Chapter 20
Talent Alone
“This is our final recruitment candidate. Name: Dobos Arnold. He is currently with the Boston Symphony Orchestra in the United States, and given the trend of shorter contract periods, it’s estimated he has roughly nine months left on a three-year contract.”
In the darkened conference room, the only source of light was the glow from the screen.
Seated in front of it, Geonwoo listened to the employee’s explanation while reading through the documents laid before him.
“Based on last year’s tax filings, his current annual salary is estimated at $1.8 million, and it’s likely he will renew with the Boston Symphony. Should he re-sign, the expected salary is around $2.1 million.”
This was Geonwoo’s second meeting since becoming head of the Cultural Business Department, but the first one had been almost entirely dominated by him.
So, in a sense, this was the first proper meeting.
Perhaps that was why the employees were constantly glancing at him while he listened.
A nod from Geonwoo or a pen marking the papers felt like heaven; a furrowed brow or a long, drawn-out sigh felt like hell.
The alternation between extremes—heaven and hell—made their hearts race, even though no one had moved.
“He is known for performances brimming with life that break away from conventional forms, while maintaining the Boston Symphony’s signature precision, sharpness, clarity, and balance. Experts have praised him highly for this.”
Geonwoo nodded lightly.
“Good.”
Short words, yet not really an expression of approval—just a filler sound.
Even so, his low voice made the employees’ tense minds melt slightly, like thawing in a swing from freezing to warmth.
When Geonwoo closed the documents, Wida Hye, a new employee sitting at the back, immediately stood and switched on the lights.
The fluorescent lighting illuminated the room in an instant.
But the employees’ faces darkened—not from shadows, but from the sight of Geonwoo’s impassive expression.
“Maximizing effect with minimal investment is indeed essential for a profit-driven business,” Geonwoo said, scanning the employees’ faces.
“But the starting point can determine your rank. In this industry, once a grade is fixed, it’s nearly impossible to change. People’s impressions don’t shift easily. If you settle for a mediocre image just to save a little cost, this business will never grow.”
There was no anger in his tone, no sharp words; yet the calmness of his speech struck like a whip, forcing everyone to shrink their shoulders and bow their heads.
“The Seodo brand will embody sophistication. Redraft the candidate list accordingly. We’ll meet again in two days. Thank you for your work.”
With that, Geonwoo gathered his documents and pen and left the room.
The employees remained behind, unable to speak, even to breathe freely.
All that could be heard was the quiet hum of the projector connected to the laptop.
The silence was suffocating, an oppressive vacuum making every inhale a struggle.
Finally, Chief Manager Jo exhaled loudly.
“Haah…”
“Ha…”
It seemed to signal permission, and the employees slowly released the breaths they had been holding.
“Wow… nothing else to say but impressive.”
“Definitely not a business plan drafted by the control tower.”
“Sir, we know that too,” replied Deputy Park Taejin, with a teasing edge to his tone.
The heavy tension in the room lifted slightly.
“Rumors aside, this is unreal,” muttered Assistant Manager Kim Donghoon, frustrated.
“The Royal Family we knew… it’s somehow not them…”
He trailed off, but everyone in the room understood exactly what he meant.
Ever since Geonwoo had joined the Cultural Business Department, things had changed drastically.
Employees had to decide whether to stay in the department under his leadership or transfer elsewhere.
Though some considered moving due to him being the chairman’s son, after speaking with him, not a single employee chose to leave.
He had said nothing extraordinary:
“The road ahead will be tough. Many obstacles lie in pioneering new ventures. It will be a challenging time. You don’t need to endure it if you don’t want to. Decide wisely. But one thing I promise: I will make this business a world-class enterprise, no matter what.”
No honeyed words, no veiled promises. Only a forecast of hardship and the ambition he carried.
Because he spoke the truth so plainly about the difficulty ahead, the employees trusted him enough to stay.
After all, making someone else’s money is never easy, no matter where you go.
“What are you all doing? Stop daydreaming. Tonight, we’re working overtime again.”
Chief Manager Jo’s voice dropped the mood back to its weighty seriousness.
Knock. Knock.
The brief tapping at the practice room door halted Yeoul mid-motion.
She turned toward the small window in the door and saw who it was.
‘Why is she here…?’
Chaerin waved cheerfully at her.
Whenever Chaerin had appeared suddenly in the past, Yeoul always felt some impending trouble.
Now she understood why: the foundation of Chaerin’s behavior was sheer disregard.
In the past, she had struggled to respond to Chaerin’s sharp words.
‘No need to listen to those rude words anymore.’
Yeoul set her bow and cello on the stand and opened the door.
“What’s up?”
“Practice going well?”
“Just working hard, as usual.”
“Do you think I could do as well if I worked as hard as you?”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Then why… the professor only praises you.”
“The professor praises you too, don’t they?”
“But I get praised only for my skill, while you get compliments for… that cheap stuff.”
Ha.
Finally, Yeoul saw that Chaerin was deliberately belittling her.
She couldn’t help but laugh.
Chaerin’s sly way of elevating herself while making Yeoul feel pitiful was almost admirable in its cruelty.
‘How can someone be so cruel?’
Yeoul had trusted her as a friend, thinking she could endure Chaerin’s remarks because Chaerin wasn’t a bad person, just blunt.
‘How blind I was.’
She had been used by Seungtae, trampled by Chaerin, and hadn’t realized it until now.
She hadn’t even tried to notice, never made the effort to read the signs.
Now, she could see clearly.
“See, I’m glad the professor praises that cheap stuff, while you get praised only for your skill on a multi-million-dollar cello.”
“…What?”
Chaerin’s smile faltered, her composure cracking.
Yeoul’s corners lifted in a satisfied, knowing smile.
“The professor always focuses on emotional expression, right? Ah, you know that better than anyone. Every time, he regrets that you only have skill.”
At those words, the fragile smile Chaerin had been holding together collapsed completely.
