Chapter 28

A brief silence settled over the room.

“......”

“......”

He had forced himself to strike back bravely, but there was no controlling the instinctive fear pounding through his chest. Feeling his heartbeat hammer all the way up to his ears, Gyeol hardened his gaze. He refused to look away from Yo Han Sung.

After several seconds of vicious eye contact, Gyeol felt the strength slowly drain from the hand gripping him.

“...You’re interesting.”

Murmuring the short impression, Yo Han swept a hand through his hair. The smile on his face looked perfectly calm, but Gyeol knew it was fake.

“I’m glad you find me interesting.”

If Gyeol hid the secret that he was a single father, then Yo Han Sung hid a pitch-black nature beneath the illusion of a perfect top actor.

“Do you know something, Gyeol Go?”

“...What?”

“This is exactly why I keep choosing you.”

Yo Han’s hand cupped Gyeol’s cheek. Suppressing the urge to pull away, Gyeol clenched his fist beneath the blanket.

Yo Han’s words sounded like nothing more or less than complete bullshit. Placing his own hand over Yo Han’s, Gyeol leaned his cheek into the palm holding him and answered softly.

“Still... I hope you’ll talk to the other contestants too. I hope you’ll feel comfortable with everyone.”

It was practically his answer to the proposal.

I have no intention of doing business gay performance with you, so go look for somebody else.

“Because I’m going to do the same.”

Yo Han’s expression remained composed. Even while speaking so boldly, Gyeol’s heart still thundered wildly.

At last, Yo Han let out a quiet laugh and climbed off him.

“If that’s what you want, Gyeol Go.”

An indescribable wave of relief flooded up from Gyeol’s feet.

“I’m going to use the bathroom for a bit. You should sleep first.”

“Okay. I don’t think I can fight the sleepiness anymore... Sorry.”

“What’s there to apologize for? Get some sleep.”

Yo Han brushed back Gyeol’s hair once before getting out of bed. In the darkness, the sound of footsteps echoed softly as his presence moved farther away.

Soon the door opened and shut.

Gyeol was left alone in the room.

Fuck.

Grinding his teeth, Gyeol burrowed beneath the blanket. Pulling it over his head, he curled onto his side and hugged his knees tightly. His heart refused to calm down, as if he had just sprinted at full speed.

Curled up in the silence, Gyeol carefully slipped a hand inside his underwear. Just lightly brushing between his thighs was enough for his fingertips to come away sticky with fluid.

I fucking hate this.

At that moment, the disgust he felt toward his Omega traits resurfaced all over again.

Fucking Omega.

He hated being an Omega so much it made him sick.

I don’t want to become like my brother.

I can’t pass a life like mine down to Yuli.

...I really fucking hate this.

Thankfully, Yo Han still hadn’t returned to the bedroom even after a long while passed.

It felt like he would never fall asleep tonight, but as the excitement left behind by the Alpha pheromones gradually faded, heavy drowsiness eventually crashed over him.

Before he even realized it, he had fallen asleep.

***

Four years earlier. The day of the script reading for Unconventional Love Story.

“Actor Sung, we’ll arrive in ten minutes. Get ready.”

The van carrying Yo Han Sung left the eight-lane highway and turned into a narrow alley road. The vehicle rattled violently as it climbed uphill. Manager Jang Dohoon let out a long sigh.

“They seriously had to hold the script reading in a place like this? There are plenty of good locations right in Seoul.”

Apparently annoyed that busy actors had been dragged all the way out to Yangpyeong, Jang Dohoon clicked his tongue.

“They said it’s Director Lee Sanghwi’s personal studio. It’s nice getting some fresh air for once.”

“That guy’s just being difficult even though he knows perfectly well how packed your schedule is.”

He’s starting to piss me off.

Smiling pleasantly, Yo Han closed the script binder.

Jang Dohoon had served as his manager since debut. He was competent, but he talked far too much. Since the man was over a decade older and deeply rooted in the industry, Yo Han had overlooked it during his rookie years.

But as the years passed, the man constantly ran his mouth about directors, screenwriters, staff, actors—everyone.

“No, seriously. Let’s be real here. So what if he directed a ten-million-viewer hit movie years ago? How many years ago was that now? How long is he gonna keep milking that one thing and ordering people around?”

I think it’s about time I replaced him.

Pretending to listen, Yo Han merely nodded along while quietly pulling out his phone and opening the recording app.

“Listen. About Director Lee Sanghwi—when I was managing actress Shin Yui before you, do you know what happened with that guy...?”

None of it was worth listening to.

The kind of words that would rot the moment they entered your ears.

“That crazy bastard. Seriously, he’s the worst.”

Letting the profanity-filled complaints pass through one ear and out the other, Yo Han turned his gaze toward the window.

He probably just hates driving all the way to Yangpyeong after drinking until dawn and sleeping late.

That fact, too, was perfectly preserved in Yo Han’s text message history.

For his next manager, he wanted someone diligent and obedient.

Most importantly, someone who didn’t talk so much.

If he hired another man like Jang Dohoon, he felt like he might no longer be able to keep acting as the “kind-hearted” Yo Han Sung he had worked so hard to build.

There had been more than a few moments when he had wanted to smash Jang Dohoon’s face in just to shut that filthy mouth.

The entertainment industry was the kind of place where everyone was connected once you stepped inside. Much smaller than people thought. And the higher you climbed, the more the same people monopolized everything among themselves.

Whenever some celebrity personality scandal exploded, staff members and acquaintances inevitably chimed in. Rumors spread from mouth to mouth long before the tabloids got hold of them.

That was why Yo Han was meticulous.

He refused to leave behind even the smallest thing that could damage his career.

That was why he endured it.

“That Lee Sanghwi bastard? This is practically his last desperate attempt. Huh? He’s trying to do something by slapping the name Yo Han Sung on his project. Ugh. Pathetic. Seriously pathetic.”

Even this brainless idiot who would probably grovel like a fly the moment he stood face-to-face with the director.

“That Lee Sanghwi asshole, seriously...”

“Manager.”

“Ah, huh?”

“Drop me off here. Looks like parking’s going to take a while, so I’ll head in first.”

“Ah, right. That’s probably better. Look at this mess. Nobody can find parking. Why invite people somewhere without enough parking spaces in the first place...”

Ignoring the complaints starting up all over again, Yo Han grabbed his jacket and bag and stepped out of the car. He turned off the recording app on his phone.

Voices drifted from nearby.

“Huff... Huff... Why the hell... would they call people all the way out here...”

“We’re almost there. Hurry up, man.”

“I heard that director’s got a terrible reputation. Isn’t he kind of weird...? Calling people all the way to Yangpyeong. Not enough parking either, so now people have to hike uphill...”

He had only just escaped one stream of useless chatter, and now somebody else was running their mouth recklessly.

Feeling disgusted, Yo Han started toward the studio entrance.

“Hey.”

A firm voice suddenly cut through the air.

It was clear and bright, the kind of voice that lodged itself cleanly in the ear.

“You shouldn’t talk carelessly about someone you’ve never even met.”

Yo Han’s steps halted.

Standing still, he unconsciously listened to the voices approaching from beyond the bushes.

“There’s nothing anyone can do about the parking situation. Of course the lead actors get priority parking first. I’m just a minor role, so I should move more and work harder.”

“No, I mean...”

“And from my perspective, I’m just grateful they invited me at all. Honestly, I would’ve gone even if it were Jeju Island.”

Every word was sharp and straightforward.

The exact sort of things Yo Han himself had never said aloud.

Oddly enough, it felt refreshing.

Soon, the owner of the voice stepped into view.

“So stop complaining already and—oh.”

The early spring wind swept through the area. Neatly styled black hair and a white shirt fluttered in the breeze. Round eyes widened in surprise. His clear, transparent gaze looked almost like glass marbles.

“A-Actor Yo Han Sung.”

“What? Oh my god.”

The pale face instantly flushed bright red. His expression made it obvious he was worried Yo Han might have overheard the conversation from moments earlier.

Maybe about five years younger than him?

That immature air balanced somewhere between boy and young man stood out strangely in Yo Han’s eyes.

“Hello, Actor Yo Han Sung. I’m rookie actor Gyeol Go, playing the role of Lee Jung this time. I look forward to working with you.”

Face red as a tomato, he bowed deeply.

“Hello, Gyeol Go. I look forward to working with you too.”

Yo Han couldn’t help smiling.

***

“I love you.”

A suffocating silence filled the room.

Then the woman spoke again, her breathing uneven.

“Mr. Taehee... You already know. I’m not the kind of person you think I am. I...”

“I don’t care what kind of man your father was.”

“......”

“You think I don’t know about your past? Heea. Sorry, but you underestimated me.”

At the solid certainty in his voice, tears slowly welled in the woman’s eyes.

The man—Yo Han Sung—never once glanced down at the script held between his fingers.

Just as he had the entire time, he kept his eyes fixed on his scene partner as he delivered the final line.

“I love you. Don’t carry everything alone anymore. From now on, I’ll carry all of it with you.”

“Cut!”

The moment the director shouted it, applause erupted around the table where the actors sat gathered.

“Wow, the immersion is insane. As expected from Actor Sung. Totally worth forcing through the casting! Seriously!”

The director vigorously squeezed Yo Han’s shoulders while showering him with praise.

“You flatter me.”

The burning affection that had filled Yo Han’s eyes only moments ago vanished without a trace. Smiling gently, he waved the compliments away modestly.

Both the director and the actors already seemed completely captivated by him.

Yo Han pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the actress playing Jin Heea. Still unable to control her emotions from the lingering intensity of the scene, she accepted it while tears streamed down her face.

“...I never thought I’d end up crying during the script reading. I got completely swept up in your acting without even realizing it.”

Sneaking glances at Yo Han while repeatedly dabbing away tears, she looked embarrassed.

Unlike Yo Han, who had already returned to his perfectly businesslike demeanor, affection lingered openly in her gaze.

“That’s because Heein matched the scene with me so well. I got immersed really quickly too.”

“Really? That makes me happy.”

Her cheeks flushed brightly at the honest compliment. Noticing the subtle atmosphere between them, the director clapped loudly and laughed boisterously.

“The chemistry between the leads is already fantastic. I can practically see this drama succeeding already, huh?”

Director Lee Sanghwi’s voice was the typical nasal sort, roughened further by years of heavy smoking. It grated harshly with every word. And he was so loud that the sound stabbed straight into the ears almost violently.

Like many artists, Yo Han Sung was far more sensitive than he appeared on the surface.

Especially when it came to sound.

Yo Han respected Director Lee Sanghwi. He had watched the man’s films dozens of times and dreamed of working with him since before debut.

Still, he had already concluded that working together would not be easy.

The casual touching irritated him, and the constant shouting made his ears sting.

Just as Yo Han shifted his body, pretending to reach for a water bottle to avoid the director’s hand stretching toward him again—

He noticed someone sitting far away behind his scene partner, pressed against the wall.

Someone sitting on the floor beside his manager because there weren’t enough chairs.

Gyeol Go was crying.