Destiny love and secrets

The private jet cut through the heavy, dark Canadian clouds, its tires hitting the icy tarmac of the Calgary International Airport with a sharp, echoing screech. Inside the cabin, Min-woo sat back against the leather seat, his heavy wool coat resting beside his knee. His dark eyes stared blankly out the frost-covered window at the endless white expanse of snow, while his fingers tapped a fast, nervous rhythm against his thigh.

I should have waited for her at the gate in Seoul, Min-woo thought, and his jaw tightening into a hard line as a wave of deep frustration washed over him. I should have ignored the production team's early flight schedule and booked the exact same flight as her. Leaving her to cross an ocean alone while I fly ahead feels like a coward's move.

His original, stubborn plan had been to linger at Incheon, to find a way onto her flight, or at least stand close enough to watch her walk through security so he knew she was safe. But the crushing reality of his life as Asia's top superstar did not allow for quiet, unbothered travel. The moment his name hit the emergency co-production roster, the media machine had woken up.

When the private cabin door finally opened, Min-woo stepped down the metal staircase into the biting Canadian air. The moment his boots hit the tarmac, the flashbulbs hit him like a physical wall—a blinding explosion of white light. Reporters, international photographers, and local entertainment bloggers swarmed the restricted perimeter, shouting over the roar of the jet engines in a chaotic mix of English and Korean.

"Kang Min-woo! Over here! What brings you to the Canadian Rockies?"

"Is your casting for the GAF winter blockbuster confirmed?"

Min-woo pulled his dark cap low over his forehead, his fingers curling into tight fists inside his coat pockets. The familiar, untouchable armour of his public persona slid back into place because he had no other choice. If he stopped, if he looked around for Kiya's incoming flight, the cameras would track his gaze and turn her arrival into a feeding frenzy.

Stay cold. Keep moving, he told himself, locking his expression into a blank mask. To protect her, I have to be the shield. I have to draw every single pair of eyes away from her gate.

Surrounded by two local security guards hired by the production house, Min-woo pushed through the blinding lights and climbed directly into the back of a waiting black van with heavily tinted windows. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the screeching wind and the shouting voices.

The ride to the hotel was entirely silent. The van moved smoothly through the wet, salted streets of Calgary, streetlights casting long, pale beams across the heavy snowbanks. When they pulled up to the grand, timber-and-stone hotel designated for the main cast, a few lingering fans and hotel staffers stood near the glass entrance. Min-woo kept his head down, walking past a nervous receptionist who stammered out a welcome, and took the private elevator straight up to his assigned penthouse suite on the top floor.

Forty minutes later, Flight AC 064 touched down smoothly at a different gate.

Kiya unbuckled her seatbelt, her fingers stiff with a mix of physical exhaustion and lingering anxiety. When she had discovered his name on the cast roster mid-flight, her heart had practically stopped beating. Even now, walking down the jet bridge into the Calgary terminal, her mind was a frantic storm of racing thoughts.

What is he doing here? How did he manage an emergency international transfer so fast? Does he realize what kind of target this puts on his back with the Hollywood producers? She asked herself over and over, her chest aching with a mixture of profound relief and bubbling panic. He gave up his peace in Seoul just to make sure I wasn't fighting this foreign grid alone. But if the international press ties us together here, the studio executives will tear us apart.

She gripped the handle of her carry-on bag tightly, her knuckles turning pale. Stepping into the main arrival hall, she felt small, disoriented, and entirely out of place. The air smelled sharp, clean, and freezing cold—completely different from the heavy smog of Seoul or the warm dust of Delhi. Here, she was just an international newcomer staring at foreign arrival boards, with no idea how to navigate the city.

To her immense relief, there were no flashing cameras or shouting reporters waiting near her gate. The media swarm was entirely occupied with the top-tier actor who had landed earlier.

Taking a deep, trembling breath, Kiya pushed through the glass sliding doors toward the main lobby area.

That was when she saw him.

Standing near a large stone pillar was a tall, imposing man in a heavy black wool coat. His face was carved from absolute stone, and in his large hands, he held a white placard with a single word written in bold, clean letters: KIYA.

She froze, her boots halting on the polished tile floor. Who is he? Is he a local fixer? Is he from the GAF administration?

Before her panic could spiral further, her phone buzzed softly in her pocket. She pulled it out with a shaking hand.

TEXT MESSAGE FROM :( MIN-WOO) don’t look surprised. That is my personal security lead, Mr.SONG. He will take you straight to the hotel. Get in the car safely, rookie. I'll see you soon.

Kiya let out a long, shaky breath, the tight knot in her chest loosening just a fraction. He thought of everything, she realized, a warm swell of gratitude pushing back her fear. Even across an ocean, he arranged a shield for me before I even stepped off the plane.

She walked over to the tall man, who gave her a respectful, stiff bow and took her luggage without a single word.

"This way, Kiya-ssi. Mr. Kang arranged direct transport," he said in a low voice.

She followed him out into the freezing night air, sliding into the warm, leather-lined interior of a waiting van. The vehicle pulled away from the curb smoothly, blending into the quiet highway traffic.

Twenty minutes later, the van pulled up to the grand entrance of the production hotel. Kiya stepped out, the cold wind biting sharply at her cheeks, and hurried inside. She walked up to the mahogany reception desk, where a polite Canadian receptionist looked up with a bright smile.

"Welcome to Calgary, Miss Kiya. We have your room prepared on the sixth floor. Here is your digital key card."

"Thank you," Kiya murmured, taking the sleek card.

She rode the elevator up in total silence, her mind still racing a mile a minute. When she unlocked the door to her room, she found her luggage already neatly placed by the entryway, left there by room service. The room was warm, decorated in rich woods and heavy woollen blankets, with a large window looking out over the dark, snow-covered pine trees.

Kiya locked the door behind her, finally letting the immense weight of the past twenty-four hours crash down on her shoulders. She walked over, unzipped her bag, and pulled out a set of soft, comfortable cotton lounge clothes. Slipping into the small, modern bathroom, she turned on the shower.

The hot water felt like pure relief against her cold skin. For ten long minutes, she stood under the spray, letting the steam wash away the tension of the airport, the flight, and the overwhelming reality of being on a new continent.

After stepping out and drying off, she changed into her loose clothes, letting her damp hair fall naturally around her shoulders. Feeling thirsty from the dry indoor heating, she walked over to the room's kitchenette, filled a glass with warm water, and took a slow, grounding sip.

Knock. Knock.

The soft sound echoed through the quiet hotel room, making Kiya's heart skip a violent beat against her ribs. She set her glass down on the counter, her eyes darting toward the heavy wooden entrance door.