Chapter Text
🎙️ “Sawadee ka Bangkok! Good morning to my lovely people on the road, at home, stuck in traffic, or still snoozing under your blankets! You’re listening to 97.9 FM with me, Freen, your hopelessly romantic friend this morning!”
Freen grinned as the red light above the mic glowed steady. The city outside was already humming — horns blaring on Sukhumvit road, morning joggers weaving through Lumphini Park, and sleepy office workers clutching iced coffee like lifelines.
🎙️
“Hope you’ve got your coffee ready, because we’ve got love stories to share and songs to break your heart — or make it whole again. Let’s start the day, shall we?”
She cued the track — a soft, airy tune with sun-soaked chords and lyrics about catching the morning light between someone’s fingers. The kind of song that made people believe in strangers, in someday, in missed calls that somehow found their way back.
This was Freen Sarocha. The beautiful, hopelessly romantic RJ of 97.9 FM Bangkok , a walking burst of sunlight in a city that woke up half-asleep. A happy soul wrapped in hopeful aesthetics, she could turn every shadow into something golden, every heartbreak into poetry, every storm into a soft, harmless drizzle.
Her morning show wasn’t just any broadcast — it was the show. The most listened-to slot in the city. Students, office workers, cab drivers, café owners — even people who claimed they didn’t believe in radio anymore — tuned in. Because when Freen spoke, it felt like hope had a voice.
She talked about love like she was born of it. As if Aphrodite herself was her roommate. And yet, for all the devotion she inspired, love had never knocked on her own door. Not that people didn’t fall for her — there are new anonymous admirers practically every other week. But Freen had standards.
“If it’s not devotion, it’s not love.” That was her motto. The kind of love she believed in was sacred, unwavering, and reserved, only for the gods and stories in her head. Maybe that’s why she could romanticize it so beautifully — because in her imagination, love came without limits, without bruises, without the weight of reality. In Freen’s world, love always won.
People adored the way she spoke about hope, about second chances, about happy endings you didn’t have to earn. Coupled with her swoon-worthy playlists, she was a soft, defiant anthem in a world addicted to cynicism.
The radio station was the only place where her existence left a tangible mark. She wasn’t on social media. Didn’t care for hashtags or filters. Her world was built on books, dreams, and the silent, stubborn belief that kindness & love mattered. That if you spoke love into the world often enough, it might start speaking back.
Only the people who worked with her knew she existed beyond the voice.
Freen Sarocha
— 26, standing at 5’4”, with beautiful big brown boba eyes that could hold whole conversations without a word. Chubby, kissable cheeks that flushed the softest pink when she laughed, and long, wavy black hair that framed her face like a silk curtain. A perfectly sculpted body that could pass for an Asian goddess, with the effortless charm of a K-pop star and the soul of a poet.
Her voice? Melodious. Spellbinding. The kind you didn’t just hear — you felt. It sank into your bones and lingered long after the radio clicked off. And her laugh… oh, her laugh. It was, without question, one of God’s finest inventions. Warm, loud, unapologetic, and so addictive it could turn even a bad day into something worth remembering.
Freen was a loving, caring, endlessly humble soul — the kind of person who spoke too much, too fast, and yet somehow made everyone want to listen. Wherever she stood, she became the center of gravity, and everything around her tilted toward joy. Conversations brightened, moods lifted, and even the sourest hearts softened.
Her humor? Top tier. Wickedly sharp and effortlessly silly, often in the same sentence. She could tease you to tears and then heal you with a smile. Having Freen Sarocha in your life was like having your own private sun — a personal patch of warmth in a too-cold world. There was no such thing as a rainy day when she was around.
With Freen, the skies stayed clear, the playlist stayed good, and the world, somehow, always made room for a little more hope in love.
🎵🎵…..
Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
Yeah, they were all yellow…
I came along
I wrote a song for you
And all the things you do
And it was called, "Yellow”….🎵🎵
Freen’s voice faded into the song she played, and three miles away , in a sleek Mercedes-Benz crawling through Bangkok’s rush hour, Rebecca Armstrong turned up the volume.
Alpha woman. Industry shark. Corporate queen. CEO of Armstrong Enterprise , the production powerhouse steering half of Bangkok’s cinema & TV industry. Ambitious, unrelenting, and always ahead of every trend. The kind of woman who made decisions with a single look and crushed boardrooms like a casual hobby.
Love? Fun? Spare time.
Bizarre concepts to her. Inefficient. A waste. Rebecca’s world was built on strategy and execution — not midnight phone calls or flowers without a sender’s name. Her aura stayed deliberately mysterious. She spoke when necessary, socialized only for power, and left people guessing about the rest.
Who run the world? Girls.
Correction —
Rebecca Armstrong
.
Born into a family with a decades-old reputation and empire, Rebecca was the only child, raised with the weight of a surname that had never known failure. Every breath of her upbringing was discipline, precision, and relentless self-improvement. No room for detours. No frivolous nights out. If she had extra hours, she didn’t waste them on sunsets or meaningless conversations. She sharpened her mind, Learned a new skill, Closed a new deal. Leveled up again.
Only Torfan — her childhood best friend, personal assistant, and the sole person allowed to call her Becky — knew the softer, unguarded parts of her. Knew that beneath the flawless, cold-blooded business persona was a woman who could’ve been the dream of anyone lucky enough to catch her heart.
A 5’3” 24 yr British-Thai beauty, with sharp-cut short hair, a sculpted jawline, and a deceptively cute face that belonged on a Vogue cover. Rebecca’s accent — in both English and Thai — could pierce through walls and hearts alike. Talented beyond comprehension. A woman who kicked harder than she kissed, ran her empire like cardio, and kept her emotions under lock and key.
Her heart was pure. Too pure & vulnerable. And because vulnerability is a dangerous thing in the business world, Rebecca avoided emotions like landmines. She didn’t think from the heart — she thought from the numbers. Every feeling was a potential liability, every vulnerability a crack in the armor.
Everything about her was beautiful and bold. Everything… except the missing flavor of softness. Of letting go. Of having fun. Of pausing to rest.
Torfan tried to fix it. Tried to drag her out, loosen her up, remind her she was allowed to live like a human being. But always failed.
Becky, on her usual drive to the office, flicked through radio stations like a woman on a mission. She wanted to stay ahead, updated with everything new — trends, headlines, stock shifts, industry whispers. But pleasing Rebecca Armstrong was no easy task. Not with songs. Not with ads. And definitely not with the mindless morning babbling of over-caffeinated RJs and chirpy hosts.
She wasn’t the type to waste precious time on anything that didn’t add value to her day. All she wanted was something worth hearing. Something sharp. Clean. Relevant.
And then — mid station-hopping, chasing the perfect frequency — a familiar melody spilled through the speakers.
🎵🎵…..
Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
Yeah, they were all yellow…
I came along
I wrote a song for you
And all the things you do
And it was called, "Yellow”….🎵🎵
Becky paused.
And then — true to habit, true to herself — she switched it too.
Freen, a sunflower.
Becky, a storm.
Will their hearts ever beat in the same frequency?
Will they ever call each other
home
?
But how?
_______________
"It’s friday morning, Sarocha. People are half dead in traffic and you’re out here playing them love songs and caffeinating them with false hope,"
Nam, Freen’s boss and her best buddy teased as she strolled into the studio, wrapping a lazy backhug around Freen’s shoulders from behind.
Freen grinned without missing a beat on the soundboard. " And that’s exactly why I’m filling them up with love," she shot back, her eyes still on the monitors. "Because for love — anyone can conquer the world, especially on a Friday."
Nam let out an exasperated laugh, shaking her head at the ever-hopeful, heart-eyed romantic her best friend refused to stop being. "Yeah, whatever, hopeless. As long as the ratings stay high and sponsors stay happy, you keep on selling those fairy tales."
"Good for them. Good for me." She dropped a final teasing wink before heading for the door.
Freen just chuckled, spinning back to her mic as the next traffic update blinked on screen.
"And good for love,"
she murmured under her breath, cueing the next song.
On the other side of Bangkok’s chaos, the towering glass-and-steel headquarters of Armstrong Empire pierced the morning sky. Twenty-four floors of power, deadlines, and unchallenged authority.
Rebecca Armstrong, clad in a crisp tailored power suit, her short bold brunette hair perfectly styled, Chanel watch glinting under the soft office lights, and a fragrance that cost more than a mid-sized condo, stepped into her private cabin like she owned the world — because she did.
Waiting inside was Torfan , her best friend and personal assistant, already standing by with a neat stack of documents, contracts, and cheques for Becky to sign.
“Well, look who’s on time today,” Torfan teased, pulling Becky into a quick hug.
Becky smirked as she slid into her seat. “What can I say? The streets were beautifully clear this morning. Not a single traffic jam. A Bangkok miracle.”
“So, what’s new? Besides me signing cheques all morning.” Becky asked, watching as Torfan organized a neat stack of documents to hand over.
“A couple of new projects you should probably look at… and yeah, obviously signing cheques,” Torfan replied with a teasing grin. Then her tone shifted, softer.
“But more important — you might wanna check on your bro. He was literally crying in his cabin late last night.”
“What?” Becky’s hand froze mid-way of opening up her macbook. “Krik? Why? Don’t tell me someone broke his heart again.”
Becky clenched her jaw. If there was one soft spot in her otherwise bulletproof life, it was Krik, her cousin brother. The only person she shared an honest, affectionate bond with in her whole family.
Sweet, gentle, painfully romantic. The kind of man who knew how to treat a woman right, thoughtful to a fault, and endlessly kind. And yet, for reasons no one could ever quite explain, girls kept breaking his heart. A gentleman in every sense, and somehow, always the one left standing alone.
“Yeah,” Torfan sighed, rubbing her temple. “I think so. Girl number four in one year and six months. It’s a new record.”
Becky pushed the files aside, her face darkening. “You know what? Call all four of them in. I want them here. Let’s do an interview. I need to know what the hell is wrong with them. He’s smart, handsome, rich, kind — what is it? What do they get bored of?”
Torfan’s eyes widened. “You’re joking, right?”
“Dead serious.” Becky snapped. “I wanna know what they found lacking.”
Torfan chip in “Unless… unless he’s secretly…Sexually incom—”
“TOR!!!” Becky cut her off with a glare sharp enough to slice through steel.
The room fell into awkward silence before Torfan burst out laughing. “Relax, I’m kidding. Kidding! Gosh, you’re tense.”
Becky just shook her head, muttering, “People. Useless distractions.”
But deep down, she knew — for Krik, she’d fight the world.
_______________________________
Author Note: So??? Good to go or Nahhhh, don't feel like it??