"How's the new secretary?"
While reviewing artist reports, training plans, and schedules, Lee Jin-woo asked casually.
"Very smart, learns fast." Yoon Hye-na was mastering the art of tactful language.
She didn't mention Ha Joo-hee's cluelessness about secretarial work or the trouble it caused.
"Hm, train her well. She'll be your right-hand woman."
"Mine?"
Yoon Hye-na's expression was teasing. My right-hand woman, or your portable fire extinguisher?
"Problem?" Lee Jin-woo asked.
She shook her head. "No… President, funneling all funds to the new company, even salaries paid from there—is that appropriate?"
"Temporary. After… it's done, both companies will settle separately."
"Understood." She didn't pry.
He didn't explain, but bosses weren't obligated to justify to subordinates.
As long as it didn't disrupt operations or cause risks, no need to stir trouble over small stuff.
"Get me the laptop."
Yoon Hye-na brought his notebook and left to handle her tasks.
Entering the password, he opened a blank folder.
He created a new document: New World.
Wow~
Thinking of the Elevator War God's final performance gave him chills, goosebumps rising.
Koreans nailed emotions—familial love, friendship, romance…
The "small loves" some sneered at, they played to perfection.
Always hitting the audience's softest spots, deeply moving.
Though called "small," these were what most people experienced in life.
Grand notions of nation or universal love—how many truly grasped those?
This was why Korean films shone brighter in the next decade.
And their boldness in tackling topics was legendary.
Like the script he was… copying.
No, writing.
For four hours, he sat at the computer, unmoving.
When he finally leaned back, stretching stiff limbs, he noticed Yoon Hye-na behind the sofa, staring at the screen.
"What do you think?" He sought her opinion.
She nodded vigorously. "President, are we filming this ourselves?"
Not just men loved brotherhood and loyalty; women did too.
She couldn't wait to see the finished film.
"The company will produce it, aiming for a quick shoot and release."
Closing the laptop, he scribbled names on paper.
The standout female role, the Go teacher, he assigned to Han So-hee.
This film would be her debut stage.
As for the undercover wife, Lee Joo-bin and others were too youthful, too pretty.
The film's focus wasn't surface beauty.
He had candidates: Kim Sun-hee first, then Jo Min-ji or Jeon Hyun-ji.
Skin tone didn't matter—acting skill did.
It wasn't picking a wife; no need to get picky.
But all three had packed schedules, Kim Sun-hee prepping her wedding.
After a moment's hesitation, he handed her the paper.
"Check their availability and interest. Stress it's CJ distribution."
As Korea's top distributor, CJ's clout was a must.
Zy Entertainment, a nobody, couldn't sway them otherwise.
The section chief role—he'd personally approach.
Choi Min-sik, one of Chungmuro's three titans, peaked with Oldboy.
Now at his zenith, no ordinary person could book this "Korean Chow Yun-fat."
A busy day done, the afternoon was free.
Rolling his shoulders, he said, "Hye-na, any jjimjilbang nearby?"
"Next street over. Want to go now?"
"Wait till everyone's back. Let's make it the company's first team-building."
Going alone was dull.
With the company growing and operations on track, it was time to bond.
"I'll book spots." Yoon Hye-na said.
He looked up, curious. "Need reservations? That popular?"
"Ne, it's a famous place."
"Thanks. Book dinner too."
"Got it. Any cuisine preferences?"
"Something everyone likes, upscale. Handle it!"
Yoon Hye-na left, delegating to the secretary.
Though "delegating," she was hand-holding Ha Joo-hee through it.
Booking meals seemed simple, but pleasing everyone while matching tastes was an art.
The toughest, yet most worthwhile business was human relations.
When she returned, she mentioned something odd.
"During the move, I found letters from an orphanage in the mailbox. They're in the new house. Seen them?"
"Orphanage letters…" His face froze, smacking his head. "Aish, how'd I forget that?"
Zy Plus, the shiny star logo gleamed.
Clara hesitated, eyeing the building. Should I go in?
Since her debut drama, she'd been jobless for nearly a year.
Her company deemed her acting subpar, demanding serious training.
Clara disagreed—her beauty was her "acting." Why train?
Clearly, they were pressuring her to accept their vile demands.
Entertain that ugly, filthy, stench-ridden old man.
She'd rather quit than comply.
But truly give up? She couldn't bear it.
A friend tipped her about a new company with a powerful background.
The president was a big deal. Convince him, and he could resolve her contract.
Her only fear: escaping one wolf's den, only to enter a tiger's.
"Sung-min unnie?"
Clara turned, her conflicted face blooming into a smile. "Oh~ Yeon-jung!"
"Unnie, it's you! Thought I was mistaken!"
Lee Yeon-jung grabbed her arm, bouncing excitedly.
"Just finished an event?"
Nodding, Clara said enviously, "So nice!"
"Unnie, decided yet?" Lee Yeon-jung was the friend who invited her to Zy.
"Uh~ Yeon-jung, really no issues?" At the threshold, Clara tensed.
What if the president rejected her?
What if it was like her old company?
Wait—old company? Too soon to say.
"Come on, unnie. I'll take you to President Oppa. He's great—you'll see."
No time for hesitation, Lee Yeon-jung dragged her forward.
"Yah~ Yeon-jung, wait!"
Three minutes later, Lee Jin-woo faced Clara on the sofa, nervous and fidgety, feeling感慨.
He'd imagined meeting Asia's top beauty, but not like this—so ordinary, so simple.
"Sung-min unnie's super capable. She won the first online beauty pageant, dubbed the ultimate beauty."
"Oppa…" Noticing his stern look, Lee Yeon-jung stuck out her tongue, switching to a sweet, "President~~~"
"Drop the cute act." He stayed serious.
Instinctive reluctance was forcibly suppressed by reason.
"Clara, got the contract?" He wanted to see it before deciding…
Who was he kidding? He just wanted a proper excuse.
"Yes, here." Clara stood, bowed, and handed it over respectfully.
Skimming it, he was floored by the terms.
He knew entertainment was exploitative, but this?
A 20 million won gig, the artist got 30,000–50,000 won.
Holy—capitalists would weep.
This wasn't inhuman; it was sub-animal!
20 million, about 110,000 USD.
The artist got 150–250 USD?
Beyond absurd!
No wonder everyone flocked to big firms like SM or YG, which seemed saintly by comparison.
Small companies didn't even pretend humanity.
The penalty clause: 100 million won base, plus various compensations.
All in, 400–500 million to break free.
Slap~
Tossing the contract on the table, he looked at Yoon Hye-na. "Our contract. Grab one."
She understood, fetching a standard template.
Flipping through, he handed it to Clara. "Read it. If it works, we'll talk terms."
Local events: 3:7 split. Ads: 5:5. Dramas, radio, variety, musicals: 4:6. Overseas: 4:6.
Big events, where the company invested heavily, they'd take 1–2% more, maybe all.
But those were for boosting status and fame, not profit.
Like stars begging to walk red carpets—same deal.
One Hollywood red carpet stroll, a mention in foreign media, and your value doubled.
Play it right, earn decades' worth in a year. Why worry about money?
Breach terms: company penalties were low, 20–50 million.
But works and "brand" value were tightly restricted.
Got famous and want to ditch the company?
Fine—all profits, endorsements, and commercial output stayed.
Endorsement income went to the company, and artists had to keep promoting.
Big firms had similar clauses. No need for freezing—scheduling conflicts alone could kill you.
(End of Chapter)