Spotlights and Shadows: Love in the time of social media psychosis.
Him: A K-drama god, professional heartthrob with a face that could end wars and start new ones. His love life is classified top secret because his fans have collectively decided his heart belongs to them.
Her: A lawyer who treats him like expired milk.
She's immune to his charm, allergic to his fame. Which is precisely why he's obsessed.
The plan: Secret affair. Keep it simple, keep it hidden.
The reality: Nothing stays hidden when your face is on every bus in Seoul.
While he's catching feelings, she's catching offers from normal men with normal jobs who can take her to dinner without a PR team. Three-way becomes four-way becomes "how many lawyers does it take to untangle a love polygon?"
But when their secret detonates across Korean media like a tactical nuke, his fans don't just lose their minds—they lose their entire grip on reality. Think "fatal attraction" meets "mob mentality" with a K-beauty filter.
Now it's war: his career versus her safety, his image versus their future, his fans versus basic human decency.
Warning: Contains unhinged fan behavior, emotional terrorism, and questionable happily-ever-afters.
Spotlights and Shadows: Love in the time of social media psychosis.
Him: A K-drama god, professional heartthrob with a face that could end wars and start new ones. His love life is classified top secret because his fans have collectively decided his heart belongs to them.
Her: A lawyer who treats him like expired milk.
She's immune to his charm, allergic to his fame. Which is precisely why he's obsessed.
The plan: Secret affair. Keep it simple, keep it hidden.
The reality: Nothing stays hidden when your face is on every bus in Seoul.
While he's catching feelings, she's catching offers from normal men with normal jobs who can take her to dinner without a PR team. Three-way becomes four-way becomes "how many lawyers does it take to untangle a love polygon?"
But when their secret detonates across Korean media like a tactical nuke, his fans don't just lose their minds—they lose their entire grip on reality. Think "fatal attraction" meets "mob mentality" with a K-beauty filter.
Now it's war: his career versus her safety, his image versus their future, his fans versus basic human decency.
Warning: Contains unhinged fan behavior, emotional terrorism, and questionable happily-ever-afters.
Mid-January in Seoul. The city had sobered up, buttoned its coat, gone back to work. Outside, breath crystallized in the bitter air.
But not at this nightclub. Here, winter never penetrated. Here, the beautiful and restless showbiz crowd danced like New Year’s Eve was on an endless loop. Glitter still clung to their skin. Champagne still flowed.
Reality could wait.
Hana
Hana Rhee, on the other hand, had been dragged here against her will, her protests ignored with the cheerful ruthlessness that only best friends can wield. If there was a Geneva Convention for introverts, this would constitute a war crime.
The bass from the speakers vibrated through the soles of her sensible leather heels as she nursed a glass of Chablis—far too cold, its nuance obliterated by overzealous refrigeration. Her briefcase leaned against the bar beside her, a corporate hostage in this temple of sequins and self-promotion.
She adjusted the pussy bow of her burgundy silk blouse and glanced down at her black pencil skirt. Business attire in a sea of body sparkle and strategic cutouts. She might as well have pinned a badge to her chest: Hi, I don't belong here.
I could be home catching reruns of The Good Wife, not counting rhinestones per square foot.
How had Min-ji convinced her to come again?
"Just one drink," her friend had said, voice laced with false innocence. "You need to get out more. Your foundation won't collapse without you for one night."
One drink had turned into three. And now, Min-ji and her entourage of entertainment lawyers had vanished into the crowd to "network," leaving Hana alone with her wine and a low-grade existential crisis.
Technically, Hana was a lawyer too—though her work, as legal counsel for an international foundation focused on children's welfare, didn't exactly make her a staple on the nightclub circuit. Most of her nights involved takeouts and field reports, not overpriced wine and crowds of camera-ready posers. She was thirty-two, allergic to small talk, and deeply suspicious of anyone who looked like they practiced smiling in the mirror.
Nothing like a nightclub to make you miss your inbox.
She scanned the room like an anthropologist observing a particularly vain herd. Actors, producers, screenwriters—Seoul's nightlife circle of trust, their teeth suspiciously white and cheeks suspiciously taut.
Hana checked her watch. Eleven. Too early to leave without insulting someone. Too late to fake a work emergency. The perfect trap.
Her eyes landed on the small stage. The band was on break, their instruments resting like slumbering pets. The piano lid was still up, its black-and-white keys beckoning.
Better than standing here making polite noises.
Yoo-jin
Yoo-jin Lee slipped in through a side entrance with his manager in tow. Low-key, as always. Get in, take stock, leave before someone posts your drink order online.
The room was familiar—faces blurred into types after a while: career flirt, disguised producer, clingy sunbae. He surveyed the room with detachment, measuring angles and reading intent.
His gaze paused on the power suit at the bar.
Not a starlet. Not an influencer. Just a girl in wine-colored silk and what looked suspiciously like office shoes. No sequins, no designer handbag. Her drink of choice wasn't neon. Her expression was somewhere between curious and unimpressed. She looked younger than she probably was—the way genuine people sometimes did when they weren't putting on a show.
What is she doing here? She looks like an office worker who wandered into the wrong event.
He watched as she stood abruptly and walked toward the stage. Tall, slim. The pencil skirt moved like a rebuke to the slouchy trends around her. She untied the bow at her neck without fuss, fingers deft, throat bare. It was oddly intimate, like watching someone take off their watch at the end of a long day.
She's either completely lacking self-awareness or very, very good at pretending.
Yoo-jin had been in show business for twenty years—exactly half his life. The same awards shows, the same overlit interviews, the same carefully worded answers to the same five questions. Sometimes he felt ancient in these settings. But somehow tonight felt different.
Hana
"Mind if I play a bit?" she asked the drummer who was slouching at the bar, too cool to smile.
He gave her a once-over. Seeing no stylist, no entourage, no sheen of ambition, he shrugged. "Knock yourself out."
Hana flexed her fingers and let them settle on the keys. Simple. Melodic. Background music, really. The kind of tune that excused not making conversation.
As her hands moved, so did her mind. Not toward people, but inward, into the quiet logic of chords and intervals. Her shoulders dropped. Her spine relaxed.
Finally, a language I understand.
Yoo-jin
She could play. That was the first surprise.
The second was how she didn't try to impress anyone. No drama. No affectation. Just music, played like it spoke to her and no one else.
Yoo-jin smiled reflexively at a nearby producer, nodding through some pitch about a revenge melodrama set in Iceland, but his attention kept drifting back to the girl at the piano.
I've done four variety shows this month and none of them was this entertaining.
A girl in a structured dress called out, "Play something from Adele!"
He expected her to demur. She didn't. Past the opening bars, she began to sing.
Not with the flair of someone performing, but with the careless ease of a girl alone in her room, half-lost in thought, humming through the verses while scribbling in a notebook. Her voice was clear and unadorned. No dramatic runs, no overreaching emotion. Just steady, strong, and sincere—like someone who wasn't trying to be heard, and so, somehow, everyone listened.
Well, damn.
Hana
The first note escaped her before she could second-guess herself. She kept it simple. No frills. No vocal gymnastics. Just straightforward.
The drummer perked up. A brush tap. Followed by the guitarist. And soon, she wasn't solo anymore. But she didn't care. For once, the noise in her brain—emails, contract clauses, "Where do you see yourself in five years?"—faded into music.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the golden boy himself. Standing a few feet away, his presence as subtle as a billboard. Even she recognized him—Yoo-jin Lee. Star of some drama with doctors, or politicians, or possibly both.
Of course, he's even better looking in person. And tall. Because of course.
He was watching her with open interest.
As if being famous gives him the right to stare at the masses.
Yoo-jin
He saw her spot him when she glanced up. She didn't blush, or giggle, or lift her phone. She just looked. Blinked. Kept playing.
No fan mode. No look-at-me grin. Just... there. Huh.
From the back of the room, someone yelled, "Play a song we can sing to!"
She smiled and launched into a Bruno Mars hit, fingers skipping across the keys. The crowd roared in recognition, singing along—off-key, half-drunk, and tripping over the lyrics but too far gone to care.
So Yoo-jin, half on instinct and half on impulse, began to sing as he approached the piano.
Hana
His voice rose above the crowd, confident, warm, and—damn it—exactly on pitch. A few people whooped. Some others started filming. Hana didn't look up at first, but when she did, their eyes locked again.
You've got to be kidding me.
There he was, towering over her. Yoo-jin Lee. National heartthrob. Possibly a walking cologne ad. Singing beside her like it was no big deal. Like he just happened to be there.
And worse—he could sing. Actually sing.
He slid onto the bench beside her without asking. She moved over, just enough. Their shoulders brushed. He grinned, like this was a game and he was winning.
Alright, superstar. Let's see if you can keep up.
She tossed in a jazzy variation on the melody. He raised an eyebrow, amused, and didn't miss a beat.
Yoo-jin
At first, he played to the crowd with exaggerated expressions—a wink here, a knowing smile there. The usual tricks.
But she hit an unexpected chord progression that made him pause. She was testing him.
Okay. This is happening.
He leaned in, lowered his voice for the bridge, and stopped performing. Just sang. Her fingers adjusted to match, softening the accompaniment to let his voice through.
When she joined him in the second verse, their voices weren't perfect together. But there was something... live about it. Raw. Real.
As they hit the final note, a cheer went up from the crowd. Phones raised. The drummer gave a theatrical bow. And Yoo-jin? He turned to the girl beside him with an expression that almost, almost betrayed how surprised he was.
"You play beautifully," he said, a little breathless.
"You sing well," she replied. "For an actor."
He laughed—really laughed. Head back, eyes crinkled, no PR polish. He stayed seated, watching her rise from the bench.
Wait. Are you leaving? Don't you want—
Hana
No fangirl theatrics. No autograph. No selfie. You're welcome.
She stood, smoothing her skirt like it hadn't just been a duet with Korea's "Sexiest Man Alive," third year running.
Adios, Don Juan. If he's imagining a start to a romance novel, he's got another think coming.
She rejoined Min-ji, who looked like she might explode. "What was that?"
"Um... A duet?"
"A duet with Yoo-jin Lee."
"I noticed."
And no, I'm not going to squeal.
As the night wound down—the music shifting to slower tempos, bartenders stacking glasses with the not-so-subtle energy of "please go home"—Hana picked up her briefcase. The leather portfolio looked absurd among the micro bags and sparkly clutches of the other club-goers.
Min-ji linked her arm. "See? Wasn't so bad, was it?"
"It was a low bar," Hana said, slipping into her coat—the kind chosen for insulation, not aesthetic. "But yes, it was... alright."
They pushed through the club's heavy doors into the winter night, the cold slapping her cheeks in the most honest moment of the evening.
Yoo-jin
Outside the club, Yoo-jin stood leaning against the velvet rope with a group of actors and producers.
He looked like a movie poster come to life, half in neon, half in myth. His eyes were distant, smiling just enough. A cigarette—a habit he had quit and resumed countless times—dangled from his fingertips, its ember glowing in the night like a tiny, winking star. It was a look that had graced countless magazine covers, one he wore without even trying.
But his mind was still at the piano and the girl's fingers on the keys, the melody of their duet looping endlessly in his head.
Like a sudden breeze, he felt her.
He watched her step into the cold like she was walking out of another world. Briefcase in hand, posture straight, a bright, happy laugh still lingering from whatever her friend had said. No posing. No self-conscious backward glance.
Without thinking, he flicked the cigarette aside and stepped forward.
Just ask her name. That's all.
"Hey, Yoo-jin! Where are you going?" someone called out behind him, a little too curious, a little too loud.
He paused mid-stride. She turned her head.
A flicker. A half-smile. A shared recognition that they had almost, but not quite, escaped the script.
Her friend tugged her forward, and she disappeared around the corner like a page turning too quickly.
And... cut. End scene.
Gone. She was gone. He stood rooted to the sidewalk, the cold finally hitting him.
You idiot. One name. You couldn't even ask her name.
Later, he sank into the backseat of his car, head leaning against the cold window as Seoul blurred past.
His manager was scrolling through his phone, speaking without much interest: "You're trending. #YoojinDuet already at fifty thousand mentions. We should find out who she was. Maybe stage a reunion. Fans love that 'spontaneous fate' stuff."
Of course they do. Every moment's content for public consumption. Even this one.
Yoo-jin didn't answer right away. He looked at his reflection in the window—too clean, too symmetrical, too profitable. The face that sold luxury cars to executives and designer coffee to college students. After two decades of being polished and packaged, sometimes he couldn't remember which version of himself came first—the man or the marketing campaign.
"No," he said at last. "Leave it alone."
His manager glanced up, surprised. "Why? It's good optics."
"I don't want to ruin it."
It was better this way. In his world, happy endings were for dramas, not real life.
Let her have the night. Untouched. Undisturbed. Unknown.
He couldn't explain it. But in those few minutes on the piano bench, he had felt like a normal guy again. No image to protect. No angle to manage. Only music. With her.
There was something pure about that brief interaction, unburdened by expectations or consequences. It should stay that way. But nothing in his life ever did.
His phone kept buzzing with texts from friends, gossiping group chats.
Who's the girl?
He replied: I don't know.
But he damn wished he did.
Hana Rhee is a lawyer who is forever calling sponsors for donations, compiling reports, and calculating what's needed to educate and feed children through her parents' foundation. Yoo-Jin Lee is a famous actor whose life is made up of red carpets, flashing lights, being what he's not for the pleasure of others, and hoards of fans that think he exists for them. When their worlds collide over a chance musical encounter, they are unprepared for the tango they have to dance to hold on to one another.
Spotlights and Shadows by Mila Lewis tells the story of Hana Rhee and Yoo-Jin Lee from their different perspectives and divides their journey into parts, per the stage the characters' are at in finding themselves and their relationship. Lewis demonstrated great skill in her ability to seamlessly switch from the perspective of one character to that of another. For a story of two people moving toward and around each other, the way Lewis navigated the change in perspective created an excellent atmosphere for what was taking place. It was beautiful to experience that.
Another thing that Lewis did well is to write dialogue in a natural-sounding manner, with a lot of banter and wit that had my non-Romance reader self cheering on what Hana and Yoo-Jin had going. It was only when it came to their internal monologues that Lewis dropped the ball.
Although multiperspective third-person narration allows authors to avoid the narrative demands of first-person narration without losing the connection readers develop with characters through it, characters' thoughts must be in their voices, not the narrator's. And I think Lewis fumbled when it came to that. Hana and Yoo-jin's internal voices were the same and that threw me off a lot. That was the only flaw and for many people that will not matter. I still loved the story, so if you are a fan of Romance, this might be the book for you.