Plats du Jean was a buffet restaurant of another caliber. The porcelain white walls were accented with long bands of purple and blue patterned stain-glass, and from the ceiling hung opalescent island lights that looked like bulby jellyfish tentacles. Egyptian blue couches and knitted pillows, white marble tables, platters like living works of art. Anyone who entered Plats du Jean knew that they were in for a gourmet French dining experience at sea that began with luxury and ended with elegance. Yet despite the ambience and design thaumathurgics, there was one boy in the room who would have much rather preferred to have stayed cooped up in his suite.   

At one end of the restaurant was an elevated platform that hosted a fantastic view of the cerulean morning outside. There were only a few tables there, with the largest and most impressive being situated beside the window. This long, black marble table seated 10 people and today each seat was occupied by a member of the Cultureon Group – the Lee family; beautiful, powerful, and rich men and women that could make entire industries buckle at whim. The youngest one at the table was absentminded and bored, though he had to admit, his most favourite part of the restaurant would be the area above the booths by the walls. If he craned his neck a bit, he could see that in the shadows, hung different variations of Van Gogh’s flowers.

It had already been evident to Taeyong that a getaway cruise trip was merely another euphemism for juvenile prison on the open ocean that his family came up with. At the outset, he may appear to be enjoying an elegant breakfast on one of the luxury cruise line’s many accredited restaurants; surrounded by a family of over privileged business executives, high-profile creatives, and occasional politician or lawyer. But in truth, the young man bears the weight of a multi-billion-dollar inheritance on his shoulders, and every other person in the restaurant is likely to be a hired bodyguard or cop or agent, disguised as a mindless tourist in a floral-patterned cotton polo. 14 years in the Lee family, as an heir of the Cultureon Group mean bearing witness to the family’s old money growing richer and their new money growing faster. It meant being sculpted from marble, raised to perfection, and being promised an empire. When he finally comes of age in 7 years, Lee Taeyong may be the youngest, most powerful person in South Korea. But at this moment, he would rather concentrate on the Van Goh imitation he was drawing on his plate with maple syrup.

“So Taeyong, my boy,” his uncle booms from across the table. He was a tall, brawny man with the blustering pressure of a titan. “How was your first year at South Meadows? Find yourself a girl? They’re a different breed there, aren’t they?” he laughs boisterously before taking a shot of early morning beer.

“That’s not very appropriate, Uncle,” Taeyong replied, “and no, I do not have a girlfriend.”

“Because unlike you, Uncle Garo, my little brother is of a finer breed,” Taeyong’s sister interposed and stuck her tongue out at the older man.

“Aren’t little girls supposed to stay quiet?” he growled. She rolled her eyes.

“Aren’t middle-aged men supposed to be grown up? Besides this little girl is 19 and her little voice saved your company 2-mil just last month. Or did you conveniently forget again?”

“She’s got you there, Garo,” a female voice cackled from elsewhere in the table. From Taeyong’s seat, he could see his Aunt Hyemin with full of spinach and her long, black hair dangling precariously over her Eggs Benedict. Her figure was somewhere between thin and skeletal, but like many in the Lee Family, her eyes could have cut through armour. A piece of Canadian bacon was clamped between Hyemin’s own pair of old wooden chopsticks that she waved around as she spoke. “Mikyung just started law and she’s already making a name for herself and shaking things up in this family. What have you done these past 5 years? And don’t give me that oil rig bull. You’re killing the planet.”

“Language,” an elderly man warns at one of the heads of the table. He didn’t bother to look up from his bowl.

“Look who’s talking! Have you seen my metrics?” Garo snorted. “I expanded in five countries in 14 months! I’m busting my for this family-

“Language,” the old man warned again.

“While you point cameras at sub-class glitteratis and champagne socialists, serenade around their ledgers and call it investigative journalism! Well I say docu-garbage!”

“Excuse you, but my films are screening across the world and won 24 different awards just last year! I’m the highest earning female director right now! If I made a doc about your bankbook I’d probably have my own village in Italy!”

“Kids would live in the sewers.”

“Jackass.”

“Bit-”

“Language,” the old man cautioned again, this time, while sipping tea. Taeyong’s sister took advantage of the break in their argument to chime in.

“Do you have something against women, Uncle Garo?” Mikyung asked as she gulped down a piece of bread. “Because if you do, I would be less inclined to help you the next time you get your foot stuck in a ditch.” Garo rolled his eyes.

“Please, this scobblelotcher is hardly an excuse for a woman.” Hyemin snarled and huffed in her seat. “Besides, there won’t be a next time.”

Most of the people at the table bit down a laugh; only Hyemin and Mikyung had the audacity to guffaw at Garo’s face.

“Uncle,” another man interjected from further down the table. He was a young man, poised and collected. Compared to Garo’s brusque and sturdy build, he possessed a considerably more slender and graceful figure. Still, Taeyong knew better than to underestimate his strength, having witnessed what he could do during a camping trip when they were kids. “I’m sure the family is grateful for all you’ve done,” he continued, “but your gaffes are hardly a revelation to anyone here. There is no shame in admitting our weaknesses.”

“Zip it, Daehyung,” Garo bit back, slamming down his now near empty beer mug on the table. It rattled throughout the restaurant. “You’re only here because you’ve found yourself a little extra cash. If it were up to me, I’d have you booted from the main house and halve your shares-”

“Hold on, Garo,” Taeyong’s mother suddenly interposed. Now Taeyong knew it was getting serious. She rarely put herself in the middle of petty arguments. And she dropped the honorifics.

“No, Hwayoung,” he growled after hesitating for a bit, perhaps taken aback by her sudden intervention. “I’ve been meaning to say this for a while now, but now that your husband’s gone, what’s this boy’s business at the table, huh? Can someone please explain why my brother’s woods colt is still cavorting around like he’s one of us?” He turns to Daehyung. “Chanwoo-hyung might have been spineless enough to keep you, but you’re only a pet. Remember that. I’ll never accept a half-breed Frenchie like you-”

“GARO!” a voice roars from the head seat. All fell silent. The old man had straightened his posture and his face now boasted an intimidating and critical scowl. Decades of wealth and authority had only managed to carve intensity into the crevices of his skin, sharpened his already piercing features, and gifted him with large steely eyes that could cut through diamonds. Certainty, fearlessness, power. No one dared to move under the gaze of Grandfather.

But Taeyong suffocated under the pressure of the room. He could see in everyone’s complexion; Garo crossed the line and upset even his stoic grandfather. Taeyong couldn’t even muster up the courage to look at Daehyung and only clenched his fists under the table. Dear lord… it was only the second day of the trip.

Maybe Daehyung noticed something on Taeyong’s face, because when Taeyong finally looked at him, the young man was staring back. “It’s okay,” he mouthed and gave Taeyong a warm and familiar grin. Taeyong returned a shy smile. “It’s alright,” Daehyung said at last to everyone, breaking the silence. He turned to their embarrassed uncle, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Uncle Garo. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the spirit, oppa!” Mikyung cheered, munching on a new plate of croissant French toast. Actually, Taeyong’s sister seemed to be the only one unfazed by what had just transpired. “Don’t let this ninnyhammer get to you!”

Grandfather could have said anything at that moment and Taeyong was almost sure that the winds would have bent to his will, but he simply said, “Thank you for your company Garo. You may leave now.” And suddenly the storm had passed.

Garo couldn’t say anything back, and judging from the contorted lines on his expression, he was severely offended. It would not be beyond him to topple the table over, but instead just he threw down his fork and got up grunting. It wasn’t until his uncle’s callithump paraded away that Taeyong found it in himself to breathe.

“Thank you, father,” Taeyong’s mother sighed in relief. Grandfather chucked and told her,

“Well, if I hadn’t done something, I’m sure my daughter in-law would have committed something far worse.”

“Believe me, father,” she said as she stabbed the tenderloin on her plate repeatedly, “I was ready the moment he spoke to my children.” She then looked at Daehyung. “All of my children.” Her face softened and let her hands fall on her lap. “If I wasn’t the current head of this family, I would have probably served him his own-”

“Language.”

“-tongue,” she immediately corrected.

The people at the table laughed at little, and everyone, including Taeyong was clearly glad that the air was much lighter. His mother reached for Taeyong’s hair next to her, caressing his fluffy bedhead. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said to him, “I could see you were afraid. I should have left your stupid uncle off the guest list.” Her son shrugged.

“It’s alright, mom. We can’t choose our kin. Besides, Uncle Garo gives nice presents whenever we meet.” She laughed and leaned over to kiss his temple.

“But you know,” Mikyung suddenly said, “You can boot him out in 7 years when you become head of the family.”

“I probably will,” Taeyong deadpans. No one argued. Aunt Hyemin cackled away as the family tried to enjoy their breakfast together.