The late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the beige curtains of Ha‑young's one-bedroom apartment in Yeongdeungpo, turning the small living room into a hazy, golden cocoon. She sat on the edge of her gray futon, laptop perched on her lap, scrolling through images of evening gowns—emerald silk, sapphire lace, onyx velvet. Each click felt heavy in her chest, as though the weight of Jae‑woon's invitation pressed against her collarbone.
"Seriously, Ha‑young?" Cha Yoo‑ra's voice rang out from the kitchenette. She balanced on a high stool, chopping green onions with swift precision, looking more runway model than roommate. "You're overthinking a dress. You'll be the hit of the gala in anything."
Ha‑young rubbed her temples. "It's not just a dress, Yoo‑ra. It's a black-tie affair hosted by LJW Foundation—everyone who's anyone will be there. If I show up in the wrong color, wrong style… I'll look like a provincial nobody."
Yoo‑ra laughed, tossing a handful of green onions into the frying pan. "A provincial nobody who just nailed a corporate presentation that got Chairman Lee's attention? News flash: you're exactly the kind of talent they want to see—someone who can perform under pressure. You need confidence, not couture."
Ha‑young glanced at her reflection in the laptop's glossy screen: dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled into a loose bun, the crisp white blouse she'd worn all morning still draped over her shoulders. Confidence, she mused, felt like a stranger. The cascade of emails from colleagues, the barely suppressed gossip about which executive would get first billing at the gala—her mind spun like a carousel she couldn't exit.
"Besides," Yoo‑ra continued, flipping a pair of scallion pancakes, "I have a guest list. My friend Min‑joon is going to be there with his brother. If you're nervous, come with me. At least we can commiserate over a glass of champagne."
The mention of Lee Min‑joon made Ha‑young's heart flutter. She knew he was Jae‑woon's younger brother—the more approachable of the two, they said. She'd only heard second‑hand stories: Min‑joon's easy smile, his passion for e‑sports ventures, the way he apparently lit up any room he entered. If she could network with him—maybe glean a little insider perspective—it would ease her own anticipated awkwardness.
She stood and crossed to the kitchenette, inhaling deeply as Yoo‑ra slid two scallion pancakes onto small plates. The aroma of sesame oil and dough was comforting, grounding. "Thank you," Ha‑young said softly. She took a bite, eyes closing as flavor and memory intertwined. This was how Saturdays used to feel—laughter, friends, simple meals—back in her university days, before deadlines and merger deals consumed her life.
Yoo‑ra watched her, expression gentle. "You're doing more than just eating pancakes, aren't you? Spill."
Ha‑young set her plate down, smoothing her skirt. "I'm worried I'll blow it—dress badly, say the wrong thing, embarrass myself in front of everyone… especially him."
Yoo‑ra raised an eyebrow. "Him meaning Jae‑woon?"
She nodded. The name tasted foreign on her tongue now, charged with power and mystery. "Yes. I want to prove I belong in that room. I want him to see me as professional, competent… not just another junior employee who fangirls over a billionaire."
Yoo‑ra laughed again—this time kindly. "Ha‑young, you're overthinking. Let me handle the wardrobe. I have three gowns you can borrow: a black silk sheath, a burgundy lace number, and a silver sequined dress. I'll bring them over tonight. You pick one in ten seconds flat."
Ha‑young cracked a smile. "Only ten seconds?"
"Deal." Yoo‑ra held out her hand; they bumped fists, a silent pact. "Now, let's talk pitch. You need to have a concise, two‑sentence hook for the gala—something that sparks interest if you bump into the right person."
Her mind whirled. At the gala, she would circulate: to potential investors, to charity board members, perhaps one day to the man himself. She needed an icebreaker that was sharp, memorable, and relevant to both MiraWell and LJW's philanthropic goals.
"What about…" Ha‑young closed her eyes, counting silently. "'I'm Kang Ha‑young of MiraWell—I specialize in fusing Korean flavors with global tastes to drive sustainable growth for local producers.' Too dry?"
Yoo‑ra shook her head, stirring the pancakes. "Add something personal. People remember stories. Maybe: '…and I believe a single taste can tell a story—one that transforms communities and builds bridges across cultures.' Boom."
Ha‑young opened her eyes. "That's… actually good. I like that."
"See? You have this in you. Now, let's get you out of those office clothes." Yoo‑ra flicked her wrist, summoning her phone. "I'll text you my condo address. Be there at seven. I'll handle hair and makeup. You bring your confidence and that killer pitch."
Ha‑young stood, feeling a surge of gratitude—and nerves. She reached for her purse. "I'll pack my notes and business cards."
"Good." Yoo‑ra's eyes sparkled. "And Ha‑young?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember: you're not going there to chase him. You're going there to represent MiraWell—and to walk into any room with your head held high. Got it?"
Ha‑young smiled, the knot in her chest loosening. "Got it."
Later That Evening
The elevator ride to Gangnam was a silent countdown: floors lighting up one by one, the city's glow reflecting on polished metal walls. Ha‑young clutched her clutch purse, inside which lay her phone, business cards, and a slim card with her gala pitch slogan handwritten in neat Korean script.
When the elevator doors opened on the forty‑second floor, Yoo‑ra's condo corridor was dimly lit, the door at the end marked "1003." She rapped twice; it clicked open to reveal Yoo‑ra's spacious living area, transformed into a makeshift dressing salon. Three mannequins stood guard, each adorned in a different gown. A vanity table was scattered with makeup palettes, brushes, and tubes of red lipstick.
"Pick your poison," Yoo‑ra said, gesturing grandly.
Ha‑young walked between the mannequins. The black silk sheath was elegant but severity personified, too reminiscent of a corporate uniform. The silver sequined dress sparkled beautifully under the vanity lights but felt too flashy for her taste. Finally, her gaze settled on the burgundy lace number: delicate floral patterns woven into a form‑fitting silhouette that whispered both sophistication and warmth.
"This one," she said, holding the dress against her body. Yoo‑ra gave an approving whistle.
As Yoo‑ra applied makeup—smoky eyes, neutral lips—Ha‑young marveled at the transformation. She'd seen herself in mirrors a thousand times, but now, with her hair swept into soft waves and the dress hugging her curves, she felt something shift. Not confidence—yet—but potential. The potential to step into a world that, until yesterday, she hadn't dared to imagine.
Yoo‑ra handed her a glass of sparkling water. "Drink this," she instructed. "No champagne until post‑pitch."
Ha‑young laughed. "You're a drill sergeant."
"A benevolent one," Yoo‑ra teased. "Now repeat the hook: I'll fire laser pointers if you flub it."
Ha‑young cleared her throat, lifted her chin. "'I'm Kang Ha‑young of MiraWell—I specialize in fusing Korean flavors with global tastes to drive sustainable growth for local producers, because a single taste can tell a story that transforms communities and builds bridges across cultures.'"
Yoo‑ra nodded, a rare smile of pride on her lips. "Perfect. Now, heels?"
Ha‑young stepped into black stilettos. Each click on the hardwood floor was a drumbeat of determination. She caught her reflection one last time—dark eyes bright, lips curved in a confident half‑smile.
"You're going to crush it," Yoo‑ra said, opening the door. "Now go out there and show them who Ha‑young is."
Grand Chaeum Hotel, Ballroom Lobby
The lobby of the Grand Chaeum Hotel was awash in crystal chandeliers and a carpet the color of fresh crimson wine. Waitstaff in pristine uniforms weaved through clusters of guests, offering champagne flutes that caught the light like liquid diamonds. Harp music drifted softly from a corner stage where two musicians in tuxedos played for an audience of socialites and dignitaries.
Ha‑young paused at the threshold, heart fluttering. Her pulse synced to the staccato rhythm of clicking camera shutters. Press photographers lined one side of the lobby, aiming enormous lenses at arrivals. She straightened her posture, smoothing the fabric of her dress.
A uniformed attendant appeared at her side. "Ms. Kang? Welcome to the LJW Foundation Annual Gala. May I offer you a glass of champagne?"
She nodded, voice steady. "Thank you."
He handed her a slender flute. She lifted it, letting the pale gold bubbles tickle her senses, and whispered to herself, Be ready.
She practiced her pitch under her breath once more—quiet, confident. Then, spotting a cluster of MiraWell executives in a corner, she threaded her way through the crowd. They greeted her with surprised smiles and polite nods.
"Ms. Kang," said her department head, Han Ji‑min, offering a handshake. "You look stunning. And I hear you've been making quite the impression."
Ha‑young tucked a loose wave behind her ear. "Thank you, Director Han. It's an honor to be here."
As she sipped her champagne, she scanned the room for Lee Jae‑woon. Conversations swirled around her—talk of new charitable initiatives, high‑profile donors, and corporate alliances. The air was charged with ambition and glamour in equal measure.
Then, beside a towering marble column, she saw him.
He stood perfectly still in the center of a small circle of admirers, black suit impeccable, posture regal. His gaze rested on an elderly philanthropist as he discussed educational grants. Even from a distance, his presence was magnetic.
Her breath caught. She remembered the fluorescent glow of the boardroom, the sting of his critique, and now this—soft lighting, glittering gowns, but the same inscrutable eyes watching the world with quiet authority.
A waiter passed with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Ha‑young hesitated, then reached for a sesame‑crusted tuna canapé, taking a delicate bite. She focused on the bright, tangy flavor in her mouth to steady herself.
"You look pensive," came a smooth voice at her elbow.
She turned to see Lee Min‑joon—taller than she expected, with warm brown eyes and a genuine smile. He held out his hand. "Min‑joon Lee. May I?"
She offered her hand, and he shook it firmly. "Kang Ha‑young. I work at MiraWell with Han."
He nodded toward the corner where Ji‑min chatted with other directors. "I heard about your presentation this morning. Impressive work."
"Thank you," she said. "Gala speeches are a bit different from slide decks, though."
He laughed softly. "True. But the same skills apply: clarity, conviction, and a good hook." He raised his glass. "To new partnerships."
She tapped her flute against his. "To partnerships."
Their glasses chimed—a bright note cutting through the hum of conversation. For the first time that evening, Ha‑young felt a spark of ease. She glanced toward the column where Jae‑woon stood and took a deliberate breath.
Tonight, she had a mission: to prove she belonged, to represent MiraWell with grace, and perhaps, to uncover the man behind the billionaire's façade.
With Min‑joon's easy company by her side and Yoo‑ra's voice echoing in her mind—Be ready—she lifted her chin and stepped forward into the glittering swirl of the gala.