Sneak me a text later? Big premiere looms with Jae-Min… damage control if we’re all there. Mara’s fuming we stole her thunder.
Claire: (playful sigh) She wanted Strike drama. Got us instead. (blowing another kiss, closer this time) Stay balcony-free till I’m back. Miss the view already.
Evan: Impossible not to. Your view’s better. Watch Mara’s moves—call if she pounces. (catches her kiss again, winking) Good luck at the gate.
She salutes with two fingers, lingering in the gaze before hanging up—flirty tension humming despite the storm. Balconies buffer them; corporate claws can’t touch this pocket. For now.
The SUV hums steadily toward the airport, city fading into expressway blur as Lou grips the wheel—calm, capable, the Lee family’s trusted fixer. In the back, Jason sits beside Liliana, his hand resting lightly on hers while Claire scrolls notifications beside Eli and Imogen, the morning’s tabloid frenzy (gala lean-in + rooftop sparks) still pinging relentlessly. Lou’s eyes flick to the rearview, voice steady: “Mara’s calls routed to me. Damage contained—for now.”
Jason nods, approval quiet but firm. “Good. Last night exposed her. Bringing Evan’s manager Eun-Seo in directly? Smart. No Mara filter.” He exhales, shifting to business mode. “Lou, draw up NDAs. Evan’s side too. Protects both companies—personal stays personal, premiere or not.”
Claire glances up, catching her father’s tone—the protective edge honed sharper after Mara’s failed Strike-Chaplin bait. Lou confirms with a crisp, “On it. Pushing negotiations forward. Apex Prism, Elysian—ironclad walls.”
Liliana leans in, voice measured. “Mara’s publicity tour was her lane—post-premiere promo. But cracks show. Neon Pulse? She poached them, remarketed as soloists through a connected label. Group of Five’s next if contracts slip.”
Imogen perks up mid-sip, boy-crazed radar pinging despite the stakes. “Lucas too? Millennium Records whispers—her ex’s shop. Promises solo deals if he jumps.”
Eli clocks it instantly, deadpan database firing. “Timelines match. So-Eun’s three releases underwhelm? Mara’s got fallback contracts queued—Trojan horse to yank her to that label. Overpaying the wrong insiders, classic.”
Jason’s jaw sets, but his smile stays paternal. “Lou takes lead. Investigate with Evan and Eun-Seo—undermine her quietly. She exploits this buzz? We expose the poaching plays. Lucas and Chaplin—rogues, sure, but thorough. In vogue and loyal… for a price.”
Lou merges smoothly onto the airport approach. “Premiere’s the line. Feelings don’t breach business. NDAs lock it—Evan’s clean, Claire’s shielded. Mara’s schemes backfire; we steer.”
Claire exhales, texting Evan a quick “Lou’s driving. Dad approves. Safe.” His reply: “Eun-Seo’s drafting. Balconies sacred. Premiere plot?” She smiles faintly—flirt buffered by family steel.
The SUV pulls curbside, hugs exchanged amid final strategy nods. Jason pulls Claire close last. “Boundaries hold. You’re steady.” Lou waves them through security, already dialing Eun-Seo—alliances tightening as Mara’s web frays.
Mara’s penthouse office glitters with screens and strategy boards, but her pacing cracks the facade—champagne flute gripped white-knuckled as projections flicker: rooftop pics exploding, “Celestine-Evan Flame” trending over Strike-Chaplin rumors. Her Strike bait? Dead. Evan hijacked it.
Strike Chaplin lounges opposite, Japan-tour legs kicked up, smirk sharp as he scrolls the same feeds. “Told you, Mara. Organic beats forced. They’re lapping up that chemistry—not my red-carpet growl.”
She whirls, voice slicing. “My promo tour was perfect. Premiere soundtrack, movie hype—then I flip Group of Five into solo cash cows via Lucid. Neon Pulse worked; they’re solo stars now. But Evan? Claire’s puppy-dog shield? Ruins the fracture point!”
Strike’s grin turns feral, leaning forward. “Don’t need you, mate. Japan’s got my back—my company contacts dwarf yours. We go over your head.” He ticks off fingers. “Group of Five? Post-premiere gold. I’ll take ‘em all—girls included. They want unity, not your divide-and-conquer. Soloist like me sees it: you spieled me for dirty work, but I play higher.”
Mara freezes, eyes narrowing. “You’re bluffing. Lucid’s locked—my label friends primed. Can’t conquer as five? I’ll split ‘em like Neon Pulse. Bigger than the series, the music. Byproduct stars.”
Strike stands, towering. “Underestimated me. Premiere hits, they bolt with me—not to Lucid, over you entirely. Your demise, darling. Watch.” He saunters out, door clicking like a guillotine.
Mara hurls the flute—glass shatters against her Lucid moodboard. Unaware eyes are turning—Lou, Jason, Evan’s manager circling—she fumes alone, empire cracking under her own overreach.
Later that evening, Mara downs a sharp gin tonic, ice clinking as her pulse evens—screens still mocking her with Evan-Claire domination. She dials Lucas, voice honeyed venom. “Darling, tell me you sealed it. Girl spend the night? Back under your spell? Wine her, dine her—publicly. Outshine those balcony pests. Premiere’s ours if you play.”
Lucas’s line crackles, noncommittal charm masking what she doesn’t see: Strike Chaplin already there, beers cracked across the twins’ loft table, pool cues clacking amid takeout boxes. The trio—Strike, Lucas, the twins (Uriel and Dominic Stein)—lean into buddy brotherhood, Strike’s Japan swagger hyping the air.
“Mate,” Strike grins, sinking a shot. “Mara’s spell’s breaking. She spieled me dirty—now she’s on you. But post-premiere? We run it.” Lucas racks cues, smirking as twins high-five. “NDAs expire. All that behind-the-scenes footage—us, the set chaos, the real cuts. We drop it, names skyrocket. Over her head entirely.”
Uriel (the bolder twin) cracks a beer. “She wants fracture—Group of Five solo via Lucid. We stay tight, exploit her hype.” Dominic nods, quieter fire. “Lucas, ditch her dine-and-dash. Party hard after red carpet. She falls; we rise.”
Strike toasts, eyes gleaming. “Boys, she’s releasing dogs—tabloid leaks, forced pics. But we’re rogues. Premiere curtain drops, we flood feeds. Mara’s empire? Ours to torch.”
Lucas chuckles into his silent phone—Mara none the wiser—as beers foam and cues crack. Alliance sealed over pool felt, Strike’s plan outfoxing her every pitch.
Claire’s phone pings mid-lounge—Imogen sprawled beside her on the couch, Eli cross-legged on the floor with his tablet, already deep in timeline forensics. The screen flares: “Lucas-Reeve Romance Reignited! Post-Rooftop Dinner Snap—Outshining Celestine?” A leaked shot—Mara’s push—of Lucas and some mystery date at a dimly lit bistro, timed perfectly to eclipse the Evan buzz.
Imogen snorts, grabbing the phone. “Mara’s desperation stinks. Lucas dining anyone right now? Damage control 101—outshine you two balcony lovebirds.”
Eli zooms the metadata without looking up, voice flat. “Timestamp: 1:14 AM. Posted 6:47. Her bots amplified in 9 minutes. Classic push. But Lucas looks bored—check the eyes.”
Claire exhales, half-amused, half-over it. Thumbs fly to Evan: “Mara’s counter: Lucas ‘date’ leak. Desperate much? 🥱”
Evan’s reply lands fast: “Seen it. Cool—forwarding to Eun-Seo. NDAs locked tight. We’re good. Balcony later? 😏”
Cut to Evan’s loft, coffee half-gone, Eun-Seo pacing with her tablet as he loops her in. “NDAs ironclad—premiere safe. Mara’s revising her promo tour contracts fast. Post-event, artists free to chase side projects. But cracks—she’s pushing language to bind Group of Five, lock Claire’s orbit.”
Eun-Seo nods sharply, keen eyes mirroring his. “You spotted them first—promo ‘exclusivity’ clauses disguised as bonuses. She’s Trojan-horsing solo pivots to Lucid. I’m calling Lou’s team now—Claire, Apex Prism, full entitlements. No scandal traps.”
Evan leans back. “JR too. His deal’s got holes—she’s overpaid insiders, greased wheels. That trainee scandal? Neon Pulse poach? Probably Mara-bribed cops, faked dirt to release her early—straight to her ex’s label. Favor for a favor.”
Eun-Seo dials mid-stride. “Lou—Evan’s flags. Revise everyone. Mara’s team audit—law-breaking, bribes, the works. JR’s deal cracks wide; we patch before premiere. Claire’s crew stays free.”
Evan texts Claire back: “Manager locked. Mara’s plays exposed. You’re clear. Kiss from afar later? 😉”
She replies instantly: “Deal. You’re my favorite plot twist. 👋”
Mara’s dogs bark loud, but the walls closing in—unseen.
JR’s Panic Call – Hushed Line to Lou
JR’s voice cracks through the encrypted call, breath ragged as he grips the phone in his dimly lit studio. “Lou—Mara. She’s rotten. Bribed two cops last year—faked assault claims on that trainee to void her Apex contract early. Dropped her straight to her ex’s label, his ‘favor.’ Got texts, timestamps. Hushed total blackout—we can’t tank the film. Premiere must shine.”
Lou’s response stays ice-calm, wheels already turning. “Evidence to me. Police tipped? We leverage quiet—her next misstep’s the trap. NDAs hold, surveillance live on Orion’s common areas. No leaks pre-premiere. JR, you and Evan link—past sins plus this? She’s gone.”
Claire’s balcony glows warm under string lights, a glass of rosé in hand as she kicks off her slippers, city hum far below. Two buildings over at Orion Heights, Evan’s silhouette leans casual against his rail—beer bottle dangling, their phones bridging the gap with rapid-fire texts and occasional voice snippets. Media frenzy erupts everywhere: “Celestine’s Secret Flame!” “Rooftop Rogue or Real Romance?”—gala lean-in and fireworks pics morphing into full-blown myth. They’re putting on a show, balcony-to-balcony, to ease the premiere pressure.
Claire [text + voice note]: Media’s lost it, Evan. “Soulmates of the skyline!” I’m dying. waves big, then flips hair dramatically But hey—friendship first. Always. You know that, right? Everyone’s counting on this premiere—fans, cast, Apex. Mask up, let Mara spin her promo wheel. No prayer screams leaking. We’re good soldiers till curtain.
She blows a playful K-pop heart his way—fingers shaping it big, tossing it across the urban divide. He catches it mid-air, stuffing it “into his pocket” with a theatrical pat, then fires back two hearts, winking as he mouths mine now. Laughter bubbles from her, stress cracking open.
Evan [text]: Pocket’s full—yours next time. blows a slow kiss, then a finger-heart salute In my world, this is how we survive frenzy. Romeo to your Juliet, no poison yet. Courage, Claire-ssi. You’ve got this.
Claire [voice, rambling a bit]: God, I’m rambling—sorry! Hair down mode. They’re spinning us as this epic thing, but it’s us—silly waves, safe here at Orion. Thought Apex halls and this complex were bulletproof, but Lou’s digging—housing board contracts, intel leaks? Mara’s fingers everywhere. She’ll be booted as CEO here too. Hits JR hardest—wrecked his girl, stole our top trainee with that fake scandal fall. Poof—hip-hop queen at the rival label overnight. We never signed NDAs thinking we’d need cover. Friendship’s sacred…
Evan’s voice cuts in soft, steadying. Evan [voice]: Hey—ramble away. Fondness level: max. Lighten up; I’ve got your back. NDAs hold us safe—bloom slow, no rush. Silly stays sacred. throws another heart, pockets it Premiere mask? Easy. Real us? Here.
She exhales, plucking courage from his calm, firing one last oversized heart. Claire [text]: Full pockets now. Thanks for the ease. Night, plot-twist king. 👋💕
He waves till she slips inside, their playfulness a shield—fonder, freer, masking the storm ahead.
Claire lies curled on her bed, city glow seeping through half-drawn blinds, the faint buzz of her phone silenced for now. The balcony banter with Evan lingers like a warm echo—his playful K-pop hearts tossed across the divide, the way he’d pocket her kisses with that easy grin, masking the chaos below. God, it’s fun with him. Light. He dances through drama like he’s done it a hundred times, experienced and unshaken, while she clings to every thread—premiere tomorrow looming, lines to nail, a role she doesn’t crave because dancing was always her truth. On stage, emotion poured free through every pivot and leap; acting feels like wrestling shadows.
Evan’s different. Comfortable. His manager Eun-Seo handles the grit—beautiful at the launch, all sharp elegance—and with Lou’s intel, they’re shielding both worlds. No big breakups post-premiere; the company craves smooth sails. Claire cherishes the friendship deepest, that steady pulse amid the storm, but a tweak stirs—jealousy’s little pang at Eun-Seo’s poise, her closeness to him. It fades into memory: her parents’ story, young artist-mother sidelined by injury, father the lawyer swooping in protective, their romance blooming from quiet defense. That’s what she craves more of. Still, friendship first—his tour ahead, band to guard, statements maybe hushed if Eun-Seo pushes silence. She won’t risk losing him; he’s genuine, celebrating her wins when others faded, sincere where ex-friends chased spotlights.
Premiere with Chaplin tomorrow? Tolerable for 20 minutes max. Lucas chills now, thick with the guys—Strike, twins relaxed, ready to roll. Maybe lean into Chaplin’s rogue charm, divert eyes from her and Evan, let Mara gloat thinking she’s won while Lou and Eun-Seo carve her out permanent. Relief blooms there too—Imogen’s growing emotional steel, Eli’s timelines dismantling Mara’s staged leaks (those “date” pics? Fabricated, timestamps off). Eli and Lou give her air to breathe after holding everyone up so long.
Head heavy on the pillow, buildup crushing, but Evan’s playfulness lifts it—lighthearted waves, pockets full of hearts. More to come. Opportunities if the film ignites: post-contract freedom, new channels, careers unfurling. She exhales, lighter now. Friendship’s the anchor; the rest will follow.