The moment Seongjae discovered the diamond ring, countless thoughts flooded his mind.
The first possibility that surfaced was the most obvious one.
Seongjun gave it to her.
It made sense.
Though Hyeonjeong was now Seongjae’s wife, she had once been Seongjun’s wife. After Seongjun vanished without a trace, Hyeonjeong had endured unimaginable grief and shock. Seongjae had suffered just as deeply.
Perhaps that shared pain had drawn them together.
They had comforted one another, leaned on each other through the emptiness, and eventually married.
If the ring held memories of Seongjun, then there was nothing strange about it.
To Hyeonjeong, it would simply be a precious keepsake—a reminder of the man she once loved.
Seongjae understood that.
Or at least, he wanted to.
But despite himself, another thought crept into his mind.
A thought he desperately wished to reject.
Then why… do I keep thinking of something else?
The idea tormented him.
Again and again, other possibilities emerged, refusing to disappear.
And among them was one he hated most.
An affair.
The moment the word surfaced, Seongjae clenched his jaw.
The reason such suspicions had even appeared was obvious.
Seongjun’s letter.
Its contents had left behind a strange unease, as though there were something hidden beneath the surface—some truth that should never come to light.
A single passage lingered stubbornly in his thoughts.
One thing I ask of you: no matter what truth finds its way to you, do not waver. Sometimes, avoiding the truth and turning away from it is what protects your happiness.
Those words refused to leave him alone.
Yet Seongjae quickly forced the suspicion aside.
No.
He couldn’t believe that.
Not Hyeonjeong.
He knew her better than anyone. She was kind, sincere—someone who would never betray another person.
More importantly, doubting her because of a mysterious letter of uncertain origin made no sense.
That was the real issue.
Was the letter truly from Seongjun?
That question lingered heavily in Seongjae’s mind.
Ten years ago, Seongjun had disappeared so completely that even the faintest trace of him had vanished. Eventually, he had been declared dead.
And now, after all this time, a perfectly ordinary letter arrived?
It was too strange.
Far too strange.
Thus, carrying a quiet seed of doubt, Seongjae began searching for the truth behind the letter.
***
Taeha found himself deeply satisfied once filming officially began.
The filming environment was even more perfect than he had imagined.
Every set Taeha had worked on before had possessed strengths and weaknesses.
Especially after becoming a lead actor, those flaws had become impossible to ignore.
The lead actor carried responsibility for the success or failure of an entire project.
And for Taeha, that burden weighed even heavier.
After all, he was often not only the actor but the writer as well.
Because of that, he naturally noticed every strength and weakness on set more sharply than anyone else.
And I’ve always had to fix those weaknesses myself.
During the filming of one project, he had mediated conflicts between actors Lee Seok-hyun and Jeong Myeong-hwan.
During another, he had struggled to manage Im Kyung-ho’s excessive dependence on him.
Elsewhere, he had personally coached inexperienced actors playing student roles.
In yet another production, he had spent countless hours preventing complaints from an overwhelming number of supporting actors.
But this set…
It felt different.
No significant problems surfaced.
The staff moved efficiently. The actors remained calm and focused.
Everyone followed instructions flawlessly, fitting together so naturally that it felt as though they had worked together for years.
Yet Taeha knew that wasn’t true.
Some staff members had indeed worked with Director Joo Chan-seong for a long time.
But most hadn’t.
Joo Chan-seong disliked keeping the same crew forever. Instead, he encouraged independence, allowing his staff to grow and move on when the time was right.
As a result, many people on this production had joined the set for the first time.
The actors were no different.
Almost everyone—including Taeha himself—was working with Joo Chan-seong for the first time.
Yet the set operated with astonishing precision.
The reason was obvious.
Director Joo Chan-seong.
He controlled the filming environment through quiet charisma.
In some ways, he reminded Taeha of Jo Joong-hoon, whom he had worked with before.
But there was a difference.
Joo Chan-seong stood on an entirely different level.
Not a single person strayed from his control.
Of course, compared to larger productions, the scale here was much smaller.
Still, that alone couldn’t explain such flawless management.
Because of it, Taeha found himself able to focus solely on acting.
For once, he didn’t have to think about anything else.
And strangely enough, the person who made that possible was the one Taeha had expected to burden him most.
Before filming began, Joo Chan-seong had constantly visited Taeha’s studio, endlessly discussing ideas and direction for the project.
But the moment filming started…
He stopped completely.
At first, Taeha had expected something similar to what happened with Im Kyung-ho—someone relying too heavily on him.
Instead, the opposite occurred.
And soon, Taeha understood why.
He prepared everything beforehand so I could stop being the writer during filming… and focus only on acting.
That realization surprised him.
Because it wasn’t easy.
No director could perfectly predict every question or unexpected problem before filming began.
Unexpected situations were inevitable.
Yet somehow, Joo Chan-seong had anticipated almost everything.
Whenever unforeseen issues arose, he quickly made decisions on his own.
And strangely enough—
Every decision matched exactly what Taeha himself would have chosen.
It was clear what had happened.
Through countless deep conversations before filming, Joo Chan-seong had learned how Taeha thought.
He understood the logic behind Taeha’s decisions.
And because of that, Taeha could immerse himself entirely in his role.
No distractions.
No concerns.
Only acting.