Chapter 1: people like me don’t just meet him
The thing about having money?
It doesn’t cure obsession. If anything, it makes it worse. Because when you’re rich, you have options. You can chase dreams, book flights, cross oceans. But the one thing you still can’t buy is access to someone who doesn’t even know you exist.
Which is why I’m here — lying on my designer canopy bed in a silk robe at 4:47 p.m., not at the ambassador’s house like my parents want, but on my burner phone, zooming in on a blurry photo of Win Theeradech’s knuckles.
Yes. His knuckles.
He’d posted a cryptic Instagram story — no caption, just his hand holding a film camera, city lights sparkling behind it like Bangkok’s sky was on fire. And now, here I am, squinting at the screen like the image might whisper something only I can hear.
I let out a sigh that could shatter glass.
Win isn’t just an actor. He’s a phenomenon— Thai cinema’s golden boy, the face of every second TikTok thirst trap, the reason my fan account hit 14.6K followers last night.
He doesn’t even follow me. He probably never will.
“Rosemary!” my mother’s voice rips through the hallway like a machete through lace. “The ambassador’s daughter will be there. Are you not ashamed to stay in your room looking like a depressed cat?”
I close my eyes. Count to five. Breathe like my therapist taught me.
I don’t answer.
I’m already dressed — in a black slip dress that fits like a sin — but I’m not going anywhere. I have better things to do. Like rewatching Win’s 2019 drama for the eighth time and editing a video where he bites his lip and looks directly into the camera like he knows my soul is not secure.
I scroll down the email inbox on my laptop just to distract myself. That’s when I see it.
A bolded subject line I don’t recognize:
“Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the Bangkok Global Film Summer Program.”
I blink once.
Then twice.
And then I stop breathing.
I click it open, and there it is — a formal acceptance letter. Signed. Official. Real.
There’s even an attached itinerary and a digital map of where I’ll be staying in central Bangkok.
No. Freaking. Way.
My heart starts sprinting. Like actual cardio.
Because I didn’t just apply to any program. I applied to the program — the one I found on a fan page when Win mentioned his cousin works in the film institute. The one I submitted an application to in the middle of the night, using a fake essay and a video montage I made of Thai cinema clips and poetic voiceover. It wasn’t even real filmmaking.
It was a fan edit.
And they picked me.
I stand up so fast I almost knock over my iced tea. “I got in,” I whisper, like saying it louder might ruin it.
Then I say it again, louder. “I GOT IN!”
My phone falls from the bed and hits the marble floor, screen-first. I don’t care. I’m already pacing, barefoot, with adrenaline vibrating in my fingertips. This isn’t just a trip.
It’s a portal.
Thailand. Bangkok. The heart of the drama scene. The city where he lives. The air he breathes. I could walk down a street and bump into him. Or sit in a café and hear his laugh — the one I’ve memorized in every pitch. What if I see him filming something? What if I—
“What is wrong with you?” Amara, my cousin, pushes my door open, looking both offended and nosy. “You’re acting like you won the lottery.”
“Better,” I whisper, dragging her inside and locking the door. “I got into the Bangkok summer film program.”
She blinks. “The one you applied to with that fake documentary about passion in Southeast Asian cinema?”
“Exactly that.”
“Does your father know?”
My excitement deflates a little. Dad. Oh God.
“No. And you’re not telling him.”
Amara crosses her arms. “You know he’s gonna murder you in your sleep, right?”
I nod, collapsing back on the bed. “But imagine it. Me. In the same city as Win. For a whole summer.”
“You’re unhinged,” she mutters. “Deeply. I should report you to a psychologist.”
“I already have one. She says I’m visionary.”
Amara rolls her eyes so hard they practically exit her head. “Well, Visionary, I hope you know you’re playing with fire. That boy is famous, and you’re just… a Nigerian fangirl with a Louis Vuitton passport cover.”
I sit up slowly, stare at her, and smile.
“Exactly. A Nigerian fangirl with a passport. And that changes everything.”
She snorts. “You need help.”
But I’m already back on my feet, grabbing a pen and scribbling down a packing list. Clothes. Chargers. Hair oils. My ring light. Lashes.
Oh God. I need a new bonnet.
I haven’t even bought the flight ticket yet, and my mind is already twenty steps ahead. It’s July. I have two weeks to convince my father I’m just going to visit Amara’s friend in Singapore — and then reroute my ticket straight to Bangkok.
Will he kill me? Yes.
Will it be worth it? Absolutely.
Because people like me?
We don’t just meet people like him.
Unless the universe stops playing fair.
And tonight?
It just did.
