Chapter : 02
“Ah, yes. We have a drama shoot there today. I came in as part of the production staff… It’s all on-location filming, so the schedule’s really tight and—well, it’s always this hectic.”
Hearing her explanation, Dojun finally understood why she had looked so distressed.
From the way she was talking on the phone, her position seemed less like a general staff member and more like a manager. Judging by how flustered she was, the person on the other end of the line was probably the actor she was in charge of.
And it wasn’t hard to guess who that actor might be—the actress filming a drama on location at Place de la Bastille.
“You’re managing actress Baek Ah-yeon, aren’t you?”
“What?”
Haein looked at Dojun with a startled expression, quite different from before. This man…
“Are you… a shaman?”
Ah.
Her face was far too serious for him to take that as a joke. What kind of thought process led her to see him first as an Uber driver and now as a fortune-teller?
Despite his baffled expression, her quiet voice continued.
“How did you know my actress is Ah-yeon unni? Don’t tell me…”
Haein’s eyes widened as she turned to look at Dojun’s profile while he drove.
“Don’t tell me—you’re Ah-yeon unni’s stalker fan?”
That must be it. A stalker fan. Someone who instantly recognized that the filming at Bastille Square involved Baek Ah-yeon.
Unbuckling her seatbelt without him noticing, Haein leaned toward the car door.
“Um… I’ll get off here.”
If Baek Ah-yeon found out her manager had ridden in with a stalker fan, she’d unleash every curse she could think of on her.
“I’m not a stalker. I’m too busy for that kind of thing. Please, put your seatbelt back on.”
There’s no law saying busy people can’t be stalkers. Still, Haein eyed the backseat skeptically—no giant telephoto camera, not even the usual stalker fan essentials.
His tone was calm and clean, his suit far too immaculate, his luxury car far too pristine for someone obsessed with tailing celebrities.
After reconsidering everything carefully, Haein shook her head.
“I’m sorry. I must’ve misunderstood. I’ve just been on edge lately…”
The car sped smoothly toward Place de la Bastille. When several large buses and filming equipment came into view ahead, Haein got ready to get off.
The man’s expression remained completely unreadable. She said nothing, quietly watching the Paris streets glide past through the window.
“Yoon Haein. I’m Baek Ah-yeon’s manager.”
Haein climbed out of the car, clutching her suitcase and heading briskly toward the van where Ah-yeon would likely be waiting.
Since Ah-yeon always demanded the same model of van used in Korea—even when filming abroad—it was only natural to assume that the heavily tinted one, completely blocking any view inside, was hers.
“Oh—Miss! Restricted area. Staff only. Haein, do you know this man?”
Turning at the staff member’s call, Haein saw that Dojun had also gotten out of the car and was striding toward her with long steps.
Ah, right. The fare.
Unsure how to explain who this stranger was, Haein shrugged awkwardly.
“He’s… the Uber driver.”
Alternating glances between Dojun and the staff, Haein gave an embarrassed smile and pulled out some bills from her pocket.
“Here—30 euros. The fare showed 27, so the extra 3 is a tip. Thank you so much.”
After counting the notes carefully into his hand, she bowed deeply—so deeply it nearly looked like a full bow. Dojun couldn’t help but chuckle in disbelief.
Did she even realize who he was?
“Ah. My mask snapped.”
“…!”
Still holding the crumpled bills, Dojun looked up at her voice.
The mask that had covered half her face had torn—and when her face was revealed, he froze, staring silently. His gaze wavered oddly as he took her in.
That small face, skin so pale the veins beneath were visible, those eyes impossible to read, and that faint air of sadness.
“Why… are you looking at me like that?”
When he just kept staring, Haein fiddled with the broken mask strap, embarrassed, then quickly turned away as if it didn’t matter and walked toward the black van.
Dojun stayed where he was until her figure completely disappeared from sight.
“Unni, I’m here! I brought all the clothes.”
Haein opened the heavy van door, shielding her suitcase from the drizzle with her jacket—and then froze.
What… what is this?
Inside the van, the man kissing her actress, Baek Ah-yeon—Korea’s top star—was none other than her own boyfriend, Lee Jinwon.
The same man she had supported through years of obscurity, the man she’d begged the company to cast in this project alongside Ah-yeon.
Ah-yeon sat astride Jinwon’s lap in nothing but her bra, her top tossed somewhere aside.
Unlike the shocked Jinwon, Ah-yeon turned toward the open door with a completely calm face.
“Y–Yoon Haein.”
“The next scene is a kiss scene,” Ah-yeon said coolly. “So we were practicing. We’re actors, you know.”
Unlike her panicked boyfriend, Ah-yeon spoke nonchalantly, her eyes fixed on Haein. Then, a faint, mocking smile spread across her face.
“You used to be an actress too, didn’t you, Haein? A million-tickets actress at that. You understand that a crucial scene like this can determine a film’s quality… you’re not saying you don’t get that, right?”
Her words dripped with deliberate scorn. She had known Haein would come—and had done this for her to see.
Ever since Ah-yeon had found out about her relationship with Jinwon, her behavior had become increasingly erratic.
Summoning Jinwon out of the blue, showing up at his place in the middle of the night under the pretense of “rehearsing lines.”
All of it—irrational, shameless—had been tolerated only because she was Baek Ah-yeon.
A dropout. A failed actress who’d given up.
A forgotten “ten-million-viewer” star.
With such labels chained to her, what could Haein possibly say? What right did she have to say anything now?
Had Ah-yeon brought her here just to humiliate her?
The absurdity of the scene was suffocating. After a long silence, Haein finally managed to speak.
“…Lee Jinwon, we’ll talk later.”
No tears fell, though her head hung low. The fact that she couldn’t even cry made her feel pathetic—but with Ah-yeon’s next shoot moments away, she couldn’t say anything more.
If only she could, she would have run away with all her strength.
Paris’s finest hotel, “Haward In Paris.”
Inside it, the exclusive VIP bar.
The view of the Parisian night skyline from the 60th floor was enough to make anyone feel privileged simply to be there.
And among the select few allowed inside, one man stood out.
Despite being Asian, his tall frame and neatly combed, pomaded hair drew every gaze in the room.
His black suit fit him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders, and the slightly loosened tie only added to his allure.
Tilting his head slightly, he sipped his vodka, his expression utterly unreadable.
Double-lidded or not, his deep-set eyes, sculpted nose, and sharp jawline looked as if carved from marble.
“Sir, would you like some more alcohol?” asked the bartender in a sleek black shirt and slacks, noticing his empty glass.
“God-Mother.”
At the curt reply, the bartender deftly picked up an old-fashioned glass.
He poured in amaretto, then vodka—his motions simple, efficient, precise.
Watching him in silence, another man at the bar finally spoke.
