The apartment felt emptier by the hour, boxes half-packed and suitcases open like gutted animals, luxury scattered alongside tangled bras and chargers. Min-Kyung stood in the chaos, her phone clamped between shoulder and ear as she jabbed a makeup brush through her tangled hair. Yura leaned on the bedroom door, arms folded, smirking at the mess.
Min-Kyung swore in English at her New York assistant, "No, I said the brown boots. Brown. Not taupe, not beige—" She rolled her eyes. "You'd think these people have never seen winter. Ugh."
Yura snickered. "You're packing like you're staging a one-woman invasion."
"Bitch, I AM. New York fashion week is war. And don't judge me—you have more shoes than I have panties."
Yura padded in, grabbing a blouse that looked more like bondage gear than high fashion. "Will you actually be back for Christmas, or is Tom Ford keeping you on a leash again?"
