The Surprise
Ashling had never been on a film set before.
It had taken three favors, a carefully worded phone call, and finally an outright bribe to Kwang's long-suffering manager to get her in. He'd resisted at first, mumbling about "policy" and "schedule," but she had slipped him a tidy envelope and smiled.
"Don't think of it as bribery," she said. "Think of it as… incentive."
The man groaned. "If this backfires, I'm telling him you threatened me."
She only laughed and followed him past the lighting rigs, makeup stations, and coiled wires. Her pulse drummed with nerves — she wanted to see him, to surprise him.
But the moment she stepped onto the soundstage, her breath caught.
There he was.
Not the husband she had grown used to in stolen moments and playful banter, but someone darker. His hair was slicked back, his shirt half-open, his hands caging a woman against a dingy apartment wall. His mouth brushed hers with slow, intimate hunger. The actress clung to him, eyes fluttering shut.
Ashling froze.
She knew it was acting. She knew it was scripted. But her chest still twisted painfully, like watching her heart get sliced open.
"Cut!" the director barked.
The set dissolved into chaos. The actress stepped away, laughing with a stylist, while cameras reset. And Kwang—Kwang turned, spotted her in the shadows, and lit up like a boy on Christmas morning.
"Ash!" he called, jogging toward her.
The burn in her chest eased. She remembered why she had come.
The Trailer
His trailer was smaller than she'd imagined — just a sofa, a vanity mirror, stacks of scripts piled like bricks.
"You bribed my manager," Kwang accused cheerfully, ushering her inside.
Ashling folded her arms. "You're welcome."
"You nearly killed me," he said, collapsing onto the sofa. "One second I'm a psychopath in love with his victim, the next second you're staring at me like you've just witnessed my crimes."
She sat stiffly. "It wasn't easy to watch."
His grin softened. He leaned forward, taking her hand. "Ash, that wasn't me. That was him." He tapped a script on the table. "The monster they're paying me to play."
"I know," she admitted, though the image still gnawed at her.
"Then let me replace it with something real."
They started talking. About her brutal week at Hyundai, about his eccentric director, about his manager's weakness for food bribes. Slowly, her tension melted.
At one point he said something clever, but her mind drifted. When she didn't laugh, his eyes narrowed.
"Not listening?"
Before she could answer, he lunged, fingers digging into her sides.
"Kwang—!" she yelped, laughing helplessly as he tickled her. "Stop—!"
"Apologize for ignoring me!"
"Never—!"
She shoved at him, tears of laughter stinging her eyes, until suddenly they froze, breathless, faces inches apart.
The laughter died.
And then his lips were on hers.
Tender at first, then deeper, hungrier, all restraint unraveling. Her hands clung to his shirt, his slid into her hair. Heat coiled fast and fierce.
But she broke away, panting. "Not here. Not in your trailer."
He stilled, forehead resting against hers. His voice was low, hoarse. "Alright. At home. Later."
Her heart stuttered at the promise.
Saturday Plans
They agreed on dinner. A proper night out, away from the eyes of crews and executives.
Saturday arrived with nerves.
Kwang finished filming early, but Ashling was trapped at Hyundai HQ. An emergency meeting with the Chairman dragged on, filled with projections and campaigns that refused to behave. By the time she escaped, she was drained.
She changed in her office, peeling off her corporate armor. In its place, she chose something softer: a lavender blouse patterned with faint flowers, paired with a chiffon skirt that faded from pink to lavender to violet, airy and weightless with a slip beneath. Her hair fell in glossy waves, a diamond bracelet catching light at her wrist.
When she caught her reflection in the glass, she almost didn't recognize herself. She didn't look like Hyundai's Ice Princess. She looked like a woman about to walk into something she wanted but didn't dare name.
Her phone buzzed with his text: Already here. Don't rush. I'll wait.
Her pulse quickened.
The Ghost
The hotel lobby gleamed with chandeliers and polished marble. She approached the front desk, smiling faintly.
"Excuse me, where's the restaurant?"
The receptionist pointed down the hallway.
She was about to thank him when the revolving doors whispered open.
And in walked Armando Lopez Jr.
Her stomach plummeted.
It had been years since Manila. Years since the golden sunset when he'd looked at her with calm eyes and said: Today's the last day I'll be with you. It's a good thing the sunset is beautiful. Then walked away, no warning, no fight.
Now here he was — tailored suit immaculate, portfolio under his arm, moving with the effortless air of money and certainty.
Ashling's breath stuttered. Her hands trembled. The lavender blouse felt suddenly thin, useless against the cold shock rushing through her.
She turned quickly, heels clicking too fast across the marble. She forced herself down the hall, toward the restaurant, toward safety.
And then she saw him.
Kwang.
Tall, striking in a tailored jacket, waiting at their reserved table. He waved, boyish grin breaking across his face when he spotted her. Relief surged through her like oxygen.
But just as she stepped forward, another presence shifted behind her.
Armando again — not alone.
A woman clung to his arm, elegant, poised, her laughter low and intimate. Armando's hand rested lightly at her back as the maître d' hurried to greet them like royalty.
Ashling's chest clenched.
Her fingers dug into her clutch. She forced her legs to move, trembling, until she reached Kwang's table.
"Sorry," she said softly, sliding into the chair opposite him. "Traffic."
He smiled easily, as though her shaken nerves were invisible. "You're here. That's what matters."
She tried to smile back, her hands tight in her lap.
Behind her, the ghost of her past was seating himself at another table, laughter floating across the marble.