The studio lights burned warm and sharp against the white seamless backdrop, the scent of hairspray and fresh fabric clinging to the air. Mirae stood in front of the camera, dressed in a bold, architectural gown of midnight blue, the kind of piece that screamed confidence—even if, underneath, she felt like she was barely holding it together. But Joon-ho was beside her, slipping effortlessly into his role—sometimes a pillar, sometimes her shield, sometimes the one who could make her smile in the middle of a blinding photoshoot with a single glance.

The photographer, a woman with pink hair and a lightning-quick tongue, barked encouragement as Mirae and Joon-ho shifted from look to look, outfit to outfit. "You two make this look easy. You sure you're not dating in real life? God, the chemistry—it's not even work for me. We'll be done in half the scheduled time at this rate!"

Mirae laughed, tossing her hair and playing along, letting herself lean into Joon-ho's frame as he caught her waist and spun her for a playful shot. There were moments the nerves threatened to bite through—the click of cameras, the whir of the fan, the studio assistants darting with racks of designer clothes—but in those seconds she remembered what freedom could feel like. Like breath. Like hunger.

They broke for a quick review. Stylists clustered around the digital display, clucking and praising. The images were crisp, natural, with an ease that looked rehearsed but wasn't. Mirae caught her own gaze on the screen, standing tall next to Joon-ho, her expression unguarded and alive. For once, she didn't look like a product; she looked like someone living her own story.

"That's enough, let's not ruin it by overdoing," the photographer declared, already snapping off her gloves. "Seriously—headline stuff, both of you. I'll get these out to your team by lunch. Go be stars."

The gratitude was mutual; everyone knew there wasn't a spare moment to waste. Mirae thanked the staff, shook hands, and squeezed Joon-ho's fingers as they hustled into coats and back out into the bright, chilly noon.

At LUNE's makeshift office, Harin had already set up the conference table, her laptop surrounded by stacks of press release drafts and schedule printouts. Hye-jin and the media team worked from an island of screens, every window open to group chats, trending hashtags, and the relentless tide of tomorrow's agenda.

The mood was a jittery mix of adrenaline and nerves, everyone talking over each other as the models arrived. Joon-ho set down his bag, Mirae trailing behind him, cheeks still pink from the lights. Harin greeted them with a tight smile—equal parts reassurance and worry. She didn't waste time.

"Tomorrow's the day," she said, not for the first time. "Press conference at Lumina, right after the public announcement. We go big, all together—LUNE, Lumina, and Yura herself. No leaks, no half-measures."

Mirae glanced around the table, acutely aware of the tension hiding beneath the surface. Even the media team looked up from their phones, waiting for direction. Yura's name hung in the air like a storm cloud, the elephant in the room that everyone was circling but hadn't dared address directly.

Hye-jin cleared her throat. "Should we brief the journalists beforehand? You know some will try to steer the questions toward Yura's divorce, or Mirae's break with EON. They want scandal, not fashion."

Harin nodded. "We'll send talking points, but there's always a few who ignore the rules for attention."

A media specialist piped up, "We can try to freeze out the troublemakers, but some are credentialed with major outlets. If they want to make drama, they'll do it, no matter how tight we keep the program."

The debate simmered—proposals, counter-proposals, war stories from years of handling celebrity press. At last, Joon-ho spoke up, his voice cutting through the buzz. "We're not here to hide. If they ask, we answer. Don't flinch. Tomorrow's about new beginnings—ours and Yura's. That's the headline, not the dirt. Don't give them more power by acting afraid."

His calm settled the group, drawing nods from even the youngest team members. Mirae felt a fierce surge of pride, not just for herself, but for all of them. She caught Harin's gaze, and they exchanged a quiet, steadying look.

As the meeting wound down, Harin reached for the remote and switched on the big TV at the end of the room. The local news was broadcasting live from Seoul Family Court—Seo Yura's divorce hearing.

The coverage was relentless. Footage flickered across the screen: Yura stepping from a sleek black car, head high, sunglasses in place. Paparazzi and reporters mobbed her path. The anchor's voiceover was solemn, almost reverent. "Seo Yura—Lumina CEO, fashion icon, now at the center of the year's most watched divorce. Baek Ji-hwan's legal team brought allegations against Ms. Seo, including financial misconduct and inappropriate relationships. The judge, however, dismissed all claims for lack of evidence. The divorce is finalized today. Ms. Seo did not request a settlement. The parties will separate all assets with no further claim."

Beneath the surface, the news scroll flashed: "Breaking—Seo Yura, with her father and mother, officially separates from main Seo family registration. No further statement issued."

The screen cut to a glossy panel studio, each guest's name floating below their faces, split evenly—three men, three women, with a stern moderator in the center. The first male panelist, a veteran entertainment columnist, shook his head in mild disbelief. "You have to ask: What was Seo Yura thinking? She walked away from a potential multimillion-won settlement. That's not empowerment—that's poor negotiation. Anyone in her shoes, after a decade building Lumina, should fight for what she's due."

Beside him, a business analyst nodded. "Right. In this industry, clean breaks don't exist. She'll regret it when the next scandal breaks, or when Baek's camp moves to poach her clients. There's no such thing as dignity in a divorce this public. She needed protection, not pride."

But the third woman, a journalist known for her biting editorials, cut in sharply. "That's a narrow, old-school view. What Yura did was gutsy. She didn't beg, she didn't drag it out. She walked away with her head high, her business untouched, and her reputation actually stronger for it. Money isn't everything. Independence is."

The moderator steered the discussion. "But isn't there a risk in refusing any settlement? Baek Ji-hwan's side is already spinning this as proof she was in the wrong."

The youngest woman, a digital influencer, leaned forward. "Come on, even the public can see through that. Did you see Baek's parade at the courthouse? Bringing his new mistress—European model or not—was a tacky power play. And look, the industry already responded: Seoul Fashion Week banned her. Yura's silence and clean break made him look desperate. The public respects that."

One of the male guests snorted. "That's sentimental. Public memory is short. She's alone now, no family backing, no husband, and she split from the main Seo registry. She's made herself vulnerable. A business leader should never isolate herself like that."

The second female panelist, a former entertainment lawyer, countered, "Or maybe she's drawn a line—no more being defined by men, family, or scandal. Lumina is her own. Breaking from the Seo family could mean she's planning a rebrand, or even something bolder. Either way, she's free of the baggage."

The moderator summarized, "So, is this a loss or a liberation? One side says she's given up leverage, the other calls it the ultimate power move."

The women exchanged knowing glances. "Let's be honest—if she were a man, we'd be calling her a maverick. She did what so many women wish they could: walk out, clean, and on her own terms."

As the feed cut away, the ticker continued: "Social media split over #SeoYura—heroic or foolish?" In the LUNE office, the team sat a little taller, hearing the women's voices rise above the old guard's caution, the sense that maybe, for once, the narrative was shifting.

Harin turned off the TV. The office fell silent for a moment, the gravity of the day settling in. Mirae finally spoke, her voice soft but resolute. "Unnie really knows how to take a headline. She didn't even flinch on camera. I wish I was that strong."

Joon-ho smiled. "Strength isn't just what you show the world, Mirae. Sometimes it's just refusing to let them write your ending."

Harin looked down at her notes. "Tomorrow will be rough. The press will push every button. But if we play it right, we can turn their noise into fuel."

Mirae ran her fingers along the seam of her coat, thinking of Yura facing the world alone at the courthouse. "What if she needs us on stage with her? I don't want her to feel abandoned."

"She won't be," Harin promised. "We go out there together. LUNE and Lumina—two brands, one front. If they try to spin this as defeat, we make it about freedom."

Joon-ho caught Mirae's hand under the table, squeezing gently. "We stand by her. She stood up for us. We make sure she knows we're not going anywhere."

Outside, the afternoon light shifted, casting golden slants through the windows. The office buzzed as everyone returned to their tasks, the pressure mounting. The media team finalized talking points, drafted social posts, scheduled influencer drops. Hye-jin rehearsed lines with Mirae for tomorrow's Q&A. Harin worked with PR to script potential answers to every scandal bait question.

By late afternoon, news tickers scrolled with nothing but Yura: "SEO YURA WINS CLEAN BREAK" and "SEO FAMILY SPLIT—WHAT NEXT FOR LUMINA?" The speculation was relentless, but inside the office, the team found a strange calm.

Joon-ho watched Mirae prep for her interview, saw Harin quietly re-reading press releases, saw the younger staffers rallying around Yura's example. It didn't matter if some voices called it a loss. Here, it felt like a beginning.

The night stretched long as last-minute calls and edits flew back and forth. Yura sent a single text—"Don't worry. Tomorrow is for us." Mirae smiled at the message, feeling the last weight slip off her chest.

Tomorrow the world would watch, and ask its questions, and try to shape the story. But tonight, under the tired yellow office lights, the team was writing their own—one built on clean breaks, and the stubborn hope that came after.

The city glimmered outside, alive and indifferent, but in this small, crowded room, possibility had never felt more real.

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