The Grand Meridian's restaurant glimmered with warm gold and deep shadows, a hush settling over its private dining suites where the city's powerful retreated to talk, to plot, to make peace. Yura paused just outside room 7 with Joon-ho, the hush of carpets beneath their shoes, her nerves thrumming despite everything she'd faced in boardrooms and on stage. She gripped his arm for a heartbeat—steadying herself, or maybe steadying him—and then slid the door open, a bright smile blooming across her face.

Her mother was already rising, graceful in a pale-blue hanbok, sharp eyes softening as Yura entered. Her father—tall, grave, with a gentleness behind his tiredness—stood with a slight wobble, pride and worry wrestling across his features. "Daughter," he said, and Yura was briefly a little girl again as she swept into his arms, hugging him tight. Her mother folded her in next, the embrace lingering, her voice low against Yura's hair: "You look too thin. Are you sleeping enough?"

Yura pulled back, grinning, and turned to gesture Joon-ho forward. "I brought a guest. You remember Kim Joon-ho, don't you?"

Her father's eyes narrowed in the dim light, then lit with surprised recognition. "From the BboBbo incident! The young man who helped us with that mess." He extended both hands, gripping Joon-ho's warmly. "You saved my skin back then. Sit, sit. It's good to see a familiar face—for better reasons this time."

Joon-ho bowed deeply, letting a rare smile slip. "I'm honored, Chairman Seo. I've wondered how you were doing since then."

"I'm better now, thanks to you—and thanks to Yura bringing new luck to our table."

The server appeared with practiced grace, pouring tea and setting out delicate starters—pickled vegetables, seared fish, braised beef. They settled into their seats, the outside world fading as the meal began.

Conversation flowed first on safe ground—business, the taste of the food, how Seoul's skyline had changed in the last year. But the edges sharpened as Yura's father glanced at her, then at Joon-ho. "We watched the news today," he said gently. "You've had a hard week."

Yura set down her chopsticks, face composed but her eyes a little glassy. "I have, but it's over now. And you know I don't regret it. Not for a second."

Her mother's voice cut in, firmer. "You shouldn't. That marriage was a mistake forced by fools. I regret every day I let those old men in the family push us into it. If your father's business hadn't been struggling—"

Yura reached for her hand, squeezing it. "You did what you had to, Mom. I know you hated it as much as I did. But look at us now. You're free of the main family's claws. Father's business is healthy. We have each other."

Her father's hand trembled a little around his teacup, but his voice was steady. "When we separated from the Seo registry, I thought we'd lose everything. But Baek's money distracted the elders. No one's tried to hurt us since. You made the right call, Yura."

The server appeared again, changing plates with a quiet sweep. Their main courses arrived—soy-marinated black cod, slow-roasted duck, side dishes blooming across the table. For a while, the conversation softened, warmth filling the spaces between sentences.

Yura's mother, never one to leave things unsaid, glanced at Joon-ho with an assessing gaze. "So. You support my daughter in public, yes. But what about in private? What are your intentions with her?" She silenced Yura's instinctive protest with a gentle palm. "Let the man speak for himself."

Joon-ho straightened his shoulders, breathing deep. He met the mother's gaze—respectful, steady, no apology. "I care for Yura deeply. She is one of my women. I won't pretend otherwise—I don't believe in hiding or lying about it. I do have other women in my life. But Yura is precious to me. I support her, I stand with her, and I intend to do so for as long as she'll have me."

Yura's mother went very still, lips pressed thin. The tension at the table crept up, a silent pressure, until she suddenly slammed her palm against the table. Dishes rattled. Yura startled, cheeks flushing, a worried protest on her lips.

But her mother's voice was almost gleeful, her eyes glittering. "A man who won't deny his women, but supports them all the same. If you'd lied to me, I'd have thrown you out of this restaurant myself. I won't pretend to like that my daughter has to share, but at least she's not hiding, and neither are you. That's more than I can say for most men these days."

Her father chuckled, shaking his head. "Your mother has always been the strict one. You pass her test, you pass mine." He lifted his glass. "To honesty, then."

Joon-ho raised his glass in answer, relief and pride curling together in his chest.

Yura relaxed, the tightness in her shoulders melting as the mood shifted. Her mother regarded Joon-ho for another long moment, then nodded, a touch of reluctant approval softening her features.

Over dessert—spiced pears, delicate mochi, bitter chocolate—the conversation lightened. Yura's father asked Joon-ho about his new agency. Joon-ho spoke with a quiet confidence about LUNE, about wanting to build something that gave artists power and protection he'd never seen in the old agencies. He talked about Mirae's freedom, Harin's vision, even Min-Kyung's stubbornness. Yura glowed, pride shining through.

Her parents listened, trading glances—the kind of glance that holds decades of history, regret, hope. "You're changing things," her father said softly, not just to Joon-ho but to Yura. "That's all I ever wanted. For you to be free."

Her mother added, "Just promise me you'll keep choosing happiness over duty. Both of you."

Yura squeezed her mother's hand, looking misty for the first time all night. "I promise. For once, I feel like I'm actually doing that."

The plates were cleared, the tea poured again. The air was warmer, lighter. Stories followed—Yura's childhood, her father's early business failures, her mother's run-ins with the more toxic aunts. Joon-ho found himself laughing at tales of Yura's secret mischief, at the almost legendary reputation her mother had for intimidating school bullies and, once, a particularly predatory piano teacher.

Time slipped by. When the server returned with the check, Yura's father insisted on paying, waving off both Yura and Joon-ho's attempts to intercede. "Tonight is for family. I can still do that much."

Joon-ho glanced at Yura as the plates were cleared. "The girls are at Cloud 9. You want to join us for a drink?"

Yura smiled, eyes dancing. "I'll pass tonight. I haven't seen my parents like this in a long time. Besides, someone has to keep them from plotting their next business coup. Don't party too hard, Joon-ho. Fashion Week is in two days."

He grinned. "I promise. No scandals."

Her mother arched a brow. "I'll hold you to that, young man."

They stood, a last round of hugs. Yura's father patted Joon-ho's arm. "Take care of her. And yourself."

Joon-ho bowed again, more deeply than before. "I will, sir."

As Yura lingered in the doorway, Joon-ho caught her gaze—gratitude and affection unspoken between them. "I'll text when I get home," he promised.

"Do. And tell Mirae not to let Min-Kyung get you into too much trouble."

He laughed, stepping out into the corridor, the hum of the city life beyond the hotel doors. He felt oddly light, as if he'd been holding his breath since entering that private room. He'd faced harder rooms, but never one that mattered as much.

Inside, Yura reclaimed her seat between her parents. Her mother's hand found hers beneath the table, gentle now. "You chose well," her mother whispered, "even if he is a handful."

Her father grumbled, "All good men are."

They sat a little longer, letting the world slow down for once.

Joon-ho crossed the lobby, phone buzzing with messages from Mirae and Min-Kyung. He replied, promising he'd join them soon. Cloud 9's neon flickered somewhere above, but for a moment he was content to pause at the curb, drawing in the city air—knowing he belonged, not just to a business, not just to ambition, but to a web of stubborn, loving, impossible people.

Tonight was for family, for truth, for the quiet courage of facing the ones who mattered most. The city rolled on around him, unhurried, a promise of more to come.

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