Lumina's office was already pulsing with an edge of urgency, the kind of electricity that only comes when something huge is on the horizon. Every phone rang too loudly, every shoe clicked too hard on the stone floors. Joon-ho stepped through the lobby's glass doors just after nine, running on four hours of sleep and the leftover adrenaline of last night's party. He took the elevator straight up, greeted by a quick bow from the front desk before he headed down the long, sunlit hall to Yura's private meeting room.

Inside, a half-dozen staffers were gathered around the conference table—Harin to one side, already scrolling her tablet, several directors, Yura's trusted PR lead, and her personal secretary perched nearby, typing live updates. The air was crisp with caffeine, the mood brisk, but exhaustion clung to everyone's features. Yura was at the head of the table, posture perfect, a cloud-grey suit cut sharp against her frame. She didn't look up when Joon-ho entered, but her gaze flickered his way in the glass, softening for a moment before she snapped her attention back to a set of printouts.

He took his time walking behind her, just close enough to lean in and press a gentle kiss to her hair. "Morning," he murmured.

Yura didn't miss a beat. "You look like you had fun last night."

A few heads whipped around, startled. It wasn't every day the ice queen of Korean fashion let herself be so familiar, especially not at work. Harin only grinned, used to the choreography of their intimacy.

"Brought everyone home in one piece," Joon-ho said, smile tugging at his mouth.

"Good," Yura replied, voice cool but fond. "I hate extra paperwork."

Without another word, she snapped her fingers, and her secretary scurried to fetch an extra chair. Yura gestured for Joon-ho to sit beside her. He dropped into the seat, crossing one ankle over his knee, the picture of a man unbothered by office hierarchies.

One of the junior directors shot Harin a questioning look. Harin just shrugged, as if to say: get used to it.

"Continue," Yura said, voice returning to steel.

The PR lead cleared her throat and began reviewing the day's agenda—final interviews, arrival schedules for VIP guests and international buyers, and a new proposal: bringing influencers in as part of the "media" pool for Fashion Week. "They're not press-trained, but their reach is incredible. We'd give them limited access and a set of ground rules."

Yura's expression stayed measured, but her eyes sharpened. "Influencers aren't journalists. Are you ready to handle the fallout if one of them goes rogue on a livestream? What's your real plan for managing them?"

There was a hesitation. The PR staffer glanced nervously at her notes. "We… haven't finalized the guidelines yet. It's still under discussion."

Joon-ho let the silence hang for a moment, then spoke up, his tone gentle but firm. "Why not flip it? Instead of just letting them roam, pick a few carefully—give them curated backstage passes. Let them stream, but only from a controlled area. Show off the prep, the chaos, but keep the brand protected. And if we do a live runway stream, that's free publicity to millions—especially since we can't sell backstage passes to the public anyway."

A ripple of interest went around the table. The marketing lead nodded, jotting notes. Harin chimed in, "It'd give us more hype and keep control. We just need to nail down who's actually invited."

That's when the PR lead winced. "We, uh, haven't picked the influencers yet. There's a short list, but…"

Yura tapped her fingers against the table. The tiny sound made everyone sit straighter. "You're telling me, with less than forty-eight hours, you haven't secured the faces who will represent our brand to half a million teenagers?"

Awkward silence. Staffers shuffled printouts, phones glowed with frantic scrolling.

Joon-ho tilted his head, a half-smile curving his lips. "Didn't Harin network half the club last night? Anyone with real potential, or just party chasers?"

Harin grinned, confident in her element as CEO. She tapped her tablet, projecting profiles onto the main monitor. "Already ahead of you. I've narrowed it down to four. All with over five hundred thousand followers, solid reputations, and actual fashion credentials—no skeletons in their closets. We've got a Paris-trained Korean trendsetter, a Japanese streetwear icon with a huge youth audience, a classic beauty with viral makeup tutorials, and a Thai influencer who's built a cult following off travel and real lifestyle vlogs."

The staff immediately dove into research, pulling up the candidates' accounts. There was a soft chorus of approval—engagement rates, style diversity, and consistent branding. But Joon-ho, scrutinizing the feeds, cut in with his trademark bluntness. "This one," he said, pointing to the makeup star, "all I see are selfies and ad tags. It's just her face and product codes. She's not building community or showing any real voice. We need people who understand story, not just their own reflection."

Harin nodded, her decision quick. "Agreed. The last thing we want is a diva more interested in her own feed than ours. I'll take her off the list."

She straightened, addressing both Yura and the rest of the team with CEO authority. "My recommendation is this: we bring in the remaining three for Fashion Week as a trial. VIP access, permission to shoot select backstage and rehearsal content, but also a challenge—can they handle the pressure, play as part of a team, and actually bring fresh perspective? Make it clear this isn't just for the show—if they impress us, if they prove their worth and fit our vibe, I want us to consider offering them a spot at LUNE as proper agency talent. Not just brand partners, but recruits. We need next-gen voices with real skin in the game."

Yura's eyes sparkled, pleased by the decisiveness. "Good. Set it in motion. Make sure the invitation spells out what's at stake—access, opportunity, and a seat at the table if they can keep up."

The PR lead was already scribbling notes. "Understood, Harin. I'll coordinate the invites and draft NDAs for trial collaboration and potential recruitment."

Yura's lips curled in a rare, satisfied smile. "This is why I let you run LUNE, Harin. We don't need copycats. We build the next wave."

Excitement flickered through the team—this wasn't just a campaign, but the chance to shape LUNE's future, scouting not just models or influencers, but possible new stars.

The meeting moved quickly after that, each staffer taking their cue and leaving with a little more spring in their step. When the last door clicked shut, Yura slouched back in her chair, rolling her neck with a sigh. The armor slipped from her voice. "God, I'm tired. I can't remember the last time I slept more than four hours."

Joon-ho leaned in, running his thumb along her temple. "Let Harin run point for a bit. She's a good CEO—besides, I hear she's angling for extra affection."

Harin, who had paused in the doorway, shot a wink over her shoulder. "It's true. Double duty, double the rewards. Remember that, boss."

Yura managed a laugh, tension easing. "Remind me to give you a raise."

Harin grinned and left to handle influencer outreach, leaving them alone in the glass-walled room.

For a moment, silence settled—an island of peace in a storm of preparation. Joon-ho moved behind Yura's chair, hands kneading her scalp, gentle and grounding. "You're allowed to be tired. You've carried this whole empire on your back for years."

She let herself sag into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. "It's not the show I worry about. It's everything else. The gossip, the politics, the expectation. One mistake and people act like I've failed."

"You haven't failed," Joon-ho murmured. "Not even close. Everyone's here because they trust you. Because you never let the fear win."

Yura sighed, letting the vulnerability show just for him. "I want this to work. Not just for me, but for everyone who bet on me after the divorce. After the scandal. Sometimes I wish I could just… disappear for a week and let someone else hold the world up."

He kissed the crown of her head. "Let me hold it, at least for an hour."

She smiled, lazy and honest, the sharpness blunted by fatigue. "You can try. I make no promises."

A soft knock at the door. Harin poked her head in again. "Sorry to interrupt—Min-Kyung messaged, said she's ready for your fitting whenever you are. She's got coffee and pastries."

Yura rolled her eyes. "That woman's more efficient than my entire logistics team."

Joon-ho straightened, smoothing Yura's hair. "I'll check in after. You want me to bring you back something?"

Yura snorted. "If it's edible, yes. If it's another weird Min-Kyung health smoothie, don't you dare."

He grinned. "You got it, boss."

She glanced at him, softer now. "Don't flirt with too many women in the boutique."

He shot back, "No promises," as he dodged a pen she flung at him, laughter finally breaking the last of the morning's tension.

He left, pausing in the hallway to look back—catching Yura, silhouetted against the Seoul skyline, head bowed in thought. She didn't see him watching, but he saw her: brilliant, relentless, human.

Downstairs, the office buzzed with new energy—plans in motion, emails firing, team after team prepping for the biggest show of their lives. And at the heart of it, Yura, pulling every string, trusting—at least for today—that she didn't have to do it all alone.

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