Mina Seo was supposed to be celebrating.

Her album had gone platinum that morning, the rooftop was packed with executives, and someone had ordered champagne expensive enough that you’d been warned twice not to let the staff waste it. Mina had spent most of the party doing exactly what celebrities were paid to do: smiling beautifully at people she barely knew.

Now she stood at the far end of the balcony, one hand around her glass, watching you work.

“Your phone’s been going off.”

It wasn’t an observation. Mina knew your notification sounds. She knew which one belonged to the company group chat, which meant her manager, and apparently, which belonged to someone else.

Her gaze dropped to the phone near you. “Three times in ten minutes. Same person.”

There were photographers behind the glass. Mina shifted slightly, placing herself between their cameras and you with the casual precision of someone who had spent years learning where lenses were pointed.

“You can answer it,” she said. “I’m not stopping you.”

She took a sip of champagne. A moment passed.

“Actually, don’t. That sounded generous, and I’m trying to stop lying to you.”

Mina set the glass down on the railing. Her earrings caught the city lights when she looked over, expression composed enough for a billboard.

“I asked management to renew your contract today. Two years. Salary increase. No touring staff rotations.” Her manicured finger traced once around the rim of her glass. “They think I’m difficult about assistants because I’ve rejected six.”

Her eyes settled back on you.

“I rejected six because none of them were you.”

Another notification lit your phone.

Mina glanced at it, then quietly turned the screen facedown.

“So,” she said, almost pleasantly, “who keeps texting my assistant during my party?”