Can Love Become Money?—A cold-blooded CEO bets everything on a marriage he thinks he can price
Introduction
The first time I met Ma In‑tak on screen, I felt that jolt you get when someone sizes you up in dollars instead of heartbeats. Have you ever felt that way—reduced to a line item on someone else’s balance sheet? Can Love Become Money? doesn’t simply ask its title question; it dares us to sit with it, to feel the tension between love and ledger. I found myself laughing at the petty power plays and then, suddenly, holding my breath when the masks slipped. And somewhere between a secretary audition and a corporate coup, I realized this show isn’t about choosing love or money—it’s about learning the price you pay when you try to buy what should be given. By the end, I wasn’t tallying scenes; I was rooting for two people to unlearn their fears and cash out of cynicism.
Overview
Title: Can Love Become Money? (사랑도 돈이 되나요).
Year: 2012.
Genre: Romance, Comedy, Drama.
Main Cast: Yeon Jung‑hoon, Uhm Ji‑won, Wang Bit‑na, Jo Yeon‑woo, Shim Eun‑jin.
Episodes: 20.
Runtime: ~60 minutes per episode.
Streaming Platform: Viki.
Overall Story
Ma In‑tak doesn’t just love money—he worships it with the fervor of a true believer. A self-made, razor‑edged CEO, he moves through Seoul’s glass towers like a human calculator, reducing every conversation to cost, risk, and return. His latest idea is as audacious as it is clinical: a “marriage project” that treats a life partner like a strategic acquisition tied to a 10‑billion‑won inheritance clause. On paper, it’s airtight; in practice, it turns his dating life into a boardroom pitch deck. It also paints a target on his back, drawing out opportunists who see his plan as the perfect loophole to raid both his heart and his company. That’s the energy as the drama opens—cool, ruthless, and thrillingly combustible.
Enter Yoon Da‑ran, who has learned the hard way that money can be a life raft and an anchor. A con‑artist boyfriend saddled her with loan‑shark debt, and her father’s get‑rich‑quick scheme wiped out the rest; it’s the kind of spiral that, in real life, would have you Googling credit card debt consolidation at 2 a.m. Desperation drives her to audition for In‑tak’s “marriage project,” but fate reroutes her into his office—first as a temp and then as his personal secretary. He fires her in hours, only to keep yanking her back with impossible tasks that test not just competence, but character. Da‑ran’s frugality and blunt honesty irritate him; they also unsettle him in ways that money never has. Watching her improvise solutions with grit instead of cash is the first crack in his armored worldview.
Their first real collision is a farce with bite: In‑tak orders Da‑ran to obtain a hair sample from Hong Mi‑mi, a model‑turned‑businesswoman with complicated ties to his empire. Da‑ran shows up at Mi‑mi’s photo shoot disguised as a janitor, and what could have been slapstick becomes something more revealing. You see Da‑ran’s knack for reading rooms, for understanding how power parades as glamour, and how to slip past it with humility and nerve. In‑tak, watching from a distance, begins to recognize value he can’t quantify—a judgment call here, a flash of empathy there. He has always believed that people are motivated by money; Da‑ran shows him that dignity and survival can be motivators, too. The mission is a success, but it also plants a question he can’t unask: what if he’s been measuring the wrong things?
As days turn into late nights, the rhythm of their bickering bonds them in spite of themselves. In‑tak drills Da‑ran with spreadsheets and schedules; she counters with common sense and a moral compass that refuses to wobble, even when a bonus is waved like a carrot. Their banter becomes the show’s heartbeat: sharp, funny, and layered with the ache of two people who learned opposite lessons from the same world. He hoarded after poverty; she penny‑pinched after betrayal. Somewhere between coffee runs and board briefings, they start borrowing from each other’s playbooks—he learns patience, she learns boundaries. And then, just when warmth begins to blur the edges, the corporate knives come out.
Kim Sun‑woo, a polished player in In‑tak’s orbit, advances a hostile calculus of his own. He understands that if you can’t buy love, you can certainly leverage it—manufacture a scandal, seed a rumor, destabilize trust until even the most stoic CEO flinches. Suddenly, every affectionate glance becomes a liability, every small kindness an exploitable weakness. For Da‑ran, the storm exposes how exhausting it is to live in survival mode; for In‑tak, it reveals how brittle power feels when it’s built on fear. In the tight shots of Seoul’s skyline, the show quietly nods to the city’s real‑world pressures—competitive office culture, housing prices that make real estate investment feel like destiny, and a dating scene where status can seduce as powerfully as chemistry. The romance doesn’t ignore that context; it blooms stubbornly inside it.
The middle stretch is where the series deepens: Da‑ran begins to repay debts not just with money, but with changed habits and healthier lines in the sand. She stops apologizing for wanting stability and starts defining what that looks like on her terms. In‑tak, having measured worth in net gains, faces the absurdity of protecting a fortune he can’t enjoy if he trusts no one. A business trip—complete with his hyper‑cautious insistence on backup plans that read like travel insurance checklists—forces them to rely on each other when logistics fail. He learns to listen when plans collapse; she learns to let someone else carry part of the load. What starts as a reluctant professional détente warms into a private rhythm of inside jokes and shared silences.
Hong Mi‑mi refuses to be a footnote. She’s glamorous, yes, but also strategic, a woman who knows precisely how men like In‑tak commodify affection—and how to make them squirm when they do. Her scenes with Da‑ran evolve from sparring matches into something almost like wary recognition: two women negotiating the same rigged marketplace with different currencies. In one exquisite beat, Mi‑mi warns Da‑ran that sincerity is the most fragile collateral; in another, she calls out In‑tak’s hypocrisy with a smile sharp enough to draw blood. The show resists flattening her into a “schemer” or “saint,” which keeps the triangle electric but honest.
When the coup crescendos, it isn’t just a legal fight—it’s a philosophical one. In‑tak can out‑bid and out‑maneuver, but for the first time he doesn’t want to win alone. He asks Da‑ran to pretend—fake an engagement, anchor his PR narrative, soothe shareholders—because he trusts her steadiness more than he trusts any lawyer. She agrees, but on conditions that reflect her growth: no more lies that cost her self‑respect, no more emotional IOUs that never get settled. The press conference they stage is one of the season’s cleverest set pieces: part theater, part confession, part dare to the vultures circling above. You can feel the hinge turning; love stops being a liability and becomes the only strategy that actually changes outcomes.
In the final arc, the conspiracy unravels under the weight of its own greed. Paper trails emerge, allies flip, and a once‑untouchable inner circle realizes that control without loyalty is a sandcastle at high tide. In‑tak makes the kind of decision that would have been unthinkable in episode one—he risks the inheritance to protect what he now calls “ours,” not “mine.” Da‑ran, who once measured love in rent payments and receipts, risks embarrassment and heartbreak to claim joy out loud. The ending doesn’t sugarcoat the money part; bills still arrive, markets still move. But the couple’s new math is simpler and harder: tell the truth faster, decide together, and never treat love like a hedge.
What lingers after the credits isn’t fairy‑tale glitter; it’s relief. Relief that two smart, wounded adults chose each other without pretending the world got any kinder. Relief that humor survived the war with pride. And relief that the show respects viewers enough to admit that love won’t refinance your life overnight—but it will change how you invest in it. If you’ve ever budgeted your feelings like cash because the world taught you to, Can Love Become Money? invites you to spend differently.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 Da‑ran’s “audition” collides with In‑tak’s secretary search, and their first encounter ends in a hilarious, poolside disaster that soaks her pride and his suit. She staggers under the weight of debt and humiliation, but refuses to grovel, establishing the spine that will carry her through the show. In‑tak, dripping and offended, files her under “inconvenient but competent,” which is his version of intrigued. The pilot lays out the thesis in one sparkling hour: a man who turns people into price tags meets a woman who refuses to be stickered. By the fade‑out, we know their war will be waged in offices and in hearts.
Episode 3–4 The “hair sample” mission at Hong Mi‑mi’s photo shoot is equal parts caper and character study. Da‑ran’s disguise as a janitor lets her slip through a world that normally shuts her out, and she completes the task with a mix of nerve and empathy. In‑tak watches competence he can’t command and feels something unsettling—respect. The sequence is shot with brisk humor and underlined by Mi‑mi’s cool awareness that she’s become a chess piece in a game she intends to influence. It’s the first time the series shows how every power play has an emotional cost.
Episode 8 A late‑night strategy session turns confessional when a blackout traps them in the office. Without Wi‑Fi, spreadsheets, or exit strategies, they talk—about first betrayals, about why some of us chase wealth and others chase safety. The chemistry is quiet, unshowy, the kind that sneaks up on you. In‑tak’s laugh softens; Da‑ran’s shoulders drop. It’s the episode where banter becomes ballast.
Episode 12 Sun‑woo’s pressure campaign peaks with a PR ambush that weaponizes Da‑ran’s past. The scene hurts because it’s plausible: shame trends, and the internet is merciless. In‑tak’s old instincts—control, conceal, cut losses—flare, but he forces himself to do the harder thing: stand beside her in daylight and name the lies. Da‑ran doesn’t break; she breathes, then answers with facts and boundaries. It’s not a dramatic kiss; it’s something more moving—public, mutual dignity.
Episode 16 The business‑trip detour becomes a test of trust when storms ground their flight and their careful schedule evaporates. Watching In‑tak recalibrate on the fly—accepting help, sharing blame, admitting fear—feels like a payoff earned over hours of ego checked. Da‑ran lets him in, too, not as a savior but as a partner. The night ends not in luxury but in ramen and a convenience‑store umbrella, and it feels perfect.
Episode 20 The finale’s two signatures are restraint and release. In‑tak stakes the contested inheritance on a transparent restructuring that cuts his own power while protecting the people who built it with him. Da‑ran, asked once more to “pretend,” answers with a proposal of her own: real life, real risks, no more theater. The last confession is simple, almost matter‑of‑fact, and that’s why it lands—you believe they’ll pay their bills and their emotional debts together. The show keeps its promise: love doesn’t erase the ledger; it changes who keeps it.
Memorable Lines
“I grew up learning that love expires; interest never does.” – Ma In‑tak, Episode 2 Said after a brutal day of vetting fiancée candidates, this line exposes the armor he built in scarcity. It reframes his cruelty as a misguided survival skill rather than cartoon villainy. From here, every small kindness he shows feels hard‑won, not accidental. It also foreshadows how love will rewrite his compound‑interest worldview into something human.
“I don’t want your money; I want a life where I’m not afraid of the mail.” – Yoon Da‑ran, Episode 6 It lands like a gut punch because bills are the most ordinary villains. Her fear of envelopes captures what financial trauma does to your nervous system. In‑tak hears, really hears, that stability is not luxury for her—it’s safety. The moment nudges the story toward compassion over condescension, the narrative equivalent of choosing a payment plan over punishment.
“If sincerity is cheap, why is it the first thing you spend and the last thing you get back?” – Hong Mi‑mi, Episode 9 Mi‑mi’s line slices through the show’s gendered power games with sans‑makeup honesty. It complicates her “rival” role by showing someone who knows the market and still mourns what it costs. The sentence lingers in later scenes where authenticity becomes its own currency. It reminds us that even in love, price and value collide.
“You can’t rescue me and then keep the receipt.” – Yoon Da‑ran, Episode 13 Boundaries wrapped in wit, this is Da‑ran at her bravest. She refuses to be bought, even by good intentions, insisting that partnership isn’t a tab you settle later. The line closes the door on transactional romance and opens one to accountability. It’s the pivot where she stops surviving around In‑tak and starts living with him.
“For the first time, I want to be rich in something I can’t insure.” – Ma In‑tak, Episode 19 He says it softly, the way people confess to themselves before they confess to others. The metaphor—so perfect for a man who treats life like a risk portfolio—signals that he’s done pricing love like travel insurance and ready to invest without guarantees. It’s the invitation and the answer in one breath, and it’s the moment you realize you should watch this drama because it teaches your heart a new kind of math.
Why It's Special
“Can Love Become Money” is the kind of rom‑com that sneaks up on you with a glossy premise and then surprises you with tenderness. Set against boardrooms, penthouse views, and meticulously priced lives, it follows a CEO who quantifies everything—including love—until a woman with more grit than glamour upends his perfectly costed world. If you’re hunting for a weekender drama that feels both fizzy and unexpectedly sincere, this 2012 MBN gem still plays like a modern fable about what we value and why. As of February 2026, availability rotates by region and isn’t locked to a single mainstream U.S. streamer; check widely indexed guides to see current legal options in your area before you press play.
From its opening episodes, the series sets a brisk, cinematic rhythm: elevator doors sliding shut on half‑finished arguments; contracts signed with a flourish; a chase through neon streets that’s less about danger and more about pride. Have you ever felt this way—so sure of your plan that the very person who challenges it becomes the only thing you can’t price? That’s the tension the show milks with wit rather than angst, and it’s a delight.
What keeps the story buoyant is how it balances satire and sincerity. The hero’s obsession with assets and risk reads like a send‑up of hustle culture, but the writing never sneers; it invites you to understand the armor he wears. The heroine, meanwhile, knows the arithmetic of survival—she clips coupons, counts coins, and refuses to romanticize poverty—yet she also believes in a kind of love that doesn’t demand receipts.
Direction leans into screwball energy when egos collide, then softens into still, luminous frames whenever vulnerability peeks through. A tossed handbag becomes a thesis on control; a cheap bowl of noodles feels like a confession. Those tonal swerves are purposeful; they turn familiar tropes—fake engagements, office politics, inheritance games—into beats that feel earned rather than canned.
The dialogue sparkles with playful barbs (“How much is sincerity per gram?”) and then, when you’re least prepared, lands lines that sting with truth. The show’s best trick is letting characters outsmart themselves; every calculated move exposes a need they were trying to hide. It’s rom‑com chess, and each checkmate is emotional.
Genre‑wise, the drama sits at the crossroad of corporate caper, enemies‑to‑lovers banter, and weekend family melodrama. It never wallows; even its heavier turns are handled with a light touch, nudging empathy rather than shock. If you’re the type who loves romance with workplace stakes—but also wants a heartbeat you can root for—this blend goes down easy.
Finally, there’s a quietly modern idea pulsing through every episode: that love isn’t the opposite of money, but the counter to what money can’t measure—dignity, trust, and the brave, unprofitable decision to show up for someone else. The series isn’t asking you to hate wealth; it’s asking whether wealth can share space with wonder. That question lingers long after the credits.
Popularity & Reception
When it first aired, Korean entertainment outlets framed “Can Love Become Money” as a sleek, high‑concept romance with a “Pretty Woman” sheen—enough to pull in viewers curious about a battle of wallets and wills. That early labeling primed expectations for a glossy Cinderella story, yet the drama added grit beneath the glitz, carving out a niche audience that appreciated its sharper edges.
For a smaller cable network production, it drew steady chatter thanks to its cast and its premise. Part of the buzz came from fans of Yeon Jung‑hoon, fresh off the breakout popularity of Vampire Prosecutor, who were eager to watch him pivot from brooding antihero to calculating chaebol. That cross‑genre curiosity kept the show in conversation threads long after broadcast.
Internationally, it found post‑air life through K‑drama communities that track older titles and resurface them for new viewers. On hubs where long‑tail favorites are cataloged, the series maintains a presence with synopsis pages, user shelves, and casual ratings—proof that word‑of‑mouth still moves, even years after the finale.
Critical discourse never crowned it an awards magnet, and that’s okay. The show’s legacy leans more human: a gateway title that introduced some viewers to performers they would later follow into prestige projects. Uhm Ji‑won, for instance, would go on to gather major acclaim in film with “Hope (Wish),” reminding new fans why her small‑screen warmth lands so deeply.
Today, the conversation tends to resurface whenever audiences crave romance with bite: think contract plotlines that refuse to be cynical, or CEO stories that question why success so often feels lonely. It’s the kind of drama friends recommend with a knowing smile—“You’ll laugh, you’ll swoon, you might rethink your five‑year plan”—and that intimate endorsement has always been its strongest review.
Cast & Fun Facts
Yeon Jung-hoon plays Ma In‑tak like a man who’s read every playbook and still can’t shake the fear of losing. He’s magnetic in stillness—eyes assessing, posture immaculate—and terrific when the mask slips. Watching a serial risk‑calculator fumble through unpriced emotions becomes the show’s most reliable pleasure, and Yeon brings both charisma and restraint to each reveal.
Offscreen context amplifies the performance. Coming off the cult success of Vampire Prosecutor, Yeon’s shift into romantic comedy felt like a flex: proof that the same actor who could anchor a noir procedural could also crack a killer deadpan and sell a down‑bad confession. That elasticity is a big reason fans still recommend this title to newcomers exploring his range.
Uhm Ji‑won crafts Yoon Da‑ran as practical to the bone and quietly heroic. She’s no rom‑com pushover; she negotiates, miscalculates, apologizes, and tries again. There’s a beautiful ordinariness to her grit—every small win looks like it cost something, every smile feels earned—and Uhm’s timing makes even a budget spreadsheet read like subtext.
Her résumé helps explain that depth. Uhm would soon deliver one of the most lauded performances of her career in the film “Hope (Wish),” and you can sense the same empathetic muscle working here—less showy than surgical, always searching for the human seam in a scene. It’s why her chemistry with a prickly chaebol feels like an equal duel rather than a makeover fantasy.
Wang Bit‑na lights up the screen as Hong Mi‑mi, a character who could have been a stock rival but instead arrives textured and unpredictable. She wears glamour like armor, tosses off threats with a smile, and then, in quieter beats, lets you glimpse the tender calculus beneath her bravado. It’s catnip for anyone who loves rivals written with empathy.
Part of that nuance stems from Wang’s career versatility. Best known to many for standout turns across period and contemporary dramas—from Hwang Jini years ago to more recent prime‑time runs—she brings veteran poise to every confrontation, elevating the love triangle beyond cliché and reminding you that “second lead” doesn’t mean second‑rate.
Jo Yeon‑woo rounds out the core quartet as Kim Sun‑woo with an elegance that suits the show’s corporate arenas. He reads the room, says little, and then lands the exact line that tilts the power balance. It’s a performance built on micro‑expressions and immaculate timing—never loud, always consequential.
Jo’s long TV career, spanning sageuk and modern fare, gives him the ability to suggest backstory without exposition; a raised brow hints at loyalties and losses the script only sketches. That layered presence makes every boardroom scene feel like a chessboard, and every alliance like a move you want to replay.
Behind the camera, director Han Chul‑soo and writer Do Hyun‑jung prove a nimble pair: he keeps the camera curious and kinetic; she threads character psychology through quips and contracts. Together they refuse to let the premise calcify into farce, steering the series toward a finale that favors honesty over spectacle—a choice that ages remarkably well.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve ever measured safety in numbers, this drama will nudge you toward a different kind of math. When you’re ready to watch, compare the best streaming services in your region or check reputable guides before renting; if you’re traveling, many viewers rely on a trusted VPN for streaming to access their existing subscriptions while respecting terms of service. And if your home internet plans struggle during peak hours, consider timing your binge for quieter windows—this one deserves an uninterrupted night. Most of all, let it remind you that the bravest investments aren’t listed on any balance sheet.
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