“Love to the End”—A relentless daily melodrama where romance battles betrayal across Seoul’s boardrooms and living rooms
Introduction
The first time I pressed play on Love to the End, I wasn’t looking for perfection—I wanted persistence. Have you ever rooted for a couple who keep getting shoved apart by life, yet you still lean forward hoping this is the moment they finally get a break? That’s the heartbeat of this drama: two ordinary people trying to hold on while money, pride, and family politics keep prying their fingers loose. I found myself yelling at the screen during courthouse scenes and whispering “don’t give up” during quiet elevator rides and alleyway goodbyes. If daily dramas have ever felt too long for you, this one turns the length into its greatest strength—each episode adds a brick to a wall of emotions you can’t ignore. By the time the final credits roll, you don’t just watch their love—you believe in it.
Overview
Title: Love to the End(끝까지 사랑)
Year: 2018.
Genre: Family, Melodrama, Romance.
Main Cast: Lee Young-ah, Kang Eun-tak, Hong Soo-ah, Shim Ji-ho, Park Kwang-hyun.
Episodes: 104.
Runtime: 35 minutes per episode.
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
Han Ga‑young grows up fast after her father’s business collapses and her parents divorce, stepping into adult responsibilities long before she’s ready. She keeps the lights on, keeps the dishes washed, and keeps her dreams small enough to survive—until her father restarts a tiny cosmetics company and invites her in. In a country where chaebol giants dominate the shelves, Ga‑young works in cramped labs and shared offices, learning to build formulas and friendships from scratch. She’s the kind of bright that doesn’t shout—it shows up early, stays late, and remembers who needed a pep talk. Have you ever carried a family’s second chance on your shoulders? That’s the weight she wears, and yet she still dares to hope that love might be part of her story.
A supply run takes Ga‑young to a glass‑bottle factory where she meets Yoon Jung‑han, a warm, decent man who knows every furnace and forklift on the floor. Their first conversations feel like exhaling: two people who understand hard work, deadlines, and the smell of singed cardboard. Jung‑han’s affection is steady rather than showy, the kind that checks if you ate, fixes a stubborn hinge, and waits outside the lab when your test batch fails. Their dates are simple—no skyline restaurants, just street tteokbokki and long city buses where hands find each other without fuss. In those early days, they talk about building things that last: a product line for her, a safer factory for him. That shared promise is the series’ anchor when storms start to gather.
The storm has a name: Kang Se‑na. She’s Jung‑han’s glamorous ex who treats love like a ladder and never climbs without checking where the top lands. Se‑na returns to Korea and targets Ga‑young’s family, marrying Ga‑young’s older brother, Han Doo‑young—one smooth wedding that turns into a live‑in chessboard. Imagine your ex becoming your sister‑in‑law overnight; that is the tightrope Ga‑young now walks at every breakfast table. Se‑na hides her contempt behind designer smiles, whispering poison into Doo‑young’s ear about “protecting family interests.” What begins as petty slights grows into strategic sabotage, and Ga‑young learns that sometimes the longest knives are passed across the table with perfect etiquette.
In the cosmetics world, formulas are currency, and Se‑na understands that better than anyone. When a test serum of Ga‑young’s starts attracting attention, “mistakes” multiply—emails go missing, lab notes are swapped, shipments are delayed. Doo‑young, caught between his wife and his sister, hesitates until hesitation looks like betrayal. If you’ve ever been gaslit at work, you’ll recognize the way Ga‑young doubts her own memory before she dares doubt her own family. She doubles down on testing, locks her cabinets, and starts keeping a paper diary—ink that can’t be deleted. Meanwhile, Jung‑han senses the pressure and tries to help without stepping on pride: he offers supplier contacts, overtime hands, and a shoulder that never asks for repayment. That kind of help is love in this show—not grand gestures, but everyday rescue.
Enter Kang Hyun‑ki, a polished third‑generation executive whose investment arm circles Ga‑young’s company like a hawk spotting a resilient rabbit. He’s equal parts charisma and calculation, and he takes an interest in Ga‑young that is human and strategic in equal measure. Hyun‑ki dangles distribution deals, promises of shelf space, and the seductive idea that success can outrun scandal. For a while, it works; new capital silences creditors, and Ga‑young’s lab finally hums again. Yet every signature Hyun‑ki secures ties her to his world’s ruthless pace, where a memo can rearrange a life. The tension isn’t “will he or won’t he?”—it’s whether Ga‑young can win without becoming the kind of person who doesn’t recognize herself.
Se‑na escalates by weaponizing family. She presents herself as the perfect daughter‑in‑law, brings gifts to in‑laws, and spins stories of Ga‑young’s “recklessness” to anyone within reach. Then comes the first major public blow: a product‑launch fiasco that makes headlines and pins the blame on Ga‑young. Watching that scene, I felt my stomach drop; have you ever watched a character lose years of work in five minutes? Ga‑young takes the fall to shield her father’s fragile health, and Jung‑han watches from the crowd, eyes burning with a pain that looks a lot like helplessness. Love here isn’t a magic fix; it’s staying when everything looks unfixable.
Jung‑han fights his own battles at the factory, where a rogue supplier cuts corners with black‑market glass, risking injuries to workers he considers family. He chooses the hard road—reporting, replacing contracts, and swallowing the short‑term losses that come with doing the right thing. Those choices mirror Ga‑young’s: both are learning that integrity is expensive, and someone always sends the bill. Their late‑night phone calls become lifelines—two voices mapping a way forward when the city sleeps. If you’ve ever had to believe for someone while they couldn’t believe for themselves, you’ll recognize the holiness of those calls. It’s here that the drama’s title starts to feel less like a promise and more like a task.
The middle stretch is a tug‑of‑war where Se‑na nearly wins by grinding everyone down. Doo‑young starts to see the edges of his wife’s ambition, and the realization hurts—it’s the ache of waking up in a story you didn’t mean to write. Hyun‑ki surprises us with flashes of decency, especially around his fractured family history, but he still plays corporate chess with people as pieces. Ga‑young, bruised but breathing, quietly rebuilds with a smaller team, guarding formulas like they’re family photos. Reality seeps in around the edges: talk of credit card debt consolidation for the business side bills, whispered comparisons of mortgage refinance rates when the family home becomes collateral, and late‑night searches for life insurance quotes after a factory accident scare. The show never turns into a PSA, but it knows the economics of love as well as the poetics.
At last, Ga‑young and Jung‑han stop reacting and start planning. They trace paper trails, collect timestamps, and find the single email that unravels Se‑na’s biggest lie. A tense boardroom showdown follows—voices low, evidence higher—and for the first time, Se‑na looks cornered. Doo‑young, voice shaking, chooses truth over marriage theater, and the sound you hear is a family cracking and healing at the same time. Hyun‑ki, faced with legal consequences, chooses cooperation over crash‑and‑burn, revealing that even sharks get tired of swimming alone. When Ga‑young walks out of that room, she’s not the same woman who once begged for a little space—she’s the one who built her own.
The finale ties threads with cathartic restraint. Se‑na answers for her actions, not through melodramatic exile but via the quiet accountability of legal charges and a family that refuses to enable her. Doo‑young begins the long apology of changed behavior, showing up at the office with coffee and not opinions. Ga‑young reclaims her formulas, rehires the people who believed when it cost them, and places the first box of her new line on a shelf she earned. Jung‑han upgrades safety systems at the factory and lets himself dream in color again. On a river bridge at twilight, they choose each other—not as escape, but as home. If you’ve ever needed a story to remind you that love is a decision made daily, this is that story.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 A routine bottle‑sourcing trip becomes meet‑cute magic when Ga‑young tours Jung‑han’s factory and finds a man who respects her work as much as he likes her smile; by the time he fixes a stuck pallet jack for her, we’re already shipping them in our heads. The scene plants the show’s thesis: competence is attractive, kindness is magnetic. The camera lingers on worker camaraderie, grounding their romance in the dignity of labor. It’s simple, sure—but when was the last time you saw love begin with mutual respect? That first handshake sets everything in motion.
Episode 18 At the airport, Se‑na chooses ambition over affection, sidestepping Jung‑han with a performance of innocence that lands her in Ga‑young’s family orbit; the whiplash from ex‑girlfriend to future sister‑in‑law is brutal. In one swoop, the show makes every family dinner a battlefield. You can feel Ga‑young’s shock give way to steel, even as she forces a smile for her brother. The episode is a masterclass in social landmines—no shouting, just perfectly placed lies. It’s the kind of twist that daily dramas live for, and it works.
Episode 37 The “welcome home” meal becomes a Cold War when Se‑na undermines Ga‑young’s credibility with a few well‑timed digs about competence and “knowing your place.” Doo‑young laughs along—until he doesn’t, catching a flicker of contempt aimed at his parents. The camera cuts to Ga‑young’s clenched chopsticks, a tiny visual that says, “Not today.” Have you ever swallowed truth to keep peace and tasted blood? That’s this scene—quiet, cutting, unforgettable.
Episode 52 The product‑launch disaster—bad labels, switched samples, a press leak—feels like watching a slow‑motion car crash. Ga‑young steps in front of the blame to protect her father’s health, and the applause she receives is the cruel kind: polite claps for a woman they think just failed. Jung‑han, stuck behind a velvet rope, makes eye contact across the chaos; it’s a promise to fight smarter, not harder. The episode leaves you gutted and galvanized at the same time.
Episode 73 Jung‑han shuts down a shady supplier and faces down threatened lawsuits, choosing worker safety over profit; in the rain outside the plant, Ga‑young appears with takeout and a thermos. They don’t kiss—they share warmth under a shared umbrella, and somehow it’s more intimate. This is where the drama says love isn’t an escape hatch; it’s a workbench for two. Their partnership becomes strategy, not just comfort, and you feel the tide turning.
Episodes 103–104 The final boardroom hearing is proof that evidence beats theatrics: timestamps, audit trails, and a single handwritten lab diary page snap the puzzle into place. Doo‑young tells the truth; Se‑na’s empire—built on charm and shortcuts—folds without a fight. Hyun‑ki chooses accountability, trading bravado for responsibility, and Ga‑young walks out with her name on the patent and her team beside her. That last river‑bridge scene isn’t flashy—but when Jung‑han says, “Let’s go home,” it lands like a vow.
Memorable Lines
“If I have to start over a hundred times, I will—because this time I’m starting as me.” – Han Ga‑young, Episode 12 Said after yet another lab setback, it reframes failure as identity, not outcome. Ga‑young isn’t begging for permission anymore; she’s granting it to herself. The line also signals the show’s shift from survival to intention. From here on, she stops apologizing for taking up space.
“My factory is small, but my people are not.” – Yoon Jung‑han, Episode 29 After discovering dangerous glass on a contract order, Jung‑han defends his workers in a meeting with suits who only see costs. The sentence is a love letter to blue‑collar pride and a boundary against exploitation. It deepens his character beyond “boyfriend” into “leader.” It also explains why Ga‑young trusts him with more than her heart.
“Family isn’t a weapon you carry—it’s a mirror you clean.” – Han Doo‑young, Episode 61 This line arrives when he begins to see Se‑na’s manipulation and his own complicity. It’s not a grand confession, but it is an honest one, and in this drama, that’s rarer than diamonds. The metaphor captures the series’ moral arc: accountability over appearance. It’s the moment a brother starts becoming a better man.
“You call it love; I call it leverage.” – Kang Se‑na, Episode 45 Cold, sharp, and devastating, this line reveals her operating system. It takes love out of the realm of feeling and into the calculus of access, and suddenly her every smile reads like strategy. You don’t have to like her to admire how clearly she says the thing most villains only imply. It turns every future scene with her into a duel.
“Let’s go home—together, tired, and still choosing.” – Yoon Jung‑han, Episode 104 The final promise isn’t fireworks; it’s a decision to choose again tomorrow. After all the noise, this quiet invitation says everything about the kind of love the show believes in—daily, deliberate, and durable. It’s why the ending feels earned instead of easy. If you need a drama that makes you believe love is a habit worth keeping, watch Love to the End tonight.
Why It's Special
“Love to the End” is that quintessential weekday K‑drama that sneaks into your routine and suddenly becomes the thing you’re thinking about on your commute, in the checkout line, and right before bed. If you’re in the U.S., you can stream it on KOCOWA+; in some regions, reruns and on‑demand airings appear on KBS World TV, with availability varying by territory. The drama originally aired on KBS2, which tells you a lot about its comforting, family‑melodrama DNA—reliable cliffhangers, heartfelt payoffs, and characters you’ll root for even when they make messy choices. Have you ever felt that tug between doing what’s right and protecting the people you love? This show lives in that space.
At its heart, “Love to the End” is an ode to perseverance. It follows ordinary people in the cosmetics and manufacturing worlds who are pushed to extraordinary decisions by betrayal, ambition, and a love that refuses to quit. The tone is earnest without being saccharine; it leans into old‑school melodrama yet keeps the emotions grounded. When fate knocks the wind out of the leads, the series invites you to take a breath with them, steady yourself, and try again. Have you ever needed that reminder?
Because the series is a daily, the story unfolds like a long letter—every episode adds a line, every week a chapter. That steady rhythm matters: it lets the big revelations land, but it also gives room for the small, human beats—an apology over a kitchen table, the quiet resolve of getting up the next morning. Those weekday cliffhangers? They’re addictive, but they never feel cheap.
Direction and writing work in tandem here to tune the drama’s emotional temperature. The camera lingers on faces just long enough to let you read the thoughts behind a brave smile; the scripts know when to reward patience and when to twist the knife. It’s melodrama, yes—but never a caricature of one. The characters’ dilemmas feel relatable even as the stakes escalate.
What also makes it special is the setting. The show doesn’t take place solely in sleek boardrooms; it’s in labs, factory floors, and modest homes where bills are counted and pride is swallowed. That everyday texture grounds the story’s bigger turns—so when someone makes a grand gesture, it lands because you’ve watched them earn it.
Episodes run roughly 35 minutes, making the show surprisingly easy to fit into life. You can watch over dinner, sneak one on a lunch break, then reward yourself with two more before bed. The format keeps momentum high without overwhelming you.
And if you’re new to daily K‑dramas, “Love to the End” is a welcoming first step: emotionally rich, character‑forward, and built for that deep, slow‑burn attachment that has made KBS’s weekday slots a comfort-watch tradition for years.
Popularity & Reception
When it aired on KBS2 from July 23 to December 31, 2018, “Love to the End” carved out consistent nightly viewership, the kind of steady ratings that prove a drama has found its audience. It even extended beyond its originally planned run due to multiple national-event preemptions, a testament to KBS’s confidence in the show’s staying power and fans’ willingness to stick with it.
Internationally, the series traveled well thanks to KBS World’s global footprint and accessible subtitles, feeding a quiet but loyal fandom that still recommends it to newcomers seeking a heartfelt daily. That international pipeline helped the show find second lives in reruns and on‑demand slots.
Fan reception on community hubs has been warmly positive, with viewers praising the classic melodrama beats, the villain you love to hate, and the patience of the leads. Asian drama databases frequently note how the series scratches the itch for “old‑school feels” without feeling dated, a rare balance that keeps comments sections lively years after broadcast.
Awards chatter anchored its broadcast run: at the 2018 KBS Drama Awards, Kang Eun‑tak earned an Excellence Award (Actor in a Daily Drama), while Lee Young‑ah, Hong Soo‑ah, and Shim Ji‑ho received notable nominations, reflecting both popular affection and industry respect.
Even today, discoverability remains strong. With KOCOWA+ consolidating a broad K‑library in the Americas after winding down distribution through Viki Pass Plus in late 2025, U.S. viewers have a clearer path to finding daily gems like this one—another reason you’ll see “Love to the End” pop up in recommendation threads.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Young‑ah centers the story as Han Ga‑young, a woman who learned early how to shoulder family burdens and still keep a tender heart. She plays resilience with small, specific choices—the way her voice firms up when she protects loved ones, the quiet deflation when life asks more of her again. If you’ve ever tried to be the reliable one and wondered who would be strong for you, you’ll feel her in your bones.
For longtime fans, seeing Lee Young‑ah—memorable in “Bread, Love and Dreams”—slide back into a KBS family slot is like hearing a favorite singer return to a beloved genre. It’s no surprise she captured a nomination at the KBS Drama Awards for this performance; she builds Ga‑young from the inside out, making perseverance feel like an act of love rather than stoicism.
Kang Eun‑tak is Yoon Jung‑han, the man who has to learn that protecting someone isn’t the same as deciding for them. He plays Jung‑han’s decency without sanctimony, showing edges of pride and fear that make the character human. When he falters, you understand why; when he stands tall, you feel why it matters.
Daily‑drama fans know Kang Eun‑tak as a reliable anchor, and “Love to the End” is a showcase for his steady charisma. He was recognized with an Excellence Award at the 2018 KBS Drama Awards, and his later projects (like “Man in a Veil”) confirmed his status as a weekday stalwart who can carry multi‑month narratives on his shoulders.
Hong Soo‑ah gives Kang Se‑na the kind of layered villainy that keeps group chats buzzing. She’s cunning, yes, but she’s also painfully human—ambition masking insecurity, calculation disguising fear. You’ll bristle at her schemes and then catch yourself wondering who taught her that love had to be a zero‑sum game.
Off‑screen, Hong Soo‑ah’s pop‑culture footprint is unexpectedly fun trivia: she earned the nickname “Hong Throw” in Korea for an impressively athletic ceremonial first pitch at a baseball game, and she spent a few years working in China before returning to domestic projects. Those idiosyncrasies fit the way she plays Se‑na—sleek surface, surprising depth.
Shim Ji‑ho portrays Kang Hyun‑ki with cool precision, a foil who complicates loyalties without ever turning cartoonish. His performance keeps you leaning in—what does he owe to family, and what does he owe to himself? It’s the kind of role that benefits from an actor comfortable living in gray areas.
Shim Ji‑ho’s background—spanning TV, film, even an art‑house turn that premiered at Sundance—helps explain his control here; he can say a lot with a stillness or a glance. His work in “Love to the End” drew awards attention alongside his co‑stars, a nod to how vital his presence is to the show’s moral push‑and‑pull.
Behind the camera, director Shin Chang‑seok and writer Lee Sun‑hee shape a 104‑episode arc with confident pacing and a clear emotional north star. They keep episodes tight (about 35 minutes each), leverage weekday cliffhangers without cheapening payoffs, and—fun fact—navigated a schedule that included several national preemptions, with the series ultimately running through the end of 2018.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a drama that believes love is a verb—something you choose and choose again—“Love to the End” will feel like a hand on your shoulder saying, “Keep going.” Set up your streaming subscription, settle into a few episodes each night, and let its steady cadence work on you. Traveling soon? Pair it with the best VPN for streaming so you can keep up on the road, and consider whether your home internet plan can handle those inevitable “just one more” marathons. When the final episode lands, don’t be surprised if you miss these people like friends you used to see every evening.
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