The weekly progress meetings became Min-Joon's most bizarre schedule commitment. They were held late on Tuesday afternoons at the Jae-Hyun Institute, and Hae-Rin always ensured he brought something that had 'no strategic value'—a subtle, ongoing lesson in non-transactional kindness.
One week, as they were leaving K.M. Holdings, Hae-Rin handed him a small, vibrant potted orchid, its color a shocking magenta against the drab city backdrop.
"This is absurd, Hae-Rin," Min-Joon complained, holding the delicate pot gingerly, as if it might explode. "A corporate gift should be a pen, a leather folio, or an analyst report. Not a flower."
"Orchids require immense patience and meticulous, non-aggressive care, Chairman," Hae-Rin explained, her voice soothing. "They bloom when nurtured softly, not when demanded aggressively. It is a lesson for all partnerships, including this one."
Min-Joon, still bound by his CEO logic, tried desperately to rationalize the gift. "I see. It will improve the air quality of her office, enhancing her productivity by minimizing carbon dioxide buildup. Therefore, it is a strategic investment in human capital."
Hae-Rin simply smiled, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. "If you must rationalize, Chairman. But tell her only that you admire the color, and the effort required to make it bloom."
Min-Joon begrudgingly carried the orchid into the institute.
The meetings were always challenging. Ji-A was fiercely protective of her artistic decisions, often clashing directly with Min-Joon's relentless demand for quantifiable results and adherence to the timeline.
"We have a serious issue, Ms. Han," Min-Joon stated during the meeting, ignoring the bright orchid he had placed on the corner of her desk. He pointed to a schedule printed in his typical sharp red ink, marking a three-week deviation. "This restoration of the Queen's ceremonial robe is taking three weeks longer than your initial projection. This delay impacts the public exhibition date, which impacts the return on public engagement."
"And that is a non-negotiable consequence, Chairman," Ji-A countered immediately, her voice rising with professional passion, mirroring his intensity. "We are dealing with centuries-old silk that must be stabilized thread by thread with specialized protein baths. Rushing the process means using chemical shortcuts or machine assistance that will irrevocably compromise the integrity of the fabric."
She stood up and leaned over the table. "My priority is integrity, not speed. Your schedule is irrelevant to the fiber's preservation. If you want the quality we agreed upon, you must respect the time the fabric demands."
Min-Joon: "Respect? I respect contracts, Ms. Han. The contract specified a timeline. Deviation from the timeline is a breach of the expected deliverable, regardless of your subjective assessment of the fabric's demands."
Ji-A: "And I respect the history this institute is sworn to protect! A rushed artifact is a damaged artifact, and that is a breach of my ethical commitment. If you wanted speed, you should have invested in fast fashion, not national treasures!"
Min-Joon stared at her, prepared to deliver a cold, corporate ultimatum—a final word that would end the argument and establish his dominance.
But Hae-Rin, sensing the brewing conflict was about to revert to the old transactional power dynamic, intervened softly.
"Chairman Kim," Hae-Rin said, offering him a gentle glass of chrysanthemum tea she had prepared earlier. "Please. Take a moment."
Min-Joon hesitated, his jaw tight. He looked from Ji-A's defiant face to Hae-Rin's calm, patient eyes, and finally accepted the tea. The sudden rush of the floral aroma and the calming warmth of the drink immediately diffused his anger, replacing it with a weary clarity.
He looked at Ji-A, seeing not an obstacle or a non-compliant employee, but a fierce, almost fanatical reflection of his own obsessive dedication, only aimed at art instead of assets.
"Your logic is financially unsound, Ms. Han," Min-Joon finally said, his tone softening, though still serious. "But I understand the principle."
Ji-A: "It is not just principle, Chairman. I have the data. The tensile strength of the warp threads is degrading by 0.05 Newtons per week more than anticipated. I need the extra time for stabilization before proceeding to the dye fixation. I can show you the spectral analysis."
Min-Joon: "A spectral analysis. Good. That is the language I speak." He pushed the red-ink schedule aside, picking up the potted orchid instead, turning the magenta flower slowly in his hand. "Fine, Ms. Han. I concede the time. You have the extension."
Ji-A, surprised and relieved, visibly slumped in her chair, then quickly straightened.
Min-Joon: "But," he continued, looking directly at her, "I need a written, scientifically sound rationale for the delay, complete with the material science report and the quantifiable risk of using chemical shortcuts. Not emotion. I need data that justifies the time."
Ji-A, thrilled that he had acknowledged her method, immediately grabbed a notepad. "You will have a full material science report by tomorrow, Chairman. Thank you. This protects the robe."
Min-Joon: He placed the orchid back on the desk. "And that is why I brought the flower. I admire the integrity it takes to produce something beautiful that cannot be rushed. Please ensure it stays alive."
Ji-A: "I will. It's beautiful, Chairman. Thank you."
Later, Hae-Rin watched Min-Joon leave the institute, a slight, almost imperceptible smile on his face. He had argued, but he had yielded to integrity backed by science. He was starting to appreciate the value of things that couldn't be bought or rushed. The logic of flowers and the integrity of old silk were slowly chipping away at the armor of the CEO.