The Ice Queen Melts

The camera flashes hit like physical blows.

Nataria Hidomu stood on the dais, her fingers trembling where they pressed against the sides of her black dress.

The fabric clung to her frame deliberately chosen by her agency's crisis management team to communicate contrition.

No jewelry.

No makeup to soften the harsh overhead lights.

Even her thick purple hair had been scraped back into a severe bun that pulled at her scalp.

Look remorseful, they'd told her during the three-hour prep session that morning.

Look like you understand the gravity of what you've done.

What she'd done.

The phrase made her stomach clench.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

Fifty journalists packed the conference room, their lenses trained on her like rifle scopes locked onto prey.

Nataria's chest constricted as she tried to breathe normally, but the air felt thick, suffocating.

Each camera represented thousands millions of eyes.

Judging.

Condemning.

Her agency's spokesperson finished his wooden speech about "taking full responsibility" and "implementing measures to prevent future incidents."

The words meant nothing.

Everyone in this room knew it.

This press conference existed for one purpose only:

To parade her before the public like a criminal in the stocks.

Now it was her turn.

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Nataria's throat tightened.

She recalled the instructions drilled into her for hours:

Bow deeply. Ninety degrees. Hold it for exactly five seconds.

Speak clearly, but don't let your voice waver that looks manipulative.

Whatever you do, don't cry. Tears will be read as self-pity.

She bowed, feeling her spine bend until she was staring at the polished wood of the dais.

The camera shutters exploded in a frenzied chorus.

Even with her eyes fixed downward, she could feel them the weight of those lenses, the heat of their flash units, the suffocating presence of collective scrutiny.

Seven days ago, she'd been one of the most promising young actresses in Japan.

Now she was a cautionary tale.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The video played in her mind for the thousandth time.

She saw herself standing backstage, still in costume from the previous scene, as the assistant approached with a cup of coffee.

The girl had been young, maybe Nataria's age, with tired eyes and cheap clothes that had seen too many washes.

Nataria remembered the sharp spike of irritation that had pierced through her exhaustion.

They'd been filming for fifteen hours.

Her feet ached in her heels.

Her head throbbed from the tight wig.

And all she'd wanted was one simple thing done correctly.

"I specifically said no milk.”

Her voice had been cold, cutting.

"Do you not understand basic instructions?"

In her memory, the girl's face crumpled.

But it wasn't her memory that mattered anymore.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

It was the phone footage shaky, unflattering that someone had uploaded within hours.

In that video, Nataria looked perfect.

Flawless makeup.

Elegant posture.

Her famous pretty black eyes blazing with contempt as she stared down at the plain assistant.

She looked like exactly what everyone had accused her of being:

A spoiled princess drunk on her own beauty and fame.

The girl had tried to apologize.

"I'm sorry... I'll fix the order right away"

Nataria should have stopped there.

Let it go.

Accepted the apology.

Instead, she'd snatched the cup from the girl's trembling hands.

Coffee had sloshed over the rim, spattering the assistant's sleeve.

"Forget it! From now on, just stay out of my sight."

The words echoed in her skull.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

Someone off-camera had said something.

The video cut off there…

Nataria had apologized at the end of the shooting privately, before the video even surfaced and the girl had accepted with wet eyes and a wobbly smile that made Nataria feel even worse.

But it didn't matter.

The video was out that night, and the damage was done.

Within twelve hours, it had three million views.

By the second day, think pieces analyzed every aspect of her personality, her upbringing, her career.

Former classmates sold stories to tabloids about how she'd been "cold" even in school.

Industry insiders whispered about other incidents that had been quietly buried by her agency.

The narrative crystallized with terrible speed:

Beautiful, privileged Nataria Hidomu was a bully who tormented staff members for her own amusement.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

Nataria lifted her head, returning to the present moment.

The journalists watched her with predatory focus, pens poised over notebooks, cameras recording every microexpression.

She opened her mouth.

The apology emerged in the flat, mechanical tone she'd practiced:

"I sincerely apologize for my inappropriate behavior that occurred last week. My actions and words caused discomfort and hurt to the staff member involved, as well as disappointment to everyone who supports me…"

She bowed once more, deeply and in silence.

“There is no excuse for my conduct.

I failed to show the respect and consideration that should be shown to others at all times.

I take full responsibility for this incident.

I will reflect seriously on my actions and work to improve myself so that such behavior will never happen again.

I am truly sorry for betraying the trust placed in me.”

The words felt like ash in her mouth.

Not because they were insincere, she was sorry, deeply and genuinely sorry,

but because she knew they wouldn't matter.

Apologies couldn't undo viral videos.

Contrition couldn't delete millions of comments that had already decided who she was.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

She'd read those comments.

Against every piece of advice from her management, she'd scrolled through them until her eyes burned:

       People like her think they're better than everyone else just because they're pretty.

      I hope her career ends. She doesn't deserve success.

     Did you see how she looked at that poor girl? Like she was trash. Disgusting.

     Ice Queen finally shows her true colors, frozen heart and all.

That last one had stung the worst.

Because "Ice Queen" had been her brand.

Her agency had cultivated that image deliberately:

The beautiful, mysterious actress who rarely smiled.

Who maintained perfect composure.

Who seemed to exist on a different plane from ordinary people.

The persona had made her famous.

It had also made her the perfect villain.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

A journalist in the third row stood up, ignoring the moderator's attempts to control the questions.

"Hidomu-san, do you have anything personal to say to the assistant you mistreated?"

Nataria's hands tightened.

She'd been instructed not to respond to individual questions.

Another reporter called out,

"Is this the first time you've behaved this way on set?"

"Have you considered that your attitude problem might stem from..."

Saturo Yamazaki, her manager, stepped forward.

His hand found her shoulder a signal to leave.

Nataria was grateful.

Her throat had closed up.

But then a voice cut through the chaos, louder than the others:

"Oi, Ice Queen! Still think you're too good to talk to normal people?"

°❀°❀°❀°❀

Instinct overrode training.

Nataria's head snapped toward the sound.

Don't, some distant part of her brain screamed.

Don't react

Too late.

Something wet struck her face with a cold, shocking slap.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Nataria stood frozen.

Liquid dripped down her cheeks, soaking into the collar of her black dress.

Her mind struggled to process what had just happened, caught between disbelief and horror.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The conference room erupted.

Chairs scraped.

People shouted.

Camera flashes ignited in a blinding storm.

Through the wetness covering her eyes, Nataria saw him, a young man being grabbed by security guards, still yelling.

His face was red, contorted with rage.

"You ignored me at your fan event!

You looked right through me like I was nothing!

How does it feel now, huh?

How does it feel?"

The liquid was cold.

It ran down her neck, between her collarbones, making her dress cling to her skin.

Some of it had gotten in her hair, ruining the severe styling.

More dripped from her chin onto the dais.

Nataria couldn't move.

Couldn't think.

She stood there, frozen actually frozen this time, not the cultivated ice queen persona but genuine paralysis born of shock and humiliation.

The cameras captured every second.

She knew, with sick certainty, that this moment would be replayed endlessly.

Analyzed.

Memed.

Turned into entertainment for millions.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

Yamazaki's hands closed around her arm, pulling her backward.

"Nataria, come on.

We need to get you out of here. Now."

She let herself be guided toward the exit, moving on autopilot while security guards wrestled the young man toward a different door.

His voice carried even as they dragged him away:

"Someone had to do it!

Someone had to show her what it feels like!"

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The backstage area felt impossibly bright after the conference room.

Yamazaki pulled her into a bathroom, already yanking paper towels from the dispenser.

"Here, let me... are you hurt?

Did it get in your eyes?"

Nataria shook her head mutely.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Something cracked inside her chest.

Her face was a mess.

Her carefully styled hair hung in wet clumps.

The black dress was soaked through at the top.

She looked like… a nineteen-year-old girl who'd just had her public destruction captured on live television.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

Yamazaki dabbed at her face with trembling hands.

"It's okay.

It's going to be okay.

We'll release a statement.

This wasn't your fault. That man will be arrested"

But her manager has never looked this shaken in all the years she had known him.

His middle aged, severe face, looked pale.

Some of the liquid slipped between Nataria's quivering lips.

She paused.

Tasted it.

The strangled sound that escaped her throat might have been a laugh or a sob she couldn't tell.

"It's milk," she whispered.

Yamazaki froze, paper towel still pressed to her cheek.

"What?"

"The liquid. It's milk."

Her voice sounded far away, detached.

"Just milk..."

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The irony crashed over her like a wave.

The very thing she'd complained about in that video the milk in her coffee that had started this entire nightmare

had just been thrown in her face on television.

The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

Nataria looked at her reflection again.

At the girl who'd spent years building a career.

Cultivating an image.

Working eighteen-hour days to prove herself in an industry that treated idols as disposable.

All of it

Every sacrifice.

Every sleepless night.

Every perfectly crafted performance.

Reduced to this single moment.

The Ice Queen, melting under studio lights with milk dripping down her face.

She started to laugh.

The sound came out wrong, broken, but she couldn't stop it.

Yamazaki was saying something, his expression worried, but Nataria couldn't hear him over the ringing in her ears.

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