Page 2 of K-Pop Double Life

Liam joined me near the secured artist access to the beach. “Local teams already out there?” I asked.

“Two teams. Young, starstruck, and probably useless.”

“Good.”

He snorted.

We passed through another security checkpoint and headed across the sand toward the pontoon gangways. The floating stage sat just offshore, close enough to look almost like an extension of the beach. One gangway was reserved for performers and crew. The other was supposed to serve as the emergency route back to land.

I stopped long enough to look at both. “If anything happens, we use the landward gangway,” I said.

“Already checked it. Clear all the way back to the Palais.”

That was why I liked working with my husband.

Cannes was accustomed to this kind of excess. During the Film Festival, the Croisette belonged to cinema. Fans pressed against barricades outside the Palais, hoping for a glimpse of movie stars in black tie and elegant gowns. Paparazzi patrolled the streets, photographing anyone who looked beautiful or important.

A month later, Cannes Lions would turn the same stretch of waterfront over to brands. Beach clubs became corporate compounds. Executives in linen jackets wandered between panels and parties while DJs performed beside the Mediterranean.

But this was different. These fans were ordinary people who had driven for hours across Europe and packed themselves behind barricades just to glimpse five young Korean men.

The temporary concert venue was elegant from a distance. Less reassuring up close.

I clocked the vulnerabilities automatically. Cables everywhere. Crowded access points. Minimal barriers. Water on three sides. And staff who seemed more interested in Pryzm than in doing their jobs.

Liam followed my gaze. “You look happy.”

“Just imagining the insurance paperwork.”

He laughed and peeled off to sweep the rear access corridor while I took position near stage left.

Backstage was controlled chaos. Stylists with garment bags. Makeup artists doing last-second touch-ups. Techs with headsets. Translators with phones pressed to their ears. A thirty-something Korean man and woman approached, both wearing name badges. Before I could say anything the woman stuck out her hand. “I’m Sara Yoon, with Starhouse. This is my colleague, Lee Sang-min. We’re here to help out any way we can.”

I spotted Kim Sun-hee, the tour manager, and sent them toward her.

Then the music started, and the crowd screamed again as the band took the stage. Jin stepped into the spotlight.

I’d seen charismatic performers before. Rock stars. Politicians. Billionaires who thought money made them magnetic.

This was different. Jin didn’t dominate attention. He pulled it toward him. Even from twenty yards away, he had presence.

I understood the obsession. I also understood why Starhouse Entertainment had wanted additional security. This wasn’t just a concert. It was a phenomenon.

The other four members were attractive in their own way. The oldest had very defined cheekbones; the next was built like a football quarterback, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist. The third was slim and moved like a cat, while the last member looked barely out of his teens.

I was tracking the stage when movement in the wings caught my eye.

A male crew member stood half-hidden behind a costume rack. Mid-twenties, dressed in standard backstage black. Official badge clipped to his belt.

Nothing unusual. Except the way he watched Jin.

His whole body leaned toward the stage. His hands flexed at his sides. When Jin crossed too close to another performer during choreography, the man visibly flinched.

I touched my earpiece.

“Liam. Stage left. Male crew. Mid-twenties.”

“The one who looks like he’s praying?”