The Idol Next Door

1.Balcony

The party was happening at him, not with him.

New stood in the center of his own penthouse living room, a flute of champagne sweating in his hand, and felt like a ghost at his own funeral. Fifty of the industry's most important people swirled around him—producers, stylists, executives, influencers—their laughter bouncing off the glass walls that overlooked the Bangkok skyline. The music thumped at exactly the volume that prevented conversation but encouraged nodding.

His face ached from smiling.

"New!" A producer he didn't remember meeting grabbed his shoulder. "Incredible comeback single. Truly. The choreography in the second verse—"

"Thank you, Khun." New nodded, the automatic response programmed into his muscle memory. Smile. Tilt head slightly. Look interested. He'd been doing this since he was sixteen. He was twenty-four now. Eight years of smiling until his cheeks cramped.

The producer launched into a story about music video budgets. New's eyes drifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sparkled below, millions of lives he couldn't reach, couldn't touch. His life was up here, in this gilded cage, with people who wanted pieces of him but never him.

His chest tightened.

It happened sometimes—the walls closing in, the air getting thick, the desperate need to escape before he shattered into a million pieces on the marble floor.

"Excuse me," he murmured, cutting off the producer mid-sentence. "Restroom."

He didn't go to the restroom.

He walked through the crowd, past the caterers, past his manager who was deep in conversation with a streaming executive, past the bodyguard stationed at the main entrance. He kept walking until he reached the sliding glass door to the master balcony.

The night air hit him like a blessing.

Cool. Quiet. The city hum below instead of the cacophony inside.

New breathed. Once. Twice. Three times.

And then he heard footsteps approaching from inside.

No. Not yet. Just five more minutes.

His eyes scanned the balcony desperately. It was a standard high-rise design—concrete floor, glass railing, barely enough room for a small table and two chairs. No hiding spots. They'd find him in seconds.

But above him—the roof.

The building had a shared rooftop garden. He'd never been, of course. Never had time. But he'd seen photos in the building brochure. And the only way up, apparently, was via a metal maintenance ladder attached to the exterior wall of each penthouse balcony.

His manager's voice drifted through the door. "New? You out here?"

New looked at the ladder. Looked at his designer loafers. Looked at the forty-story drop.

This is insane.

He grabbed the ladder and climbed.

---

The ladder was rustier than it looked from below.

By the time New hauled himself onto the rooftop garden—which was really just a few sad potted plants and some weather-beaten lounge furniture—his hands were streaked with orange-brown residue and his heart was pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio.

He collapsed onto the nearest lounge chair, staring up at the stars barely visible through Bangkok's light pollution.

Safe.