He spread a generous amount of expensive sturgeon caviar on his bread and popped it into his mouth.

“Of course, nobody would dare cause trouble. They’d never work with our publishing house again if they did.”

Company dinners here were more like parties—renting an entire house and enjoying food and drinks all night long in a festive atmosphere. No one forced Debbie to pour drinks for others or demanded she perform silly acts in front of senior reporters.

People who made eye contact with her as she stood there looking bewildered each offered a piece of advice. “Are you the new reporter? Quickly go ask for whatever food you’ve been craving. Once ingredients run out, you’re out of luck. Start with the most expensive, premium drinks. After some time, only the cheapest stuff remains.”

Someone with a flushed, drunken face had already begun enthusiastically pounding on the piano keys, while another person, overcome with excitement, jumped up and started singing alone. Yet nobody expressed displeasure or tried to stop them.

Debbie found this atmosphere quite fascinating.

“Miss Debbie, this is a rare liquor. Try it before others drink it all.”

Bartender Allen had appeared and filled her glass. He set the empty bottle on the table and sat down across from her.

Debbie quickly chewed and swallowed the barbecue she was eating before responding. “Is Allen one of our magazine’s advertisers too?”

“Of course. I’m also an old friend of that fellow over there.” Allen smiled, pointing to Black, the photographer from the photography team.

“What an interesting connection!”

Though she said this, she felt somewhat embarrassed to be sitting with Allen. She regretted having shared too many personal thoughts with him at the bar. His conversational skills were so smooth that before she realized it, she had already revealed her innermost feelings.

She bit her tongue slightly to avoid making the same mistake again. Allen responded with a smile that reached his eyes.

“This place can be liberating or suffocating, depending on how you see it. Once you form connections here, you tend to work together for a long time. But if things go the other way, people leave quickly.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve handled some articles before. I still hold the title of contributing writer. Contributing writer Slender—that’s me. Bartender, advertiser, and former employee all in one.”

Debbie took a sip of her drink, smiling broadly at his words.

“I see now. You were my senior. I never dreamed there would be so many miscellaneous tasks! How nice! Contributing writers don’t have to do all that grunt work!”

“Were you surprised by all the odd jobs?”

“Absolutely! Props and whatnot for every photoshoot, being called to the scene only to end up cleaning garbage afterward! Receiving items from sponsoring companies is another task, and even attending fashion shows of advertising partners to help out! I’ve been so miserable this past month! I thought I just needed to write my column well, but look at these dark circles under my eyes!”

Allen laughed at her words. Though he only laughed without saying anything, his smile seemed to understand and comfort her.

Comforted by his warmth, she downed the rest of her drink. When she looked regretfully at her empty glass, Allen remarked knowingly, “That drink is delicious, isn’t it? That’s why I gave you the last of it.”

“There’s no more? Interesting. It’s alcohol but goes down so smoothly. The aroma isn’t overwhelming, and while it has a tangy kick, it doesn’t burn the throat.”

“That’s why everyone seeks out that particular drink. Wait a bit. I’ll bring you something one grade lower but still quite good.”

“Aren’t you in charge of drinks for the dinner? Is it okay for you to be chatting with me here?”

“How many company dinners have we had? They’ll help themselves. Since we haven’t had new employees for a while, everyone’s excited about this dinner.”

While Allen went to get more drinks, Debbie looked around.

‘The art editing team really knows how to have fun.’

Models wearing flashy outfits with bold makeup mingled with employees, creating a boisterous atmosphere. They seemed to be playing some game involving dice, with various exclamations following each roll. Though curious, Debbie hesitated to approach because Ashley, a female employee, was among them.

Ashley, whom Benjamin had wanted to recommend for a permanent position, would turn her head away coldly whenever she saw Debbie. Debbie had no desire to join them and feel uncomfortable.

“Hey! You came all the way here to talk about work?”

“No, Team Leader, listen. I discovered something amazing and wanted to tell you about it.”

“The editor-in-chief already rejected that idea. Our magazine needs to go in a different direction from Hartist.”

“But we’re still adult magazines in the broader sense. Sure, they focus on stimulating below the navel rather than the mind, but if we just add some plausible words to it, our magazine could also cover—”

While Team Leader Louis and Benjamin continued their work discussion, proofreader Emil, who had been watching cautiously, quietly moved away. He slipped into another group, blending in seamlessly, then suddenly jumped to his feet after noticing something.

“Oh! The president is here!”

“Welcome, Mr. President!”

Team Leader Louis rushed over with a tense expression and bowed repeatedly. At that moment, the president turned his head and looked at Debbie.

She held her breath when their eyes met. The Blake on the business card was indeed that mischievous Blake from her childhood—the boy who had lain on the grassy hill by the orchard path, crying alone in frustration. His youthful face was gone, but his features remained the same: black hair, pale skin, and light pink eyes.

“That’s the most original nonsense I’ve ever heard!”

The young master who had become an uncontrollable troublemaker and ruined the orchard after Debbie’s single comment now stood before her as a grown man.

“Have you been well? This is our new reporter, Debbie Jones.”

Team Leader Louis introduced her first. Louis nudged her side, snapping Debbie out of her daze.

“Ah… Hello, Count Barnabas. I mean, Mr. President.”

Debbie hastily greeted him.

Blake chuckled and placed his hand on Debbie’s shoulder. When his hand touched her, she felt an electric sensation and a strange feeling. The warmth and texture of his palm felt remarkably familiar. She slowly blinked, wondering what was happening.

She recalled a memory of him introducing himself and extending his hand. Though the feeling wasn’t exactly the same as when she had taken his hand then, the familiarity left her puzzled.

A slight smile crossed his lips.

His hand gripped her shoulder more firmly, and she thought she felt his thumb slowly trace up and down her neck. Or was it just her imagination?

“I’ve heard a lot about you. Your first column was a huge hit, they say. Looking forward to your continued success.”

He patted her shoulder a couple more times before turning away.

“We’ll be upstairs having our own little gathering, so enjoy yourselves without worrying about us.”

After saying this, he walked into the villa. An unfamiliar voice followed.

“Everyone, have fun. I’m busy today, so I’ll just offer my encouragement. I’ll be leaving soon.”

The voice had a nasal quality that gave it an androgynous, coquettish feel.

The person had long purple hair and wore something like a scarf made of black feathers—a striking presence that would stand out anywhere.

‘He oddly reminds me of the editor-in-chief.’

Debbie swallowed hard and stared at the purple-haired man.

He resembled Editor-in-Chief Gray yet gave off a completely opposite vibe. If Gray was like a clergyman, this person called “Godfather” exuded a chaotic and impure energy.

Strangely, the employees’ gazes toward this ominous, crow-like figure were favorable.

‘Huh?’

Debbie was shocked by this contradictory atmosphere.

“See you later.”

The Godfather bid farewell with a smile that reached his eyes and walked upstairs with Count Barnabas.

Only after they disappeared did the employees resume their noisy chatter.

“Ah, the investor came after so long and it could have been fun, but who knew the president would come too.”

Everyone grumbled as they sat down. Debbie asked Team Leader Louis why people were complaining.

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. The president has a certain temperament—say one wrong word and you’re fired. His personality is unpredictable, so don’t even make eye contact with him unnecessarily.”

Meeting by chance as children and then reuniting as president and employee as adults. She felt complex emotions and stared blankly toward the second floor.

People shouted “Wow!” and she looked more carefully at the second floor. By the window, the man called Godfather was making a toasting gesture with his glass.

The art team, actors, and models followed suit, toasting and squealing with delight.

Unable to understand what the excitement was about, she asked the team leader again.

“Who exactly is this Godfather person?”

“Ah, Mr. Fret?”

“Is that his name?”

“Probably a nickname.”

“Why is he so popular? The reaction to him is completely opposite to how people react to the president.”

“Ah, that’s because he represents hope and dreams for those at the bottom.”

“The bottom?”

“He came from the slums, worked as a male pr*stitute. He’s the actual manager of the loan shark businesses and entertainment establishments owned by the president.”

“What?”

“They say he was a victim of human trafficking as a child and suffered greatly, but he made something of himself and personally destroyed those who had wronged him. If you get on his bad side, you’ll probably have to leave this industry.”

Debbie gave Louis a disbelieving look.

“Then shouldn’t his presence be more burdensome than the president’s?”

Louis laughed at her question.

“You might think so, but he often joins company dinners and makes them enjoyable. Besides, these occasions are the only chance to get close to someone like him. Who would pass up the opportunity to gain all sorts of advantages by becoming friendly with him?”

Debbie examined Fret more carefully.

‘No matter how I look at him, he resembles Editor-in-Chief Gray too much.’

It seemed strange that no one else acknowledged this resemblance.

While she was pondering this, she noticed employees standing up again in a commotion.

“Welcome, Editor-in-Chief!”

The person they were greeting was Gray.

“I need to speak with the president. Enjoy yourselves. Don’t mind me.”

As he said this while passing by, Debbie thought he really did look like Fret.

‘Could they be brothers?’

Then she noticed how unusually slumped Gray’s shoulders appeared. He had grown even thinner recently, with dark circles under his eyes.

‘Is he still suffering from heartbreak?’