Myung-dae's black motorbike echoed off the glass-and-steel canyons of Seoul's financial district before purring to a stop along the VIP curb.
Towering directly above him was the gleaming thirty-story monolith housing the headquarters of 'Mise-en-scène'. Thirty years ago, his father, Lee Taek-young, and his closest friend from the Kim family had scraped together enough capital to open a single, modest corner café. Three decades of relentless expansion had transformed that humble storefront into South Korea's undisputed food-and-beverage titan—commanding thousands of cafés and franchises across the peninsula, alongside a handful of fledgling international branches that still had the conglomerate operating like an ambitious freshman in overseas markets.
Myung-dae killed the ignition, swung his leg over the seat, and pulled off his helmet, shaking out his tousled dark hair.
Standing calmly near the automatic glass lobby doors, looking effortlessly poised in a tailored cream blazer, was Kim Bi-yeon, the youngest daughter of the Kim family, and Myung-dae's so-called future fiancée.
From the relaxed tilt of her head, it was obvious she had been waiting for him.
A genuine, easy smile broke across Myung-dae's face, instantly softening his usual guarded demeanor.
He tucked his helmet under one arm and strolled over.
"Look at you, flying solo today," Myung-dae teased, stopping beside her. "Did Seol-ae finally ditch you?"
Bi-yeon waved a manicured hand dismissively, a knowing smirk curving her lips.
"Please. She's probably busy flirting with another boy somewhere across Gangnam. Come on, we're already cutting it close."
As they stepped through the sliding doors, the lobby security guard immediately bowed. Myung-dae gave a lazy salute in return as they bypassed the main turnstiles and boarded the elevator.
"Did anything interesting happen in Kirin?"
Myung-dae thought for a moment.
"Nothing much. We got a new exchange student from Ukraine, he's... loud."
The lift shot silently to the thirtieth floor.
"And annoying," he added.
Bi-yeon only chuckled.
"Myung-dae, it's easier to say who doesn't annoy you than to count those who do."
"Hm, there's one."
She tilted her head.
"It's you."
When the polished doors slid open, the expansive reception desk stood completely deserted.Bi-yeon tried to hide her red ears and change the topic. Neither Myung-dae nor Bi-yeon looked remotely surprised.
"Let me guess," Bi-yeon deadpanned as they walked down the carpeted corridor. "The Femmittee is holding another emergency hearing in the ladies' room?"
Myung-dae chuckled low in his throat. "How many times do I have to tell you? Gossicate has a much better ring to it."
Before Bi-yeon could argue, a nearly bald man in a pinstriped three-piece suit practically glided out from an adjacent corridor, intercepting them.
It was Mr. Ye Ga-sin, the Head of Human Resources—a man notorious throughout the building for speaking Korean as if he were an eighteenth-century French aristocrat lost in Versailles.
"Ah, bonjour, Mademoiselle Bi-yeon!" Mr. Ye clasped his hands together, showering her with an exhausting barrage of flowery compliments about her radiance, her grace, and her impeccable choice of lapel pin. Flush with momentum, he pivoted smoothly toward Myung-dae, inhaling deeply to launch into a second monologue. "And our young monsieur Myung-dae, looking ever so—"
"Mr. Ye Ga-sin," Myung-dae cut in smoothly, his tone polite yet unmistakably firm. "Is everyone already in the conference room? Then shall we..?"
Mr. Ye blinked, his theatrical rhythm thoroughly derailed. Flustered, he hurriedly reached out to shake Myung-dae's hand with both of his own. "O-Of course!"
Twenty people were already seated around the massive, oval walnut table when Mr. Ye pushed open the heavy double doors—making it twenty-two once Myung-dae and Bi-yeon slipped into the designated seats nestled between their respective families.
On the left sat Myung-dae's parents, Lee Taek-young and Lee Hye-won. Across from them sat Bi-yeon's parents and her older brother—whose smug, self-satisfied posture immediately made Myung-dae's jaw itch.
Predictably, Bi-yeon's notoriously eccentric aunt and her twenty-something boy-toy were absent once again, likely off on some unannounced getaway. Rounding out the table were the Finance Director, the Vice-President, various department heads, and the Director of Public Relations.
Before the quarterly slides could even flicker onto the main screen, the company's flamboyant and cunty Creative Director—draped in an avant-garde silk blouse and metallic rings that screamed high-fashion runway—tilted his chin up and appraised Myung-dae from head to toe with dramatic, theatrical disdain.
"Darling, please," the Creative Director drawled, waving a limp wrist toward Myung-dae's black leather jacket and dark jeans. "If you wander onto the tasting floor dressed like that, the investors are going to mistake you for the heir of Buldak spicy noodles. We sell artisanal tiramisu lattes, sweetheart, not nuclear ramen."
A ripple of stifled chuckles rolled around the boardroom table, and even Myung-dae couldn't suppress a crooked smirk.
As the formal presentation began, Bi-yeon immediately shifted gears, flipping open a notepad beside the Director of Public Relations. She worked officially as the PR Director's assistant—a stepping stone she treated with fierce seriousness, fully intending to claim the top PR chair for herself once she graduated. She listened intently, jotting down notes on brand positioning and media outreach.
Myung-dae, by contrast, leaned back in his ergonomic leather chair, spinning a Montblanc pen lazily between his fingers while letting the endless stream of franchise metrics and profit margins wash right over his head.
With all the youthful bravado and restless energy of a seventeen-year-old who lived for loud amps and midnight rides, Myung-dae was in zero rush to inherit a corporate empire. He knew that someday, years down the line, the responsibility would inevitably fall on his shoulders—and honestly, the only thing that ever tempted him to care right now was the thought of Bi-yeon's arrogant older brother trying to snatch the CEO chair first. Their silent rivalry had simmered since they were kids. Fortunately, with barely a two-year age gap between them and at least a decade before their fathers planned on retiring, there was no immediate crisis worth losing sleep over. If nothing unexpected happens, of course.
An hour later, the meeting finally adjourned, filling the hallway outside the boardroom with the low murmur of dispersing executives.
Lee Taek-young walked out alongside Bi-yeon's father, clapping his old friend on the shoulder with a booming laugh.
"I swear, if there is anyone in this entire building who loves 'Mise-en-scène' more than the two of us, it's your Bi-yeon."
Myung-dae and Bi-yeon stepped out together right behind them, ready to make a quiet escape toward the elevators. They made it three paces before Taek-young turned, his jovial expression hardening into a stern, fatherly frown as his eyes landed on his son.
"Myung-dae-ya, a word," Taek-young said, stepping into his path. "You need to come to your senses. Stop wasting your time playing around with bands and chasing delusions in the entertainment industry. It's time you started taking a proper economics and business curriculum seriously—look at how sharp and prepared the Kim family's eldest son already is."
Myung-dae's easy posture vanished in an instant. His cat-like eyes went flat and cold.
"I didn't ask for a career lecture in the hallway, Father," Myung-dae cut him off sharply, his voice dropping an octave. Without waiting for a reply, he pivoted on his heel and strode briskly toward the elevator bank.
Behind him, Bi-yeon didn't bother hiding her reaction—she shot Lee Taek-young a cold glare before turning to follow Myung-dae.
Bi-yeon's father let out a quiet sigh, placing a steady hand on Taek-young's shoulder.
"Ease up on the boy, Taek-young-ah. We're practically brothers, so I'll tell you straight—pushing him like that will only drive him further away."
Right on cue, the Kim family's eldest son strutted up to the group, puffing out his chest with unbearable arrogance.
"Actually, Uncle Taek-young is completely right," he chimed in with a bossy, condescending sneer. "A successor needs discipline, not hobbyist—"
SMACK!
The boy's head snapped forward as his mother delivered a swift, resounding slap squarely to the back of his skull.
"Shut your mouth and go check the quarterly printouts," his mother hissed, glaring daggers at him while Taek-young's father coughed loudly to hide a sudden laugh.