The Color Of Secrets.

Chapter Three

Chapter three

The headquarters of Kim Minho Couture towered above Seoul’s fashion district, a glass monolith that caught the morning light like a jewel. Inside, everything was immaculate: marble floors polished to a shine, walls lined with minimalist art, the faint scent of fresh orchids drifting through the lobby. It wasn’t just an office—it was a statement. KMC wasn’t only Korea’s biggest fashion house; it was a global empire.

On the top floor, the executive boardroom buzzed with activity. Screens flickered with charts, models of upcoming lines, and profit projections from Europe, New York, and Milan. The long table was filled with directors and investors, some attending in person, others appearing through sleek video panels from across the world.

At the head of the table sat Kim Minho. Black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. While others shuffled papers and cleared throats nervously, he looked almost bored, as if these billion-won numbers meant nothing.

Beside him stood Rose, his executive assistant. She was tall, poised, and efficient to the point of intimidation. A digital tablet in her hand, she whispered updates only when necessary, her tone calm, clipped, professional. If Minho was ice, Rose was glass—sharp, clear, and untouchable.

“Mr. Kim,” one of the board members said from the far end of the table, “the proposed partnership with LVMH Asia could expand KMC’s luxury presence globally. Paris has already shown interest in our Spring line. This deal could push us into the top three houses internationally.”

The screen behind them shifted to sleek visuals—runways in Paris, collaborations with Italian leather brands, projected revenue in clean, ascending lines.

All eyes turned to Minho.

He leaned back, one hand brushing lightly against his jaw, gaze fixed on the numbers but betraying no reaction. The silence stretched, heavy.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, measured. “And what do they want in return?”

A man in glasses cleared his throat. “Exclusive rights to KMC’s luxury bridal collection. They believe it could dominate the European market under their banner.”

The room shifted uncomfortably. Everyone knew what that meant—handing over creative control of one of KMC’s signature lines.

Rose glanced at Minho, waiting. She knew his tells—how his fingers tapped once when annoyed, how his lips pressed into a thinner line when unimpressed. This time, he did neither. He simply watched, calculating.

“I don’t hand over my work,” Minho said finally, each word clipped. “Not for Paris. Not for New York. KMC designs stay under KMC.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“But, sir,” another voice cut in from a screen, an American investor, “if we reject, they’ll take the deal to Kai—”

Minho’s eyes flickered, just for a second, sharp and cold.

Rose stepped in smoothly, her voice steady, professional. “Mr. Kim isn’t rejecting the deal. He’s rejecting their terms. If LVMH wants KMC, they will come back with something that respects creative integrity.”

Her words landed like a gavel, final.

Minho stood then, closing the folder in front of him. “This meeting is over. Rose, prepare the counterproposal. By Monday.”

“Yes, sir,” Rose said, already typing.

As the board scrambled to collect their things, one thought lingered in the air: Minho didn’t bend. Not for investors. Not for global brands. Not for anyone.

As Rose followed him out of the boardroom, tablet in hand, she wondered—as she always did—if there was anyone, anywhere, who could keep up with Minho Kim. The man was a force of nature, composed yet terrifyingly precise, and even she, his loyal assistant, sometimes felt dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of his presence.

In the lobby, the air had grown tense. A petite, impeccably dressed woman was arguing with the security personnel stationed near the entrance. Her voice carried over the marble floors, sharp, clipped, and full of entitlement.

“You cannot stop me! Do you know who I am?!” she barked, her designer heels clicking like gunshots against the tiles.

The guards exchanged wary glances, repeating their polite insistence. “Ma’am, sir requested—”

“I don’t care what he wants! I am his guest, and you are harassing me!” she snapped, her eyes scanning for someone who could intervene.

That’s when her gaze landed on Minho.

For a fraction of a second, the arrogance in her posture faltered. Minho’s sharp silhouette framed in the lobby light, expression unreadable, sent an immediate chill through her. She straightened, almost too sweetly, glancing at the security team.

“Oppa….” she cooed, voice saccharine, “it seems your staff is harassing poor me. Surely you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Minho said nothing. His presence alone was enough to hush the space around him. He didn’t move toward her. He didn’t acknowledge her words. He simply turned on his heel, eyes forward, walking past with his usual deliberate stride.

Rose, walking slightly behind, saw the subtle flicker of anger cross his features—a storm contained but palpable.

“Rose, call in Liam.” he finally said, voice low and sharp as he gestured toward the security team, “escort her out. Now.”

The guards moved swiftly, politely but firmly guiding the woman toward the elevators. She tried to protest, flailing with her designer purse, but Minho’s presence was a silent command she could not defy.

Once the woman was gone, Minho didn’t look back. Rose matched his pace, keeping her tablet close and her thoughts in check, knowing better than to ask questions.

Minho strode back into his office, the click of his heels echoing against the polished marble floor. The doors closed behind him with a quiet finality, shutting out the lingering chaos of the lobby.

He sank into his high-backed leather chair, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. The anger from the encounter hadn’t dissipated—it simmered, coiled beneath his calm exterior. On the sleek desk in front of him, piles of contracts, design mockups, and emails waited patiently, unaware of the storm in his mind.

With a fluid motion, Minho opened a drawer and pulled out a phone. He flipped it open, his eyes narrowing as he scrolled briefly through the contacts. Then, with deliberate precision, he dialed.

The line rang twice before a cheerful, hurried voice answered. “Yes, Mr. Kim?”

“Be ready. Eight sharp,” he said, his tone flat but commanding. No room for argument, no room for delay.

“Yes, sir! I’ll be ready,” the woman replied, her happiness barely masking the tension she felt under his exacting expectations.

He ended the call, slipping the phone back into the drawer. Silence settled over the office, punctuated only by the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.

Minho leaned back, eyes fixed on the city skyline. The day had already tested him, and yet, it had only begun.

The Saturday sun had long dipped behind Seoul’s skyline when Zara found herself tugging at the straps of her bag in the Kim mansion’s foyer. Only hours ago, she had been laughing with Ji Yoon and enjoying the kind of carefree Saturday she never got.

Then Ms. Lee’s message had come: “Miss Park, could you please come tonight instead of tomorrow? Your quarters are ready, and we need you here this evening.”

Zara had blinked at her phone, then sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Saturday evening, huh… alright, Ms. Lee,” she muttered.

Ji Yoon had frowned immediately, arms crossed dramatically. “Wait. You’re leaving today?!”

“Yeah,” Zara replied, shrugging. “She said I could move in tonight. I guess it’s… sooner than planned.”

Ji Yoon’s hands flew to his cheeks in mock horror. “Noooo! This is unacceptable. I am not prepared for this level of abandonment!”

Zara rolled her eyes, smirking despite the lump in her throat. “Dramatic as ever. I’ll survive.”

“You’ll survive?!” he echoed, pacing. “No, no, no. This is a tragedy of cosmic proportions! Who’s going to argue with me when I’m wrong? Who’s going to tolerate my lazy ass at all hours? Zara, I… I’m going to miss you like the city misses sunlight in winter!”

Zara laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He shot her a mock-offended look. “Ridiculous? Me? Please. I am a tragic hero, and this—this separation—is an epic injustice.”

Helping her gather her things, Ji Yoon stuffed an extra sweater into her bag. “Here, take this. And don’t you dare forget it. If you do, I will personally track you down and lecture you for hours!”

Zara laughed, already feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll survive, okay?”

“You won’t,” Ji Yoon muttered dramatically, as he fished out his phone making a call. “Alright, parents—yes, both of you—Zara’s moving into the Kim mansion tonight. Yes, it’s official. Don’t panic, she’s alive, I swear. Yes… yes, she’s working as a maid. No, no, don’t laugh too hard—wait, Mom, Dad, stop bashing me!”

From the other end of the line, laughter erupted. “Ji Yoon! You lazy boy! Why is Zara leaving first? Go, go, go—she’ll be happy, you’ll survive!”

Zara smiled warmly, listening to the voices that had raised her in every sense but biology. “I love you both,” she whispered.

Ji Yoon’s voice came, mock-serious and resigned. “It’s obvious they love you more than me anyway. I’ve been replaced, folks. I’ve accepted my fate.”

Zara laughed through the sting in her chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you,” Ji Yoon said, rolling his eyes. “Now go. Move in. And don’t forget to text me every day.I’m fragile, Zara. Fragile.”

She leaned in, giving him a quick hug. “I’ll be fine. Stop worrying so much.”

“Not possible!” he whispered fiercely, hugging her tighter. “You’re my best friend, and this—this is pure injustice. Now go before I start crying like a toddler in the hallway.”

With that, Zara grabbed her bag, took a deep breath, and stepped toward the elevator, Ji Yoon trailing behind her with exaggerated gloom. The last words she heard as the doors closed were:

“Don’t forget me! And remember, I’m still your unpaid life coach!”

Zara smiled, shaking her head, her heart both heavy and buoyed as she stepped into a new chapter.