The fluorescent lights above flickered once, casting a sterile sheen across the MiraWell conference room. Kang Ha-young sat upright at the oval mahogany table, spine straight, fingers interlaced on top of her presentation folder. Outside the window, the Seoul skyline shimmered in the morning haze, as if mocking her with its promise of success—distant and unreachable.
"Ms. Kang," said Mr. Cho, the vice president of marketing, his tone clipped and dry, "we're waiting."
Ha-young's heart gave a rebellious thud. "Yes, sir," she said, rising on slightly unsteady feet. "I'm ready."
The room was filled with senior executives—men and women who wore their titles like armor, unimpressed and unforgiving. Ha-young walked to the front, laptop tucked under her arm, and connected the HDMI cable. Her reflection flickered briefly on the screen before her first slide appeared: bold, confident letters reading "MiraWell's Next Generation: Fusion Flavors for Global Palates."
She took a breath, steadying the flutter in her chest.
"Good morning," she began, her voice calm and clear. "I'm Kang Ha-young, junior brand strategist at MiraWell. Today, I'd like to present a campaign that merges Korea's culinary identity with global consumer trends."
With each click, a new slide bloomed: vibrant packaging designs, infographics showing pilot test results from Tokyo, influencer-driven campaigns. Her pitch flowed from memory, honed over countless late nights and instant ramen dinners. It was her baby, born from ambition and desperation—the kind only someone clawing their way up could truly understand.
"Our preliminary launch in select Tokyo districts showed a 27% sales increase over three months, due to targeted sampling, localized packaging, and strong digital engagement. The data suggests—"
"Where's the cost-per-unit breakdown?" one director interrupted, arms crossed.
She smiled without blinking. "Slide fourteen, sir."
"Have we secured international logistics partners?"
"Negotiations are underway with CJ Logistics and Hanjin Global," she replied. "If the board approves the Q3 budget, contracts can be finalized within ten business days."
The room quieted again, shifting from skepticism to calculation. Mr. Cho leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "Continue."
She did.
For twenty minutes, Ha-young laid out her vision—each statistic reinforced with narrative, each visual backed by strategy. This was her world, carved inch by inch in a male-dominated boardroom where juniors like her were usually tasked with fetching coffee, not proposing multimillion-won expansion projects.
As the last slide faded to black, she bowed politely. "Thank you for your time. I welcome your questions."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Mr. Cho clapped—twice, sharp and measured. "Not bad, Ms. Kang," he said. "We'll discuss this further at the afternoon session."
The rest of the board offered polite applause. A few managers gave small nods. Ha-young exhaled, heart still racing but body steady. She had survived. No—she had won.
She returned to her seat, fingers trembling just slightly as she packed her things. The others stood, chatting idly about stock prices and holiday plans. She'd almost zipped her bag when the door opened with a soft click.
The room fell quiet.
He walked in like he owned the building—which, in some ways, he did.
Lee Jae-woon.
He was taller in person, impossibly so. His tailored charcoal suit molded to his frame as if hand-stitched by angels, and his black hair was swept back with precision that spoke of control and discipline. But it was his eyes that silenced the air—dark, cold, and sharp enough to draw blood without a blade.
"Apologies," he said, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "Am I interrupting?"
"No, Chairman Lee," Mr. Cho said, already standing straighter. "We've just finished the internal presentation."
Jae-woon's gaze swept across the room, lingering on Ha-young. She rose instinctively, bowing at a perfect angle.
"I'm Kang Ha-young, sir," she said, her voice softer now.
"So I've heard." His tone revealed nothing. "Impressive work, from what I've been told."
She blinked. Was that… a compliment?
He turned to Mr. Cho. "Schedule a meeting for 5 PM today. I'd like to discuss a potential merger opportunity between LJW Foods and MiraWell."
"Yes, Chairman."
Without another word, he walked out, leaving behind an air of sharp cologne and unspoken questions.
Ha-young stood frozen. LJW Foods—the conglomerate known for swallowing weaker companies and spitting out their bones. If they were eyeing MiraWell, everything was about to change. And if she was attached to the campaign… she'd either be elevated—or eliminated.
Mr. Cho gave her a strange look. "You're on the merger team now. Be ready."
Be ready. Two words that brought back a wave of memories.
Rain pelting down the rusted rooftop of her mother's café in Busan. A power outage on the day of her middle school finals. Her mother sobbing silently as water seeped through the back door and ruined their rice stock. Ha-young, twelve years old, had picked up a broom, rolled up her sleeves, and whispered to herself, Be ready.
She wasn't born with privilege. She was born in the storm. And she had survived it.
"Understood, sir," she replied.
As the room emptied, her phone vibrated in her purse. A new notification flashed across the screen:
Invitation: LJW Foundation Annual GalaLocation: Grand Chaeum Hotel, Ballroom ATime: 7:30 PMDress Code: Black Tie
Ha-young blinked.
This wasn't a regular business event. It was one of those galas—where power danced with power, and billionaires used champagne flutes to make deals behind glittering masks.
She clicked "Accept" before she could second-guess herself. If Jae-woon was there—and he would be—she needed to make an impression. A real one.
"Looks like I'll need to find a dress," she muttered, slipping the phone back into her purse.
From across the room, a janitor entered, pushing a mop bucket. He gave her a tired smile. "Long day?"
"Just getting started," she replied, returning the smile.
Outside the building, the sky was turning overcast. A gray hue settled across the city. Storms might be coming again, but this time, she wouldn't be hiding from them.
This time, she was the storm.