Chapter Text
----------------------------------------Lee Know----------------------------------------------
The elevator doors slid open with a sterile ding, and Minho—known to most as Leeknow—stepped out with the weight of an already-throbbing headache pressing against his temples. This week had been a blur of back-to-back meetings with potential models, none of whom could meet the brief. Each failed audition inched him closer to the irrational fantasy of setting a coffee shop ablaze just to let off steam.
Patience had never been his virtue, and yet he didn’t think he was asking for the moon. He’d told his assistant, in very clear terms: Find me someone androgynous enough to resonate with our new non-binary clientele. Someone fresh. Someone fearless. But all he’d seen so far were carbon copies of the same safe, sanitized beauty.
He just wanted to get to his office, shut the door, and sit in silence for five blessed minutes. But as he turned the corner, his pace slowed. There she was.
Chaewon.
His ex-wife was perched casually in the armchair across from his desk, looking like she had all the time in the world to ruin his morning. It was far too early for her particular brand of chaos.
“You’d think that three thousand dollars a month in alimony would be enough to spare me the agony of seeing your face, Chaewon,” he muttered, dropping his bag beside his desk with a dull thud.
Chaewon didn’t flinch. She’d heard worse. “Let’s not start with the theatrics, Minho. You already know why I’m here.”
He exhaled sharply, already exhausted by a conversation that hadn’t even started.
“You promised Miyoung you’d spend the summer with her,” she said, each word precise, deliberate. “There are six weeks left. Want to guess how many total hours you’ve spent with your daughter?”
Minho's throat went dry. The guilt hit him like a gut punch, a bitter mix of shame and disappointment swelling in his chest. Miyoung. His daughter. The promise.
“I didn’t mean to—” he began, the words catching awkwardly in his throat.
“Zero,” Chaewon cut him off, her voice devoid of softness. “Zero hours, Minho.”
He winced.
“I got over the fact that you let our marriage collapse because you chose your company. That was your decision, and I made peace with it. But putting that same company before your daughter?” She stood now, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s unforgivable.”
“Don’t twist this like I don’t love my daughter,” he snapped, the defense rising too quickly, too desperately.
Her eyes narrowed, full of hurt rather than anger. “Then prove it. Because right now, all she’s seeing is another broken promise.”
There had been plenty of nights when Minho thought about quitting. Giving it all up—the press, the campaigns, the brand that bore his fingerprints in every corner. But then his eyes would drift to the photograph on his desk. A snapshot taken three summers ago: Miyoung, missing both her front teeth, grinning so wide her cheeks nearly swallowed her eyes. He kept it framed in gold, the only color that seemed to match her joy.
That smile was his fuel. His reason. His redemption.
"Everything I’ve done," he muttered to no one, "everything I’ve sacrificed... it’s all been to give Miyoung the life she deserves."
Chaewon stood from the chair, stepping toward him with that silent force she’d always carried. Even at nearly a foot shorter, she somehow managed to take up all the space in the room. She didn’t have to raise her voice—her presence commanded it.
“Children don’t remember sacrifices,” she said, stopping just inches from him. “They remember time. The games you played, the lunches you packed. Or, in Miyoung’s case, how often you weren’t there to do any of it.”
Minho looked away.
“I’m done making excuses for you,” she continued. “I’m dropping her off tomorrow, and for the next six weeks, you’re going to step up. Be a father, Minho. Make a decision. What’s more important—your company, or your daughter?”
He opened his mouth, already halfway into an argument. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” she snapped, cutting him off. “And I already did. I spoke with your assistant. Your maids. Your entire fortress of avoidance.”
And with that, Chaewon spun on her heel and walked out of his office—her heels clicking like punctuation marks on the cold marble floor.
Minho stood in stunned silence, blinking at the closed door.
Six weeks.
Six weeks of parenting a child who barely remembered what it felt like to be prioritized by him. Six weeks of trying to juggle business meetings, campaign recoveries, PR nightmares, and bedtime stories. His eyes flicked to the clock on his desk: 11:23 AM.
He exhaled, long and exhausted. It’s only been two hours since I got out of bed, he thought bitterly. And I already want to crawl back in.
“JEONGIN!” he barked, voice sharp enough to rattle the blinds.
Most employees would panic when their boss screamed like that. Not I.N.
Jeongin entered the room like he was stepping into a spa—airpods in, chewing gum with the careless rhythm of someone with absolutely zero fear of authority. It infuriated Minho to no end, but the kid was terrifyingly good at his job. Information, files, scheduling miracles—Jeongin often had things on Minho’s desk before he even asked for them.
And today was no exception.
With a bored sigh, Jeongin approached the desk and dropped three folders in front of him without missing a beat in his chewing.
“The first,” he said, tapping the leftmost folder, “are the remaining candidates you still have to interview—none of whom are going to make your blood pressure any better, by the way.”
He tapped the second. “Activities for kids with workaholic parents. I’d suggest page seven. Minimal supervision, maximum emotional payoff.”
Then he tapped the final folder, slowly and dramatically, before finally glancing up from under his fringe.
“And this... is a list of employees who secretly coordinated with your ex-wife to plan today’s ambush. Every assistant, housekeeper, and driver who suddenly ‘forgot’ to tell you, your ex-wife called. Do you want to fire them, or just send them stern warnings?”
Minho stared at him.
Jeongin raised a brow. “Do you need anything else? Because there’s a new mukbang I’ve been dying to watch, and you’re ruining my lunchtime.”
“No, you idiot,” Minho snapped, adjusting the knot of his already suffocating tie. “I need your help picking the final candidate for the ambassador. Not asking for your snack recommendations.”
Jeongin gave an exaggerated sigh and popped his gum, the bubble snapping with theatrical flair as he flipped open the manila folder on the desk. His eyes skimmed the pages, already knowing what was inside. The file had once been thick—at least twenty glossy headshots with attached portfolios. Now? Only three remained.
Minho blinked, surprised. “Only three?”
Jeongin didn’t respond. Just kept chewing and scrolling through his tablet like a teenager waiting for detention to end. Minho mentally promised himself to buy I.N a decent lunch for narrowing it down without being asked—then immediately revoked the thought when another obnoxious bubble popped.
He leaned forward as Jeongin tapped the first page.
“Kato Haru,” he began. “From the group XLOV. They debuted last year. Full genderless concept. Goes by any pronouns. Japanese, fluent in English, some Korean—enough to hold a decent conversation.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “Music?”
“Soft-core synth pop. Think lo-fi background playlist for rainy cafes.”
Minho nodded, studying the attached photo. Haru was beautiful, no doubt—porcelain skin, ethereal eyes, a jawline sharp enough to cause injuries. Everything about them screamed editorial perfection. Then his gaze drifted to the bottom of the page where the basics were listed.
“Born in 2006… He’s nineteen?”
Jeongin cross-checked the paperwork and nodded. “Confirmed.”
“Next.”
Jeongin didn’t ask why. There was no need. Over the years, he’d learned that unless Minho was being completely irrational, questioning him only wasted time. Besides, a 19-year-old in the fashion industry was either a ticking time bomb of entitlement or a lost lamb waiting to be eaten. Minho didn’t need that headache. Not again.
Jeongin turned the page.
“Lee Yubin. Stage name: Dami. Formerly of Dreamcatcher. Didn’t renew her contract as of March 15, 2025. Solid following, still trending in niche circles—”
“She’s out,” Minho interrupted. “Legacy fanbase, no momentum. She’s not bringing in new eyes, and this brand needs a fresh face, not a nostalgia tour.”
“Right,” Jeongin said dryly, already flipping to the third file. “Didn’t even get to her vocal range. Savage.”
Minho barely heard him.
Because the next photo brought everything else in the room to a standstill.
He sat up straight, suddenly aware of how tight his collar felt. The person in the photo was... something else. Their features were a riddle, unsolvable yet irresistible—sharp and soft all at once. Blonde hair curled slightly at the ends, like it couldn't decide between rebellion and elegance. Full lips, dark eyes, and cheekbones sculpted like they’d been carved in marble by someone with a grudge against mediocrity.
Minho couldn’t tell if he was staring at a man, a woman, or something divinely in between. And for once, he didn’t care.
He needed them. Here. Now.
He looked up slowly, already annoyed by the smug expression spreading across Jeongin’s face like spilled ink.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Jeongin blew another bubble and popped it with a lazy smirk. “Knew what?”
“That I’d pick the blonde. You wasted my time with the others just to be a little shit.”
“Guilty,” Jeongin said, unbothered. “But technically, you wasted your own time. I put them in order of elimination. You’re the one who insisted on going one-by-one like you were on some talent show judging panel.”
Minho scowled. “Why didn’t you just tell me Felix was perfect?”
Jeongin tapped the file. “Because Felix has some... complications. I was trying to warn you.”
But Minho was already tuning him out, eyes locked on the name beneath the photo. Felix. Just Felix. No fluff, no pretentious stylization. It suited them.
He knew he should probably read the full report, or at least flip to the red-flag section Jeongin was clearly nudging toward. But that would mean looking away from the photo. And frankly, not admiring that face should be a punishable offense.
“I don’t care what the complication is,” Minho said, standing up, already making plans in his head. “I want Felix here. Tomorrow morning.”
Jeongin stared at him, unblinking. “So you definitely didn’t hear a single thing I just said.”
“Not a word,” Minho confirmed.
“Cool.” Jeongin popped his gum again. “This is going to be a disaster.”