Two months into the partnership, the distance between Min-Joon and Ji-A was strictly professional, yet the respect was profound. Min-Joon's stress-induced nightmares had lessened, replaced by a strange, subtle anticipation for Tuesday afternoon meetings.
Hae-Rin decided it was time for the next, critical step: the 'Date of Shared Vulnerability.'
One Thursday morning, Hae-Rin walked into Min-Joon's office, not with a scheduling update, but with a stiff, formal ticket for a cultural event.
"Chairman Kim," she announced, placing the ticket prominently on his desk. "Your schedule tonight requires a mandatory 'Cultural Immersion' exercise. You are required to attend the Seoul Traditional Arts Exhibition."
"Nonsense," Min-Joon scoffed, already reaching for his calendar. "My schedule is fixed for the Singapore market review at 7 PM, followed by a video conference with Berlin. I cannot interrupt a multi-continental workflow for an exhibition."
"The Singapore market review can wait until 9 PM," Hae-Rin countered, her tone unwavering, holding his gaze. "The cultural thread needs maintenance and exposure. Furthermore, the exhibition features a piece that is highly relevant to Ji-A's current restoration project. Attendance is mandatory for proper oversight of your investment."
Min-Joon, finding the single logical business reason—oversight of the investment—relented, but grudgingly. "Fine. Arrange for my security detail and my dedicated drive. And ensure Secretary Kang has the Singapore presentation forwarded to my tablet for review during transit."
"No security, Chairman," Hae-Rin said, taking the keys to his armored sedan from the desk. "And no corporate car. You are going as a private citizen. You will drive yourself. I have arranged for you to meet Ji-A there—she will be your expert guide for the evening. It is a necessary, unbiased interaction for shared understanding."
Min-Joon: "You are removing my protection and forcing me to drive myself in rush hour traffic, to look at old textiles? This is not optimization, Hae-Rin. This is sabotage."
Hae-Rin: "This is an investment in authenticity, Chairman. You must be authentic to receive authenticity. Go."
Min-Joon found himself at the exhibition hall that evening, dressed in a slightly less formal charcoal suit, waiting uncomfortably near the entrance. He felt stripped of his power without his retinue and the anonymity of his armored sedan. He checked his watch three times in two minutes.
Ji-A arrived exactly on time, looking elegant in a simple black dress, carrying a small notepad and wearing a silver hairpin. She was genuinely surprised and pleased to see him.
"Chairman Kim," she greeted him warmly, offering a slight bow. "I was told I had to meet a K.M. Holdings representative to discuss the historical context of a featured item. I certainly didn't expect you."
"I am the representative," Min-Joon stated curtly, the awkwardness evident. He pointed vaguely toward the hall. "Hae-Rin insisted this was necessary for my 'investment education.' Show me the piece relevant to your project. Let us be efficient."
Ji-A, sensing his discomfort, chose to ignore the corporate stiffness. "Right this way, Mr. Kim. It's an immersion, not an audit."
Ji-A spent the next two hours walking him through the exhibition, speaking with a vibrant, detailed passion that was almost contagious. She didn't talk about auction estimates or market value; she talked about the artistry, the history, the emotional cost, and the human connection embedded in each piece of silk and ceramic.
Min-Joon listened intently. He was accustomed to calculating the value of art based on scarcity and provenance, but Ji-A was teaching him to appreciate its soul based on sincerity.
Ji-A: "Look at the brushstrokes on this screen—they're strong but tired. This was painted by a court artist nearing the end of his life. You can feel the weight of his legacy, not just the lightness of the ink."
Min-Joon: "But the line here is slightly inconsistent. That would reduce its valuation by 7% at auction."
Ji-A: "Perhaps. But it increases its value as a story by 100%. Art should not always be judged by its resale potential, Chairman."
They finally stood before a breathtakingly beautiful ancient ceramic celadon vase, illuminated gently in a glass case.
Ji-A sighed, gazing at the piece. "It's truly beautiful, perfect in its overall symmetry. But it's flawed. Look closely at the glaze near the base, right where the firing process ended. See the tiny fissure?"
Min-Joon leaned in, examining the minute imperfection, visible only under intense scrutiny. "Yes. A technical error. The temperature gradient was incorrect."
Ji-A: "Exactly. The artist was rushed by the patron, or perhaps they were heartbroken and distracted that day. The flaw is slight, almost invisible, but it's the most honest part of the piece. It's the proof of the human hand."
Ji-A turned to him, her eyes earnest, her tone gentle yet profound. "Flaws are weakness," Min-Joon stated automatically, a lifetime of corporate doctrine speaking for him.
Ji-A: "No, Mr. Kim. Flaws are proof that something was made by a sincere heart, not a machine programmed for perfection. Perfection is an illusion, a surface we polish. The flaw is often hiding the real story, the true effort."
Her words hit him with the force of a revelation, a direct, shattering echo of the perfect illusion that had been his first marriage—beautiful on the surface, utterly hollow beneath. He looked at Ji-A—genuine, flawed in her financial struggles, and utterly sincere in her devotion—and felt a sudden, electric connection deeper than any contract.
That night, Min-Joon drove Ji-A home in his personal sedan, a comfortable, powerful vehicle he rarely drove himself. The conversation was easy, focused entirely on the beauty of history and the integrity of effort. It was the first true date of his life, perfectly disguised as a corporate oversight meeting, fulfilling Hae-Rin's plan precisely.