The first major social event of the year was called by many names, but mostly people referred to it as the Welcoming, because that was the purpose it mainly served – to formally initiate and introduce the next generation of inheritors to the world of the wealthy.  Modelled after the old Western traditions of debutantes being presented to the aristocratic society when they came of age, the custom was altered to suit the newfound Korean upper class, including the young men as well as the ladies.

There were multiple meanings behind the various elements of the evening ball, which was always hosted by a few of the most powerful; to be able to obtain a place on the planning committee was confirmation of one’s ascendance into the ranks of the truly influential.  An invitation was acknowledgement that one still belonged to the exclusive rich community; to not receive it was as good as earning a position on the unspoken blacklist, a subtle yet outright snub and condescension.  Only those prepared to enter the battlefield and participate in the war between the affluent would be singled out by word of mouth.  What happened during the Welcoming itself was paramount to setting the tone for the upcoming year.

Apparently, even the sick and dying dragged their bodies out of the comforts of bed to attend the event.  Lee Changshin would not know how true the rumour was, for he had never experienced it firsthand.  Conversely, he was on the opposite extreme end of the spectrum, with no interest in the entire ridiculous concept.  “I thought we had progressed from the olden days,” he said in a practiced bland tone, keeping his face politely smiling as he cut the sirloin into miniscule cubes.  Although his actions were, technically, no different from that of the others at the long dining table, somehow the primness seemed exaggerated and mocking without him trying.

Seated imperiously at the head of the table, Lee Yong carefully lifted a corner of his napkin to wipe his mouth, taking his time to reply to his son’s statement.  “That is irrelevant.  More importantly, you will be attending it this year.  As the heir to the Yong Shin Group.  Is that understood, Lee Changshin?”  Though it was phrased as a question, there was a note of ultimatum at the end, a clear indication that an answer was unnecessary.  “In fact, you will head the planning committee in my stead.”

Mid-bite, Changshin paused, muscles rigid.  He forced himself to replace the utensils gently on the immaculate tablecloth after cleaning them against his napkin, then swirled the contents of the wineglass the way he had been taught and brought the frosted edge to his lips, washing down the rest of the meat which had suddenly lost its taste.  Trust his father to ruin a perfectly excellent dish with nothing but words. 

Opposite him, his mother mirrored his action, concealing her amused smile behind the dark burgundy of red wine.  Theirs was a conversation that had become something of a repetitive theme ever since Changshin had returned to Korea following his dubious graduation from Harvard Business School.  The outcome had never once turned in Lee Yong’s favour; Changshin would weasel out of the event every time with various excuses or escapades, and just last year had one-upped by ruining it altogether – a first in the history of the Welcoming and an accomplishment the perpetrator had no regrets about despite the severe punishments he had received.  Changshin had no intention of submitting now.

Easing into his usual charming grin, he tipped his glass diagonally left to point towards his younger brother, who had been silent and probably absorbed in wishing he was part of the wallpaper throughout the suffocating dinner.  Lee Jongsuk glanced up from his fixation on his plate, meeting his only brother’s gaze resignedly.  Already he could predict what was going to unfold.  And he wasn’t disappointed –

“Tell that directly to Jongsuk, won’t you.  I’ll end up pushing the responsibilities onto him anyway, so it won’t make a difference,” Changshin paused to finish his wine, and Jongsuk downed his too in a shot, to drown the annoyance at being spoken of like he wasn’t in the room, “I mean, isn’t it time Jongsuk gets the acknowledgement he deserves instead of being in my shadow?  Sorry father, but I’m going to have to refuse the invitation again.  Not that you don’t know.  These charades really don’t suit me.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.”  As theatrical as ever, the future owner of an enterprise empire got up to take his leave with finesse only he could pull off, legs of the heavy chair noiseless against the thick carpet flooring.

Lee Yong’s unwavering bass followed him in the short distance between the dining table and the archway leading out.  “Rest assured, son, that this year will be different.  You will do my bidding.  I have been lenient on you thus far because you are my flesh and blood.  Not anymore.  It would be a wise decision for you to attend the first meeting the day after as I have promised the committee members, before I begin playing my cards.  And remember that the youth you treat like a shield is not eternal.”

Changshin wanted sorely to turn around and flip two middle fingers to his father’s self-confidence.  He did not.  It would have ruined the effect of his grand exit.

As the final stragglers dawdled their way out of the ballroom, Tiffany Hwang Miyoung breathed a sigh of relief and fell back into a nearby chair to kick off the uncomfortable pair of pumps she had been forced to wear for lack of choice, simply because nothing else would fit the dress Changshin had sent over yesterday night in compensation for his absence at Paradigm Resort’s Jeju Island branch reopening ceremony. 

According to the small card that had accompanied the gift, her closest and dearest friend was unable to make the trip as ‘something unexpected had cropped up’, but nevertheless, he knew she would ‘put on a fantastic performance’ and ‘be a huge success as per Hwang heiress norm’.  Even though he wasn’t there in person, his scribbled encouragement had pulled her through the night without mistakes happening.

Other than her, the massive hall was devoid of people, a stark contrast to the numerous throngs of guests and press that had filled it just minutes ago, taking full advantage of the luxurious settings of the post-ribbon cutting party to socialize and gossip.  Rule number one of being rich:  Never deny free food; with all due respect, Tiffany was certain they weren’t hanging around to show their support.  Wealthy people probably scrimped and saved far more excessively than the poor, a frequent observation of hers.

Only when she took out her phone to check for any messages or missed calls did she catch sight of her reflection, coming to the startling realization that the ‘perfect hostess’ expression she had worn throughout the evening still stretched her facial muscles in an almost-genuine smile.  Quickly she dropped her phone into her lap and used the pads of her fingers to massage away the tension, and relax her face.  A wave of fatigue washed over the workaholic in the form of familiar throbbing at her temples, but it was nothing a couple of aspirins couldn’t handle.  Besides, much as she would have liked to retire to her room and fall fast asleep on Paradigm’s five star bed, her duties were yet to be complete. 

Although the job scope of a Chief Operating Officer did not cover personally attending to the arrangements and proceedings of individual branch events, no matter how significant, Tiffany felt she needed to be in touch with the ground level in order to garner sufficient experience to validate her importance.  Having a bunch of old men stare at her accusingly every meeting grated her nerves – it was offensive to her professional pride, being underestimated and condescended continually.  Hence the overachieving agenda.

In roughly ten minutes, Tiffany guessed, the resort’s employees would be back from escorting out guests for the debriefing and to receive her instructions regarding the cleaning up.  Until then, she could appreciate the reprieve of being left alone in peace to rearrange her thoughts, to compose herself.  She closed her eyes, resting her tired body against the sturdy back of the chair, hoping to catch some semblance of sleep before she was involved in the whirlwind of ordered chaos again.  But the adrenaline which had powered her through the ceremony had not dissipated completely, and within a few moments she was weaving between the tables restlessly, sore feet sinking painlessly into soft carpeting.

However, her privacy was short-lived, interrupted by the entrance of another – Park Hyungsik, if Tiffany recalled correctly, the son of a senior partner at an acclaimed firm whom she had overheard introducing himself as a freelance photographer.  Freelance: a convenient term for unemployed bums.  Not that she viewed the intruder any lesser for his choice of words; Tiffany made it a point to reserve judgment unless she had substantial basis for it, and while their paths had intersected on several occasions, they had never had a proper conversation.

It occurred to her how compromising the current situation was, a man and a woman alone together, and she became acutely aware of the fact that being shoeless somehow seemed revealing.  By reflex, she curled her toes and attempted – discreetly – to bury her feet in the thick material of the carpet.

Conjuring a warm smile, she addressed him from where she stood, in case walking over drew undue attention, “Are you looking for something?”

He, in turn, wore a sheepish expression which betrayed his surprise at finding a person remaining in the hall.  The self-proclaimed photographer had presumed that once the party was over, he could slip in quietly and have a couple of minutes by himself admiring the splendor of the hall; stumbling upon the hostess was not part of his plan, and he didn’t have a plan B prepared. 

“I was… looking for the bathroom,” said Hyungsik after an uncomfortably long pause, resorting to the lamest excuse possible because his mind drew a blank. 

She didn’t look entirely convinced, and Hyungsik was glad that she was too polite to probe further.  Instead, she played along and explained that there were at least two bathrooms on every floor, the nearest one being the first turn down the hallway on the right.  Idiot that he was, he let an even longer silence lapse following her courteous directions, stalling as he tried to find the least awkward method to approach her for permission to photograph the hall’s interior.  Waiting nervously for him to leave so she could put on her pumps, Tiffany had to clasp her hands to counter her habit of picking at her apparel.

“So um,” he started, cringing inwardly at his unnatural tone, which had hiked up several notes, “I was actually wondering if I could borrow the hall for a moment?  To just snap some shots?”  Anticipating a negative response, he hurriedly said, “I know I should have done it during the party, but the number of people… it was difficult to get a satisfactory shot, if you get what I mean?”

Aware that the youth was increasingly flustered, Tiffany hastened to remedy the situation; her father had often lectured that making people feel ill at ease was best avoided for the purpose of expanding one’s social network, a mantra she lived by.  “Of course you may.  Take all the time you need.  I’m not much of a photographer myself, but I’ve learnt that the practice of any art needs space and patience.  In exchange, it would be wonderful if you could perhaps share some of your photographs; I’d love to display it on our website and promotional boards.”

From the widened eyes, she could tell that he was thrilled at the prospect, immediately overriding his previous awkwardness.  After accepting his profuse thanks, Tiffany took the opportunity to slip her reluctant feet into the tight pumps while he was occupied with his camera and left the hall, heading to the lobby to order the second in-charge to keep the rest of the employees out of the hall until the photographer was done.  Momentarily she considered calling her father to check whether he had taken his medicine diligently. 

No, Daddy will just get angry.  He really hates being treated like a patient.

Unlike most of her friends, Tiffany had grown up close to her parents, her warm-hearted, emotional father especially.  Ever since his health began to fail eight months ago, she had had to find her own way in the cutthroat corporate world and navigate alone the treacherous waters of elite society; on days like today, she dearly missed his reassuring presence, the twinkling eyes that reminded her to take a step back and breathe, his sage guidance.  The past few weeks had been a flurry of activity as Paradigm rushed to stay on a ridiculously tight schedule with the bringing forward of the Jeju Island resort’s complete makeover. 

Chairman Hwang was determined for Paradigm Resort to finally possess the honour of hosting this year’s Welcoming to lay the red carpet for Paradigm’s comeback, and nothing less than perfection was allowed. 

As a member of the younger generation, Paradigm’s perceptive heiress nevertheless found the latest source of her father’s frowns rather absurd; that a single social event out of countless social events could be held in such high esteem seemed unjustified, yet logical once Tiffany had attended it for herself to witness firsthand the refined struggle for influence and acknowledgement.  If demonstrating that Paradigm was still going strong was what would be necessary to win at the upcoming preliminary round, she would make sure she didn’t fail her father.  In fact, mentally Tiffany had already started planning the preparations.

Cho Hyun, Chief Executive Director and founder of CJ Group, was elated.  Scanning the letter for the fourth – possibly fifth – time, he could hardly believe his good luck.  No, not good luck; calling it that was demeaning to his and his wife Joo’s years of toil and suffering.  He held the letter to the fancy lighting piece that illuminated his private study, as if he could evaluate its authenticity like a banknote, and marveled that everything up till now was insignificant next to the value of the notice – CJ Group, for the very first time, would be represented on the planning committee, albeit in a minor position.

He could feel the metaphorical gates to the upper class society opening up for him, for his family, for CJ, and what he envisioned sent tingling sensations of thrill through every particle of his being.  The joy was akin to when the first franchise outlet opened, the moment he knew he had scored a ticket on the train heading for success.  Though Hyun habitually denied that he was ambitious, he was aware that he had only one goal in mind, a single source of motivation: the desire to stand on the same level, perhaps even above, that of the Yong Shin empire.

On any other day, his goal would have felt impossible.  Pragmatism would kick in automatically and remind him not to get ahead of himself, to focus on the work right in front of him as he had lifelong, but today – fragilely grasping the edge of the letter, Hyun felt invincible.  Here, after all, was the ultimate key, the revered master key that opened every door.  Just the leverage he would need.

Reorganising his scattered thoughts, Hyun sank back into his armchair to examine his tactics, decide his next move.  Would it be better to send his efficient, dependable daughter Jin, or his hot-headed but street smart son Han for the committee seat?  Thus far, his assessment of the factors was as such: with representatives like Shinhan’s Moon Joon Won, Paradigm’s Tiffany Hwang, ACE’s Ahn Hyunsoo, Samsung’s Song Sena, and (of course) Yong Shin’s Lee Changshin, Hyun considered which of his children would fare better, particularly against Lee Changshin.  The deliberation took longer than he realized.

“Jinhyuk, enter,” he commanded into the desk phone; accordingly, his personal secretary let himself in, clicking his polished heels together and greeting him in the customary slight bow.  Hyun completed his final sentence in a fresh letter he was writing, signed off, then folded the sheet of paper in precise thirds, which he sealed into an envelope.

Passing it to Choi Jinhyuk, he said, “I want you to personally deliver this to Song Joongki, immediately.  And don’t leave until he reads it.  Also, I need you to discreetly confirm his attendance for tomorrow evening’s meeting.  You may go now.”  He watched his assistant tuck the letter in his inner suit jacket pocket, repeat the bow, and slip out the heavy door as quietly as he had come. 

It occurred to Hyun that fifteen years ago, he would have been the one carrying out the orders of Lee Yong.  He allowed himself a fleeting smile.  How the times have changed.

In typical paparazzi style, Weng Kwon found at least a dozen cameras flashing into the dark lens of his newest pair of Chanel sunglasses as he stepped out of the checkpoint – the ones he had snatched off the nearest bodyguard because his had been forgotten on the plane – and a matching number, perhaps even more, microphones shoved into his face along with shouted queries.  Usually, the suave Chinese-Korean had a smooth, witty line or two to shut the relentless hounds’ slobbering mouths, but an extremely unpleasant flight that had involved multiple wailing babies had shredded his good humour, and he was in no mood to entertain these little ers.  First thing he would do after a nice, long shower would be to check which bloody idiot had allowed so many goddamned devil’s spawns onboard a ing long haul trip.

Having tolerated more than enough of the harassment, short of turning each and every paparazzi around into pulp befitting their standard, Kwon stopped abruptly.  Immediately sensing an opening, the reporters crowded even closer than before, and the Weng Co. heir wondered exactly what the hell his entire squadron of bodyguards was doing.  He was going to have to fire them all at this rate.  A great pity, considering the impressive performance they had put up in Italy against a band of mafia trying to drag him into a drunken brawl.

Now, though, he needed to deal with the pests swarming around him.  Kwon lowered his sunglasses, peering over them with his unamused, intimidating stare at each paparazzi vulture in turn, smirking at their flinches.  “Get the out of my face unless you want to lose your jobs by tonight.”

Observing the scene from a little distance away, Park Choongjae felt his lips twitch with bemusement, laughter threatening to bubble up and spill over.  That was trademark Weng Kwon – in flawless American-accented English, without a single trace of preamble tainting the harsh offensive undertones.  The lawyer wanted to wait and watch Kwon’s attitude play out, but he had an important lunch appointment he couldn’t be late for.  He slid the bar to unlock his phone, dialing the latest number in his call log, “Jaehyo?  You might want to step on the gas before your idol makes headlines for throwing a group of reporters into the sea.  I don’t handle criminal cases, you know.”

Pulling up his collar to block the biting winds, Choongjae headed towards the open air car park where he’d left his Mercedes.  Already he could sense the giddy anticipation filling the air, a sensation he associated with only two occasions – going into court and the formidable Welcoming.  With the added unpredictable variables of a mixed blood in their midst, the belated (forced) formal initiation of a rebel and an unexpected newcomer, Choongjae’s intuition told him that this year would be distinctive in its own right.  Thank God he had made the sensible decision of withdrawing himself from high society.

Meanwhile, a disoriented and very groggy fresh graduate was descending from (or struggling down, to be accurate) the selfsame airplane a certain young heir had alighted almost half an hour ago, having been woken up from his deep slumber by an equally surprised flight attendant after the rest of the passengers were gone.  In addition to the duffel he had brought onboard, and the various loose items he hadn’t had time to pack in properly due to the attendant’s anxiousness to hurry him off, the twenty-something man was in possession of a pair of sunglasses he only just realized he did not actually own.

It had caught in the tassels of the scarf hanging carelessly on his arm, dropping with a small thud on the aisle behind him as he was stumbling toward the exit.  Insisting that it must belong to him since there was nobody else around, the attendant had kindly picked it up for him and hooked it in his jacket pocket, where it still was. 

Exhausted from the flight, he flopped into the extended sofa seat at Incheon International Airport’s Starbucks, taking a few moments to recover.  He removed the new-looking pair of sunglasses and placed it on the table before him, examining it while he thumped on his leaden arms and massaged his neck.  Not once had he owned sunglasses, considering them a waste of money, so his mystification at its value was understandable.  Had he not been concerned that the owner might be worried over losing them, the young man might have dismissed it as a cheap item and thrown it away, akin to disposing of the sweet wrapper stuck onto the bottom of one’s shoes.

He rummaged around in his bag for a tin of biscuits, a present bought for Jessica as a souvenir of sorts.  Sorry for having to ruin the packaging, Sica.  Extricating the packet of biscuits within, he gingerly lowered the sunglasses into the tin, carefully sealing it up again using the original length of tape.  There.  He would turn it in at the information/help counter later, on his way out.  But his plan to enjoy a drink first was abandoned quickly because of an urgent text message – Soo-ah, I just received a call that your interview was suddenly shifted to 4PM today.  Call me once you land!!!

Four in the evening?  That left – one, two, three – slightly less than three hours to make himself look presentable and reach the venue.  Just great, he groaned, banging his forehead against the table and wincing.  He was going to have to find a taxi driver willing to speed and cut other vehicles; the airport bathrooms would have to suffice.

Naturally, the issue of the sunglasses bereft of its owner was the last thing to enter his mind.