The first girl talked too much.
The second asked if he believed in fate and astrology.
The third girl's dog had more screen time than her. Literally — she FaceTimed her Pomeranian during the date.
By the fifth, Yeon Jae had perfected his blind date routine:
Hoodie
Headphones (only one in, for politeness)
Zero emotional investment
And one excuse ready to drop after fifteen minutes
Jiho had been keeping a scoreboard like this was some kind of game show.
> "Girl #2 rated you an 8.5."
"Out of 10?"
"Out of her ideal husband scorecard."
"Burn it."
---
By date seven, Yeon Jae stopped pretending to care.
He wore a washed-out hoodie, black joggers, and a cap pulled low. He didn't shave. He didn't even check the mirror. He just showed up, late by exactly ten minutes, half-hoping the girl had already left.
The hostess guided him to a window table in a sleek downtown café.
She was already there.
Back straight. Coffee untouched. Wearing a blazer sharp enough to kill a man.
Yeon Jae paused.
She wasn't scrolling. She wasn't bored. She was watching him walk toward her like she already knew everything about him.
---
"CEO Kwon Jiho," she said, standing up. "I'm Han Areum."
Her voice was steady — calm, clean, almost melodic. She offered her hand. He shook it before thinking. Her grip was firm.
"I thought this date was supposed to start ten minutes ago," she added.
Yeon Jae raised a brow. "You keeping score?"
"No," she replied, sitting again. "But I respect time. Especially mine."
Damn. Strike one.
---
She didn't talk like the others. She didn't ask about hobbies or zodiac signs or ideal marriage timelines. She asked if he believed in creative control. In brand integrity. In stylistic innovation across commercial platforms.
Yeon Jae blinked. Jiho never mentioned the girls would come armed with business strategies.
"Do you usually pitch partnerships on your first dates?" he asked, tone light.
"Only when the other person owns one of the top fashion companies in Seoul," she said. "But to be frank…"
She looked at him fully now. Hazel eyes, unreadable. A beat of silence.
"…you're not my type."
There it was.
Blunt. Direct. Refreshing, almost.
"So," she continued, sliding a black folder across the table, "it'll be much easier if you just accept a proposal instead."
---
Yeon Jae opened the folder. Inside: a clean portfolio — model rosters, styling lookbooks, trend analyses, Noircast's recent collaborations, and a bold pitch for a creative partnership.
"You've been losing engagement from your younger audience," she said. "Your lines are clean but lack edge. Your models are stiff. Noircast can provide dynamic creatives who work well with campaigns — not just poses, but movement. Personality. Influence."
She paused, then leaned slightly forward.
"I'm offering real collaboration. Not just surface. You want to fix your reputation? Make something people can feel."
Yeon Jae didn't respond immediately. He was busy remembering why her name sounded familiar.
Han Areum.
Noircast.
That voice.
That stare.
High school.
Hallway.
"Someday I'll start my own agency. One that gives real artists a chance."
She had said that once. Loud and clear.
And he — the kid with no direction, with a face people said could sell anything — decided to try modeling because of her.
---
"I'll think about it," he said, finally.
She tilted her head. "That's all I ask."
Then she stood. Adjusted her blazer. Picked up her bag.
"By the way," she added before walking away, "you might want to tell your assistant to stop playing pretend."
Yeon Jae froze.
She glanced over her shoulder, smirking just slightly. "Your posture's too bad to be Jiho's."
And just like that, she was gone.
---
End of Chapter 2
---