Chapter 155: Chapter 155: Night Above Seoul

The last rays of sunlight slipped through the boutique’s glass as Min-Kyung’s staff packed the last of the dresses away. The workday’s frantic rhythm was winding down, replaced by a new energy—restless, giddy relief, models stripping off heels and trading runway poses for inside jokes. Joon-ho watched from across the room, catching the tail end of a heated debate between Min-Kyung and Alina, flanked by Natty in an oversized sweatshirt and the Japanese model, Yumi, in battered jeans and a tank.

He made his way over, slipping a hand around Min-Kyung’s waist. She barely flinched—just leaned into his side, letting the warmth of his palm settle her after a day of wrangling egos and fabrics.

Alina noticed first. "There he is. Joon-ho, your woman’s been keeping you all to herself."

Yumi grinned. "Maybe she’s afraid you’ll run off with one of us."

Min-Kyung snorted, rolling her eyes. "He’s more trouble than he’s worth, believe me." But she didn’t pull away.

The conversation tumbled naturally toward plans for the night. Alina, always the instigator, propped herself on a table edge, legs swinging. "We should go out. Dance, drink, get into trouble. There’s that new club in Gangnam—"

Natty wrinkled her nose. "No offense, but those clubs are full of spoiled boys. The kind who think ’model’ means ’free plaything.’ I want a drink, not a fight."

Yumi nodded, echoing in Japanese. "Last time, some rich kid tried to tip me to take a selfie."

Alina shrugged. "Well, what else is there? We need to celebrate making it through another week of Min-Kyung’s tyranny."

Min-Kyung shot her a mock-glare. "Keep talking, and you’ll be celebrating alone."

Alina grinned wider, leaning toward Joon-ho. "You’re a man of mystery, Joon-ho. Got any secret spots for tired, traumatized models?"

Joon-ho felt the eyes of all three settle on him. "Nothing public? No bodyguards, no flashing lights?"

"Somewhere private. Somewhere we can take off our shoes and not be stared at," Natty said, twirling a lock of hair.

He weighed his answer. "I might have a place. If it’s free tonight."

The girls perked up, curiosity suddenly as sharp as it was collective.

"Free?" Min-Kyung echoed, eyebrow arched.

He reached for his phone, stepping away as the models chattered behind him. He scrolled through his contacts and tapped a name—"Madam Ha-eun"—waiting as the line rang twice.

The answer came in a voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that immediately made you feel like you were in on a secret. "Joon-ho? Been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He smiled, his voice dropping into the easy warmth reserved for old friends. "Ha-eun, I’ve got a group—models, a designer, myself. Looking for a little escape. Any chance you’ve got a slot open tonight?"

There was a rustle on the other end, the sound of glass clinking and distant jazz. "You’re in luck. My only reservation just cancelled. It’ll be just you and your friends—no interruptions. You know the way."

He let out a breath. "Thank you, nuna. We’ll be up in an hour."

She laughed, velvet and mischief. "Bring good stories. I’ll have the rooftop ready."

He hung up, returning to the girls. "We’re in. Private rooftop bar. Only one group allowed each night—tonight, that’s us."

Min-Kyung blinked, caught off guard. "Since when do you have access to places like that?"

Alina clapped. "Finally, a real VIP night!"

Yumi pressed for details, rapid-fire. "Is it expensive? Is there karaoke? Will there be food?"

Joon-ho shrugged, letting the suspense linger. "No karaoke unless you beg. Food’s amazing. You’ll see."

Natty gave him a sly look. "You have secrets, oppa."

He winked. "A few."

The girls scattered to gather their things, trading dresses for comfortable jeans and sneakers, dabbing on lipstick and spritzing perfume. Alina was first out the door, jacket slung over bare shoulders, Natty and Yumi in tow, and Min-Kyung paused just long enough to grab her phone, eyeing Joon-ho as though to say: You’d better not disappoint.

They piled into Joon-ho’s black sedan, Yumi and Natty squeezing into the back seat with shopping bags and laughter, Alina calling shotgun with the confidence of someone born to command a room.

"Where is this place, anyway?" Natty asked, cranking open a window to let the night air in.

"Somewhere you’ll want to remember, but not post on Instagram," Joon-ho replied.

The car zipped through city streets, sunlight fading behind towers of glass. The models made a game of guessing their destination—Gangnam penthouse? Secret hotel? Private gallery?—but none came close. Min-Kyung studied the passing landmarks, suspicion dawning only when they pulled into the familiar underground parking of Joon-ho’s building.

"Wait," she said as they stepped into the elevator. "You brought us home?"

He shook his head, pressing his access card to the scanner. "Rooftop. Not mine—belongs to the woman who owns the building. She runs a private bar up there. No walk-ins. Invitation only."

Alina grinned. "So, it’s your secret lair. Should we be scared?"

Yumi giggled. "As long as there’s good food and no hidden cameras."

The elevator hummed upward, anticipation growing. When the doors slid open, they stepped out into a softly lit hallway, the city splayed out in twinkling neon below. Only one door waited, painted a deep, glossy black.

Joon-ho knocked once. The door opened almost immediately, revealing a woman with the kind of presence that could only be called regal. She was in her late thirties, maybe forty, long hair swept back in an elegant chignon, eyes dark and knowing. Her body was voluptuous, curves wrapped in a simple silk dress, skin luminous under the golden lighting.

She swept them inside, arms open, smile wide. "Welcome. You must be the famous models. I’m Ha-eun, your hostess—and Joon-ho’s oldest accomplice."

Her gaze flicked to him, a teasing warmth in her tone. "He’s a good man, but a terrible drinker. I promise to keep him out of trouble."

Alina, undaunted, offered her hand. "Alina. Are you sure you can handle us all?"

Ha-eun laughed, shaking it firmly. "I’ve handled worse. Come in, take your pick—window, bar, sofa. The night’s yours."

The space was a marvel: low sofas, jewel-toned pillows, a marble bar at one end tended by a young woman in neat black slacks and a crisp white shirt. She was everywhere at once—wiping down glasses, slicing limes, setting out delicate plates of appetizers. The walls were lined with books and old photographs, the lighting soft and golden. And, beyond the glass, the rooftop terrace opened out to a garden of lantern-lit tables, the city humming below.

The girls spread out, dropping bags and jackets, spinning in slow circles to take it all in. Yumi dove for the window seat, Natty slung herself onto the plushest sofa, Alina wandered straight to the bar, examining bottles with a connoisseur’s eye.

Ha-eun moved among them, distributing welcome cocktails—chilled, faintly floral, perfectly balanced. "House special," she said. "Not too strong, but it’ll loosen your tongue. Joon-ho, same for you, or something stronger?"

He grinned. "I’ll trust your judgment."

Min-Kyung hesitated near the door, taking it all in. Ha-eun offered her a quiet smile. "You look like someone who needs to be taken care of tonight."

Min-Kyung smiled back, the day’s tension fading a notch. "You have no idea."

Ha-eun gestured to the multitasking staffer, a young woman with a messy ponytail and sharp, alert eyes. "This is Su-bin. She does everything here. Drinks, food, music—if you want it, just ask."

Su-bin offered a bow, her smile shy but genuine. "If you need anything, just wave. I’ll make it happen."

The girls settled quickly, drinks in hand, the walls between them melting as the city lights brightened outside. The conversation tumbled from runway gossip to horror stories about celebrity parties, to whispered confessions about ex-lovers, all lubricated by Ha-eun’s perfectly timed drink refills and Su-bin’s discreet service.

Alina tested the boundaries first. "So, Joon-ho, how did you score this place? Special arrangement?"

Ha-eun answered before he could. "He’s got history—helped my husband’s company, once upon a time. Now, he gets special privileges. But don’t worry, you’re all my VIPs tonight."

Natty perched beside Yumi on the wide window ledge, feet tucked beneath her. "It’s beautiful up here. Like we’re above everything."

Min-Kyung and Ha-eun slipped into easy conversation, trading stories about the horrors of running your own business, the impossible demands of clients, the rare joys of seeing your work pay off. The models drifted between the terrace and the bar, their laughter rising above the low jazz from hidden speakers.

Su-bin moved quietly, delivering fresh plates—tiny toasts topped with smoked salmon, slender glasses of cold noodles, bowls of sweet, crunchy pickles. Yumi made delighted noises at each new dish, her phone quickly filling with photos she swore not to post.

The night deepened, the city below transforming into a tapestry of light. The rooftop bar became a bubble of warmth and safety, far removed from the chaos and competition of Fashion Week. Alina started a round of toasts—"To survival! To freedom! To secret places!"—and Ha-eun matched them glass for glass, her laughter growing richer with every round.

Min-Kyung, finally unwinding, slung an arm around Joon-ho’s shoulders and leaned in, her breath warm in his ear. "You did good. I needed this. We all did."

He squeezed her hand, letting the moment linger. "It’s not over yet."

Yumi, emboldened by wine, challenged Natty and Alina to a truth-or-dare round, the game growing rowdier as the rooftop air cooled. Ha-eun kept the drinks coming, Su-bin refilled plates, and somewhere between secrets and dares, the group settled into a rhythm of shared pleasure and trust.

As the hour grew late, Ha-eun dimmed the lights on the terrace, setting lanterns aglow, and invited them all outside to watch the city breathe. The group spilled onto the rooftop, laughter echoing in the dark, faces soft in the candlelight. No one reached for their phones. No one wanted to break the spell.

For one perfect night, they were suspended above the world, held by good company, good drinks, and the kind of ease that only came when you knew you were safe, unseen, and—if only until morning—untouchable.