30. False Notes
FALSE NOTES
JIN — NEW YORK
The radio host had perfect teeth and the kind of enthusiasm that felt exhausting at eight in the morning. Especially after having danced with Sang-hoon until nearly midnight the night before. Only having Grace there to translate anything I didn’t understand made it easier.
“So Jin, you’re in New York for the first time with Pryzm! How does it feel to be performing at Madison Square Garden?”
I smiled. The one I’d practiced in mirrors for years, the one that looked genuine even when I was running on four hours of sleep and anxiety that sat in my stomach like lead.
“It’s incredible,” I said in careful English. “MSG is—it’s a dream venue. We’ve watched so many performances there. To perform there ourselves, for our fans? It’s an honor.”
“And the fans! You guys sold out in what, four minutes?”
“Three minutes,” Min-kyu corrected from beside me, his English heavily accented but confident. “Our fans are amazing.”
The host beamed. “They really are. Now, I have to ask. After that incident in Cannes, were you nervous about continuing the tour?”
My smile didn’t waver, but something tightened in my chest. “It was scary, yes. But we trust our team. The security and the production crew all work very hard to keep us safe.”
“And you’ve got some serious security now!” The host gestured toward the back of the studio where Aidan and Liam stood with two of Jason’s officers. “I’ve never seen so many bodyguards at a radio interview.”
I laughed—light, dismissive. “After Cannes, we’re being more careful. But it’s okay. We just want to focus on the music and connecting with fans.”
The interview continued with questions about the tour, our favorite American foods, whether we’d had time to sightsee (we hadn’t). I said that I had tried Sam Adams beer and liked it.
Occasionally Grace had to help us with some strange American slang, or to translate a Korean phrase that didn’t have an easy counterpart.
I answered on autopilot, the English responses flowing from years of practice, while another part of my brain tracked Aidan’s position in my peripheral vision.
I realized how incredibly kind they had been to give Sang-hoon and me that trip to the gay bar. No one recognized me, no one took photographs that might end up on a fan website. It was just me and my boyfriend.
Along with our bodyguards, of course.
When the interview finally wrapped, we posed for photos with the host and signed some albums for the station staff.
I watched Grace check her phone twice during the photo session.
She was quick and held the phone angled away from the group, the way people do when checking messages they didn’t want observed.
I’d noticed her do the same thing during the London venue walkthrough. At the time I’d assumed it was personal.
I didn’t have time to think about that because we were hustled back into the waiting vehicles. The morning sun was harsh, making me squint as we emerged onto the New York street.
About thirty fans were waiting, clustered behind barriers the station had set up. They started screaming the moment they saw us.
“Jin! We love you!”
“Pryzm!”
“You’re so handsome!”
I waved, smiled, tried to give them a moment even as Jason’s team was already forming a corridor to the vehicles. One girl was crying, holding a sign that said JIN MARRY ME in glittery letters. I caught her eye, gave her a heart sign with my hands, watched her dissolve into happy tears.
This was why we did it. Not the awards or the chart positions or the sold-out stadiums. This. The connection. The way our music meant something to people we’d never met.
“Jin-ssi, we need to move,” one of the security officers said quietly in Korean.
I turned toward the vehicle, and that’s when I saw Sang-hoon.
He was standing by the SUV’s open door, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were scanning the crowd, the surrounding buildings, the cars passing on the street. Looking for threats. Looking for danger.
Inside the vehicle, I sat between Sang-hoon and Min-kyu, the two of them forming a protective barrier around me.
But Min-kyu had his headphones on, eyes closed, either sleeping or pretending to.
Sang-hoon stared at his phone, scrolling through something but not really reading.
I could tell because his thumb moved too regularly, no pauses to actually absorb content.
“Sang-hoon-ah,” I said quietly.
He looked up. “Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.” He gave me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Long night last night, long day ahead.”
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” I kept my voice low, aware of the driver and security officer in the front seats.
Sang-hoon’s hand found mine between us, hidden from view. Squeezed once. “Of course.”
Three more interviews. Then back to the hotel, where we had barely enough time to change into dress outfits for a dinner with Korean-American community leaders that Starhouse had arranged for networking.
Before we left, I noticed Sang-hoon on his phone again, his fingers rapidly texting. “Is anything wrong?”
He looked up, and a piece of his hair flopped in front of his forehead. “No, your mother wants to make sure you are getting Korean food in New York. I told her about all the meals we’ve had so far.”
I reached over and put the hair back in place. “You are very sweet.”
The dinner was being held at Hyundai’s Genesis House, in an industrial-looking part of Manhattan not far from our hotel, though I couldn’t have told you exactly where.
The building itself felt more like a design museum than a restaurant.
On the ground floor, sleek cars sat under gallery lighting as if they were sculptures instead of something people actually drove.
Upstairs, everything softened.
Warm wood. Low golden light. Clean lines that reminded me of the modern hanok-inspired spaces Starhouse liked to use for corporate events. Traditional Korean architecture reimagined in glass and luxury finishes. Through the windows, I saw city lights and the dark ribbon of water beyond.
Starhouse had positioned the evening as cultural outreach.
Pryzm meeting Korean-American business leaders, media figures, and community organizers.
The kind of event where I was expected to be charming, grateful, and photogenic while discussing the global reach of Korean entertainment over exquisitely plated food I barely tasted.
In other words, work.
I smiled through introductions, accepted compliments about our music, answered questions about the tour, and tried not to glance too often toward the perimeter of the room, where Aidan and Liam stood with Jason’s officers.
Sang-hoon was nearby too, though technically he was here as staff, not security. He stayed just far enough away to avoid notice, close enough that I could find him whenever I needed to.
Which, tonight, was more often than I wanted to admit.
I saw him taking pictures of the food, which I knew he would text to my mother. It was so kind of him to think of her, and her worries about me. But that was who he was.
The man across the table from me was a middle-aged banker whose daughter’s dream was becoming a trainee. I tried to gently remind him of the hard work involved when I heard a raised voice near the entrance, the scrape of a chair, and someone saying something sharply in English.
Then a young woman burst into the room.
She was no more than twenty-two. Pretty in an ordinary way, long dark hair, oversized sweater, the kind of person I might have passed on the street without a second glance.
When she saw me, her entire face changed. “Jin-ah!” she shouted. She shoved past one of the event organizers and started toward me.
Aidan moved, but Liam moved faster.
One second she was crossing the carpet between tables, the next Liam had intercepted her, catching her around the waist before she could reach me.
She screamed in Korean, not in fear, but fury. “Don’t touch me! I am his fiancée!”
Guests gasped. Someone dropped a wineglass.
The young woman twisted violently in Liam’s grip, reaching for me. “Joon-hi!” she shouted. “Tell them!”
The use of my real name froze me in place.
“I came all this way for you!”
“Miss, stop resisting,” Liam snapped.
“You have to listen to me!” she cried, struggling harder. “I’m the only one who really loves you! Not them—me!” Her Korean was rougher than the standard Seoul dialect, more like the way Haneul spoke. But you didn’t have to speak Korean at all to tell the kind of thing she was saying.
The room had gone dead silent.
I became abruptly aware of Sang-hoon in front of me, one arm out as though he could physically block her from existence.
“I wrote to you!” she shouted at me. “I sent messages! I know you read them!”
Liam and one of Jason’s officers were steering her backward now, but she kept fighting.
“We’re meant to be together! You know that!”
“Jin.” Aidan’s voice was low and controlled beside me. “Step back.”
I obeyed without argument. The woman was still screaming as security forced her through the doors. “I LOVE YOU!”
The doors slammed shut.
A moment of silence, then the room erupted into overlapping voices in English and Korean. “Oh my God!”
“Was she armed?”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Call the police!”
I realized my hands were shaking. Sang-hoon turned toward me, his face gone pale.
“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head. But my throat felt tight, and suddenly the room seemed too warm, too crowded, the expensive restaurant air pressing against my skin.
Eun-ji appeared and looked like she was already calculating press fallout. “The situation is under control,” she announced, too brightly.
Liam came back a moment later, jaw tight. “Obsessive fan,” he announced to the crowd. “No weapon.”
No weapon. As though that should make it better.
I looked at Aidan. “Is this connected?”
Aidan exchanged a glance with Liam.
“No,” Liam said after a beat. “If this were the person targeting you, she wouldn’t have announced herself from across the room.”
That should have reassured me. Instead, it made something cold settle in my chest.
Because if this wasn’t our real threat, then somewhere out there was someone smarter. Someone quieter. Someone patient enough to wait.