Us. It’s not working. I’m moving my stuff out while you’re in Singapore.
The words blurred on the screen, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. This wasn’t how breakups happened. Not after six years together. Not after shared albums topping charts, shared stages under stadium lights, shared plans for a future that included rings and quiet nights away from the spotlight. They'd met in the K-pop scene, both rising stars, bonding over the grind of idol life—the endless rehearsals, the fan expectations, the isolation that came with fame. He'd been her anchor, the one who understood the pressure without words.
She stopped walking entirely, ignoring the concerned glance from her assistant.Please don’t do this over text, she wrote, desperation creeping into her words.We should talk. Face to face.
It’s over. I’m sorry.
She called him immediately, the phone pressed to her ear as she paced a small circle in the lounge.
Straight to voicemail. His voice, warm and familiar, asking her to leave a message. It twisted the knife deeper.
We need to talk,she texted again.This isn’t you. We can fix this.
Unread. Unanswered. The silence stretched, louder than any rejection.
Now, on the private jet soaring toward Singapore, Aria scrolled through photos of them on her phone—on tour in Tokyo, backstage in LA, tangled together in hotel rooms that felt like stolen worlds away from the chaos. Her chest burned, grief tangling with disbelief, memories flooding in: the way he'd surprise her with handwritten lyrics, the late-night drives through Seoul with the windows down, the promises whispered during quiet moments that they'd make it work, no matter the distance.
Then something else took root, hot and fierce.
Anger.
How dare he erase them like this? How dare he decide it was finished without looking her in the eye, without giving her a chance to fight for what they had? He'd always been the impulsive one, but this? This was cowardice.
No. Things didn’t end this way. Not for her. She'd built her career from nothing—a mere teenager in a cutthroat industry, debuting solo after years of being part of the biggest girl group, climbing to global stardom with hits that blended pop and R&B into something uniquely hers. She didn't back down.
She lifted her chin, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, jaw setting as resolve settled in like armour.
One way or another, she would make him see he was wrong. She'd confront him when she got back, force the conversation he owed her. For now, she had a performance to nail, a crowd to wow. Singapore awaited, and Aria Moon didn't let personal storms derail her shine.
???
Chapter Two
Aria
Marina Bay Street Circuit – Race Night, Pre-Grid
The Singapore night pressed in like a living thing—thick heat wrapping around her skin, white floodlights casting harsh shadows across the asphalt, engines idling low and menacing on the grid like predators waiting to pounce. The air carried the acrid scent of burned rubber, high-octane fuel, and the sharp metallic bite of money and expectation. This wasn't just a race; it was a spectacle, a billion-dollar circus where the world's elite converged under the humid sky.
Aria Moon walked the pit lane because her studio had asked. “Pre-race pit walk,” they’d said in their crisp email from Seoul. “Five minutes. Smile for the content. It’ll cross over perfectly with your performance at the after-party. Think of the cross-promotion—racing fans discovering your music, your followers getting a glimpse into F1 glamour.”
She hadn’t argued. Arguing took energy she didn’t have, not after the emotional gut-punch from Min-Jae's texts. Her mindwas a whirlwind, replaying their last conversation, dissecting every word for clues she might have missed.
Her black silk slip dress catching every light like it was designed for the spotlight, oversized sunglasses hiding eyes that still stung from crying on the jet—silent tears she'd hidden from her team by pretending to nap. Heels clicked against the concrete with each step, echoing amid the organized chaos. Security flanked her on both sides, burly figures in black polos scanning the crowd, while her assistant hovered close with a phone already recording discreetly for social media clips. She moved through the frenzy like she was underwater—mechanics in fireproof suits darting between garages, engineers barking orders into headsets, VIPs in designer outfits posing for selfies. Min-Jae’s text still looped in her head, the silence after it louder than any engine revving nearby.
The pit lane was alive, pulsing with pre-race tension. Tires stacked in neat rows, tools clanging as final adjustments were made, the hum of generators underpinning it all. Drivers in full race suits stood by their cars, some pacing, others deep in conversation with crew chiefs. Celebrities and influencers drifted through, phones out, smiling for photos that would flood Instagram within minutes. Aria felt out of place yet oddly at home—the energy reminded her of backstage before a concert, that electric buzz before the lights dimmed and the crowd roared.
Her assistant, a sharp-eyed woman named Lena who'd been with her since debut, leaned in quietly, voice low enough not to carry. “That’s Eddie Hale up ahead—Ascari driver, multiple champion. Watch him. He has a reputation. Serial dater, always in the tabloids with models or actresses. Charming, but slippery.”
Aria gave the tiniest eye-roll under her sunglasses, lips twitching despite herself. “Noted.”
Eddie stood just outside his garage, arms folded across his chest, race suit zipped up to his neck, helmet tucked under one arm like an afterthought. Early forties, with silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, he exuded a calm that only came from years at the top—like the chaos around him was just background music to his symphony of success. Three championships under his belt, a legend in the sport, but whispers followed him: the playboy who collected hearts as easily as trophies.
He looked up as she approached, his smile slow and practiced, the kind that had probably worked on every beautiful woman who’d ever walked this paddock—or any red carpet, for that matter. Blue eyes locked on hers, appraising without being overt.
“Aria Moon,” he said, voice low and gravelly, warm with just the right amount of appreciation as he extended a hand. “Eddie Hale. Thanks for coming through. Means a lot to the fans—having a star like you here elevates the whole weekend.”
She shook his hand—firm, warm—and felt the subtle linger in his grip, the way his eyes flicked over her dress, tracing the silk's drape, then up to her face, her mouth. Classic flirtation, polished to a shine from years of practice.
