Baek Ji-hwan stood in the glaring white lights of Hanzenith Capital's main conference hall, flanked by executives in tailored suits and his European model mistress, who radiated calculated warmth every time a camera panned her way. The city's financial press, a few select influencers, and hungry young reporters packed the rows, a standing-room crowd that buzzed with anticipation—this was the first public appearance since the divorce was finalized, and Baek intended to make it count.

The opening was pure bravado: Baek outlined Hanzenith's recent string of "unprecedented successes" in the crypto market, describing in careful detail their proprietary trading algorithms and the "strategic partnership" with Arrowpoint Capital out of Singapore, a name that carried real weight with last year's blockchain returns. His smile was practiced, his gaze never quite warm, but the room was rapt as he promised Hanzenith would soon place Korea at the center of the global financial future.

His voice boomed with slick assurance. "We are not just investors. We are architects of a new world. Today, I am proud to unveil the next phase of our expansion—a proprietary blockchain, the Hanzenith Stablecoin, and a platform where every user can stake for 20% per annum. We guarantee 1:1 reserves. Your funds are SAFU—secured, audited, and insured. Hanzenith will be Korea's passport to the new economy. Join us, and you join the vanguard."

Flashbulbs burst as the European mistress pressed her hand to Baek's shoulder, eyes bright and glassy for the cameras. She leaned in, English tinged with a French accent, gushing about the "visionary leadership" she'd witnessed behind closed doors, how Korean innovation and "young, international blood" would take Asia to the next level. Baek basked in the moment, pausing only for a glass of sparkling water as his PR team nodded from the wings.

The family patriarch, flanked by several younger Seo cousins, beamed with pride—Yura's branch nowhere in sight, of course. Baek announced their forthcoming asset management venture with the Seo family, then rolled out a new referral bonus program for the Hanzenith app, promising even greater rewards for users who brought in friends and family. The crypto faithful on Telegram and Twitter began to froth in real-time, their messages popping up on big screens behind the stage.

When the Q&A began, the questions came fast—about the Hanzenith coin's underlying tech, regulatory hurdles, the specter of global hacks and rug pulls. Baek parried every concern with a performance honed in boardrooms and media training. "Our team is world-class. Security is our religion. Not a single won is unbacked. Our platform is transparent and fully licensed. In fact, the Financial Services Commission called us a model for compliance. The world will follow our lead."

A financial reporter from Nikkei pushed, "What of the recent divorce from Ms. Seo Yura, Lumina's CEO? How will this affect Hanzenith's relationship with the Seo group, and what message does it send to investors?"

Baek barely blinked. "Business, like life, requires decisiveness and sometimes ruthlessness. Fashion is legacy money—static, nostalgic. Hanzenith is the future. My partnership is with those in the Seo family who share my vision, not those clinging to the past. This is what leadership looks like." The family patriarch nodded approval, his younger heirs snickering behind their hands.

The European model interjected, voice sweet and cutting: "I am so proud to stand beside a man who isn't afraid to put the future first. The world belongs to those who seize it."

The press corps scribbled furiously, the narrative already pivoting—Baek, the bold disruptor; Yura, the discarded past. Social media feeds filled with shots of Baek's smile, the model's cheekbones, the Hanzenith coin's launch banners sparkling in the background. The room dissolved into applause, Baek's team already lining up afterparties and private interviews.

Halfway across the city, the mood could not have been more different.

The presidential suite at the Grand Meridian Hotel was a fortress of quiet after the day's chaos. Yura sat in an armchair by the window, a delicate cup of tea cradled in her hands, gaze fixed on the city lights below. Harin stood at the minibar, swirling a glass of pinot, jaw set hard as she watched the muted replay of Baek's press conference on the flatscreen. Min-Kyung sprawled across the long couch, her phone in one hand, absently scrolling through live tweets with a look of almost amused disgust. Mirae perched at the edge of the coffee table, half-eaten cake in her lap, eyes darting between the TV and Yura. Joon-ho was the last to enter, a tray of takeout boxes balanced on his arm, only pausing when he saw the tension carved across Harin's shoulders.

They watched in silence as Baek strutted across the stage, talking up his coin, letting the model drape herself across his arm. The laughter from the Seo patriarch was met with a sharp exhale from Harin. "That pig," she muttered, lips pressed thin. "Look at him—acting like he's Korea's answer to Satoshi, and dragging your name for attention."

Yura set her tea down with a quiet clink, her face a study in composure. "He's always needed a stage. Let him have it. I'd rather not waste my anger on insects."

Mirae, younger and less practiced at masking emotion, burst out, "But he's lying—everyone knows Hanzenith is just Baek's showboat! No one trusts those coins for long. And the way he talks about you, unnie…" She trailed off, frustration turning her cheeks pink.

Min-Kyung chimed in, sardonic. "Let's stake a few million in Hanzenith Coin. I'll bet it's a rug pull by winter." She flipped her phone so Mirae could see the trending hashtags—#BaekVisionary and #SeoFamilySplit. "Honestly, it's just noise. People will move on."

Joon-ho set the food down, shaking his head. "He's selling wind, not substance. Let him talk. Our work speaks for itself."

Harin, still pacing, pointed at the TV as the model gushed about Baek's 'modern leadership.' "You could run circles around both of them, Yura. Instead you have to sit here and watch this circus act."

Yura's eyes twinkled with a sharp, tired humor. "I've done my share of circuses. The trick is knowing when to leave the tent."

The tension broke. Min-Kyung snorted, then dissolved into real laughter. Even Mirae smiled, picking at her cake. Joon-ho poured a round of drinks, offering Mirae sparkling water and the others a generous pour of wine.

Harin finally sank onto the couch. "So what now? We eat overpriced room service and pretend today never happened? Or do we go out and show this city how real leaders unwind?"

Mirae's eyes brightened, the weariness melting away. "I want to go dancing! I never got to—EON would track us, and any rumor was a scandal. I want to see what a real club is like, not just what's on TV."

Min-Kyung perked up, elbowing Mirae. "Careful. You ask for a night out with us, you get the full experience—drinks, selfies, bad decisions, and a group chat you'll regret in the morning."

Harin grinned. "Sounds perfect. Let's book a table at Cloud 9—they've got private booths, a view of the city, and enough security to keep out the tabloid flies. We can celebrate LUNE's launch in style."

Yura watched the growing excitement, lips quirking. "I have dinner with my family tonight. Smaller table, but just as loud. Joon-ho, would you come with me?" She asked it as a question but with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

Joon-ho stilled, cheeks coloring under Min-Kyung's sly gaze. Mirae feigned shock, grinning. "Unnie, you're bringing him home already? Isn't that fast?"

Min-Kyung fanned herself with a napkin. "Henpecked husband in training. I want a full report, Yura—are you going to show him the baby photos too?"

Joon-ho groaned, but the protest was halfhearted. "You're all cruel. Should I bring wine? Flowers? An offering for the ancestors?"

Yura fixed him with a smile that was both warm and sharp. "Wine, of course. Something older than Baek's new girlfriend, if you can find it."

The laughter rang out, filling the suite with the first real sense of joy since the morning. Harin, always half in charge, laid out the plan. "Girls' dinner, then we meet at the club. Mirae, Min-Kyung, you're with me—no excuses. Joon-ho, if you escape alive, come join us. And I'm texting Hye-jin right now to make sure someone keeps us out of jail."

Min-Kyung huffed. "If Hye-jin's coming, she's not allowed to kill the mood. Just don't let her confiscate my phone."

Mirae giggled, tucking her legs under herself. "I want a selfie with everyone on the dance floor. I want to see Min-Kyung doing body shots. I want to forget about EON and just be stupid, for one night."

Yura stood, smoothing her suit, the CEO mask dropping just enough for affection to show. "You deserve it. All of you. Tomorrow we go back to the grind. Tonight, we celebrate."

As everyone scattered to prepare, Mirae lingered, catching Joon-ho's sleeve. "You're nervous, aren't you?"

He rolled his eyes. "She's going to interrogate me. I'm not even officially her boyfriend, and it feels like a trial by fire."

Mirae's smile was gentle. "Just be yourself. She doesn't invite people in easily—you know that. If she's bringing you, it means you're already family."

That word—family—hung between them, heavier and warmer than anything Baek had thrown across the city.

Yura's family dinner was a small affair, intimate, filled with familiar jokes and a few gentle questions. The awkwardness dissipated quickly. Yura's father was quiet but approving; her mother, sharper, pressed him on his ambitions and his intentions. It was less a trial and more a test of sincerity, one that Joon-ho passed not with clever words, but with honesty and a willingness to listen.

Across town, Min-Kyung and Harin ordered appetizers, Mirae wide-eyed at the velvet ropes and pulsing lights of Cloud 9. They laughed over every little thing—bad dates, fashion disasters, backstage panic. For once, Min-Kyung was the life of the party, dragging Mirae onto the dance floor, snapping group photos, tossing back shots with Harin. The club's glass walls showed the city stretching forever, Seoul neon and alive.

When Joon-ho arrived, tie askew, cheeks flushed from a second round of Yura's family scrutiny, the women let out a cheer. Hye-jin was already holding court at the VIP booth, sipping club soda, half-watching, half-protecting. Harin tossed Joon-ho a drink, Mirae dragged him into a group selfie, Min-Kyung clung to his arm for a round of playful photos.

There were no headlines here, no crypto coins or family betrayals. Just music, sweat, laughter, the flash of lights, and the intoxicating relief of belonging. Min-Kyung declared, "To LUNE! To new families! And to rug-pulling Baek's next venture, may it flop as hard as his marriage!"

They toasted, clinking glasses, not caring what tomorrow would bring. For tonight, Seoul belonged to them—not to old money, not to crypto dreams, not to headlines. For tonight, they were simply together, writing a story no one else could steal.

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