SSCP 10

Chapter 10

“Jwibang-ul, what did you just say…?”
“It seems like it’s time to wrap things up, Lord Rodvalt. Shall we continue this conversation another day?”

I hurriedly stood to end the meeting, but Chodorn rose too, glancing between me and Argan.
“You two are meeting again?”

This time, Argan’s expression hardened with clear displeasure as he looked at Chodorn.
“Lady Rubiche is my fiancée, Your Highness Reynold.”

She wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Still, the sharpness and threat in his voice were unmistakable. Even Chodorn must have sensed it. I had never seen Argan so emotional before. I honestly thought he was a man without feelings—a cold, lifeless object.

“When did you two get engaged?”
Chodorn stared between us in disbelief.

I was just as confused, so I looked at Argan. His cheeks flushed, as though he realized how absurd his outburst had been.
“You’re still judging without knowing a thing about others. Some things never change.”

Chodorn gave him a pitying look, as though gazing at a poor fool.
“Bang-ul, let’s go.”

He reached out a hand toward me. Naturally, I didn’t take it.

“Lady Rubiche.”

Argan, who had also risen, caught my ankle just as I was about to step away.
“I hope you won’t forget what I said.”
I nodded.
“There seem to be some misunderstandings… but I’ll think about it.”
“Then I’ll send you a letter.”

I responded with a polite, well-bred smile and left the café at once. Chodorn trailed right behind me like an obedient pup.

The engagement with Argan wasn’t yet official—so perhaps I should take a little more time to think about it.

When I first met Cha Do-hyuk, he was already someone high up.

At a young age, he had become the main producer of the network’s flagship variety show—the youngest ever to do so. Talented and strikingly handsome, his appointment made headlines, and his name constantly appeared in entertainment articles.

People said he’d soon become the youngest Chief Producer, maybe even a Director someday. He really was walking an elite path.

And, if I remembered correctly, he was also the youngest son of a major conglomerate chairman.
He lacked absolutely nothing.

But my first impression of Cha Do-hyuk wasn’t good.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Ji Bang-ul.”

I stood up and introduced myself during the team meeting. Cha Do-hyuk didn’t even glance at me—his eyes remained on the show outline in his hands. The assistant directors and writers were the ones who greeted me instead.

I stole a quick glance toward the head of the table. He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, trying to chase away fatigue, and then slowly raised his head.

Only after a long pause did his expression change—like he’d just realized there was a new team member. His eyes quickly scanned my face.

“…Jwibang-ul, was it?”
“No, it’s Ji Bang-ul.”
“Cute name. Jwibang-ul.”
“No. Not Jwibang-ul—Ji Bang-ul.”
“Yes, of course. Miss Ji Bang-ul.”

When I saw the faint smile tug at his lips, I finally realized he was joking. Unfortunately, I had already taken it seriously and gotten flustered.

Mortified, I ducked my head—and everyone in the room burst into laughter.
From that day on, “Jwibang-ul” became my nickname.

Most people stopped calling me that after I made a fuss about it. Everyone except one person.

“Jwibang-ul, answer me. If the participants choose Course B instead of Course A, what’s your plan? Even if you try to steer them toward A, you still need a backup mission and reward structure for B. There’s nothing about that in your outline.”

Do-hyuk pushed up the sleeves of his knit sweater and pointed at my show notes, his voice sharp and precise. I had no answer. The meeting room went dead silent.

“You’re supposed to consider all possible scenarios when writing an outline!”

His harsh tone made me flinch. But he wasn’t wrong. Every word was fair criticism.

Cha Do-hyuk was maddeningly perfect—almost unfairly so.

I’d never been called incompetent before, but beside him, I felt small.

The head writer, Yeon-seo, frowned and spoke up.
“PD Cha, what’s this about in front of everyone? I’m the one who approved her outline. Talk to me.”

But Do-hyuk didn’t back down.
“Even if you approved it, the section producer responsible is Jwibang-ul. She should take responsibility.”

“PD Cha! I said that’s enough!”

He gave me a disapproving glance before Yeon-seo finally dragged him out of the meeting.

When the tension eased, one of the senior writers muttered,
“I don’t get why PD Cha is always so hard on Bang-ul’s outlines.”

“I know, right? I’ve never seen anyone with such creative ideas and good instincts.”

The assistant director chimed in, and even our youngest writer, Ji-woo, nodded vigorously.
“Senior, did you maybe do something to annoy PD Cha?”

I thought hard about it. But no—nothing came to mind.

He was brilliant and widely respected. But emotionless. Work was all that mattered to him.

And that’s why this kind of thing kept happening.

“Jwibang-ul. Re-mic the talent.”

I nearly pulled my hair out when I heard his voice over the walkie-talkie in the middle of a chaotic shoot. There were plenty of people right beside him—the sound engineer, the assistant PD, even the junior writer.

So why, why was he calling me?

We all wore earpieces to stay connected during filming, but Do-hyuk always used his to page me.

That’s how his walkie-talkie got its nickname: “The Jwibang-ul Hotline.”

“Ugh, why does that jerk always call for me? Always ‘Jwibang-ul this, Jwibang-ul that!’ If I could bash him in the head once, I’d die happy.”

I muttered under my breath… only to realize my mic button was still pressed.

Everyone in the crew heard me call him “that Chodorn bastard.”

The whole set erupted in laughter.

From that day on, Cha Do-hyuk’s new nickname became “Chodorn.”

Unfortunately, I was summoned by the head writer and got a brutal scolding. I cried my eyes out—loudly. It was the most embarrassing day of my life.

After that, people started calling us as a pair: “Jwibang-ul and Chodorn.”

“Our team’s representative will be Writer Bang-ul!”

There was a mission where the staff had to compete on behalf of the cast.

Do-hyuk deliberately led everyone to pick me as our rep.

And once, a full episode was even titled “The Jwibang-ul Special.”

“I came on the show today just to see Writer Bang-ul—she’s the beautiful writer everyone talks about.”

Some celebrity actually said that on air.

Since the show often featured behind-the-scenes staff, I had braced for some exposure—but my appearances were excessive, even by our standards.

I started getting hateful comments accusing me of thinking I was some kind of celebrity.

One morning, as I sat in the office early, working quietly, Cha Do-hyuk approached.
“Do you really hate me that much?”

His sudden, direct question caught me off guard.
“Of course I do. You torment me nonstop—how could I not?”

He blinked, momentarily stunned, as if he hadn’t expected such a blunt answer.

Then, with a faint sigh, he muttered, “I didn’t realize those hate comments would turn out that way. I’m sorry.”

The apology was so unexpected that I just stared at him, speechless.

His face looked drawn—maybe he’d spent all night in the editing room. He ruffled his hair, then lowered his head, looking guilty.

“You… can apologize?”
“When you say it like that, it makes me feel even worse.”

He rested his chin in his hand, studying me thoughtfully. His gaze lingered too long—it made me uncomfortable.

“Would you consider working on my next show with me? I want you as the head writer. We’ve built good chemistry, and you’ve gained experience. I think you’re ready.”

I blinked. Did this man torment me for months just to train me for that role?

“What kind of insane PD lets a fourth-year writer take the lead? And no thanks—I don’t like you.”

Sure, he was competent. But we didn’t match. I didn’t like bulldozers.
Handsome or not, I preferred kind men.

“I’ll pay you more than Writer Yeon-seo.”

I ignored him and opened my laptop. But I could feel his gaze following every move of my hand.

“Keep working with Yeon-seo. She’s a legend in this field. Tons of writers would kill to be on her team.”
“No. I want you. I’ve liked you since the beginning.”
“What exactly do you like about me?”
“Your guts.”

Well… with a boss like him, a weak heart wouldn’t have survived this long.

He leaned closer, bracing one arm on my desk. A faint citrus scent reached me—it was oddly calming.

His sharp eyes traced over my expression.
“I don’t want to go anywhere without you. Come with me.”

He coaxed me like a cat toying with its prey.

“No.”

I said it firmly, but my heart was pounding.

Head writer. The dream position. What writer wouldn’t feel their pulse race at those words?

The event that completely changed my opinion of Cha Do-hyuk happened a month later.

By chance, the two of us ended up going alone on a location scout.

It was supposed to be my day off, but my name got drawn in a random pick along with another assistant PD.

I gathered the necessary materials and climbed into the gray company van waiting outside my apartment.

And froze.

Because sitting in the van already—was Chodorn himself.

The assistant PD who was supposed to come? Nowhere in sight.

Why, out of all people… why was he here?