Idol House

Min-Joon:

Koree James is going to be a star.

I’ve known it since the first time I heard her sing.

She doesn’t believe me, of course. She never has. For someone with so much confidence in her ability to write music, she’s remarkably stubborn about what she can do with it.

I’ve spent the better part of a year trying to convince her.

And now, finally, we’re getting somewhere.

I lean back in my chair, watching her through the glass as she adjusts the headphones over her ears.

She’s barely spoken to me since we arrived in Seoul. Not that I blame her.

I knew she would be angry when I presented her with the contract. I also knew she would sign it. Koree might be stubborn, but she’s not stupid. Given the alternative, there wasn’t much of a decision to make.

The engineer gives her the signal. The music starts. It’s not the kind of song I would’ve chosen for her introduction to Idol House.

For one, it’s not K-pop.

For another, there’s nothing particularly pleasant about it. It’s angry. Accusatory. The kind of song that makes you wonder what the person singing it has been through—and whether you might be responsible for some of it.

In this case, I don’t have to wonder.

But Koree has never been particularly interested in making people comfortable.

Her voice fills the studio, low and controlled at first, each word delivered with enough conviction to make it clear she means every one of them. Then the emotion builds.

She doesn’t oversing. Doesn’t reach for notes just to prove she can hit them. She knows when to hold back and when to let the frustration bleed through.

That’s what separates her from half the artists who come through Han Entertainment studios. They know how to sing. Koree knows how to make people listen.

I noticed her long before I knew she could do either. It would’ve been difficult not to. She’s beautiful, even when she’s doing absolutely nothing to draw attention to herself. Especially then, perhaps.

But Min-Ji has always had a habit of collecting people who enjoy being associated with our family, and I had no reason to believe Koree was any different. Another pretty girl from nowhere, suddenly accompanying my sister to parties and clubs she wouldn’t otherwise have access to.

I’d seen it before.

Eventually, I realized she wasn’t interested in any of that. She was interested in Min-Ji. A distinction I should’ve recognized sooner.

Still, it wasn’t until I saw the recording of her freestyle that I understood what had been bothering me about her. She had something. Something that couldn’t be taught, bought, or manufactured.

And when I learned she’d improvised the performance, I knew. She just needed someone who knew what to do with her.

Unfortunately, Koree didn’t appreciate being told that.

She was perfectly content writing songs for other people. She enjoyed the studio, understood production, and had an instinct for lyrics that some of my highest-paid writers would envy.

But put her in front of an audience? Absolutely not.

At first, I thought she was afraid. Then I thought she was being difficult. Eventually, I realized she simply didn’t want the same things I wanted for her. Which was frustrating, considering I could see exactly what she was capable of.

The music swells through the speakers.

Koree closes her eyes, gripping the headphones as she delivers another line.

I glance toward the engineer. He’s watching her instead of the levels.

I almost smile. There it is. That thing she does without trying.

The song isn’t happy. It isn’t particularly flattering to the men who’ve disappointed her, either.

But it’s good. Really fucking good.

Especially considering she wrote it somewhere over the Atlantic, between leaving a police station in New York and landing in Seoul. Koree did it on a plane while refusing to speak to me.

Impressive, even by her standards. And infuriating. Because this is what I’ve been trying to tell her. She could have all of it. The music. The recognition. The career.

Everything.

And she could have me. That was always the plan. Perhaps I should’ve explained it better. When Koree asked me to acknowledge our relationship publicly, I hadn’t expected her to take my answer so personally.

I wasn’t ashamed of her.

I knew what my father expected of me. Of anyone associated with our family. He’d spent my entire life making those expectations clear, and I had no intention of giving him another reason to question my judgment. He wouldn’t have understood Koree.

Not yet. An unknown American black girl with no family connections, no established career, and nothing to her name wasn’t someone he’d consider suitable.

But she wasn’t going to remain unknown.

That was the point. I needed time to establish her career. To show him what I already knew.

Instead, Koree heard that she wasn’t good enough.

I knew I’d hurt her. I intended to make it right. Then Darryl showed up.

My jaw tightens at the memory.

I’d spent months building something with Koree, only to watch her walk away with a man who had already had his chance with her.

And when I made it clear she was with me, she corrected me. In front of him. She wasn’t mine. Technically, she was right. That didn’t make it any easier to hear.

A few hours later, my sister called me from a police station. Drugs. Guns. A stolen vehicle. Min-Ji, Koree, Darryl, and another idiot who apparently hadn’t considered the consequences of any of it.

I got Min-Ji out first.

Then I went back for Koree.

I could’ve simply arranged for her legal representation. I know that. But I’d spent months trying to convince her to take a chance on herself, and every conversation ended the same way. She didn’t want to perform. She didn’t want to be famous. She didn’t want to become the artist I knew she could be.

And now I had an opportunity to change that.

The contract solved two problems. It gave Koree a way out of a situation that could’ve destroyed her future before it began, and it gave me ten weeks to prove that future was worth pursuing.

She thinks I took advantage of her. I suppose, from where she’s standing, that’s exactly what it looks like.

But she signed. And now she’s here. Recording her own music. Preparing to enter a competition I’ve spent more than a year developing.

For the first time since I met her, we’re moving in the right direction. Even if she currently hates me for it.

The final note fades.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

Then the engineer turns toward me. “Again?”

I look through the glass.

Koree stands in front of the microphone, headphones pushed back, watching us. She’s waiting for me to find something wrong. I don’t. The song isn’t what I would’ve chosen for her. It’s better.

“We have it,” I say.

The engineer relays the message, but Koree doesn’t smile. She removes the headphones, sets them beside the microphone, and walks out without looking at me again.

I watch the door close.

She thinks I’m the villain in her story. For now, maybe I am. But I’ve seen what she can become. I’ve heard it in every song she’s written, every demo she’s recorded, every performance she’s insisted didn’t mean anything. And now the rest of the world is going to see it, too.

Idol House will change everything.

Ten weeks. That’s all I need. Ten weeks for Koree to realize I was right. For her to understand why I pushed so hard. For her to see that everything I’ve done has been to give her the future she deserves. And perhaps, when she does, we can finally have the future I envisioned for us.

Until then, she can be angry. She can refuse to speak to me. She can hate every minute of this. I can live with that. As long as she stays long enough to understand.

And if she decides she wants to leave before then?

Well.

There’s always the contract.