Chapter 11
“Writer Bangul, you’re here?”
The chauffeur, standing in for the sleeping Cha Do-hyuk, greeted me with a smile. I returned his greeting, slid the van door shut, and buckled my seatbelt.
Do-hyuk, who had been sleeping with his seat reclined, finally opened his eyes. He looked gaunt—probably from staying up all night at the CP review (where PDs preview edited episodes with the chief producer). When he saw me, he offered a polite greeting.
“Good morning.”
I glanced out the window. The sun was already high in the sky. No matter how you looked at it, it wasn’t morning—it was broad daylight.
“Are you okay? Why is the PD here? Where’s PD Jung-yeon?”
He sighed before replying.
“She had to rush to Busan for her grandmother’s funeral.”
“Oh…”
I fell silent, then looked at him again, puzzled.
“There are plenty of assistant PDs around, though. Why is the main PD personally coming out for this? That’s not right. Did all the assistants vanish or something? Hold on, I’ll call PD Sung-jun!”
I was joking as I pulled out my phone, but Do-hyuk shook his head mid-yawn.
“Don’t. It’s their day off. They worked hard this week. And you’re working on your day off too, aren’t you?”
“That’s just my bad luck. Besides, even if we did draw lots, Senior Writer Yeonseo doesn’t put her name in—she’s the main writer. But why are you volunteering for extra work…?”
My voice trailed off. He really did look exhausted. I turned toward the driver instead.
“Sir, how long to Paju Convention Center?”
“About an hour.”
“Then I guess I can nap for a bit.”
I closed my eyes. For a while, I could feel his gaze on me—but soon, sleep took over.
It was midsummer, and the driver, being considerate, had the air conditioner blasting. Half asleep, I rubbed my arms against the chill. Then, at some point, warmth wrapped around me. When I opened my eyes, a navy checkered shirt had been draped over me.
I turned my head—Do-hyuk was asleep, wearing only a plain black T-shirt. As I blinked in confusion, the driver chuckled through the rearview mirror.
“Cold, right? PD Cha asked me to turn off the AC, said you were freezing. You still cold?”
“Oh… no, I’m fine now. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
What kind of person is this man? I couldn’t tell if Cha Do-hyuk had a good personality or a terrible one. With a conflicted feeling, I found myself staring at his sharp profile as he slept.
Then, resting my elbow on the armrest, I tilted my head and secretly studied his face. He was absurdly good-looking—enough to make any celebrity blush and tap-dance off the stage.
How could someone look like that and be smart and good at his job? They say “book smarts and work smarts are different,” but he clearly had both.
As I admired him, his long lashes suddenly fluttered—and he slowly opened his eyes. When he saw me, his brows knitted in mild surprise.
“What are you doing?”
“Admiring your face.”
“Did I get something on it?”
“Don’t tell me you’re about to say it’s ‘handsomeness’? That’s old material. Wow. A variety show PD with no sense of humor—how tragic.”
He burst out laughing, quiet chuckles shaking his shoulders. Then he dropped a little bomb.
“At least you’re funny. Would be great if you worked that well too.”
…Excuse me? Did he just throw shade out of nowhere?
“Well, at least you’re not funny—but good at your job. Must be nice.”
I ended up firing back in a small act of rebellion. If any senior writers had heard me, they would’ve scolded me for sure.
“Still,” he said, “the idea you came up with for this shoot—was a good one.”
It took me a second to register his words. The episode structure we were filming today had been based on my idea.
While I stared at him blankly, the car came to a stop.
“We’re here,” the driver said.
“Thank you.”
Do-hyuk got out first. I followed, still dazed, watching his back.
Did he just… compliment me? The same man who always nitpicked my draft outlines to death?
“Hey, Ji Bangul. Hurry up.”
He stopped ahead and turned to look at me. I was still on the phone with the convention center’s PR manager, jogging to catch up. Once I reached him, he slowed his pace to match mine.
“Ah, yes. Hello, this is Ji Bang—uh, Writer Ji Bangul, the one who called yesterday. You’re Team Leader Kim Daeseok, right? Yes, we’re at the main gate now. Okay, see you soon.”
Not long after I hung up, the PR manager appeared.
For this shoot, the newly opened Paju Convention Center had offered a sponsorship worth hundreds of millions of won. We needed to finalize which areas we could film in and check all the required exposure conditions.
“Can’t we use this area?”
Do-hyuk pointed to a section marked “No Entry.” I checked the floor plan—it looked like there was another passage inside. Since one segment of the show involved a hidden mission where participants ran through the building, having access to that inner area would be ideal.
The PR manager hesitated, scratching his head.
“It’s under construction, but it’ll be finished by tomorrow. You should be able to use it freely on the shoot day.”
“Please confirm that officially,” Do-hyuk said flatly. “We don’t want to deal with any last-minute confusion or conflict.”
The manager gestured for us to wait, made a phone call, then returned with a bright smile.
“Yes, you can use it!”
But on the actual filming day, that permission fell apart.
The PR manager we’d met during the visit had taken a day off, and the on-site staff claimed they’d never heard about any filming approval.
“Ji Bangul, what the hell did you do?!”
One of the senior writers, red with anger, yelled at me on set. Even the cast waiting nearby turned to look. My mind went completely blank—I couldn’t even respond.
The shoot came to a halt. Do-hyuk, who had been sitting by the monitors, walked over.
“What’s going on?”
The senior writer, Young-hoon, rubbed his forehead, unable to speak.
I clasped my hands together and explained for him.
“During the site visit, we were told the restricted area could be used. But this person says they never gave us permission.”
Do-hyuk frowned. The onlookers’ attention made the staff member defensive, and he raised his voice.
“What do you mean, ‘we insisted’? Are you accusing us of making a mistake? We never authorized that area for filming! You should’ve sent an official document! See this sign? It says No Entry!”
He pointed dramatically at the sign, while Senior Writer Young-hoon shot me a deadly glare.
I was furious—and terrified. Sweat gathered on my forehead as I wiped it off and tried to steady my shaking hands.
“If you’re saying I didn’t send the document, you’re wrong. I sent the official request—and Team Leader Kim Daeseok personally approved it.”
I pulled up my email on my phone and showed him.
“See? Here’s the sent mail. And this—his reply, granting permission.”
He skimmed it and waved dismissively.
“Well, I didn’t get any notice. If you’re going to keep insisting, we’ll withdraw from the sponsorship. You can’t just boss us around like that.”
…Excuse me?
He looked me up and down, full of arrogance, and stormed off. Why was he acting like the victim here? They were the ones begging for the exposure in the first place!
My stomach twisted in disbelief.
“Ji Bangul.”
Senior Writer Young-hoon’s voice was tight with anger. But before he could approach, Do-hyuk raised his hand and stepped in front of me.
“This isn’t Bangul’s fault. I heard the PR manager say it was fine myself.”
“Still, she should’ve double-checked—!”
“You saw the proof she showed. It’s obvious the mistake is on their side.”
His tone was calm but firm. For a moment, my breath caught. It was the first time he had ever defended me like that.
“Team Leader Kim is off today, right?”
“Yes,” I replied quickly. “He took the day off, of all days…”
“I happen to know the mayor of Paju.”
Then, before anyone could react, he pulled out his phone and made a call. He didn’t speak for long before hanging up. Moments later, he got another call back—from what sounded like a very apologetic convention center official.
That’s when I remembered. Oh, right. This man was the youngest son of a chaebol chairman.
“Does the Paju Convention Center always operate this incompetently?” he said sharply into the phone. “If this is how you handle business, we’ll withdraw our sponsorship and claim compensation for the wasted shoot costs.”
His voice dripped with authority as he hung up.
A few minutes later, a group of men in black suits descended the lobby staircase—the chairman, the head of operations, the PR director, and other executives.
Even in front of those older, high-ranking men, Do-hyuk crossed his arms and exploded.
“Unless that staff member comes here and apologizes to my writer personally, we’re calling off this shoot.”
He threw the production outline onto the floor.
“You humiliated someone who did her job properly—and now you want to back out of your agreement? We won’t tolerate this kind of power abuse.”
At that word—power abuse—the executives’ expressions changed instantly.
The very staff member who’d yelled at me earlier came rushing down the stairs, bowing repeatedly.
“The one you owe an apology to isn’t me,” said Do-hyuk coldly. “It’s my writer. Apologize to her directly.”
In a situation like this, a junior writer like me could usually do nothing but stand there. But in that moment, even though Do-hyuk could be unbearably strict, he was also the only one who truly protected his staff. My eyes burned, and I pressed the back of my hand against them.
After multiple apologies from the staff and executives, the situation was finally resolved. If not for the email evidence—and for Do-hyuk standing up for me—I would’ve taken the full blame for a mistake that wasn’t mine.
“If you hadn’t kept the records, we would’ve taken the loss. The only reason I could be so firm is because you handled things properly. You did well. Thank you.”
He said that—and gently patted my head.
That was it. I couldn’t hold back anymore, and tears spilled from my eyes.
He might be a relentless boss who drives everyone to the edge—but Cha Do-hyuk was also the kind of leader who bore responsibility to the very end.
Maybe that’s why… no matter how much he pushed me, I could never truly hate him.
