Lee Boojin's voice was calm, almost soothing, but her words carried weight.
There was no need to raise her voice—the intent behind her questions was enough to pierce through the air like a quiet warning. It wasn't a confrontation, not exactly. It was subtle, but deliberate.
Yet Jihoon didn't flinch. He met her gaze steadily, unfazed.
He understood what was happening, he knew what this was about and he understood the game.
Deep down, they still believed he could be steered, managed, kept within reach.
That was the unspoken calculation behind this conversation.
They still believed Jihoon was within their control.
It wasn't about money—at least, not just. Sure, on paper, some of JH's subsidiaries weren't making money.
The company's structure was unconventional, even confusing to those who measured success only through quarterly reports and balance sheets.
From the outside, it looked unstable, even reckless.
But numbers weren't the whole story.
JH had made a mark—especially in South Korea.
JH Pictures, in particular, had become a name people knew.
In creative industries, reputation mattered more than spreadsheets.
And Jihoon had built that reputation from the ground up.
Whether they understood how he did it or not, they couldn't deny the results.
That was why they didn't panic.
As long as Jihoon and JH remained rooted in Korea, they believed there was still time to pull him back into line.
To keep him within the circle of influence. He hadn't drifted too far. Not yet.
And that's why they didn't send someone from the top brass or a boardroom enforcer to confront him, they sent Boojin—his aunt.
Someone familiar. Someone who knew how to speak in tones that felt personal instead of political.
It was a strategic move.
If Jihoon was still within their web of influence, they needed to gently tug on the strands—just enough to see if he would respond.
But what they failed to understand was a truth as old as power itself—everyone in the game had their own agenda.
No matter how loyal someone appeared, there was always something they wanted. Something personal. Often hidden behind polite gestures or carefully calculated moves.
And this wasn't just a Korean problem. It was human nature.
The wolves on Wall Street had already shown the world how deep that instinct ran—people would betray nations, burn relationships, and dismantle empires, all for the promise of a bigger slice of the pie.
Even the person they sent today—his aunt, Lee Boojin—wasn't exempt from this. She was no puppet.
In fact, she had once resisted their control herself. Her current position, even her marriage, was a product of that resistance. A silent rebellion that paid off.
Unlike figures from the past—men like Lee Sooman, who had once served the group's agenda with unwavering loyalty—Boojin was cut from a different cloth. She was sharp. Strategic. Dangerous in her own quiet way.
She was the kind of person who could play both sides—understand the family's language of power, yet not be afraid to rewrite it if needed.
That made her a double-edged sword. And if they miscalculated, she wouldn't just slip out of their control—she could cut straight through it.
Her presence today wasn't just a family visit. It was a subtle reminder that the balance of their empire—the carefully built hierarchy of politics, money, and control—was never as stable as it seemed.
And she, of all people, had the potential to shake it.
But that would come later.
For now, inside the quiet room, Jihoon listened to her words carefully.
He let out a small sigh, not from exhaustion but from the burden of having to put on a performance.
"Imo," Jihoon said softly, using the familiar Korean word for aunt, his voice calm and laced with sincerity.
"This isn't what you think it is," he continued. "There's no betrayal here. No shift in loyalty. My trip to LA—it's not about walking away from the table."
He paused for a breath, looking at her, hoping she'd hear the honesty behind his words.
"I've kept some of my original scripts registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. A few of them caught the eyes of the big studios—yeah, the Big Six. This trip is about sitting down for talks. Exploring possible deals and production opportunities."
Then, with quiet conviction, he added, "But it doesn't mean I'm leaving Korea behind. That's not what this is. Not at all."
There was a pause.
Jihoon's explanation settled into the air, and for the first time, a subtle shift appeared in Boojin's expression.
It wasn't just surprise—it was realization. Everything they had assumed about Jihoon's motives was off the mark.
Because if what he said was true—if the Big Six in Hollywood, companies like Disney, Warner Bros, and Universal, were taking interest in him—then this wasn't just a creative pursuit.
It was a major shift in power.
The international entertainment industry was no joke, and the giants who ruled it were on a different level entirely.
Even CJ, Korea's most powerful player in media and entertainment, couldn't compare to the influence of a Hollywood deal, let alone compete for Jihoon's scripts or productions already eyed by the Big Six.
And if Jihoon really was laying the foundation for a future with them, then he wasn't just escaping their control.
He was launching himself into a position that could outgrow Korea's showbiz structure entirely.
But it wasn't just that which unsettled Boojin.
The deeper concern was what his independence represented.
If Jihoon succeeded outside the web—if he proved that freedom was possible—then others might try to follow.
And maybe, just maybe, Boojin herself felt something stir deep within her.
Because the truth, as glamorous as her life looked from the outside, was far more complicated.
She was known as the "princess" of Samseong in Korea.
To the outside world, Lee Boojin was the picture of success—a powerful businesswoman, rich, poised, and influential.
But behind closed doors, she was still just another piece on the chaebol chessboard.
Her every move—who she married, how she spoke, what causes she supported—was guided by the invisible hands of the family. Freedom, for someone like her, was just an illusion wrapped in designer silk.
In Korea, the word chaebol didn't refer to just one family.
It described an entire network of powerful conglomerates—interconnected, competitive, and deeply embedded in the fabric of the nation.
Samseong and CJ might sit at the top of that pyramid, but families like the Chois of SK, the Shins of Lotte, and others held just as much weight.
They were rivals, yes—but not fools.
Their ancestors, long before Boojin's time, had seen the danger of infighting.
So, they spun a delicate web of mutual interest—a system designed to prevent civil war among the elite and instead coordinate their power for shared gain.
What had once been a grand idea—an alliance to build national strength and economic prosperity—had decayed into something else entirely.
Control replaced collaboration.
Greed replaced vision.
Now, this web didn't just guide; it trapped.
And Boojin, despite all her titles and prestige, was no freer than anyone else caught inside it.
But now, as she listened to Jihoon speak—with calm confidence and quiet sincerity—something long buried stirred within her.
An echo of who she once was—before the deals, before the betrayals, before the family ties became chains.
She remembered when Jihoon first walked away from it all—when he sold his Samseong shares and distanced himself from the family.
Back then, she thought he was being foolish. Naive.
But as Jihoon's films gained recognition and his name quietly rose in the industry, Boojin began to take notice—not publicly, but from the shadows.
At first, she assumed he was just another idealistic director chasing creativity and the so-called purity of art, like so many others.
Still, she placed Jieun by his side—not out of trust, but to keep him anchored. It was a quiet, calculated move. The way Jihoon showed no interest in chaebol politics; if anything, his choices made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the family's endless power games.
That refusal—his quiet distance—only made him harder to predict, but it didn't raise any alarms.
Things only shifted when he returned from LA last year.
Boojin started digging deeper—making calls, reaching out to people from his past. One of them was Jaehyun, a man she herself had once introduced into Jihoon's company. She had expected loyalty. Instead, she got vague answers and careful deflections.
It only heightened her suspicion.
Despite her attempts, Jihoon's plans remained a mystery to her. But one thing was certain: he was no ordinary young man.
And maybe, just maybe, he represented a new way forward—not just for himself, but for her too.
She rubbed her fingers slowly along the vein of her wrist, a quiet, involuntary gesture.
Her gaze fell on Jihoon, who remained composed, his face unreadable. The usual aura of dominance she carried—the one that made subordinates tremble—seemed to have no effect on him.
He sat calmly, sipping his drink, like someone with nothing to hide.
After a long moment, Boojin sighed.
Not out of frustration—but something closer to reflection. The kind of sigh that comes from remembering a version of yourself you thought was long gone.
"You know," she said softly, her voice carrying something unfamiliar. "I was just like you once. I was naive too."
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, OS_PARCEIROS, BigBoobs, Daoist098135 and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]