As Jihoon's words settled in the air, Harvey's expression shifted ever so slightly.
The easy grin faltered, his eyes narrowing just enough to betray the irritation creeping in.
Anyone who could read between the lines knew exactly why—Jihoon had, in a roundabout way, just called him fat.
Of course, "Big Guy" wasn't inherently insulting.
In most situations, it was harmless banter.
But Harvey Weinstein was not "most situations." He was a man with a notoriously short fuse, a towering ego, and an aversion to any joke that could be taken at his expense.
And yet, what Harvey failed to notice—or maybe refused to acknowledge—was that this little jab had started with him.
When he'd smirked and referred to Jihoon as Jim's "new favorite" in front of Disney and Universal executives, the implication was clear to anyone seasoned in Hollywood subtext.
It wasn't about professional favoritism—it was a sly, sleazy suggestion, as if Jihoon were some plaything Jim kept for… extracurricular amusement.
So when Jihoon tossed back "Big Guy" with a polite smile, it wasn't so much an insult as it was a return volley.
He'd simply lobbed the ball back into Harvey's court.
But Harvey was still Harvey.
And in Hollywood, Harvey Weinstein was the kind of man who didn't take jokes lightly—especially from someone he considered beneath him.
Sure, Jihoon was talented.
Talented enough to make him money, even.
But in Harvey's eyes, that didn't put him anywhere near the level of the real power players.
The thing was… Jihoon wasn't alone.
His collaboration with Fox was no industry secret, and Harvey knew exactly what that meant.
Taking a swing at Jihoon now would be like poking a sleeping bear with six claws—every one of them a major studio ready to protect their own interests.
So Harvey bit his tongue. Barely.
Jim and the Disney executive exchanged knowing glances, both smiling faintly, as though watching a circus clown huff and puff after tripping over his own shoes.
In this particular corner of the Vanity Fair party, where the true top brass gathered, Harvey was little more than a tolerated guest.
A second-tier power in a first-tier crowd.
Still, Harvey's pride wouldn't let him walk away without some sort of parting shot.
His jaw tightened, eyes glinting with that predatory edge he was infamous for.
Harvey's lips parted, just enough to hint that whatever came next wouldn't be friendly—a threat wrapped in a half-smile, the kind that could sour a whole evening.
Before he could get a word out, another voice slid into the moment like a well-timed cue.
"Harvey… it's been a while," Leonardo DiCaprio said, stepping into the space between them with a champagne glass in hand.
The way he moved—calm, confident—was straight out of The Great Gatsby, all easy charm and quiet control.
He clinked his glass lightly against Harvey's, then Jihoon's, before adding with a polite grin. "Looks like you've been keeping busy these days, huh?"
Harvey's forced smile twitched.
Leo turned to Jihoon next. "Lee… I gotta tell you, you really need an English name. You have no idea how hard the poor Oscar presenter was struggling to pronounce yours just now." He chuckled, glancing at the nearby executives, making sure they caught the joke.
Then, in a mock-conspiratorial tone, he added, "If you don't mind, I'm gonna steal this young guy from you old sharks before you soak him in your capitalism lectures."
The line landed perfectly.
Laughter rippled through the little circle, the tension evaporating like steam.
Before Harvey could fire back, Leo was already guiding Jihoon away, weaving them through the crowd toward the livelier, younger corner of the Vanity Fair party.
Harvey was left standing there, champagne in hand, a man watching the scene close without him.
He knew Leo had just handed him an easy exit—better to leave now than risk a public outburst.
Still, the sting of being brushed aside in front of Disney and Universal execs was sharp.
Without another word or even the courtesy of a nod, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the party's shadows.
Later, after mingling with the younger crowd, Leo and Jihoon found themselves standing off to the side, away from the noise.
Leo took a sip of his champagne, then leaned in slightly.
"Lee, you really shouldn't start off on the wrong foot with that guy," he said, his tone casual but edged with caution. "Harvey's… not exactly the forgiving type."
Jihoon gave a small shrug. "I know who he is. But sometimes, you've gotta push back. If I let that slide, people start thinking I'm just Jim's… toy. That kills my credibility as a filmmaker here."
Leo sighed, shaking his head. "I get it. I do. But that guy's name gets tossed around with words like 'thuggish' and 'mafia.'"
"Even if half of it's just reputation, it's the kind of association that can stain you. Brands, studios, endorsement deals—they don't like shadows."
Jihoon smiled faintly, unbothered. "I'm not worried. Harvey's a problem for a lot of people. But I've got Fox in my corner. As long as I keep making them money, they'll make sure no one like him can touch me."
Leo gave a small, skeptical chuckle. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."
Jihoon's smile widened. "Speaking of guts, you haven't given me an answer about my next film. THE DEPARTED. Production details are solid—you won't be disappointed."
Leo hesitated, swirling his champagne. "I'm interested, believe me. But I've got "REVOLUTIONARY ROAD" this year. Scheduling's… tricky."
"That's fine," Jihoon said quickly. "I can wait for you."
Leo looked at him, eyebrow raised. "Wait until I'm done with "REVOLUTIONARY ROAD"?"
"Why not? We're not even starting production until next year. By then, you'll be free, right?"
Leo hesitated, the rim of his champagne glass hovering just below his lips. He was weighing it—measuring the risk the way only an actor with decades in the game could.
The Oscar for Best Actor had been his white whale for years, the one prize that kept slipping away no matter how close he came.
Jihoon's films were undeniably high-caliber, the kind that critics adored and festivals decorated with their top honors.
But if Leo was honest with himself, Jihoon's track record leaned toward the film as a whole winning the glory—Cannes' Palme d'Or, Best Screenplay at the Oscars—rather than spotlighting a single performance.
And that was a problem. Because for Leo, the performance was the point.
Jihoon caught the hesitation immediately. He knew exactly what was running through Leo's mind.
Every project Leo had taken in recent years was either daringly artistic or dramatically intense—but all had one thing in common: they demanded a role with teeth.
A role that could showcase range, depth, and vulnerability. A role the Academy couldn't ignore.
That had always been Leo's strategy. But the road to that golden statue had been brutal.
For years, no matter how strong the performance, he was still "Jack Dawson" in the eyes of too many Academy voters—the handsome, boyish heartthrob from "TITANIC". Romantic leads were fine for box office glory, but they didn't win you the industry's highest acting honor.
It wasn't until 2015, with "THE REVENANT", that he finally broke through. And it came at a cost.
To land that role—and the respect that came with it—Leo had to strip away every trace of the charming, clean-cut image that had defined him for decades.
He put on weight, grew a scraggly beard, and endured grueling filming conditions that made headlines.
The transformation was so extreme that it forced voters to focus on the craft instead of the movie-star image.
It worked. He won.
But it also altered the way the public saw him.
The prince of Hollywood had traded his golden-boy aura for the grit of a weathered survivor.
Now, staring at Jihoon, he was wondering if "THE DEPARTED" could get him that golden statue.