Chapter 3: Mustard, Champagne, and German Curses
Min-ho held the heavy, gilded door of L'Opéra open with an elegance he had perfected over years of high-society life. He expected the usual sparkle in a woman's eyes when entering the city's most expensive restaurant. But Clara remained rooted to the sidewalk. The cold evening wind from Seoul's urban canyons blew a strand of hair across her face.
She looked down at her simple but well-cut blazer and dark jeans, then glanced at the chandeliers inside, which sparkled like diamonds. She slowly shook her head.
"No," she said with a firmness that brooked no argument. "I'd rather not."
Min-ho froze. His arm felt heavy. Had he made a mistake? "What's wrong? Is the establishment not to your taste, Ji-soo? It is renowned for its world-class French cuisine."
"I'm not dressed for it," she replied dryly, clutching her bag tighter. "Besides... I'd much prefer a hot dog. It's honest, it's fast, and I still have work to do tonight. We can discuss business while we walk."
Min-ho blinked. A hot dog? He looked down at his handmade leather shoes, worth as much as a small car, and then back at her face. For the first time in his life, he felt out of place at a five-star entrance. A wave of fascination washed over him. This woman seemed immune to any form of status or glamour. It made her dangerous in his eyes—and more desirable than any actress he had ever worked with.
"A hot dog, then," he murmured, a genuine, almost boyish smile creeping onto his face. "Fine, Ji-soo. You win. But only if I get to choose the sauce."
Ten minutes later, the world was different. The noise of the city was just a distant hum here on the banks of the Han River. They sat on a simple wooden bench under a streetlight that cast a warm, amber glow on the pavement. Min-ho, the most powerful media mogul in the country, held a hot dog dripping with mustard and spicy sauce. He had taken off his blazer and laid it on the bench beside him, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up.
"You know," he began softly. He stared at the dark water of the river, reflecting the lights of the bridges. His tone had shifted. The arrogant producer was gone; the man from the elevator had returned. "I've been looking for you for three years. Every single day. Every woman in a blue dress made my heart stop. I started to think I had imagined that moment in the elevator, a figment of my imagination during a panic attack... until I saw you again in that café."
He turned his head toward her. His gaze was intense, almost painfully honest. "I wanted to tell you that..."
Suddenly, the shrill ringing of Clara's phone sliced through the nocturnal silence. She flinched as if waking from a dream. One look at the display was enough, and her entire expression changed. A radiant, worried smile—one Min-ho had never seen on her before—lit up her features.
"Lukas!" she exclaimed and answered immediately.
Min-ho froze mid-motion. Lukas. A name like a thunderclap. He watched as she carelessly set her hot dog aside, completely absorbed in the call.
"Oh no, Schätzchen, don't cry," she said suddenly in German. Her voice was so gentle, so full of love and compassion, that Min-ho felt as if the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. "What did that bastard do? Hans-Werner did WHAT?"
Min-ho didn't understand a word of German, but he knew the word "Schätzchen." It was the same word she had thrown at him three years ago. In his mind, a disaster movie began to play. Lukas. A European. Tall? Handsome? A man for whom she dropped everything.
"He took Tiffany? The plant? Oh my God, Lukas, that's the last straw! You know what? Pack your things. You're coming to my place. Right now." Clara was working herself into a rage. "We'll drink a bottle of wine, curse HW together, and I won't let you go until you feel better. Yes, Schätzchen, I'm here for you. Always."
When she hung up, she took a deep breath, her cheeks slightly flushed. She seemed to have completely forgotten she was sitting on a bench with one of Korea's most eligible bachelors.
"That was Lukas," she said curtly, shouldering her bag. "He's going through a terrible crisis. He's been left behind, his life feels empty right now, and he needs someone to just hold him and listen. I'm afraid I'll have much less time for our... meetings than I thought."
Min-ho's jaw tightened. Jealousy, as hot as the sauce on his hot dog, rose within him. He imagined this Lukas—a weeping, but probably devastatingly handsome German—sitting in Clara's apartment, his head in her lap while she comforted him. Comfort. In Europe, that probably meant more than just holding hands, he thought bitterly.
"Wait!" he called out, much too loud for the silence of the night. He stood up abruptly. "If this Lukas is such an important part of your life... then bring him along. To every one of our meetings. I don't mind guests."
Clara looked at him, confused. "To a business meeting?"
"Absolutely," Min-ho lied, trying to keep his voice controlled. "Ariadne is an emotional author. Perhaps your... friend's perspective will help us. Besides, I don't want our collaboration to suffer because of his heartbreak."
In reality, he thought: I have to see this Lukas. I have to know who is outranking me. And I won't let a Hans-Werner or a Lukas take you away from me again.
Clara narrowed her eyes. He was strange, this Min-ho. But if it meant Lukas wouldn't have to be alone, she didn't mind. "Fine. Tomorrow at ten. But Lukas will be there."
Min-ho nodded silently and watched her disappear into the darkness. "Lukas," he hissed under his breath. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."