POV: Kang Ha‑young
The private dining room at Le Ciel Bleu, perched on the sixty‑third floor of the Plaza Tower, was a world unto itself—soft ivory walls, bronze sconces casting pools of golden light, and a single mahogany table set for three. Ha‑young paused on the threshold, her reflection rippling in the floor‑to‑ceiling window that framed Seoul's glittering nightscape. Below, traffic streams looked like veins of light; above, the stars were hidden behind city glow.
She smoothed her burgundy lace dress and inhaled, inhaling the scent of sandalwood candles and fresh white orchids. This was nothing like the gala's grandiosity or the boardroom's clinical precision. Here, the air was hushed, intimate—yet every element bore Jae‑woon's unmistakable stamp of control and elegance.
"Ms. Kang, thank you for joining us," came Park Eun‑sook's warm voice as she stepped forward to greet Ha‑young. She offered him a graceful nod, then motioned toward a seat at the table's far end. "Chairman Lee will join us shortly."
Ha‑young lowered herself onto the cushion, her pulse steadying. The fine china, delicate crystal stemware, and menu printed on heavy vellum all whispered that this was more than a casual thank‑you dinner. This was an initiation.
Before she could open the menu, Eun‑sook pressed a slender black folder into her hands. "You'll find tonight's agenda here—an outline of discussion points Chairman Lee requested. I'll be at your side if you need anything." She gave Ha‑young's hand a reassuring squeeze and slipped away.
Ha‑young opened the folder. Inside were two parts:
Strategic Discussion
Rural pilot initiative expansion
Community‑kitchen logistics and partnerships
Phased marketing budget alignment
Personal Introduction
Jae‑woon's professional background highlights
His vision for the LJW Foundation's future
Meeting goals and etiquette reminders
Her breath caught at the last line: "Prepare one personal question to foster rapport."
She bit her lip. A personal question? Was cordial small talk a strategy or genuine courtesy? Either way, it was meant to blur the barrier between business and… something more. She rifled through the folder for a tear‑sheet photo of Jae‑woon hosting last year's foundation gala by the Han River. Below it, a brief note: "Chairman's passion project: scholarships for lost‑child education." A personal question might be: "What inspired you to champion that cause?" She tucked the note into her clutch.
Then the door opened.
Jae‑woon entered with measured strides. He wore a midnight-blue dinner jacket, black satin lapels catching the soft light. His hair was sculpted just so, and his posture was impeccable—shoulders squared, chin lifted. He paused at the head of the table, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on Ha‑young. For a moment, they regarded each other in mutual appraisal.
"Good evening, Ms. Kang," he said, voice low and even. "Thank you for making time on such short notice."
She rose to greet him, heart thumping. "Thank you for the invitation, Chairman Lee. This place is beautiful."
He inclined his head and took his seat. "Please, call me Jae‑woon."
Her pulse stuttered. The informality felt startling and… welcome. She slid into her seat, smoothing her dress once more. Eun‑sook moved to pour a glass of mineral water for Ha‑young, then a neat tumbler of aged bourbon for Jae‑woon himself.
"I thought a quieter setting would suit our conversation," Jae‑woon said, folding his hands on the tabletop. "The gala was… festive, but late‑night crowds aren't conducive to detailed planning."
She nodded. "I appreciate that. And I'm eager to dive into the rural‑pilot proposal. I brought all the supporting data and my initial vendor contacts."
He gestured to a seat opposite her, and Eun‑sook placed a second folder in front of him—her proposal refinements. "Excellent. I've reviewed your board presentation. But here, we can discuss logistics without time constraints."
For the next several minutes, they spoke business—mapping supply‑chain nodes, debating grant‑allocation percentages, and outlining contingency plans in case of natural disasters or local permit delays. Ha‑young was precise and articulate; Jae‑woon listened with an intensity that sharpened her focus. At one point, he raised a question about regional taxation codes in Vietnam, and she produced a tablet loaded with digital tax‑code excerpts. He raised an eyebrow in impressed acknowledgment.
As they crossed the midpoint of the first section, Ha‑young realized that the candlelight had softened his features—the arch of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw—not quite humanizing him, but making him less distant. She sensed curiosity beneath his disciplined exterior.
Eun‑sook reappeared with amuse‑bouche: a single bite of smoked salmon atop a rice cracker, garnished with a dot of wasabi crème. Ha‑young tasted the smoky richness, the spark of heat at the back of her throat, and felt a thrill of exhilaration. This was a private symphony of flavors—the perfect complement to the strategic discussion.
When Eun‑sook withdrew, Jae‑woon leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Impressive palate," he remarked. "And impressive preparation. You anticipated every one of my concerns."
Ha‑young set down her fork. "In my experience, a successful partnership is built on anticipating—no, understanding—your counterpart's needs and constraints. If we do that, we can achieve real impact."
He considered her words before responding. "Indeed. Knowledge is power. But passion is its catalyst." He paused, and she realized this was her opening. The personal question.
She took a breath. "Speaking of passion—if I may ask… what inspired your focus on lost‑child education at the foundation's inception?"
He looked away, gaze drifting to the window. Below, the river shimmered like molten silver under streetlights.
"In my mother's memory," he said quietly. "She believed every child deserved a chance. Ten years ago, she established a scholarship fund for talented students in rural provinces. When she passed… I promised to expand that work." His eyes found hers. "It's personal—for me, it's about fulfilling her legacy."
Ha‑young felt the weight behind his words. This wasn't corporate spin; it was the pulse of his humanity. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said softly. "She must have been extraordinary."
He inclined his head, expression unreadable for a heartbeat, then relaxed. "She was. Just as you must have your own story of influence."
She thought of the Busan café—her mother collapsing in exhaustion, the community rallying around them, and her own vow to fight every flood. "My fight wasn't philanthropic," she admitted, "but personal too. When our café almost flooded in Busan, I realized how nourishment and support are intertwined. That memory shaped my belief that food can tell a story and bring people together."
He studied her in the light of a flickering candle. "It seems we share a similar philosophy, despite different paths."
They fell into contemplative silence. The soft chop of knives and forks came from the main dining room through a slightly ajar door. Somewhere, piano music began to play.
Eun‑sook returned with the next course: heirloom tomato carpaccio topped with micro‑greens and a shaving of aged parmesan. Jae‑woon sipped his bourbon; Ha‑young took a bite of the tart, sun‑ripened tomato. The flavors were lively and layered, echoing the earlier amuse‑bouche.
As she ate, Jae‑woon leaned back. "Your insights in the boardroom this morning were invaluable—especially your proposal to seed pilot centers in rural regions. I believe that approach will set us apart from other chaebols, who chase profits over purpose."
A warm glow spread across Ha‑young's cheeks. "Thank you. I believe that impact drives sustainable growth. When local producers thrive, our brands thrive too."
He nodded approvingly. "Well said."
They continued through the courses—seared scallops on a bed of truffled cauliflower purée, followed by a duet of Wagyu beef and glazed kabocha squash. Each dish was a conversation of taste and texture, mirroring the strategic dialogue they wove between them.
Midway through the main course, Ha‑young realized Jae‑woon was watching her, not the meal. She paused, fork halfway to her lips.
"Ms. Kang," he said, voice gentle, "call me Ha‑young-sshi—not Ms. Kang. And call me Jae‑woon. Formality can wait."
Her throat went dry. The invitation to drop titles felt like stepping into uncharted territory. "Jae‑woon," she tried, voice steady. "Then—Ha‑young."
He permitted himself a half-smile. "Ha‑young, then. Your story… it resonates. I think we can collaborate in ways neither of us anticipated."
They clinked glasses—her white wine, his bourbon—and drank.
As dessert arrived—mango panna cotta with sticky rice pearls—Eun‑sook discreetly ushered a waiter in to refill Ha‑young's water. She caught the older woman's eye; Eun‑sook gave a slight nod and vanished again.
Jae‑woon looked at the panna cotta, then at Ha‑young. "Do you like mango?"
"I do," she said, digging in. "It reminds me of summer back home—warmth, brightness."
He watched her thoughtfully. "I've arranged for a culinary retreat in Busan next month—to meet producers and sample regional delicacies. I'd like you to join me and share your expertise."
Her heart thundered. "That… would be an honor."
He leaned forward, sincerity in his eyes. "Consider it part of your consulting role—half business, half… discovery."
Her mind raced. A trip to Busan meant returning to the place where her story began. It meant standing beside him—no, not beside, but with him—in the town that had shaped her. It meant something new, something beyond spreadsheets and slideshows.
She let the moment hang. The candles flickered; the city lights beckoned.
Finally, she nodded. "I look forward to it."
He exhaled—a sound soft and unguarded. "Good. Then I'll have the schedule sent to you at first light."
They finished dessert in companionable silence, savoring the sweetness that spoke of new beginnings.
When the table was cleared, Jae‑woon folded his napkin with quiet deliberation. "Thank you, Ha‑young, for joining me this evening—not just as a consultant, but as a partner in purpose."
She felt warmth bloom in her chest. "Thank you for the invitation—to dinner and to this collaboration."
He stood and offered his hand. She took it, and for a moment, they remained connected—two worlds converging at the candlelit table.
As they exited the private room, the hotel's grand lobby glowed like a promise. Ha‑young realized that in a single evening, she'd crossed a threshold: from corporate strategist to something more personal, more profound. The storm of ambition had given way to a calm she hadn't known she sought—and in that tranquility, the spark between them burned brighter than any chandelier.