Chapter 153: Chapter 153: Deals & Dressing Rooms

Kim Joon-ho stepped into Lumina’s lobby with the kind of unhurried confidence that only came from years navigating rooms thick with secrets and ambition. The reception staff straightened in their seats, one of them—Mina, if he remembered right—offering a smile that was both greeting and silent acknowledgment: you’re a regular, but today’s different. There was tension humming in the air, a faint static beneath the surface of glass and polished steel. Everyone knew something was brewing—everyone in Korean fashion always did.

He gave his name, and Mina’s voice was soft as she handed him a visitor’s badge he didn’t need. "The meeting room’s ready, Mr. Kim. Would you like coffee while you wait?"

"Thank you. Black," he said, returning her nod with a subtle smile. As he moved to the elevator, he felt eyes on his back—curiosity and maybe a bit of awe. Even here, in Seo Yura’s kingdom, rumors about EON, about Mirae, about buyouts and betrayals, spread faster than wildfire. Drama was currency; reputation, a weapon.

Upstairs, the meeting room was awash in late morning sunlight. Park Jae-hyun was already there, a lawyer’s uniform in a dark suit, tie loosened just enough to signal long hours, not carelessness. He looked up from a thick folder bulging with annotated contracts. "Joon-ho. Good timing."

Joon-ho set his coffee down and offered a hand. "Hyung, you look like you haven’t slept since Tuesday."

"Not since EON started pulling their old tricks." Park’s handshake was dry and steady, but his eyes had a restless gleam. "Sit. Let’s get you up to speed."

He slid the folder across the table. "EON’s official settlement—five billion won to release Mirae, as expected. No NDA clause, which I flagged. They’re desperate, but not as careful as they used to be. If you pay, they can’t gag Mirae or you. You’ll be able to make a statement."

Joon-ho opened the contract, skimming with the fast, predatory focus he’d honed in boardrooms and late-night crisis meetings. "No NDA?" He met Park’s eyes, a trace of surprise there. "They’re slipping."

Park’s smile was tight. "They set the trap assuming most sponsors would fold. It’s about sending a message—punish one, scare a hundred. But I think they underestimated how much you’re willing to bleed for your artists."

Joon-ho’s mouth twitched. "I’ve lost more money sitting on my hands than fighting for the right thing. Mirae’s not just a commodity. I’d burn five times this much to keep her from being broken by that machine."

Park studied him for a moment. "You sure you’re stable enough to take this hit? Five billion isn’t a rounding error, even for you."

"I’m liquid enough." Joon-ho didn’t blink. "Besides, some wars are worth burning the ships for. If I let this go, what am I?"

For a moment, Park just watched him, the weight of the decision passing between them. Then he nodded, as if ticking a mental box. "Understood. On your signature, I’ll move the funds. You’ll be clear before Fashion Week. EON will bluster—they always do. I’d brace for a smear campaign. They’ll manipulate hashtags, leak old videos, maybe spread rumors about drugs or money. You know the drill."

"They’re playing the same script." Joon-ho scrawled his signature, passing the contract back. "We’ll write a better one. I want Mirae’s freedom public—the press release goes out the day the ink dries."

Park’s smile widened, this time a little proud. "You’ve got balls, Kim Joon-ho. Not many left in this business. On a separate note, I’ve started the paperwork for your new agency—based on your idea. Place for artists, by artists. We’re close to approval—should have everything wrapped just before the first show. You’ll have a home base for Mirae, maybe a few others."

"Good. We’ll need safe harbor." Joon-ho’s gaze was distant for a moment. "This industry eats its own."

Park hesitated, then said, "I’m meeting Seo Yura next—her divorce is heating up. Her husband’s playing hardball, but she’s got more leverage than she thinks. Hanzenith’s exposure is wider than he realizes."

Joon-ho’s expression softened, just a shade. "She deserves better. Baek Ji-hwan never cared for her, just her brand."

"Agreed. But power is all he understands." Park stood, tucking the folder under his arm. "Anyway, wish me luck. I’ll update you once I’ve spoken to her."

They stepped out together, the hush of the office momentarily parting for them. At the elevators, they paused—Park turning left, Joon-ho right. A moment’s silence: two men, both about to enter a different kind of war.

"See you on the other side," Park said.

Joon-ho smiled, tired but unbowed. "Don’t let the sharks bite."

Park’s laughter was quick, but his eyes were serious as the doors slid shut behind him.

Downstairs, Joon-ho moved through the lobby without hurry, but inside, his mind was racing—numbers, timelines, the faces of those depending on him. Outside, Seoul glared bright and sharp, a city of opportunities and knives.

He walked across to Jung Min-Kyung’s boutique. Fashion Week was days away, and if the legal world thrummed with tension, the fashion world practically vibrated with it. Models, managers, designers—everyone was on edge, desperate, hungry, tired.

The boutique was a riot of activity, as always. As he stepped inside, the first thing that hit him was color—fabrics everywhere, some draped over racks, some clutched in nervous hands, some puddled on the floor like silk blood. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and anticipation. Min-Kyung’s voice cut through it all, sharp and clear.

"I said no last-minute weight changes! If I have to pin these dresses again, I’ll use safety pins and you’ll walk like porcupines, do you hear me?"

A chorus of laughter, groans, a few nervous apologies. Min-Kyung was everywhere at once, clipboard in hand, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, her eyes scanning everything, missing nothing. Joon-ho took a seat on a low sofa near the back, greeted by one of the assistants with a nod and a cup of coffee—someone had already anticipated his arrival. That was the power of being part of Min-Kyung’s inner circle: you never waited, and you never got ignored.

He picked up a sketchbook from the table, flipping through designs—thigh-high slits, strappy bodices, even one with a barely-there chain across the hips. There was a philosophy behind all this: dresses that made women feel both untouchable and irresistible, armor and invitation in one.

As he turned another page, someone slid onto the seat beside him with the casual confidence of a woman who’d never been told no. She was tall, all legs, with white-blonde hair twisted up and a body that didn’t so much wear lingerie as dare you to stare at it. Lace, silk, a faint gold shimmer.

"You look a little overdressed for this room, don’t you?" she said, English crisp and teasing.

Joon-ho set the sketchbook aside, hiding a smile. "I left my lingerie at home. Next time I’ll try to fit in."

She laughed, flashing perfect teeth, settling her bare thigh against his as if she belonged there. "If you do, Min-Kyung will put you in the show. She loves surprises."

"Trust me, she already knows my body better than any tape measure," he said, voice low and playful.

The Russian model—Alina, he thought, or maybe Daria—arched a brow, delighted. "So you’re the infamous Joon-ho. She warned me about you."

"All lies, I’m sure."

"Of course," she said. "But she says you’re the only man in Seoul who can survive her schedule."

He shrugged. "Or at least her coffee."

They shared a laugh, the kind that came easy in this world—brittle, a little hungry, always edged with flirtation. She sipped from his coffee, uninvited, and handed it back. "Strong. Just like her."

Across the room, Min-Kyung finally freed herself from her chaos and stalked over, clipboard in hand, her dark hair a wild halo. "Of course you two find each other. I leave you alone for five minutes and it turns into a lounge."

Joon-ho spread his hands. "Just waiting for your permission to join the circus."

Min-Kyung snorted. "You’re already part of the show. And you—" she pointed at the Russian model, who grinned. "Go put on the red set, not the blue. The lighting’s shit for blue."

Alina stood, stretching languidly, and kissed Min-Kyung’s cheek with a theatrical flourish. "You should share your man, darling. One night. I promise to return him mostly intact."

Min-Kyung rolled her eyes. "He’s a handful. You might want help."

"Maybe I like a challenge," the model shot back, blowing a kiss to both before sauntering away, bare feet whispering across the hardwood.

Joon-ho watched her go, then glanced at Min-Kyung. "She’s wild. You sure you can handle her?"

Min-Kyung grinned, exasperated but amused. "I don’t control her. I survive her. But with you here, maybe she’ll behave for once."

Their eyes met—history, tension, laughter, and something softer all tangled in that look. Around them, the boutique pulsed with movement: assistants running, models complaining, music thumping softly in the background, every minute ticking closer to the opening night.

Min-Kyung dropped onto the sofa beside him, letting herself breathe for half a second. "You’re a sight for sore eyes, you know that?"

He bumped her shoulder with his, gentle. "And you look like hell. You should sleep."

"Sleep is for the weak." She sighed, watching her staff flit past. "EON’s got something up their sleeve. I can feel it. But if you’re here, I’m not worried."

"Park’s moving fast. Mirae will be free. The new agency is real—almost. You just have to keep your models from mutiny until Friday."

She leaned her head against his arm, just for a second, her voice dropping low. "Sometimes I wish I could run away from all this. Just disappear."

He squeezed her hand, careful not to mess her rings. "Maybe after the show. We’ll disappear together."

She smiled, soft and rare, before sitting up, businesslike again. "No promises. Now go check on the fittings. If any of those girls gain a centimeter, I’m blaming you."

He stood, mock-saluting. "Yes, boss."

She laughed, shooing him away, already barking instructions at a trembling assistant. He made his way toward the back, passing racks of barely-there dresses and a model practicing her walk in sky-high heels.

The boutique was a world unto itself—chaotic, beautiful, driven by desire and ambition, underpinned by friendships forged in fire. Joon-ho felt the weight of what he carried—Mirae’s freedom, Yura’s escape, Min-Kyung’s survival. It was a dance on a knife’s edge.

Somewhere behind him, the Russian model was laughing again, calling to another girl in rapid-fire Russian. Min-Kyung’s voice sliced through it all, sharp and sure.

Fashion Week was coming, and war was already in the air.