Chapter 125
When Haru arrived at the penthouse, his mind was entirely blank, a hollow, echoing vacuum that usually preceded a profound psychological shift. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. The numbness that had carried him through the studio's back exit, past the stares of the stagehands, and out into the biting evening air was finally beginning to fracture.
He was frustrated and slightly angry.
No.
That was a lie he was telling himself to keep his breathing steady. He was immensely, violently angry. It was a cold, calculated fury that burned white-hot at its center, the kind of absolute rage that enveloped him. Except this time, the target of that fury wasn't a anyone else but the one person he had allowed inside his fortress.
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind him, the sound deadening the distant hum of soft music renting the penthouse. Across the vast, minimalist expanse of the living room, the floor-to-ceiling glass doors to the balcony were slightly ajar. Raiven stood out there against the backdrop of the glittering sky, a phone pressed tightly to his ear. Even from a distance, the rigid, protective set of Raiven's shoulders was unmistakable.
As the lock engaged with a definitive, metallic snap, Raiven turned. His sharp eyes locked onto Haru through the glass. He murmured a brief, clipped, "Talk to you later," into the receiver, terminating the call without waiting for a reply, and slid the glass door open. He didn't offer a hollow greeting. He didn't smile. He simply walked toward Haru with the measured, heavy stride of a man who already knew exactly what was coming.
Haru stood his ground near the entryway, his hands still curled into tight, white-knuckled fists inside the pockets of his trousers. The military buzz cut felt stark and heavy on his head, offering no shadow to hide the sheer intensity of his gaze.
He had thought he trusted him.
They had explicitly drawn the line. They had sat down and had the conversation the absolute, non-negotiable boundary that their personal affairs, the fragile and burgeoning intimacy they were building behind closed doors, would never interfere with their professional sides. Haru had demanded it. He needed to know that his resurrection in this life, his climb up the treacherous ladder of the entertainment industry, was built on his own blood, sweat, and undeniable merit.
When he had left the broadcasting station after the segment disaster, he hadn't come straight here. He had been entirely neutral on the surface an icy, unreadable mask that terrified Alice into absolute silence during the drive back to the agency. He had gone straight to the office.
He had found Mae-rin sitting behind her desk, illuminated only by the harsh glow of her laptop as she frantically sorted through legal documents, corporate memos, and incoming press inquiries. The entire building had been filled with the frantic, low-frequency panic of a small agency facing its first scandal.
Haru had sat down across from her, his posture so perfectly straight and immobile that he looked like a statue chiseled from marble. He needed facts. He needed to trace the thread back to its origin before he allowed the rage to consume him.
If he recalled correctly, the entire reason he had even known about the casting call for The Night of the Rose was because Mae-rin had personally brought the script to him. She had told him that the director had called the agency directly, requesting Haru to come in for an audition after seeing a brief clip of his performance in the crime drama. It was a highly anticipated project, a book adaptation that touched on dark, serious societal issues, a narrative so popular that its casting was scrutinized by the entire nation. The director himself was an acclaimed, award-winning auteur known for his ruthless standards and independent spirit. Haru had trusted that director's judgment. He had believed, with every fiber of his being, that his performance in the audition room had earned him the role.
But after the doubts Chang-seo had spilled on live television, Haru had to be absolutely sure. Even if it was just for his own peace of mind.
"We are preparing the official press release right now," Mae-rin had told him, her voice tight, her eyes refusing to meet his for longer than a second. "We're going to deny the validity of the audio clip. The network crossed a legal line by broadcasting unverified community board rumors. Don't worry about it, Haru. I will handle it. Go home and rest."
Haru hadn't moved. He had leaned forward slightly, the harsh fluorescent lights catching the dangerous, deep hollows of his eyes. "Is it true, though?" he had asked, his voice a low, terrifyingly calm murmur that brooked no evasion.
He saw her hesitate.
It was a fraction of a second, a subtle tightening of her jaw, a sudden stillness in her fingers as they hovered over the paperwork. That hesitation was a physical blow to his chest. They had already formed a close bond at this point. He had pulled her agency out of obscurity, and she unknowingly was one of his lifelines. He didn't want her to lie to him now. And looking at the raw, exhausted betrayal hidden beneath Haru's calm exterior, neither did she.
With a heavy, defeated sigh, Mae-rin had dropped her pen onto the desk. She looked at him with eyes full of genuine apology.
She admitted it. She told him that during the initial casting phase, before the formal auditions had even been announced, the director had dropped a casual hint during a private meeting. He had mentioned that Haru had been highly recommended by someone, expressing absolute awe that a rookie actor possessed such connections. But Mae-rin had defended him, stating she didn't know exactly who the director was talking about at the time. She had genuinely assumed it was a standard industry favor or an investor's whim that it might not actually be Raiven.
But the thread didn't stop there.
As Haru sat in that quiet office, the reality of his situation had begun to unravel. Mae-rin had quietly informed him of another piece of data: the mysterious investor who had recently injected a wave of capital into their small, struggling agency was an affiliate company directly owned and managed by Raiven.
The agency was still small. Haru understood the brutal mechanics of business; he knew they needed all the funds they could get to survive the aggressive counter-marketing of rival labels. But the realization tasted like ash in his mouth.
He had been so incredibly happy. When he first secured the role, he had looked at the script with a sense of profound validation, thinking that an acclaimed director had looked at his raw talent, saw something promising, and decided to bank everything on a rookie. He had believed his talent was his shield. However, it was a silver platter, meticulously hidden beneath the guise of an audition block.
"Don't act too rashly, Haru," Mae-rin had called out to his retreating back as he stood up and walked out of the office.
He hadn't answered her. And now, standing in the cold expanse of the penthouse, he was entirely certain that Mae-rin had called Raiven. Raiven's knowing, defensive expression gave it away instantly.
"You breached our agreement," Haru stated. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the crystalline, terrifying clarity. It was a tone laced with a volatile mixture of profound hurt and absolute, unyielding anger.
Raiven stopped a few paces away from him.
The distance between them felt like a chasm. "This is not how I wanted you to find out," Raiven said, his voice low, gravelly, and tight with a rare, defensive tension.
"How did you want me to find out?" Haru asked, his voice finally cracking through the icy restraint, rising higher, sharper, and angrier as he took a step forward. The raw emotion tore through his chest, stripping away his persona and leaving only the wounded soul of a man who had given everything to be seen for who he was. "With another audio tape? On another national broadcast? Were you going to wait until Chang-seo dismantled my entire career on television before you decided to mention that you bought my agency and interfeared with the casting?"
"Haru," Raiven stated, his expression fracturing into a look of raw urgency. He reached out, his long fingers extending to grasp Haru's hand to pull him back from the ledge of his own fury.
But Haru flinched violently away, moving back like a wounded, cornered animal that associated human touch with a trap. He refused to be comforted by the hand that held the strings to his puppet show.
Raiven's hand froze in mid-air. His breath hitched sharply in his throat, his chest heaving as he stared at haru. In all the months they had spent navigating the intoxicating waters of their relationship, through the hidden kisses and the quiet confessions of love, he had never seen Haru this mad at him before. The absolute, lethal finality in Haru's eyes caused his heart to race with a sudden, suffocating panic. For the first time in his life, the power of his family name hadn't protected what he loved, it had driven a knife right into the center of it.