The scent of fresh printer toner and stale black coffee hung over the conference table like an eviction notice.
Around the U-shaped mahogany, twenty-odd names sat behind white placards: veteran character actors in pressed collars, executive producers tapping bespoke fountain pens, and the legendary Director Kwak, whose reading glasses hung from a silver chain against his black turtleneck.
Next to Nari, Dae-heon pulled his chair out without scraping the carpet. Perfect posture. He placed his annotated copy of *The Crimson Sleeve* squarely in front of him, his thumb smoothing the corner of page one. Across from them sat Yoon Chae-ri.
Chae-ri wore an ivory silk blouse that looked expensive enough to feed a rookie idol group for a quarter. Her manicured nails rested against her binder, tipping side to side like miniature pink pendulums.
"Nari-ya," Chae-ri purred, leaning forward across the glossy wood. The smile stretched over her teeth, tight and bright. "You look so rested. Marriage must agree with you. When the articles dropped last week, we were all praying for your mental stamina."
Nari dipped her chin, tucking a dark strand behind her ear. She allowed her dimples to show, soft and harmless. "Thank you, sunbae-nim. The agency takes such good care of me. And Dae-heon-ssi ensures I eat properly."
Beside her, Dae-heon didn’t flinch, but his fingers paused on the corner of his script.
Director Kwak tapped his pen against a porcelain mug. "All right. We’re not here for pleasantries. Page forty-four. Act Two, Scene Seven. The courtyard confrontation between Lady Won, the court maid Yeon-hwa, and Prince Yi-an. Chae-ri, you begin."
The room went still. Pages rustled in unison.
Chae-ri straightened, her posture melting from venomous friend into noble concubine. She drew a breath, her voice carrying the practiced elegance of three historical dramas.
"You stand before the pavilion in rags, yet you look at His Highness as if you belong in silks," Chae-ri read. Then, her eyes lifted from the page, fixing straight on Nari. Her mouth curved, cruel and deliberate. "A creature plucked from the gutter will always smell of dirt, no matter whose bed she creeps into to escape her shame."
A pen rolled off the table onto the carpet.
The room froze.
The original line on page forty-four was simple: *A creature from the gutter cannot mimic jade.* Chae-ri had swapped it out entirely, aiming the words directly at the fabricated hotel snapshots that had almost incinerated Nari's career ten days ago.
Director Kwak’s pen halted in midair. An assistant director winced, eyes darting between the women.
Beside Nari, Dae-heon shifted. His shoulder stiffened against the tailored seam of his jacket, his dark gaze cutting sharply toward Chae-ri. He opened his mouth, about to interject.
Nari raised her hand an inch. Just enough to catch Dae-heon's periphery.
*Don't,* her movement said.
Her gaze stayed locked across the table. Her skin remained pale, unbothered by heat, never seeking refuge in the printed script. Slowly, the bubbly girl with the easy dimples dissolved. The tension in Nari's spine loosened, settling into the boneless exhaustion of an orphan serving under the boots of royalty. When she spoke, her voice wasn't an idol's bright, synthesized soprano. It was raw, cracked around the edges, dragged from the earth.
"If my shame keeps the prince's blood from staining these stones," Nari whispered, "then let me reek of it."
The entire conference room ceased breathing.
Nari held her stare unblinking. A single bead of moisture collected along the rim of her lower lash, hovering there without spilling, held by pure muscular discipline.
"You call this silk an escape?" Her voice cracked on the vowel, trembling with quiet grief that made the room contract. "It is a shroud, My Lady. And you are merely jealous that he wrapped it around me instead of you."
Silence fell over the table, thick and sudden.
Nobody moved to turn the page. The seasoned actor playing the Prime Minister leaned forward, his spectacles slipping down his nose.
Director Kwak remained silent for five long seconds. He removed his glasses, set them down with a sharp *clack*, and stared at Nari.
"Who coached you on the tone?" Kwak demanded.
Nari let the tear fall. It tracked neatly down her cheek before she dabbed it away with the knuckle of her thumb, instantly retreating back into her timid posture. "I... I only thought about what Yeon-hwa had lost, sir."
Kwak grunted, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "Good. Keep that gutter dirt in your throat. Don't smooth it out for television." He swung his head toward Chae-ri, his voice dropping three registers into flat disapproval. "And Yoon Chae-ri. Stick to the dialogue written by the screenwriters. You are an actress, not a poet."
Chae-ri’s knuckles turned white around her gold pen. "Yes, Director. My apologies."
Next to Nari, Dae-heon let out a slow, measured breath. Under the table, out of sight of the cameras and the executives, the edge of his sleeve brushed against Nari's wrist. He remained still.
"Take fifteen minutes," Kwak barked, waving a hand. "Then we tackle the coronation."
Chairs scraped backward. The murmur of industry gossip resumed like a hum of cicadas. Nari bowed politely to the room, murmured her excuses, and slipped into the corridor toward the washrooms.
Her chest felt hollowed out. The emotional output had cost her, stripping away the cheerful mask she wore like armor. She turned down the narrow service hallway near the emergency exit, intending to splash cold water on her burning cheeks.
A door swung open halfway down the concrete corridor.
Nari stopped behind the heavy fire door as high heels paced furiously across bare linoleum.
"She wasn't supposed to get that script!" Chae-ri's voice snapped through the gap, devoid of all silk, stripped down to jagged, ugly fury.
Nari flattened herself against the drywall.
"I don't care what Kwak thinks of her acting," Chae-ri hissed into her phone, her heels pivoting with a sharp scuff. "She was supposed to be completely uncastable by Tuesday. The politician photos were only step one. The second batch of files—the fake bank statements—need to go to the press before the press conference next week."
A pause. Chae-ri laughed, a high, venomous sound that echoed off the cold concrete.
"I spent four years watching her take my center position in the lineup," Chae-ri said, her voice dropping into icy certainty. "The photo leak was just the start. I'll make sure she never works again."