執着 (Shūchaku) - Attachment

Fuck you’re so tight. You whisper to your monthly budget after spending three thousand dollars. You then realize it is in your best financial interest if you just died yesterday.

That’s what the plate costs. You’d balked at the number when you researched it, but then you’d calculated the potential return on investment and transferred the money anyway (you’re starting to feel like you don’t have a choice in Tsuki’s games). 

It’s just a month of eating nothing but instant ramen, all good.

Now you’re standing in the Park Hyatt ballroom, nursing champagne you’re forced to carry around, scanning the crowd for a woman you’ve never actually seen.

Kwon Eunbi. Runs the family’s venture fund. Daughter of Kwon Minjun, the shipping magnate who built an empire from a single cargo container and what your research politely categorized  “aggressive business practices.”

You’ve perused her resume. You know her role in this game of thrones. Her mask is still on and you’ve yet to see her true face.

She keeps a low profile which means no socials—no press conferences; a ghost to people who are not in the same tax bracket. The only photo you found was from a Harvard alumni newsletter, grainy and five years old, mostly obscured by a podium. Smart, probably. When your family’s net worth has eleven digits, anonymity is a luxury worth protecting.

Your phone buzzes. You’re not surprised anymore.

But this time it isn’t Tsuki.

Kim Jiwoo · Seoul Financial Review · Voicemail (3)

Three voicemails. Three. From a journalist whose byline alone makes lawyers nervous. This is fine. You silence the phone in your pocket and pull it out again, this time braced for what comes next.

stop looking so constipated

show them that you belong here

act like it Akihiro-kun~

You glance around the room. She’s nowhere to be found. Of course, she’s never anywhere until she wants to be. You give up trying to figure it out.

You slide your phone in your pocket and try to actually look like you belong.

Nope. It doesn’t work. Who am I kidding?

Three people you recognize from past industry events have already done the classic Tokyo Sidestep: That maneuver when someone spots you; calculates the reputational cost of association; and then suddenly discovers the most fascinating painting on the opposite wall.

The gratitude of the finance world. So fickle. Truly heartwarming.

You’re contemplating whether the open bar is worth the walk across the room when someone appears at your elbow.

“You look like a man who’s doing math he doesn’t want to do.”

The words hit you like a slap. You turn, half-expecting dark eyes and that dangerous smile.

But the woman standing there is nothing like Tsuki.

“Sorry”, you manage. “What?”

She’s short. Barely reaches your shoulder, even in heels. But she carries herself like she’s six feet tall, shoulders back, chin lifted, taking up space in a way that makes you notice her despite her size. Her face is open and expressive, eyes bright with amusement, mouth curved into a smile that’s warm instead of cunning.

“You’re doing calculations.” She points and gestures at your face with her champagne glass. “I can see the spreadsheets running behind your eyes. Let me guess. Cost-benefit analysis of whether the networking potential justifies the plate price?”

“More or less.”

“The answer is no, by the way. The people worth talking to at these things don’t care about the gala. They come for the after-parties.” She extends her hand. Her grip is firm, warm, no hesitation. “Kwon Eunbi.”

Kwon…

Kwon!

Your brain, still hungover from a week of Tsuki’s games, takes a full three seconds to catch up. This is her. The daughter. The one Tsuki pointed you toward.

“You’re…”

“The chairman’s daughter. Yes.” She’s still smiling, and finally lets go of your hand. “And you’re Hinode Akihiro. The Ishikawa refugee father won’t stop talking about.”

“Your father…”

“Mentioned you, raved about you even. Multiple times over dinner, actually. Something about discretion, and restructuring and a man who actually reads the fine print.” She tilts her head, studying you so openly that it’s almost unsettling after Tsuki’s constant obscurity. “He said you seemed like someone who could be trusted. And hmm. I wanted to see that for myself.”

“And? What do you think so far?”

“Hmmm. I’m not sold yet.” She’s still smiling; the corner of lips reaches her eyes. “Buy me a drink or two and improve your odds.”

You’re already walking toward the bar before you realize you’re doing it. You hope she likes water because that’s all you can afford right now.

✦✦⟡⟡⟡⟡

She’s an animated yapper; talks with her whole face and her hands. 

That’s the first thing you notice. Everything she says comes with gestures: pointing, waving, occasionally touching your arm with her soft, warm hands when she’s making a point. 

Normally, it would be annoying. It isn’t; far from it.

“Harvard was a blast but academically, it was fine,” she’s saying, swirling her wine. “The MBA was useful. But true education was watching my father breeze through a hostile takeover when I was just fifteen: Boardroom politics, shareholder manipulation, the art of knowing which knife goes in which back—and when to twist it.” She grins. “You don’t learn that in business school.”

“Uh… Your father seems…”

“Ruthless? Yeah, of course he is. But, he is also fair, which I understand might be hard to believe.” She sets her glass down. “He’s a man who respects competence. Maybe that’s why he’s drawn towards you.”

“He doesn’t know me that well yet.”

“He knows your work. The Taniguchi restructuring, that was all you, wasn’t it? Everyone assumed it was Matsuda leading, but the footnotes told a different story.”

You blink. Closed your mouth you didn’t know opened. The Taniguchi deal was four years ago. Buried in the middle of your tenure, overshadowed by bigger clients, and flashier wins. You’d honestly forgotten anyone outside the firm even knew about it.

“Wait, how did you…”