The Actress Who Came to the Queen
“Okay.”
Kim Hye-ji had already tasted more than enough of the Japanese sake she’d ordered at the movie premiere.
“But you know what? The director of this film isn’t bad. It’s just that the top two roles are for older women. The male lead isn’t really well received in Korea.”
She was an actress herself, yet she understood reality.
It was almost unheard of for a woman lead in Korean cinema to achieve commercial success.
She had no choice but to acknowledge it, no matter how much she disliked the truth.
If she didn’t accept it, she couldn’t survive in this industry.
“Then I’ll just wait and see. Let’s see which film ends up being the biggest hit.”
That night’s gathering stretched on until the alcohol ran dry.
After the party ended, they called a driver to take her home.
Han Ki-ju spoke first.
“It turned out more boring than I expected.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping for something more fun.”
“Something fun is coming. Soon.”
“What?”
“Just wait and see.”
Kim Namhu flashed a confident smile.
One week passed.
One by one, the films that had brushed past them at the party began to open.
Critics reviewed them with cold precision.
And the results, of course, matched Kim Namhu’s prediction.
The film about the female diver was the biggest surprise.
Kim Hye-ji watched all three without a single break in between, from the director’s cut to the public preview.
And something inside her began to tremble.
How did he know?
Even if she had seen all the test screenings, hitting the exact blockbuster was nearly impossible.
The public’s tastes shifted constantly, and success required more than talent—it required luck.
It wasn’t just random luck.
She still remembered the exact confident expression on Kim Namhu’s face when he had said the diver film would be the hit.
It wasn’t a guess.
It was certainty.
Is he not a host at all, but a fortune teller?
Kim Hye-ji’s blood was beginning to run hot.
She wanted to ask how he could predict a film’s success so accurately that it felt like she might explode.
If a fortune teller could tell which movies would succeed and which would fail, she would have paid millions just to meet him.
But the man was a host.
A host who could talk and observe better than most.
Even an actress had her pride.
Kim Hye-ji had gone three sleepless nights.
Every time she closed her eyes, Kim Namhu’s face filled her mind.
In the end, she couldn’t stand it any longer and called Han Ki-ju.
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“The Queen. I’m going to swing by. What’s the address?”
Right at the door of The Queen, Kim Hye-ji requested Kim Namhu by name.
Kim Namhu sat beside her and asked politely.
“Are you here as a customer, or… as a friend?”
“As a friend.”
“In that case, I’ll keep using casual language.”
Kim Namhu poured her some of the expensive Japanese sake and said.
“My prediction was right, wasn’t it?”
“How do you know?”
Her heart had already been shaken.
She could easily guess why she had come here and requested him by name.
“And I wanted to ask what project you’re thinking of next.”
“Are you a fortune teller? Did you get some spirit possession, or are you from that kind of family?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I just like watching women’s films and dramas, so my eye for them has sharpened a bit.”
Kim Namhu had no way to explain the future memories he carried, so he answered vaguely.
Kim Hye-ji drank her sake in one gulp and said.
“Then you think a romantic comedy drama is the safest choice?”
“That’s what I said.”
“If I do that drama, what happens?”
“It’s simple. It will do moderately well, popularity will fade slowly, and after that you’ll be left with the money you saved because no one in the industry will call you again.”
That was the usual fate of those who had ruined their careers with reckless moves.
Kim Hye-ji’s life in her previous life had followed exactly that path.
She had simply done average projects and slowly been forgotten.
In the end, unless an actress scored a real hit, she was destined to disappear.
And get married to some older man, have a kid, then divorce and appear on a show about divorce? Is that what you mean?
Kim Hye-ji felt a strange unease, as if her life was about to end exactly as Kim Namhu had described.
“Then maybe I should try something different?”
“That might be better.”
“Then can you take a look at the offers that have come to me?”
It was absurd that an actress was asking a host for advice on choosing a project.
Choosing a role was never easy.
Every one could make or break an actor’s career.
Yet here she was, asking a host for help.
She had no choice.
“I need to read the script. Last time I only skimmed the titles.”
Kim Namhu realized she was gambling her entire future on his judgment.
So he would do his best to help.
“Is it fine right now? No. I’ll make sure you have a full day off. Come on, let’s go home.”
She pulled out her card and paid the exact amount from the last time.
She had essentially bought a one-day free pass.
She drove Kim Namhu to her apartment.
In the living room, Kim Namhu went through the scripts one by one.
Just reading the synopses, he could recall which projects had succeeded and which had failed in vivid detail.
And this one is the biggest hit?
He handed her one script.
“Octopus Game.”
It was a drama being produced by Webflix, an OTT platform targeting the world, with Korean investment.
The director had made a period drama before, and while the reviews had been good, commercial success had been lacking.
Naturally, no one expected this title to become a global phenomenon.
But it would. A huge hit.
The lead actor would even move to Hollywood, and the actresses who appeared in it would be invited everywhere as world stars.
The success was so massive that hardly anyone in Korea would have missed hearing about it.
I didn’t know Kim Hye-ji would get the script for Octopus Game.
From his previous-life memories, she had never appeared in it.
The role had seemed too small for her, and predicting success would have been nearly impossible.
But Kim Hye-ji has enough acting skill to make even a small role shine.
Yet her expression was more complicated than Kim Namhu had expected.
She had already checked his track record once.
Octopus Game looked like it wouldn’t be a hit.
The setting, with its Japanese manga vibes, probably wouldn’t appeal to Korean audiences.
Kim Namhu smiled at her and said.
“Deciding is up to you. But this project has a lot of episodes and a relatively small role, so the filming schedule will be tight, right? You could probably shoot it alongside the drama you want.”
Kim Hye-ji checked the role she had been given.
It was definitely impactful, but the screen time wouldn’t be long.
If she cut down on sleep and worked hard, she could shoot the other drama in parallel.
“That sounds good.”
“You’ve already had plenty of rest. Working hard isn’t such a bad thing. And this drama has almost all male leads, so the young, pretty female character will naturally draw attention.”
Kim Hye-ji made her decision quickly.
“All right. One will be the drama I’ve been thinking about, and the other will be this one. Shooting two projects at once won’t kill anyone.”
Even if only one succeeded, she could still become a top star again.
Thinking of that, her breathing grew slightly rough.
She was an actress, she had succeeded as one, and she wanted to remain one.
This choice was the most important moment in her life.
Kim Hye-ji closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them.
“By the way…”
“Yeah?”
“I feel like your words are right… strangely.”
In the old saying, actors and fortune tellers had similar destinies.
Looking at Kim Hye-ji now, Kim Namhu felt the saying was true.
The reason she had succeeded so far was not only her beauty and talent but also her instinct for choosing the right projects.
Her instinct now was telling her to trust and follow Kim Namhu.
“What if—”
“Yeah?”
“If I fail to become a top star again, will you take responsibility?”
“How can I take responsibility?”
An individual host couldn’t take responsibility for an actress’s failure on screen.
“Just live with me. Don’t worry about money. If an actress fails, she’ll just get married, have kids, and that’s it. With someone like me, it shouldn’t be too bad.”
For Kim Namhu, who had chosen the host job because he wanted to live freely and enjoy sex, this was the worst possible suggestion.
“What an awful thing to say.”
“Even if I look like this, men who want to drink with me have lined up. And you’re offering to be my wife? You’re complaining?”
“If I’m going to be a wife to a man, I wouldn’t have started as a host.”
But her proposal had been a joke. She laughed brightly and said.
“It’s entertaining, but kind of annoying. Let’s just drink.”
Kim Hye-ji ordered the expensive sake without holding back.