For Mingi, it was all performance. A calculated rehearsal to refine his craft. Nothing more. To him, the romance was a façade. A strategy. Yunho? Just a supporting role in the business deal. Background noise in a narrative engineered for fame. Mingi had always seen himself as the star. Yunho was an understudy who'd somehow stumbled into the spotlight. As for the rumors-Mingi let them swirl. Bisexual, fluid, queer-coded? Whatever made the drama sell. But when the cameras stopped flashing, so did the illusion. Yunho felt it every time. The hand that held his in public would drop the second the shutters silenced. The look Mingi gave him in private could freeze a sunbeam-flat, cold, void of recognition. And each time they kissed-barely a brush of lips, barely a moment-Mingi would excuse himself. The bathroom. Running water. A ritual cleansing. Like he was scrubbing off something filthy. Yunho tried to endure. Tried to believe it was just professionalism. That it didn't matter. He told himself not to flinch. Not to feel. Because he signed the contract. He agreed to this. And walking away now? Unthinkable. But even scripts have breaking points. And actors? They bleed, too. ©2020, eReLRa