The dining room felt suffocating the next morning.
Minho sat across from his father at the massive mahogany table, the weight of the expensive silverware he had used while growing up feeling foreign in his hands. His appetite had completely vanished, as it always did when he was forced to share meals with Chairman Seo Woobin.
The spread before them was elaborate, as always.
Perfectly prepared Korean dishes that would have made his mouth water under any other circumstances. Fluffy white rice, grilled mackerel with crispy skin, seasoned spinach banchan, and soup that steamed invitingly in ceramic bowls.
But everything tasted like sand when consumed under his father's watchful gaze.
Minho forced himself to take measured bites, chewing mechanically while his stomach churned with anxiety. The food was exceptional, of course it was.
