The posters of Rabin Angeles were everywhere. Billboards, bus stops, coffee cups. Smiling like he meant it.
Y/N stared up at one while waiting outside the agency, her lips tight.
He didn't deserve that smile. Not after what he did.
She adjusted her blazer. "Just a few months," she whispered. "Get close. Get proof. Burn him down."
The automatic glass doors slid open with a hiss. A receptionist in sleek black and white looked up, eyes scanning her ID. "Y/N Ramirez?" she asked.
Y/N nodded.
"Third floor, last room on the left."
she just nodded and stepped into the elevator. Her heart beat hard — not from nerves, but from anger.
Rabin Angeles, age 20. The youngest Global Icon awardee 2025. Crowned the "voice of a generation." Millions adored him. Every magazine sang his praises. Every fan called him a saint.
But Y/N knew the truth. Or at least… part of it.
She stepped into the interview room expecting a board of executives, maybe a stiff HR officer.
Instead, it was a woman — poised, sharp, dressed in navy silk and black heels. Her hair was clipped up, her nails painted red, and her phone never left her hand.
Y/N paused at the threshold.
The woman glanced up. Her eyes were cool, assessing. "Y/N Ramirez?"
"Yes," Y/N replied, stepping in.
The door clicked shut behind her.
"I'm Lana Cruz, Rabin's talent agent," she said, standing and offering a firm, brief handshake. "Before we begin, I'll make this clear: this job is not glamorous. You're not here to make friends, collect autographs, or fall in love."
Y/N didn't flinch. "I'm not here for any of that."
Lana raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not impressed. "Good. Because if you're looking to ride fame, you're already disqualified."
She motioned for Y/N to sit. A slim file sat on the table — her resume, probably unread.
"You'll be on call 24/7. That means holidays, nights, early mornings, and moods." Lana's lips curled slightly at the last word. "You'll deal with travel arrangements, fan mail, schedule changes, wardrobe emergencies, hangovers, meltdowns — and silence."
Y/N tilted her head. "Silence?"
"Meaning discretion," Lana said flatly. "You don't post. You don't talk. You don't exist outside of what he allows."
She closed the file and looked up sharply. "Do you know who he is?"
Y/N blinked. "Sorry… I'm confused." She let out a small, practiced laugh. "I don't know which celebrity you're referring to. There are so many under this agency, after all…"
She lied smoothly, folding her hands in her lap.
Lana didn't smile.
Her gaze sharpened — like a hawk that had just spotted something off. She leaned forward slowly, fingers drumming the table once.
"Anyway," Lana said, her voice smooth and unreadable, "it's better not to know. For now."
Y/N gave a slight, respectful nod, but her thoughts were racing.
Not to know? She already knew too much. But clearly, Lana was testing her — watching for cracks. Y/N wasn't going to give her any.
Lana didn't look convinced, but she smiled. Slightly. Dangerously.
"Well, lucky for you," she said, standing, "you're about to get very familiar."
Y/N rose too, clutching her bag. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs, but her face stayed calm.
"Last chance," Lana added, holding the door open. "You sure you want this?"
Y/N smiled politely.
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
Liar, she thought as she followed Lana into the hall.
But a determined one.
At the end of the hall, Lana paused outside a black double-door suite.
"He just got back from a shoot in Singapore," she said casually. "He hasn't slept in two days, and he fired his last assistant for asking if he wanted almond or oat milk."
Y/N's eyebrows twitched up. "…Seriously?"
Lana didn't answer. Instead, she smirked faintly and knocked twice before pushing the door open.
"Rabin," she called lightly. "Your new assistant is here."
Y/N took one quiet breath.
Time to meet the boy the world worships—and the devil I came to destroy.
He was asleep on the couch.
A black bomber jacket was thrown over his face, one arm draped over his chest like he didn't have a care in the world. His sneakers were still on, legs stretched across the expensive suede cushions like it was his private throne.
"Rab," Lana said, voice pitched just a little too sweet. "Sorry to disturb your nap, but you have to meet your new assistant."
She gave a fake laugh — the kind Y/N could spot a mile away — and stepped aside, letting the silence stretch.
From under the jacket came a muffled groan. "Ate (sister in tagalog) … let me sleep for a while."
Y/N blinked. Ate? She hadn't expected that. The honorific made Rabin seem… young. Like a boy whining to his older sister, not a global icon managing millions.
But Lana didn't soften.
"Just five minutes," she said firmly. "She's already here, so make an impression or don't bother."
No response.
Lana turned to Y/N and gave a sharp nod toward the opposite couch. "Sit. He'll wake up when he feels like being human."
Y/N nodded and quietly moved to the other side of the room, settling onto the cool leather. The office was spacious, modern, minimal — a few trophies lined the built-in shelves, but none of the usual ego-driven clutter. No photos. No gold-plated names. Just silence, soft light, and a pop star hiding from the world under a jacket.
She watched him through the gaps in her lashes. His hair was tousled. His breathing steady. There was something almost peaceful about him in sleep — and annoyingly attractive, too.
She hated that.
He sleeps like he's untouchable, she thought bitterly. Like the world will wait.
And for now, she would. But not forever.
Lana's phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, sighed, then looked back at Y/N.
"I've got calls to take. Meetings. Chaos to manage," she said, already turning toward the door. "You two can get acquainted."
Y/N sat up straighter. "Wait—you're leaving me here?"
Lana smiled thinly. "He's harmless when he's asleep. Just… don't touch anything."
And with that, she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence returned like a thick blanket.
Y/N glanced at Rabin's sleeping form — or "sleeping" — still motionless on the couch, jacket over his face, as if nothing in the world could touch him.
She sat still, fidgeted once. Then crossed her legs. Uncrossed them.
Time passed slowly.
Every few seconds, she peeked at him, wondering if he'd actually dozed off or was just ignoring her out of sheer ego.
Should I say something? Should I cough? Kick his shoe? she thought, then rolled her eyes at herself.
Instead, she leaned back and whispered under her breath, "Global icon, huh? Can't even stay awake for five minutes."
She heard nothing.
Until—
"…You talk too much."
The voice was muffled, lazy, and unmistakably awake.
Y/N froze.
Rabin slowly pushed the jacket off his face and peeked at her with one eye open, expression unreadable.
She stared back at him, caught off guard. "You were awake?"
He stretched like a cat, unbothered. "I was sleeping. Then I heard sarcasm."
He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at her properly for the first time.
His gaze swept over her — from her simple blazer down to her flats — then back to her face.
"You don't look like my assistant," he said bluntly.
Y/N crossed her arms. "You don't look like someone who just won a global award. But here we are."
His lips twitched, like she'd amused him against his will.
"Well," he muttered, standing and walking past her toward the corner, "this should be fun."
Rabin walked to the corner of the room where a sleek black fridge sat flush against the wall. He crouched, opened it, and pulled out a chilled bottle of water.
The cap twisted off with a soft crack.
Y/N didn't mean to stare. But she did.
He tilted his head back and drank — slow, like he had all the time in the world. The water slid down his throat, and his adam's apple moved with each swallow.
Up. Down.
Up. Down.
She caught herself staring and immediately looked away, jaw tightening.
But it was too late.
He saw it. She knew he did.
He lowered the bottle and turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a faint smirk forming.
"You thirsty?" he asked, voice dipped in smug.
Y/N rolled her eyes, covering her discomfort with a scoff. "Just wondering if you've ever heard of using a glass."
He chuckled — low and amused — and walked past her, the scent of clean soap and jet lag following in his wake.
"You're funny," he said, dropping into the chair across from her. "Most of them don't talk. Or they cry."
Y/N folded her arms. "Maybe you make them cry."
He grinned at that. Full, bright. The kind of smile that lived on magazine covers.
"And you think you won't?"
She leaned forward slightly. "Try me."
Their eyes locked — the air pulsing between them with a strange, charged silence.
He looked at her like a puzzle. One he hadn't decided if he wanted to break or solve.
Then, just as suddenly, he leaned back with a lazy stretch. "Fine. You're hired."
Y/N blinked. "What?"
"You're hired," he repeated, now yawning. "I like you. You've got attitude. You'll either last longer than the others… or crash harder."
And just like that, he closed his eyes again.
Not another word.
Like it was final.
And maybe… it was.