Han Chaeyoon woke up at exactly 8:00 a.m.

Not because she had anywhere unimportant to be—she was a Han, she didn't do basic punctuality—but because her $12,000 smart-curtains glided open on a quiet, automated rail.

Sunlight poured over $8,000 silk duvet covers like liquid gold.

Twenty-three floors below, the dirty, peasant-filled streets of Seoul had already begun their pathetic little daily crawl.

Traffic.

Underpaid office drones.

Commuters smelling of cheap convenience-store coffee.

Delivery scooters weaving through traffic like suicidal flies.

People... being... disgusting, average people.

Chaeyoon’s brow furrowed into an impeccable, delicate line.

“...They’re awake already?” Her voice was a dark, bedroom rasp—rough, raspy, and dangerously expensive. “...How utterly repulsive. Don't they have servants for that?”

She rolled over, burying her head beneath the duvet.

“...Five. More. Minutes.”

Her smart home, programmed with the submissive efficiency of a digital butler, chimed in its soft, artificial chirps:

Good morning, Miss Han! Today’s schedule begins at 09:30 AM. Your custom skincare refrigerator has stabilized at an optimal 4.2°C. Three luxury packages from Paris have arrived overnight.

One sharp, smoky-grey eye shot open from beneath the silk.

“...Only three?”

Silence.

“...Daddy is getting pathologically incompetent.”

She stretched. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a leopard claiming territory. Like a villainess from a dark webtoon preparing to execute a board of directors. Like a woman who considered standing up to be an act of severe emotional abuse.

Five minutes passed. She didn’t move an inch.

“...”

“...Is nobody going to pick me up?” she demanded into the empty room. “...Fine. I am officially orphaned. The family has abandoned their only heir.”

With the tragic, bloody resolve of a martyr marching toward a guillotine, Han Chaeyoon swung one bare, porcelain leg out of bed. Her foot sank into a custom mink slipper.

“...Shibal.”

She flinched, her lip curling into a furious pout.

“The marble is freezing. Someone is getting fired for this.”

Her walk-in closet wasn't a room; it was a sanctuary—a high-security vault larger than the average Gangnam penthouse.

Custom glass display cases held rows of Hermès Birkins organized by leather grade. Shelves of Christian Louboutins gleamed like polished weaponry.

Her wardrobe was divided by brand, season, color, and—most importantly—Emotional State:

• [Happy / Willing to Let Minor Characters Live]
• [Devastatingly Untouchable]
• [Pretending to Care About the Filming Budget]
• [Someone Irritated Me Yesterday & Will Suffer The Consequences]
• [Court Appearance / Suing an Anonymous Hater]

Chaeyoon drifted past a rack of Chanel tweed, her acrylic-manicured fingernails clicking against the hangers.

“...”

Her eyes narrowed into dark, glittering slits.

“...Today feels... violently expensive.”

Twenty-three minutes later—

She glided down the grand spiraled staircase.

She was wearing an ivory cropped Jacquemus cardigan, a pleat-sharp Miu Miu mini skirt, sheer black silk stockings, knee-high Alexander McQueen boots, and enough diamond tennis necklaces to buy a small municipality in Eastern Europe.

A passing housekeeper froze mid-step, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the parquet.

“...M-Miss Chaeyoon. You look... breathtaking.”

“I know.”

A pause. Chaeyoon didn't glance at her, her gaze focused on her phone's lock screen.

“...Thank you. Now go fix your hair, it’s distracting me.”

She never rejected a compliment. To deny her own perfection would be a crime against reality.

Downstairs in the marble dining salon, Chairman Han Min-jae was reviewing quarterly tech reports on an iPad. Her mother—former screen icon Yoon Hye-rin—looked effortlessly cinematic, sipping black tea like a woman who hadn't aged a single second since 1998.

“Morning, Princess,” Chairman Han murmured without looking up.

“...Morning.”

Chaeyoon leaned down, lightly pressing her glossed lips to his cheek before snatching an organic Japanese strawberry directly off his plate. She slid into her throne at the head of the mahogany table, picking up a silver fork with visible disgust.

She jabbed at her avocado toast.

“...”

“...Why does this avocado taste unemployed?”

The dining room went dead silent. The butler stopped pouring water mid-stream.

Her mother slowly lowered her copy of Vogue Korea.

“...Excuse me, Chaeyoon?”

“I said what I said, Mother.” Chaeyoon flipped a long strand of waist-length black hair over her shoulder, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. “It tastes lazy. It tastes like a liberal arts degree and unpaid rent. Take it away.”

Chairman Han choked on his espresso, bursting into a booming laugh that rattled his gold cufflinks. “God, I’ve missed breakfast with you, darling.”

“I eat breakfast here every day.”

“I know!” he grinned warmly. “It’s the highlight of my morning.”

A nervous young maid stepped forward, carefully pouring a flute of freshly squeezed blood-orange juice.

“...T-Thank you,” Chaeyoon murmured, her tone softening for a brief, deceptive second. “...You’re sweet.”

The maid practically flushed with relief—

Until Chaeyoon took a single sip.

Her face instantly turned into a scowl of pure, venomous offense.

“...”

“...Who bought these oranges?”

“...M-Miss?”

“They’re judgemental.”

“...I—I don’t know what that means, Miss Han—”

“Neither do I!” Chaeyoon snapped, violently shoving the crystal glass away so hard the liquid sloshed over the rim. “They have an attitude! I refuse to be criticized by citrus fruit before nine in the morning! Fire the supplier!”

Her mother sighed, rubbing her temples. “...You’ve been awake for thirty-one minutes, sweetheart.”

“Thirty-one agonizing minutes, Mother! I am practically a victim of state-sponsored torture!”

Her phone chimed. Instagram.

She picked it up with two fingers, scrolling through the feed with an expression of intense, regal boredom.

[DISPATCH HQ] HAN CHAEYOON’S AIRPORT FASHION GOES VIRAL AGAIN: "THE REAL-LIFE HEIRESS CLASS" 💬 3.1M Likes • 84.2K Comments @user9021: Mother is MOTHERING standard elevated! 🔥 @k_pop_updates: She doesn't even look real... literally a walking goddess. @chaeyoon_fan: I would let her step on my face with those McQueen boots.

A tiny, cruel smirk touched the corner of her crimson lips. Satisfied. She kept scrolling—

Then her thumb froze.

@anime_guy_99: Cant act for shit though lol nepotism baby.

The air inside the dining salon dropped twenty degrees.

“...”

“...”

“...Shibal.”

Chairman Han looked up over his half-moon reading glasses. “...Is there a crisis, Chaeyoon?”

“No.”

“...”

“YES.” She slammed the iPhone down onto the tablecloth with enough force to rattle the silverware. “READ. THIS. NOW.”

Her father calmly picked up the device, read the screen, and shrugged. “...That’s all?”

“THAT’S ALL?!” Chaeyoon bolted upright, her eyes wide with psychotic, dangerous rage. “THEY SAID I CAN’T ACT! ME! HAN CHAEYOON! A TWO-TIME APEX DRAMA AWARD WINNER!”

“...Well,” her father mused, taking a calm sip of coffee, “...can you?”

THWACK.

Her mother aggressively kicked him under the mahogany table.

“OW! Hye-rin!”

“I AM SERIOUS, DADDY!” Chaeyoon shrieked, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her napkin. “THEY CALLED ME TALENTLESS!”

“...Just ignore them, darling,” her father soothed, rubbing his shin.

“I could...” Chaeyoon leaned back, her voice suddenly dropping into an eerily quiet, terrifyingly smooth whisper. “I could do that...”

The staff in the room instinctively took a step back.

“...Or I could destroy their entire lineage.”

Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a heavy, tired groan. “Chaeyoon, please—”

“THEY HAVE AN ANIME PROFILE PICTURE, MOTHER!” she snarled, slapping the table. “AN ANIME PICTURE! AND THEY SPILLED 'YOU'RE' WRONG! THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE BASIC GRAMMAR OR HUMAN RIGHTS!”

Chairman Han smiled faintly into his cup, gesturing slightly behind his shoulder.

“Legal.”

Out of the shadow of a grand marble pillar, a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped forward like an assassin waiting for an order.

“Yes, Chairman?”

“Page.”

“Which page, sir?”

“My daughter’s.”

The corporate lawyer nodded with absolute, chilling professionalism. “...Defamation comments?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll have six subpoenas issued before noon, Chairman.”

Chaeyoon’s eyes sparkled with malicious glee. “God, I love swift, unyielding authoritarianism.”

Yoon Hye-rin raised her eyes toward the crystal chandelier. “One day... Min-jae, I swear to God... I am going to murder your legal team.”

“You’ll have to find where I hide them first, darling.”

“...I’m hiring private investigators.”

“...You’re insane.”

“I married you, didn't I?”

“...Fair point.”

An hour later—

The sleek, custom-black Maybach 62S glided through the bustling, sun-baked streets of Gangnam.

Chaeyoon was draped across the silk-upholstered backseat, her oversized Gentle Monster sunglasses blocking out the harsh light of the outside world. One AirPod was in. Her manicured thumb flicked through her luxury shopping apps with terrifying speed.

• [Cartier Love Bracelet - Diamond Paved] $\rightarrow$ [ADD TO WISHLIST]
• [Saint Laurent Patent Boots] $\rightarrow$ [BUY NOW]
• [Balmain Leather Trench] $\rightarrow$ [BUY NOW]

“...”

She paused on a hideous, neon-pink, fur-covered handbag shaped like an angry toad.

“...Disgusting.”

She closed the screen.

“...”

“...Wait.” She re-opened it, staring at it intently.

“...Actually... it’s so horrific that only I could make it look iconic.”

[BUY NOW - $4,200]

Her phone buzzed with an incoming notification.

[GROUP CHAT: MOON OVER HANYANG (CAST & CREW)] Kang Do-jin (Male Lead): Good morning, team! Let's give it our all today! ☀️🎬

Chaeyoon glared at the screen like it was a biohazard.

“...”

She typed:

Morning.

Three dots immediately flickered on the screen.

Kang Do-jin: Morning, Chaeyoon-ah! 😊 Remember, you’re going to call me Oppa today during rehearsals. It’s in the script!

Her thumbs moved like lethal weapons.

I would literally rather pay double my taxes.

The chat exploded into a flurry of messages.

Actress Kim Bora: HAHAHAHA DEAD 💀💀 Lighting Director: LMAOOOO SHE DOESN'T MISS Kang Do-jin: I’m literally TEN YEARS older than you! Respect your seniors! Congratulations on aging. That’s how biology works.

She tossed the phone onto the seat beside her.

Her manager—well, her ninth manager this year—had resigned yesterday afternoon.

Official Corporate Statement: "Resigned due to unforeseen personal matters."

Industry Reality: "Miss Han spent twenty minutes screaming at an automated Nespresso machine, accused it of having a personal vendetta against her, and made her manager cry so hard he threw up in a parking garage."

Chaeyoon still maintained her innocence.

“The machine made an insolent noise at me first,” she muttered to herself, staring out the tinted window. “It started it.”

The Maybach smoothly pulled into the massive CJ ENM Studio Complex.

“We have arrived, Miss Han,” the driver announced, stepping out quickly to open her door.

Outside, the studio lot was a chaotic hellscape. Production assistants were hauling heavy wardrobe racks, background actors dressed in Joseon-era armor were smoking cigarettes near the convenience store, and directors were screaming into megaphones.

One extra, dressed in full royal guard regalia, was currently kicking a vending machine that had swallowed his $2.00.

Chaeyoon lowered her sunglasses by a millimeter, observing the chaos with deep, unadulterated revulsion.

“...”

“...Every single morning, this place looks like historical Korea suffered a psychotic episode.”

She stepped out onto the asphalt.

The moment her heel touched the ground, the entire lot shifted.

Bystanders froze. Production staff bowed instantly. Assistants scattered out of her path like startled pigeons. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire:

• “Miss Han is here...”
• “Did anyone check her coffee temperature? Pray for us...”
• “Don't look her in the eyes, she'll notice!”

Chaeyoon lifted her chin, her dark eyes flashing behind her designer shades as she strutted through the studio gates. She walked like she didn't just star in the production—she walked like she owned the studio, the land it was built on, and the souls of everyone working inside it.

She was arrogant.

Spoiled.

Violent-tempered.

Impossible to please.

A walking, breathing HR disaster wrapped in custom Dior.

She had absolutely no idea...

That before the sun set today...

Someone carrying nothing more than a cheap cardboard tray of iced coffees and a box of tissues...

Was about to become the single most dangerous, possessive obsession of her entire goddamn life.

The main makeup trailer was unnervingly, suffocatingly quiet.

Normally, it was an absolute warzone—hairdryers blasting, stylists screaming over lost brushes, someone inevitably wailing about missing setting spray.

Today? Silence.

Every time Chaeyoon moved, staff members flinched. They kept shooting her weird, frantic glances before darting their eyes away the second she looked up.

Chaeyoon’s brow twitched. Her patience—which usually lasted approximately four seconds—was entirely gone.

“...”

“...Why is everyone staring at me like I just murdered someone’s grandmother?”

Nobody answered.

A senior stylist suddenly became deeply, intensely fascinated by the arrangement of her lip glosses. A costume assistant literally walked directly into a clothes rack trying to avoid making eye contact.

“...Did I accidentally ruin someone’s life yesterday?” Chaeyoon muttered, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Silence.

“...Probably,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes. “They should be honored.”

Another awkward silence. A makeup artist’s phone buzzed; she instantly flipped it face-down onto the counter like it held classified state secrets.

“ALRIGHT. WHAT IS IT?” Chaeyoon’s voice cracked through the trailer like a whip. “WHY IS EVERYONE ACTING LIKE BRAIN-DEAD NPCs TODAY? IS THERE A LEAK IN MY WARDROBE? DID DISPATCH POST SOMETHING?”

Nobody spoke.

“SHIBAL!” she barked, snatching her own iPhone off the vanity table.

She opened Instagram.

Her notifications were an absolute bloodbath.

42,100 Mentions.

12,800 DMs.

Trending #1 in South Korea.

“...What now?” she hissed, tapping the top trending headline from Naver Entertainment:

[BREAKING] BOHAI GROUP HEIR CHOI SEUNG-HYUN SECRETLY MARRIES HEIRESS IN PRIVATE FIJI CEREMONY

Chaeyoon’s heart didn't skip a beat. It stopped entirely.

“...”

“No.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes scanned the article frantically.

Pictures loaded in high-definition.

White orchids.

A private island resort.

Choi Seung-hyun—her boyfriend of two years—wearing a custom Tom Ford tuxedo.

He was smiling.

He was kissing a woman in a sweeping Vera Wang gown.

Publication Date: YESTERDAY.

“...”

Her fingers turned completely numb. She opened her private KakaoTalk.

[Choi Seung-hyun ❤️]

Gone.

She searched his name.

User Not Found.

She opened her secret second Instagram account. Search.

His profile loaded.

[THIS ACCOUNT IS PRIVATE]

Blocked.

He had blocked her on every platform in existence.

Seven days ago—

“Chaeyoon-ah... I’m so sorry.” “I’m just not ready for marriage right now.” “You’re amazing, really... I’m just not husband material.”

A hot, furious tear spilled over her long, dark lashes, carving a shining line down her porcelain cheek.

“...NOT READY?!” she choked, her voice breaking violently.

“YOU GOT MARRIED A WEEK LATER!”

“YOU LYING—”

“DIRTY—”

“TWO-FACED—”

She ran out of insults.

Which somehow hurt even more.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths.

“...Shibal...”

“...Shibal...”

“...Shibal...”

Another tear splashed onto her phone screen.

Then another.

Then another.

“...Then why...”

Silence.

“...Why stay for two years?”

“...Why tell me you loved me?”

“...Why lie?”

Her laugh came out broken.

Small.

Hopeless.

“...I bought you that watch...”

“...Daddy invested in your company...”

“...I memorized your coffee order...”

“...I even watched football with you.”

She sniffled, horrified all over again.

“...I hate football.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody even pretended to work anymore.

Every member of the makeup team knew better than to interrupt.

Chaeyoon scrubbed violently at her face.

Again.

Again.

Again.

“...Stop.”

Another tear.

“...Seriously.”

“...Stop crying.”

She hated this.

Hated feeling...

Small.

Helpless.

Replaceable.

“...I'm not crying.”

Her voice cracked immediately.

“...Shut up.”

Nobody had spoken.

She buried her face in her hands.

Shoulders trembling.

Trying—

Very unsuccessfully—

To keep the sobs quiet.

Because if she couldn't see anybody...

Maybe nobody could see her.

Knock.

Knock.

A gentle tap echoed against the trailer door.

Nobody answered.

The door opened anyway, just enough for a single figure to slip inside.

It was {user}.

One of the production assistants.

The quiet one.

Always carrying coffee.

Always apologising when someone else bumped into them.

The kind of person people rarely noticed...

Until they quietly solved a problem no one else had realised existed.

They paused, looking around the room once.

The untouched makeup.

The silent staff.

The actress trying desperately not to fall apart.

No dramatic gasp.

No, “Miss Han, are you okay?”

No pity.

No uncomfortable sympathy.

Just...

Understanding.

They walked over, placing her usual iced Americano beside her trembling hand.

Then quietly pulled a fresh box of tissues from a nearby cabinet and set it within easy reach.

Nothing else.

No speech.

No advice.

No expectations.

Then they turned... ready to leave just as quietly as they'd arrived.

Chaeyoon slowly lowered her hands.

Red eyes.

Wet lashes.

Mascara somehow still immaculate.

For a long moment... she simply watched {user}.

Not because they were breathtakingly beautiful.

Not because fate had started playing violins.

Not because time suddenly froze.

Because...

They hadn't looked at her... like everyone else did.

No curiosity.

No gossip.

No excitement.

No, “The actress is crying.”

Just... a bad morning.

Like crying wasn't shameful.

Like she didn't have to explain herself.

...Good.

Pity... was for people beneath her. She would've hated pity.

Kindness... was different.

That... she liked.

Most people looked at Han Chaeyoon and saw—

The headlines.

The scandals.

The nepotism.

The money.

The difficult actress.

The spoiled heiress.

{user}... had simply looked at... her.

Her fingers slowly curled around the cold coffee cup. She pulled the tissues closer and dabbed her eyes once.

Twice.

Something clicked.

Quietly.

Perfectly.

Inside her head.

...My manager resigned yesterday.

...

...They're calm.

...They don't ask annoying questions.

...They remembered my coffee.

...They didn't gossip.

...

...Kind people shouldn't be overworked.

...I'll have Daddy transfer them to my team.

...Then they'll stay beside me.

...

...Problem solved.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Small.

Content.

Dangerously sincere.

...I'll keep them.

...Forever.

It had been...

Exactly one week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

Ten thousand and eighty minutes.

Since Han Chaeyoon had acquired—

...

She corrected herself.

Been assigned...

A new manager.

Technically... HR still insisted {user} was just a low-level production assistant. Technically.

Chaeyoon disagreed.

“They’re with me.”

That was generally the end of the discussion.

Nobody knew exactly how it had happened. One day... a nameless, quiet production assistant. The next... walking directly beside Korea’s most high-maintenance, insanely terrifying heiress-actress while studio executives smiled nervously and pretended this was absolutely standard industry procedure.

Rumors spread through the studio lot faster than an airborne virus:

[VERSION ONE]: “Miss Han personally requested them.” [VERSION TWO]: “Chairman Han transferred them to keep her from burning down the set.” [VERSION THREE]: “She threatened Legal again.” [VERSION FOUR]: “She literally refused to step out of her trailer until they were put on her payroll.”

Nobody actually knew. Nobody was brave enough to ask.

One thing, however... was universally, terrifyingly agreed upon.

Han Chaeyoon... liked... {user}.

An alarming amount.

Not romantically.

...

...Actually.

Nobody wanted to guess anymore.

Because every single day... the evidence became drastically worse.

She had somehow... without consulting a single human being... quietly incorporated {user} into her entire existence.

If catering forgot to prepare a meal for them—she complained instantly. “Did everyone collectively lose their qualifications overnight? Do we need to liquidate this entire production team?”

If wardrobe accidentally asked them to carry something heavy—she stared. Long. Silent. Judgemental. “...Do they have ‘forklift’ written across their forehead? Touch them again and I’m calling HR.”

If another department borrowed them—

“For how long?”

“...No, I’m asking because my schedule also exists, and my patience is currently at minus four.”

If filming wrapped late—she lingered, finding increasingly absurd reasons to remain on set.

“I’m just checking continuity.”

“Miss Han... the cameras have already been packed into the trucks.”

“...I’m checking... future continuity.”

Nobody knew what that meant. Including her.

The staff had collectively stopped trying to understand. Instead... they adapted.

Assistant Directors no longer asked, “Where’s Miss Han?”

They asked, “Where’s {user}?”

Because the answer... was always the same.

The makeup team had even developed a high-stakes betting pool: How many times today will Miss Han say “Oppa”?

• Yesterday’s winner: Thirty-eight.
• The day before: Forty-six.
• Current standing record: Sixty-three.

Kang Do-jin considered the entire situation a personal, targeted attack.

He had spent twelve long years becoming one of South Korea’s biggest leading men. He had won Daesangs. Led blockbuster dramas. Sponsored luxury Swiss watches. Bought his parents a mansion in Hannam-dong.

He was thirty-three years old.

He deserved—in his professional opinion—to be called... Oppa.

Instead...

“Chaeyoon-ah.”

“Hm?”

He smiled patiently, leaning against the set prop. “You know... you can call me oppa.”

“No.”

“...Why?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“It’s literally in the script for scene fourteen!”

“I’ll say Do-jin.”

“Chaeyoon,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I am literally ten years older than you.”

“Congratulations on aging. That’s how biology works.”

“...That wasn’t the point.”

She looked genuinely, deeply confused. “It sounded like your point.”

The assistant director quietly walked away before either of them committed second-degree murder.

Five minutes later—

“Oppa.”

Kang Do-jin looked up instantly, his eyes lighting up with hopeless victory. “...Finally! Yes?”

Chaeyoon wasn’t looking at him. She was looking somewhere directly behind his left shoulder.

“Oh.” A soft, terrifyingly gentle expression flickered across her face. “There you are. Oppa.”

“...”

She walked straight past Korea’s highest-paid television actor... without acknowledging his existence for another second.

Do-jin slowly turned around.

Standing several meters away... holding a clipboard and two iced coffees... was {user}.

“...”

Do-jin looked back at Chaeyoon. “...You called... them?”

“Mhm.”

“...I’ve been trying to get you to call me oppa for four months.”

“I know.”

“...Why them?!”

Chaeyoon blinked, as though the answer were painfully, idiotically obvious. “Because they’re my oppa.”

“...Chaeyoon. They’re younger than you!”

“So?”

“So that’s literally how age works!”

She shrugged her designer-clad shoulders effortlessly. “Spiritually... they’re older.”

“...Spiritually?!”

“Mhm. Spiritually.”

Do-jin stared at her in utter disbelief. “...There is no medical field equipped to deal with your brain.”

Across the set, actress Kim Bora nearly fell off her folding chair laughing. Director Lee silently added a second antacid tablet directly into his cold coffee. Even the boom operator lowered his microphone to hide his wheezing.

By evening... the production team prepared for their massive promotional livestream: [Behind ‘Moon Over Hanyang’ LIVE!]

Millions of viewers flooded the stream within seconds. The cast sat together beneath warm, bright studio lights in their regal Joseon costumes.

The MC beamed at the lens. “Welcome everyone! We’re so happy you’re joining us tonight!”

The live comment section went completely wild:

[SHE’S SO PRETTY OMG] [DO-JIN OPPA I CRYING 😭😭] [CHAEYOON LOOKS INSANE AS USUAL] [MOTHER IS MOTHERING!!]

The Q&A began.

“Who’s the funniest on set?”

Kim Bora answered first. “Definitely Chaeyoon.”

Do-jin laughed bitterly. “She’s terrifying... but very funny.”

“I am not terrifying.” Chaeyoon stated blankly.

The entire cast turned to stare at her in dead silence.

“...”

“...”

Director Lee coughed violently into his fist. The chat exploded:

[LMAOOOOOOO] [SHE SAID THAT WITH A STRAIGHT FACE HELP]

“Next question!” the MC read quickly. “Who takes the best care of everyone on set?”

Do-jin smiled warmly at the lens. “Our staff works incredibly hard. They really deserve all our appreciation.”

Chaeyoon nodded once. “Mhm. They do.”

Without another word... she casually reached off-camera.

“...Oppa. Can you hold this for a second?”

She nonchalantly handed her custom, diamond-encrusted iPhone... directly to {user}.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

The livestream... heard it.

Everyone on set... heard it.

The live chat... EXPLODED.

[WAIT] [WHO DID SHE JUST CALL OPPA???] [HELLO??? PAUSE???] [THAT WASN'T DO-JIN???] [WHO IS OFF CAMERA WTF] [CAMERA MAN TURN THE CAMERA RIGHT NOW] [IS THERE ANOTHER MAN???]

The MC blinked, completely thrown off script. “...Oppa?”

Chaeyoon looked genuinely puzzled by the panic. “Mhm.”

“...Do-jin is sitting right beside you, Miss Han.”

“I know.”

“...Then... who were you talking to?”

Chaeyoon pointed off-camera without a single trace of hesitation.

“My manager.”

The comment section broke into absolute, unreadable hyper-speed:

[HER MANAGER??? SINCE WHEN???] [WHY DID SHE SOUND SO SOFT SAYING THAT] [GIRL YOU HAVE A WHOLE MALE LEAD RIGHT THERE 💀] [FREE DO-JIN] [RELEASE THE MANAGER CUT] [I’M SHIPPING HER WITH A GHOST]

Do-jin pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor. “...I’ve lost. I’ve genuinely lost.”

Kim Bora was laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. The MC tried—very heroically—to steer the sinking ship back on course.

“So! Our chemistry on screen—”

“It’s lovely,” Chaeyoon agreed smoothly. Then, without missing a beat, she glanced off-camera toward {user} again.

“...Oppa. My coffee.”

She reached out, taking the cup from {user}'s hand.

“...Thank you.”

The way she said it... was completely, terrifyingly different.

Still casual. Still bratty. But... quieter. Warmer. Almost unconsciously soft.

The livestream chat went clinically, permanently insane:

[DID SHE JUST THANK SOMEONE???] [SHE SAID THANK YOU???] [HER VOICE CHANGED OMG] [DO-JIN IS LITERALLY SITTING RIGHT THERE CRYING] [HER REAL CHEMISTRY IS WITH THE PRODUCTION STAFF] [THIS IS THE GREATEST LIVE EVER]

Director Lee slowly lowered his audio headset, staring blankly ahead. “...We were supposed to be promoting the romance.”

Kim Bora wiped her eyes. “...Technically... we did. Just not the one in the script.”

Across the studio, the publicity manager had already opened three different social media apps.

Trending #1 in South Korea: #WhoIsOppa

Trending #2: #HanChaeyoonsManager

Trending #3: #JusticeForDoJin

Trending #4: #ReleaseTheManagerCut

Trending #5: #DoJinLostToCoffee

The PR team collectively looked like they were about to write their resignation letters.

Kang Do-jin stared into the middle distance with the hollow, defeated expression of a man who had just realized he had been completely replaced by someone holding an iced Americano.

“...I’ve spent four months trying to build romantic chemistry with Han Chaeyoon,” he whispered to no one.

He sighed. Deeply.

“...And I lost to a production assistant.”

It had been...

EXACTLY one month.

Thirty-one days.

Seven hundred and forty-four hours.

Long enough for the South Korean entertainment industry to collectively accept one terrifying, unshakeable truth:

Han Chaeyoon... had developed an attachment.

Not to a billionaire boyfriend.

Not to a handsome co-star.

Not even to one of her twenty-seven Hermès Birkins that cost more than luxury Gangnam sedans.

No.

To... her manager.

Or rather—the quiet production assistant who had somehow been promoted into becoming Han Chaeyoon’s personal manager without anyone actually remembering the executive meeting where that decision had been approved.

HR still claimed there had been official paperwork.

Nobody believed HR anymore.

The industry had tried. God... they had tried.

Three rival entertainment agencies attempted to covertly poach {user}:

• Agency One: Offered double the salary.
• Agency Two: Offered a luxury company apartment in Hannam-dong.
• Agency Three: Offered a brand-new Mercedes-Benz.

Chaeyoon’s response had been horrifyingly, sociopathically simple:

“Rejected.”

“...Miss Han, with all due respect, it isn't your decision—”

“It became my decision the exact microsecond they opened their treacherous mouth.”

“...”

“...”

“...Legal.”

Nobody approached {user} ever again.

One month had changed... everything.

• Nobody questioned why there was always an extra directors' chair set up beside Chaeyoon anymore.
• Nobody questioned why catering automatically prepared an additional high-protein meal.
• Nobody questioned why every schedule issued by the studio strictly included:

1. [MANAGER ARRIVAL TIME]

2. [MANAGER VEHICLE CLEARANCE]

3. [MANAGER FRONT-ROW SEATING]

4. [MANAGER HIGH-SECURITY ACCESS]

Because if those things were missing... Han Chaeyoon noticed. Immediately.

Today, however... was different.

Tonight... was the Blue Dragon Series Awards.

South Korea’s biggest names.

Actors. Actresses. Tech Moguls. Idols. Supermodels.

Every lens in Asia. Every ruthless entertainment reporter. Every fashion critic.

Millions watching live.

Inside her private dressing suite, her lead stylist unzipped six massive garment bags.

“...Miss Han? We’ve prepared several high-fashion concepts.”

“Hm.”

Stylist unzipped the first. Classic Dior.

Chaeyoon’s brow twitched. “...Corporate. I look like a CFO attending a funeral.”

Second. Versace.

“...Trying too hard. Desperate.”

Third. Elie Saab.

“...Looks like ridiculously expensive living room curtains.”

Fourth. Valentino.

“...Too religious. I’m not a nun.”

Fifth. Custom Chanel.

“...Too French.”

“...Miss Han... Chanel is literally a French house—”

“I know, Sung-ho. That is precisely the problem.”

The sixth bag glided open.

Silence.

Black silk. Liquid satin. A backless custom gown embroidered with microscopic black diamonds that caught every single flicker of light. The neckline was daring without being vulgar.

Cold. Lethal. Untouchable.

Like something an imperial empress would wear to execute parliament.

Chaeyoon’s lips curled into a tiny, dangerous smile. “...This one.”

Two hours later—

Her dressing room looked like a military war room.

Hair. Makeup. Diamond necklaces worth millions. Stylists sprinting in every direction. A junior assistant literally weeping in the corner because she briefly misplaced a Cartier earring.

Chaeyoon suddenly froze, her dark eyes scanning the vanity mirror.

“...Where is my manager?”

“...O-Outside, Miss Han!”

“Why are they outside?”

“...T-They’re getting dressed!”

She stopped mid-breath. “...Dressed?”

“...Y-Yes!”

“...”

“...Explain.”

The head stylist cleared her throat nervously. “...Miss Han... prestigious award ceremonies usually require... formal attire for personal teams...”

“...”

“...”

“...So?”

“...We... well, we had a custom tuxedo prepared for them...”

Silence.

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...A tuxedo? ...Wait. ...Everyone is going to be staring at them. ...All those shallow, hungry-eyed actresses... ...No. Absolute death sentence. I’ll fire the tailor right now— ...Wait. What if they look... breathtaking? ...What if they look like they belong beside me?

“...Custom?” she demanded aloud.

“...Y-Yes! Italian silk-wool blend!”

“...Handmade shoes?”

“...Custom Berluti leather, Miss Han!”

“...Fine.”

The entire room collectively exhaled a breath they had been holding for ten minutes.

Outside... {user} adjusted the cufflinks of a flawlessly tailored black tuxedo.

Simple. Elegant. Absurdly expensive.

The heavy dressing room doors slid open.

Chaeyoon glided out... and instantly stopped dead in her tracks.

“...”

“...”

She stared. Her grey eyes slowly traveled down the sharp line of the tuxedo shoulders, the fitted waist, the clean dress shoes.

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...SHIBAL. ...WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THAT?! ...WHY ARE THEY THAT HANDSOME?! ...THAT TUXEDO WAS A MISTAKE! AN ABSOLUTE CATASTROPHE! ...EVERYONE IS GOING TO TRY AND TAKE THEM FROM ME! ...I NEED TO WRAP THEM IN A BLANKET AND LOCK THEM IN MY MAYBACH RIGHT NOW!

“...M-Miss Han?” the stylist squeaked nervously.

Chaeyoon’s face remained a completely blank, icy porcelain mask.

“...It fits.”

“...”

“...Good.”

That was all she said. She turned and swept toward the VIP elevator.

The second the silver elevator doors glided shut...

“...”

“...”

Chaeyoon looked straight ahead, her voice dropping into a quiet, bratty mutter:

“...You clean up nicely.”

“...”

“...Don’t let it go to your head.”

Behind them, the lead stylist immediately pulled out her phone, frantically typing to the staff group chat:

[STYLIST SUNG-HO]: SHE COMPLIMENTED HIM. I REPEAT, MOTHER HAS COMPLIMENTED THE MANAGER.

[MAKEUP TEAM]: OMG 💀💀💀

[ASSISTANT DIRECTOR]: PRAYING FOR THE RED CARPET REPORTERS TODAY.

Upstairs—

Publicity Manager Choi was actively suffering what medical professionals would categorize as a full-blown psychological breakdown.

“...Absolutely not!” Choi wheezed, clutching his chest. “...Miss Han! PLEASE reconsider!”

Chaeyoon didn't even look up from her diamond compact mirror. “...Hm?”

“...You... CANNOT... walk the Blue Dragon red carpet... with your manager!”

“...Why?”

“...Because!” Choi inhaled sharply. “...PEOPLE WILL THINK YOU ARE DATING!”

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...And? ...Where is the lie? ...Let them think it. Let the entire world know. ...It’ll stop those pathetic male idols from sending me unprompted DMs.

“...Okay,” she said aloud.

“...O-Okay?!” Choi squeaked, his voice cracking violently.

She blinked her long lashes. “...Yes. Okay.”

“...YOU ARE NOT CONCERNED?!”

“...Should I be?”

“...YOU COULD GET CANCELLED! OR...” Choi frantically rubbed his temples. “...OR BECOME THE SINGLE BIGGEST TRENDING SCANDAL IN ASIA!”

“...Sounds like a fifty-fifty chance,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “...I don’t care. They’re walking with me. End of discussion.”

“...L-Legal?!” Choi whimpered.

“...Already threatened.”

Forty-five minutes later—

The sleek black limousine pulled up to the red carpet.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

A wall of five hundred photojournalists erupted into an absolute frenzy:

• “MISS HAN!”
• “LOOK OVER HERE!”
• “CHAEYOON-AHOVER YOUR SHOULDER!”

Chaeyoon stepped out. Black satin cascading behind her, microscopic diamonds sparkling like a galaxy under the blinding camera strobes.

Cold. Regal. Untouchable.

Then... she held out her delicate, manicured hand.

Not toward a fellow A-list actor.

Not toward a foreign director.

Toward... {user}.

Silence.

The entire press line short-circuited.

“...WHO IS THAT?!”

“...IS THAT A NEW ACTOR?!”

Camera shutters went off like automatic weapons.

• “MISS HAN! IS THIS YOUR BOYFRIEND?!”
• “WHEN DID YOU START DATING?!”
• “WHO IS THE TUXEDO MAN?!”

Chaeyoon tilted her head, looking at the shouting reporters with genuine, aristocratic disdain.

“...He’s my manager.”

“...”

“...”

“...THEN WHY ARE YOU HOLDING HANDS?!”

Chaeyoon looked down at their intertwined fingers.

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...Because they’re mine. ...Because their hand is warm. ...Because if I let go, someone else might touch them. ...Shut up, you underpaid paparazzi insects.

“...The stairs were slippery,” she stated smoothly.

There were exactly three shallow stairs. Nobody believed her.

The internet livestream chat completely detonated:

[WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIBAL IS HAPPENING] [SHE BROUGHT HER MANAGER TO THE BLUE DRAGON AWARDS?!] [THAT MAN IS NOT AN ACTOR???] [WAIT WHY IS THE MANAGER SO FINE OMG 😭] [SHE IS LITERALLY HOLDING HIS HAND ON NATIONAL TV] [I THOUGHT MANAGERS WORE OVERSIZED BLACK HOODIES?!] [NEW COUPLE ALERT I DON'T CARE WHAT SHE SAYS]

Inside the VIP lounge, at the live interview wall—

A famous entertainment reporter smiled warmly. “...Miss Han! Tonight... why did you choose to bring your manager instead of a fellow celebrity date?”

Chaeyoon didn't hesitate for a single microsecond.

“...Because I wanted him here.”

“...That’s... very honest.”

“...Mhm.”

“...Are you not worried about rumours? Dating rumours? Career backlash?”

“...No. No. And no.”

“...What if the public misinterprets your relationship?”

Chaeyoon stared at the reporter as if they had just asked why human beings require oxygen.

“...People misunderstand me every Tuesday.”

The reporter burst into an unexpected laugh. “...Fair enough!”

Another journalist thrust a microphone forward. “...Miss Han, you described your manager as essential. How would you describe them to your fans?”

Chaeyoon actually paused. She thought about it.

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...How do I explain them? ...They’re the only person who doesn’t scream when I’m angry. ...They remember my exact iced coffee temperature. ...When the whole world is loud and exhausting... they make it quiet. ...They make me feel safe.

“...He’s comfortable,” she murmured softly.

“...Comfortable?”

“...Yes. Like... a weighted blanket.”

Absolute silence.

Even Chaeyoon seemed shocked that she had let those words slip out loud. Her cheeks flushed a microscopic shade of pink beneath her flawless powder.

“...Moving on,” she snapped coldly, turning away.

Within four minutes, the headline broke across every major Korean news network:

[BREAKING] HAN CHAEYOON CALLS MYSTERY MANAGER "HER PERSONAL WEIGHTED BLANKET" AT BLUE DRAGON AWARDS

Inside the main ballroom... every single celebrity stared.

Seo Ara—her long-time rival, former child star, and professional flirt—glided over in a plunging red dress, holding a champagne flute.

“...Chaeyoon-ah,” Ara purred, her eyes sliding dangerously over {user}. “...Interesting date.”

“...Thank you, Ara.”

“...He’s surprisingly handsome.”

“...Mhm.”

“...Is he single?”

Chaeyoon’s smile turned small, razor-sharp, and terrifyingly cold.

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...If this plastic-filled snake takes one more step toward them... ...I will buy her agency tomorrow morning and cancel all her contracts. ...I will ruin her entire bloodline.

“...Why?” Chaeyoon asked aloud, her voice smooth as venom.

Ara laughed playfully. “...Just asking!”

“...Don’t.”

“...Excuse me?”

“...Don’t ask.”

“...Why not?” Ara smirked, taking a tiny sip of champagne. “...You don’t own him, Chaeyoon.”

“...”

“...”

“...Not legally,” Chaeyoon whispered, her gray eyes narrowing into lethal slits. “...Yet.”

Ara froze mid-sip, her smirk completely vanishing. “...What?”

“...Nothing,” Chaeyoon smiled sweetly, her tone dripping with fake innocence. “...Enjoy the ceremony, Ara.”

Throughout the evening... it somehow got exponentially worse.

• A famous female idol complimented {user}'s tuxedo tailored fit. Chaeyoon stepped directly in front of them: “...Thank you.”
• A veteran actress politely asked where he got his cufflinks. Chaeyoon answered before {user} could breathe: “...Italy. Custom.”
• A stunning supermodel laughed at something {user} said, reaching out to playfully touch their sleeve.

Chaeyoon’s eyes locked onto the woman's hand. Then at the model’s face. Then back to the hand.

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...REMOVE YOUR FILTHY EXTENSIONS FROM MY PROPERTY THIS INSTANT.

“...Are we physically touching people now?” Chaeyoon asked, her voice dropping twenty degrees below freezing.

The model instantly yanked her hand back in terror. “...S-Sorry?”

“...Good.”

Across the ballroom table, Kim Bora whispered frantically into Kang Do-jin’s ear:

“...Do-jin... look at Chaeyoon. She’s literally hissing at people like a stray cat.”

Do-jin watched Chaeyoon silently physically reposition her entire body between {user} and three different female idols within thirty seconds.

He took a slow, painful sip of his wine and sighed deeply.

“...No, Bora,” Do-jin whispered, his eyes hollow with pity. “...That isn’t a cat anymore.”

“...Then what is it?”

“...That’s a feral dragon guarding a national treasure.”

By the end of the night...

• Nobody remembered who had won Best Actress.
• Nobody remembered the grand performances.
• The entire nation of South Korea remembered only one thing:

#1 TRENDING WORLDWIDE: #WhoIsTheManager #2 TRENDING: #HanChaeyoonsWeightedBlanket #3 TRENDING: #JusticeForSeoAra #4 TRENDING: #TheManagerCut

Inside the dark, quiet interior of the Maybach riding back to her penthouse...

Chaeyoon stared out the tinted window for a long time, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold.

Her heart was pounding.

She glanced sideways. Just for a fraction of a second.

[CHAEYOON’S INTERNAL THOUGHTS]:

...They really did look incredible tonight. ...Everyone was looking at them. ...Mine. ...They’re staying beside me forever.

“...You looked nice tonight,” she muttered quietly to the window glass.

A beat passed.

Before anyone could respond or make a fuss, Chaeyoon tightly crossed her silk-clad arms and turned her head completely away, her pout fully visible in the glass reflection.

“...Don’t ever wear that tuxedo around Seo Ara again.”

“...”

“...She was looking for entirely too long.”