Chapter 10 –
A Taste of Labor
It was a beautiful, sunny day.
The sky was a pristine blue, and the clouds looked like fluffy puffs painted by a child’s hand.
Neither too hot nor too cold, the weather was perfect as we stood alone, eyes shielded behind pitch-black sunglasses.
“……”
She crossed her arms and pushed her perfectly tinted sunglasses up her nose.
Under the dazzling sunlight, her pale skin glowed. Turning our head left and right, we shrugged slightly.
“My eyesight’s seriously terrible.”
No matter how much she tried to ignore it, her poor vision wouldn’t allow it. In the end, she took off her sunglasses.
The sun might be glaring, but squinting through it seemed better than not being able to see at all. We tucked away the sunglasses and pulled out her glasses from her pocket.
“Phew.”
For a brief moment, her pretty eyes were exposed, only to be hidden again behind thick lenses meant to compensate for her poor vision.
Her eyes narrowed like buttonholes as she looked around before regaining her upright, dignified posture.
Glasses or not, the weather remained the same.
So did the tasks ahead.
“Please write your name here.”
As soon as she put on her glasses, we must have looked like a docile lamb because an event staff member approached with a guestbook. Truthfully, the only reason she wore her glasses was to write in that book.
We read the large title printed at the top of the guestbook and scribbled our name hurriedly in the blank space below the names of others.
“Where should I go for the food truck assignment?”
As we wrote our name, we asked, and the staff pointed to the right.
“Turn the corner over there, near the faucet. But… are you staff?”
“No. My companion works here.”
“Oh, then your husband must be…”
“He’ll be here later.”
“I see. So your husband—”
“Colleague.”
Correcting the last word with a calm firmness, she handed the guestbook back to the stunned staff member.
“Thank you for your work.”
With that polite farewell, we briskly walked away. As she turned the corner, the staffer who had been watching her suddenly exclaimed:
“Wait, excuse me! You forgot to write your husband’s name and position—!”
The staff stood up, about to rush after her, but a nearby coworker stopped them.
“Forget it. She’s on food truck duty.”
“Still, we need that information—”
“We’ll check later. Besides, the food truck section is for the low-ranking folks anyway. Just let it go.”
Their tone was indifferent, but not inaccurate.
Today’s event was a large-scale charity campaign hosted by Yeongdo Group, titled “Prevention of Child Abuse.”
Executives and employees from partner companies were free to participate, each helping out through designated booths in a talent-donation format.
And among those booths, “the food truck” was by far the most grueling and least desirable.
Clicking her tongue at the adult hypocrisy of ranking even within a charity event for children, the coworker glanced at the book.
“Jeez, this handwriting is awful. What did she even write?”
Feeling uneasy, the staff who had been looking at the corner returned and joined in.
The name scrawled in oversized, messy letters across the blank line:
“…Jo Euri?”
It was nearly illegible.
Meanwhile, unaware of the commotion behind her, our shoulders slumped.
She hadn’t done anything yet, but already, she was exhausted—just thinking about what was to come drained her.
‘Why am I here when Ha Yoon-jae is running late?’
Executives were only required to show up when the event officially began.
So why had Joo Ae-jung taken it upon herself to volunteer this early? Was hard work her hobby?
“Haa…”
She sighed again, trudging forward.
This event—Prevention of Child Abuse—was attended by companies invited by Yeongdo Group. But Ha Sung Apparel, which had recently risen to prominence, was not among those invited.
“So I’m the one who shows up first, huh, President Go.”
Mocking her father, who desperately wished to be part of this event every year, she arrived at the food truck booth.
It was already buzzing with activity. Around a dozen young women were either preparing materials or milling about nervously, seemingly uncertain about what to do.
‘Just one corner away, and it feels like another world.’
Some people were desperate to get invited to places like this.
As we glanced around casually, we nudged a box under the tent with our foot.
Thunk.
“Ack!”
Suddenly, someone collided into us. Having tripped over the box, she glared with blazing eyes.
“Watch where you’re—!”
Before she could let loose her temper, the woman who had bumped into her quickly set down her belongings.
“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
The sincere apology cooled the heat that had risen to her head.
She straightened up and adjusted her disheveled glasses.
“I’m fine. Go ahead.”
As she elegantly fixed her hair, the woman watched her for a moment, then cautiously asked,
“Excuse me, but who are you…?”
“I’m in charge of the food truck today. It’s my first time here.”
“Ah, you’re new! Come here then. Since you’re here, grab that box and bring it over.”
“…Pardon?”
“Hurry, we’re busy.”
The woman’s initial wary glance quickly shifted to something more assertive.
Grabbing the box she had knocked over, we nearly dropped it—it was heavier than expected.
“Put it down there. And bring the rest while you’re at it.”
She smiled brightly while effortlessly handing off more work, her tone sharp but effective.
Despite her frail appearance, this woman was surprisingly commanding. Our arms ached from hauling a few boxes.
‘I’ve lifted barbells, but never boxes like these…’
She was out of breath almost immediately—this kind of labor was a first.
But it was just the beginning.
Clap, clap.
“Alright, people! We’ve only got three hours left until the event starts.”
A signal from someone nearby brought the scattered group together.
The woman who had ordered us around now sat calmly among them.
Then came the whispers—quiet, yet clear enough to reach our ears.
“Who’s she?”
“She’s the wife of a department head from Yeongdo Group.”
“Wow, really?”
“Apparently she’s been in charge of this booth for 17 years.”
“Which means her husband’s had that same position for 17 years, huh?”
“The eternal department-head’s wife. The food truck queen.”
Snickers.
It was the classic whispering and clique-forming so common in such gatherings.
She leaned against a stack of boxes and gave a faint smirk.
“They really don’t know a thing.”
Whispers halted and eyes turned toward her, but she accepted their attention with indifference, toying with her reddened fingertips.
“There’s no one more generous than someone who feeds others.”
The quiet remark cast a strange silence over the booth.
Sensing the shift, she finally lifted her head and shrugged.
“Who is she?”
“No idea. Never seen her before.”
The women quickly began excluding her. And from across the booth, the department-head’s wife called out:
“Let’s begin!”
This was torture.
Absolute torture. No—she was already dead, so could she die again?
She had suffered her stepmother’s cruelty and her father’s indifference, but she had never, ever done physical labor like this.
‘Since when is labor a form of talent donation?!’
The absurdity made her dizzy.
Hours of relentless work passed. She peeled off her rubber gloves, revealing swollen hands soaked through despite protection.
“…Shouldn’t there be a campaign for adult abuse, too?”
Under the fluttering “Prevent Child Abuse” banner, she made a miserable face—then suddenly widened her eyes.
“Ha Yoon-jae, that jerk.”
She cursed the man who had thrown her into this labor camp and hadn’t shown up yet.
But her brief rest didn’t go unnoticed.
“Hey! Don’t just stand there. Can’t you see the dishes piling up?”
“……”
“You can’t cook, can’t season properly—why even show up?”
She didn’t know the first thing about cooking, and after being demoted from prepping to dishwashing, she didn’t even bother to protest. Her hands were too sore to care.
‘She’s not wrong.’
Even the scolding seemed mild compared to her stepmother’s abuse.
What bothered her more was her own hands—white as porcelain, but with unexpected calluses and thick joints.
Unlike those built by workouts, these were shaped by life.
She glanced at Joo Ae-jung, who was her same age, and clucked her tongue. Life hadn’t been kind to her.
The booth suddenly became noisy.
“Thank you for your hard work, everyone.”
“Ma’am, you’re here!”
“Make yourselves at home.”
A group of well-dressed women appeared, their luxurious clothing seeming completely out of place in a charity event.
They took seats as if they owned the place.
“We’re just stopping by for a cup of tea.”
Their absurdly casual interruption left the workers speechless.
At the head of the group, a woman snapped her fingers.
Snap.
“You there, dishwashing girl.”
Wearing rubber gloves again, she looked up, confused.
The woman who had snapped pointed at her with a curled finger.
“Coffee, please.”
Still unsure if the comment was meant for her, she glanced around.
Everyone else was busy pretending not to see.
She blinked and pointed at herself with her gloved hand.
“Me?”
The woman scoffed, crossing her legs.
“Is there anyone else? I’ll have a café latte.”
