MHD - 20

A new report on Hee-soo landed on Jae-hyuk’s desk. It was much thicker and more detailed than the profiles of other candidates mixed in earlier. 

Gangrim Planning, which handled all advertising for the group’s subsidiaries, had investigative capabilities rivaling those of government agencies. To minimize risks associated with advertising models, they conducted thorough investigations repeatedly, honing their information-gathering skills to an exceptional level. 

Typically, they scrutinized everything from drug use, sponsorships, romantic relationships, to family backgrounds before proceeding with casting decisions. 

Jae-hyuk sat in front of the report, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the desk. 

Seo Hee-soo, who suddenly quit ballet. Seo Hee-soo, who exchanged love for money. Seo Hee-soo, whose rapid downfall left her in ruins. 

Between the Hee-soo of the past and the Hee-soo of the present, there were countless question marks scattered throughout. 

Hee-soo sitting at Baek Dong-hwan’s drinking table. Hee-soo trying to seduce him. Hee-soo remaining silent to every question he asked. 

Even though he had decided to let her go, the name “Seo Hee-soo” still relentlessly clawed at his nerves. Like the report sitting in the corner of his desk, it continued to grab his attention all morning. 

What had Seo Hee-soo been doing over the past ten years while shutting him out completely? 

Jae-hyuk deliberately delayed opening the report. He was afraid of what he might find about her activities within its pages. 

If his father’s words were true, he would need time to process the disappointment. If not, finding the real reason could lead to even more wasted time. 

“Damn it. Either way, this won’t be easy.” 

After wrestling with his thoughts, Jae-hyuk finally grabbed the report and flipped to the first page. 

There was no escaping the issue at hand. Whether pleasant or not, knowing the truth was far better than being left in the dark. Even if it caused him anguish, understanding the reason would bring some measure of relief. That was his conclusion. 

“Former principal ballerina of the Gangrim Cultural Foundation Youth Ballet, currently under contract with ChaCha Actors.” 

Jae-hyuk carefully read through the details of Hee-soo’s past years outlined in the report. Beneath the information he already knew, unfamiliar facts were written in dry, clinical sentences. 

“Biological parents deceased. Adopted by maternal uncle at the age of one.” 

“Huh.” 

So that was it. 

Hee-soo’s parents, who had left their child in someone else’s care and rarely visited, only came once a year on her birthday—sometimes just for lunch before leaving again. 

Whenever they visited Hee-soo, Yoon Ji-sun handed them an envelope, ostensibly for Hee-soo to buy something nice. But even the cost of a single meal with Ji-sun must have been a significant amount for Hee-soo’s parents. 

Jae-hyuk had suspected they only came for the money. 

But he hadn’t realized the truth, even when it was right in front of him. Though he found it odd, he never imagined they weren’t her biological parents. 

Hee-soo had always replied, “You told me you were busy, so I said to hurry up and leave.” She pretended everything was fine, acting as if she wasn’t hurt by their neglect. 

Did you always lie so well? 

It felt like he hadn’t truly known Hee-soo, even when she was close to him. He couldn’t have imagined she had no real parents to rely on. 

His brow furrowed deeply as his eyes followed the text. 

Why did she have so little to show for her earnings? It was as if she lived to make money for others, leaving no trace of anything she had done for herself. 

“Personal Assets ─ Rental villa in OO-dong. Most personal assets liquidated three years ago. Unusual terms likely exist in her agency contract.” 

Had she not even read the contracts properly? 

Hee-soo was in a far worse situation than Jae-hyuk had imagined—at least in terms of her financial state. She was on the verge of losing the home she lived in and had no other assets to her name. 

Frowning, Jae-hyuk searched for traces of the money his father had supposedly given her, but the report revealed nothing. 

Knowing his father, he probably handed it over in cash, making it harder to track. 

As Jae-hyuk skimmed through the report, his eyes stopped at something. 

Nowhere in Hee-soo’s filmography or CF activity records was there any mention of advertisements for any Gangrim subsidiaries. 

Jae-hyuk immediately called for Oh Seung-joo.

“Mr. Oh, you’ve seen the report Team Leader Cho submitted, right?” 

“Yes, I’ve reviewed it.” 

“It says Seo Hee-soo has never filmed a single CF for any of Gangrim’s subsidiaries. Is that confirmed?” 

“Yes. I only found out about this recently myself.” 

Gangrim Electronics’ phone and home appliance advertisements were like a barometer of popularity in the entertainment industry. Having one’s face featured in those ads was synonymous with being one of the hottest celebrities at the time. 

“Even setting aside other subsidiaries, Gangrim Electronics always cast actors based on their popularity rankings. How is it possible that they never contracted with Seo Hee-soo? Not even for phones or home appliances?” 

“Yes, it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.” 

“How could that be?” 

Even if Jung-chul had harbored ill feelings toward Hee-soo, he wasn’t someone who let personal grudges interfere with company decisions. If someone was useful—even an enemy—he would use them without hesitation. That was his reputation. 

Jung-chul, skilled in using and discarding people, wouldn’t have made a decision that went against his own interests without reason. 

Did Gangrim boycott Seo Hee-soo, or did Seo Hee-soo reject Gangrim? 

What else was hidden here? Jae-hyuk furrowed his brows deeply. 

It reminded him of when Hee-soo suddenly announced she was quitting ballet. Back then, too, he had felt something lurking behind her, something he didn’t know but sensed was there. 

Jae-hyuk pointed to a section of the report with his finger and asked Mr. Oh again. 

“Here, it says that even after Seo Hee-soo returned from winning an award at the international film festival, there’s still no record of her doing a single CF.” 

“You mean The Fall of Paradise?” 

“What role did Seo Hee-soo play?” 

“If I remember correctly, she played an unmarried mother who lost her child. At the time, she was the only actress to achieve 10 million viewers with a solo lead role.” 

It wasn’t a controversial role. She even won awards overseas. 

Gangrim Planning. Seo Hee-soo. Jung-chul. 

Whatever had silenced Hee-soo clearly lay here. 

“Mr. Oh, look into this again. Find out if there was an internal policy or some other reason behind it.” 

“Understood.” 

Jae-hyuk’s gaze lingered on Mr. Oh’s retreating back as he bowed slightly and left the room. 

Whatever was hidden behind these words, uncovering it was all that mattered now. 

Tossing the report onto his desk, Jae-hyuk closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. 

A strange emotion stirred within his chest. 

Right now, Seo Hee-soo seemed to have hit rock bottom, but part of him wished for her to fall even further—to become more miserable. 

Was selling off our memories worth this much? Even with your life in ruins, did you still reject me? Did you think you could ignore me, lie to me, and use me however you wanted? 

Questions tangled with resentment led to an unexpected conclusion: 

How much worse does your life have to get before you come to me? And if so, do I secretly wish for you to break even more? 

Jae-hyuk imagined Hee-soo completely falling apart, flailing in despair, and finally coming to him for help. 

Even if it couldn’t be helped… He hoped she’d cling to him with the same hands that once pushed him away, abandoning everything else and looking only at him, gasping for breath. 

If that day ever came, he thought, he could finally tell her: This time, I’ll leave you behind. Let her feel the reversal of their positions as she waits for me in vain, just as I waited for her. 

I want you to experience what it feels like to be endlessly rejected. To suffer and struggle as much as—or more than—you made me suffer. Only then will you understand the weight of what you’ve done. 

“...Seo Hee-soo.”

Jae-hyuk muttered Hee-soo’s name under his breath. 

* * * 

Hee-soo had finished preparing early in the morning and arrived at the audition site. It was for a role in Director Bang’s film, known for holding open auditions every time. 

As expected, several actors who had come for the audition were already waiting outside the production studio. 

Director Bang’s films had no commercial failures, so many actors coveted roles even from the screenplay stage. 

Thus, his auditions always attracted not only newcomers but also seasoned actors with established careers. Today was no exception—it was a day when she needed to perform better than usual. 

“Nuna, wait here for a moment.” 

Yoon-seok, who had gone inside the office, returned with a folding chair and set it up for her. 

“It looks like they’re calling people in the order of arrival.” 

Even after Hee-soo sat down, Yoon-seok fidgeted nervously, pacing around. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing… really.” 

“What is it? Do you have something to say?” 

“...In the past, you were never someone who had to wait like this, Nuna. I just feel uneasy seeing you like this.” 

Around Hee-soo and Yoon-seok, other actors were seated on similar folding chairs, most of them newcomers. 

Yoon-seok kept glancing around restlessly, apparently noticing that some actors who arrived late were being called in immediately for their auditions. 

“I’m fine. So don’t worry about it.” 

Hee-soo said it because she truly wasn’t bothered, but Yoon-seok bit his lip tightly and his voice trembled as he spoke. 

“Nuna, I’ll support you in every way I can. Please make it back to the top.” 

Seeing his eyes welling up like a deer’s, Hee-soo couldn’t help but chuckle softly. The tension eased slightly, melting her heart. 

Bracing herself, Hee-soo picked up the audition script she had received earlier. 

“...Why are you calling me?” 

Muttering lines from the script repeatedly, she carefully considered her tone and delivery. Memories of her early days as an actress came flooding back—not just that, but even further back to her ballet troupe days. 

The days when she practiced tirelessly, day in and day out. When muscle pain was a given, and even after becoming an actress, she lived life on the edge, fighting tooth and nail. Always working hard, harder still. 

Suddenly, Hee-soo raised her head and glanced around. She could see the nervous excitement etched on the faces of the other actors waiting outside the audition room. 

Thump, thump. 

Placing her hand over her chest, she felt her heartbeat. It was a pleasantly familiar sensation she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

I can do this. I can do this. 

Hee-soo calmed her mind and refocused on the script. 

Just then, the elevator doors opened, and a group of people spilled out noisily. The entourage moved swiftly toward the audition room without hesitation. 

“Ugh, couldn’t we have been a little later? I’m not satisfied with my makeup.” 

“You look beautiful, beautiful. It’s perfect. Don’t worry, our star.” 

There was a group of men in suits, a woman dressed flamboyantly beside them, and behind her, a male manager and a coordinator carrying a makeup bag, trailing like attendants. 

Watching them, Hee-soo felt a pang of nostalgia, as if seeing a reflection of her former self. Lowering her gaze back to the script, a high-pitched voice suddenly cut through the air. 

“Oh my, who do we have here?” 

Startled by the overly dramatic tone, Hee-soo instinctively looked up again. 

Among the group, a woman beaming upon spotting Hee-soo was Jin Yuna, her once-rival and contemporary actress.