The Grand Meridian's restaurant glimmered with warm gold and deep shadows, a hush settling over its private dining suites where the city's powerful retreated to talk, to plot, to make peace. Yura paused just outside room 7 with Joon-ho, the hush of carpets beneath their shoes, her nerves thrumming despite everything she'd faced in boardrooms and on stage. She gripped his arm for a heartbeat—steadying herself, or maybe steadying him—and then slid the door open, a bright smile blooming across her face.
Her mother was already rising, graceful in a pale-blue hanbok, sharp eyes softening as Yura entered. Her father—tall, grave, with a gentleness behind his tiredness—stood with a slight wobble, pride and worry wrestling across his features. "Daughter," he said, and Yura was briefly a little girl again as she swept into his arms, hugging him tight. Her mother folded her in next, the embrace lingering, her voice low against Yura's hair: "You look too thin. Are you sleeping enough?"
