The morning sunlight filtered through the van windows as the group rode down a narrow, scenic road toward the cultural site. Joon-hyuk sat in the front seat beside the driver, scrolling through his tablet, pretending to read. But his reflection in the glass betrayed the truth—his eyes kept flicking to the back, where Hye-rin and Se-hee were laughing softly about something.
They arrived at a beautiful countryside center filled with terracotta pots, dried flowers, and rows of pottery wheels. The air smelled faintly of earth and blossoms.
Mr. Philip smiled broadly. "Ah, so this is what you meant by culture, Mr. Lee. I like it already."
Mr. Eugene, his cheerful business partner, nodded in approval. "A perfect balance of art and precision—just like your company's work."
Joon-hyuk gave a polite smile, his tone professional. "We do try to honor both tradition and innovation."
As the instructor began her demonstration, everyone gathered around. The woman's voice was calm, almost meditative, as she showed them how to shape clay into elegant bowls. Hye-rin leaned forward, fascinated, her delicate fingers brushing the spinning clay wheel.
Then came a familiar voice from behind.
"Looks fun. Mind if I join?"
Every muscle in Joon-hyuk's body went still.
Choi Min-jae strolled in, sleeves rolled up, brown hair gleaming under the morning sun. He looked relaxed, confident—the kind of man who never had to try too hard. "My company's providing security systems for the investors' facilities," he said casually to the group. "Mr. Philip invited me to drop by."
"Ah, excellent!" Mr. Philip said. "The more, the merrier."
Joon-hyuk's jaw flexed. "Of course," he said smoothly. "Always good to see collaboration."
But his tone was cool—too cool.
Min-jae joined Hye-rin's table, his hands steady as he shaped the clay. When hers started wobbling, he leaned closer, his voice light. "Gentle. Don't force it. Clay listens better when you're kind."
She laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You sound like a poet, not a tech CEO."
"I'm full of surprises," he said, eyes glinting.
A quiet snap echoed. Joon-hyuk's clay had cracked.
Mr. Philip chuckled. "Careful there, Mr. Lee. Pottery doesn't like pressure."
He exhaled through his nose, expression unreadable. "Seems I don't have the right temperament for this."
He wiped his hands—slowly, methodically—and set the ruined piece aside. Then, without another word, he stood up.
"I'll get some air," he said quietly.
As he walked toward the exit, his movements calm but taut, Hye-rin couldn't stop herself from watching him. The stiffness in his shoulders, the clipped pace—everything about him screamed control.
But control was just another word for jealousy, wasn't it?
And for the first time, she wondered what emotion really hid behind that perfect, polished mask.