Park Avenue E-Book

Renée Ahdieh

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 513

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'I can't remember the last time I had so much fun reading a book!' Nicola Yoon, #1 New York Times bestselling author of *Everything, Everything 'It's giving Succession meets Crazy Rich Asians vibes, and I'm absolutely obsessed with it!' The Bookish Newsletter 'Succession meets K-drama.'Red Magazine As the daughter of Korean bodega owners, Jia Song promised herself that she would have every luxury when she grew up. Now she's made junior partner at her prestigious law firm, and it's all finally within reach. So when her boss asks her to sit in on the hush-hush family implosion of a client, she accepts without hesitation – only to find out that it is one of the most famous Korean families in the world. The Parks and their mega successful Korean beauty brand are worth a billion dollars. But the father is filing for divorce while his wife is dying, and the children can't stop fighting. With both the family fortune and their legacy under threat from the worst kind of scandal, it's up to Jia to set things right – and she only has a month to do it. As Jia chases the truth across the globe, she finds herself falling for this broken family, though it's clear they're hiding dark secrets. Can she find the truth in time to protect their fortune and secure her success at the firm? And can she hold on to what's most important, even if it means admitting that what she's always wanted isn't what she actually needs?

Leseprobe

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BEDFORDSQUAREPUBLISHERS.CO.UK

For anyone who left home hoping for a better life in a new land

For the children of immigrants,

who spend their lives straddling two worlds

For Victor, Cyrus, and Noura, always

If you’re going to tell a lie, make it a good one.

My mother used to say this all the time. She claimed we were given a handful of good lies in life, and we should take care not to waste them. Once we wasted our lies, no one would believe us, even when we needed them to.

Even when our lies were the truth.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BAG IN THE WORLD

In order to understand Jia Song, it is necessary to begin at the beginning.

Not in a tedious, David Copperfield kind of way. After all, Jia remembered nothing of when she was born. Who did, save for the sort of Dickensian male worthy of his namesake?

The beginning for Jia Song could have been any number of formative moments in the life of a child from an immigrant family. It could have been the time in fifth grade when she was chased at recess by three boys tugging the corners of their eyes and yelling ‘Ching chong ching,’ their cackles ringing through the schoolyard like racist hyenas… right until Jia spun on her heel and hawked Korean hot sauce in their eyes with the precision of a spitting cobra. They cried like babies, and Jia was suspended from school for her role in the Gochujang Caper, as she liked to call it. She was in a Nancy Drew phase.

Her mother had been embarrassed, her father amused. Chal haesuh, he’d said under his breath as he’d squeezed her shoulder. Good job. Then he’d offered her a single, emphatic nod. Like she’d handled her shit and he didn’t have to worry about her anymore. Her mother had whirled on him, Korean words flying from her lips. A litany on the importance of decorum and good character and setting a proper example and on and on and on.

Not that Jia’s punishment mattered. There would never be a minute of any day when it was not worth it just to recall the memory of their swollen faces, snot dribbling down their chins as one of them wailed for his mommy.

But no, that occasion wasn’t the beginning.

Nor was it the night Jia’s grandfather died of a heart attack when she was thirteen. She had been the first to know he’d left this world for the next. Why? Because Harabugi’s ghost had come to tell her – in a calm, rational manner – that it was up to her now to make sense of this mess.

In retrospect, Jia supposed that night was as good as any to call a beginning.

Still, that was not quite it.

The beginning for Jia Song was a January in the early aughts, the day Alexandra Niarchos came into the Song family’s Lower East Side bodega carrying an Hermès Birkin bag.

At the time, Lexi Niarchos ruled over Manhattan’s social scene, her bladed cheeks and glossy lips framed by that season’s most coveted style of bedhead. The young socialite’s white teeth and huge Oliver Peoples sunglasses gleamed from the pages of the gossip columns and fashion magazines fifteen-year-old Jia devoured.

But Jia was unprepared for the impression this chance meeting with Lexi Niarchos would leave on her. That lone interaction of no more than three minutes would alter the course of her life.

It was freezing that January morning. Cold in a city kind of way. Bracing and metallic, the chill rumbling around iron bars and whistling through steel grates. It was still dark outside, smoke and radiator exhaust unfurling against the sky. Jia had decided to go with her mother to work so that she could study for her biology exam later that day. When the brass bell chimed above the door to their bodega, Jia barely glanced up from where she sat beside the cash register, her textbook resting on her lap. From the tiny stockroom, the faint strains of her mother’s endless argument with Medicare over Halmunni’s insulin harmonized with the Korean drama playing on their ancient tube television behind Jia to form a twisted symphony. A fucked-up soundtrack for their exceptionally ordinary life.

A strange scent wound through Jia’s nostrils. The scent of oiled leather. Something expensive and extraordinary, like polished hunting boots at Balmoral Castle. It mingled with the faint perfume of rose petals and melting sugar. Jia looked up just as Lexi Niarchos plunked down a large tan bag on the cracked Formica countertop. Lexi’s French-tipped fingernails gleamed as she twisted open her glass bottle of green tea with a loud pop.

Jia couldn’t speak. Couldn’t muster a blink.

It wasn’t the canary yellow diamond on Lexi Niarchos’s ring finger, which meant her latest Greek shipping heir beau had finally bitten the bullet after an interminable eleven months. Nor was it Lexi’s theatrical fur coat, dangling from one shoulder as she stood before Jia with a blasé expression, as if this were not the most ridiculous thing to happen to Jia in her entire life.

In fact, it wasn’t even that Lexi Niarchos had deigned to grace the Song family’s bodega on her way to Teterboro or wherever the fuck she was going at 6:30 a.m. on a Tuesday in full makeup and a floor-length chinchilla coat. It wasn’t this celebrity that managed to suck the air out of the tiny space and narrow everything around Jia to a single, solitary focus, like a missile homing beacon.

Signal locked. Loaded. Ready to fire.

It was the Most Beautiful Bag in the World.

Jia had never seen anything like it. Smooth caramel. Immaculate white stitching with gold embellishments. Encased in a halo of gilded light. Embossed by the Midas touch itself.

Hermès.

One side of Lexi’s glossy lips kicked up. She dropped a stack of bridal magazines in front of Jia and raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t forget the tea, hon,’ she said, wagging the bottle between her fingers before taking an unhurried sip.

In slow-moving horror, Jia watched the condensation from the bottle drip toward the Most Beautiful Bag in the World. It landed on the tan leather, darkening the caramel as if it were blood seeping from an open wound.

Jia screamed.

Lexi startled, then laughed, the sound filled with air and ease. ‘Holy shit, you scared me.’ Her canary diamond flashed around the bodega, prisms bouncing off the plastic-wrapped cigarettes and carefully arranged packs of gum. ‘Don’t worry, it’s Barenia leather. It’s okay if it gets wet. In fact, they say Birkins only get better with age. Then they really begin to tell their own story.’ Another round of airy laughter flitted through the bodega, like its own inside joke. ‘Isn’t that great?’

It sounded like total bullshit. Under normal circumstances, Jia would have gathered every detail of this encounter to share with her best friends, Nidhi and Elisa, to be analyzed and dissected like a tarot reading, so that they might laugh and mock Lexi Niarchos into the wee hours of the morning over their customary bowl of ramyun and dumplings.

But that damn bag. It possessed some kind of dark magic, like Snow White’s apple or Sleeping Beauty’s spindle. And just like those foolish princesses, Jia felt herself lured into a glittering spiderweb.

As Jia rang up Lexi’s purchases, she could not take her eyes off the Birkin. The smell of Barenia leather intoxicated her, beckoning her closer with the promise of a story yet to be told. Any story.

Her story, perhaps.

Long after Lexi Niarchos glided out of the bodega into the early dawn light, Jia sat immobile on her stool.

For years, she’d admired people with nice things. Envied them. Mocked them, even. Once or twice, she’d considered saving up money to buy herself or her mother something expensive. Last year, she’d found a tester bottle of Chanel Chance at an outlet mall in New Jersey and had bought it for her mother, who’d promptly declared the scent too overpowering. So Jia took it and saved it for special occasions. Whenever she wore it, she felt herself standing a little taller, as if that single spray of perfume were a kind of armor or an invisible shield.

She laughed to herself. Then she stared at the words of her biology textbook until they swam.

Why not her? Why should only the Lexi Niarchoses of the world know what it felt like to glide through life with beautiful things and invisible shields?

With bags that told their own stories.

Jia remembered her father the day of the Gochujang Caper. His single, emphatic nod. Like she had handled her shit. Her harabugi’s glistening eyes as his ghost had prophesied that it was up to her now to make sense of this mess.

The story of that Hermès bag – and all it meant – promised a future where Jia Song took care of everything and no one would need to worry about her. A future beyond the walls of this bodega.

A future kissed by the Midas touch.

CAVEAT EMPTOR

Now for a brief interlude.

This author – who, alas, is not as charming as Jia Song and wishes to remain anonymous because of unresolved legal proceedings – asks for your indulgence while we step forward some twenty-odd years. Take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Settle in for the journey.

At your leisure, please select your favorite piece of classical music. Let its melody fill your mind and ease your body into a deeper sense of relaxation. Perhaps the song you’ve chosen is the lovely ‘Berceuse and Finale’ from Stravinsky’s L’oiseau de feu. Or Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune,’ the piano chords soft and luminous, like snow falling against a night sky. For those inclined to the melancholic, the adagietto from Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 might be more in keeping with your sensibilities.

And if your medicine of choice is chaos? This author is not one to offer judgment.

Rage against that machine.

There is an art to buying a Birkin.

In all seriousness. Take a bite of the apple. Touch the spindle.

It’s a whole new world.

Purchasing a brand-new Birkin is not as simple as clicking a ‘Buy’ button or walking into any Hermès boutique and flourishing a black Amex like a magic wand.

Those in the know understand that it can take years of networking and thousands of dollars before any Birkin – much less a specific type of leather and color combination – is offered to even the most well-heeled buyer.

Ludicrous, non? After all, the customer is always right, and money talks. Alas, not in a world where purses appreciate at a greater rate than gold. Yes, it’s true. With an average annual return of more than 14 percent over the last thirty years, a well-kept Birkin is a better investment than actual gold. Indeed, a serious argument can even be made that Birkins perform better than the stock market. Impossible, you say?

Should we step into the ring and trade factual blows, mon ami?

Another day, perhaps. Another dollar.

First and foremost, a potential purchaser must choose a physical store. This might seem preposterous, but nothing about buying an upward-of-five-figures handbag should come as a surprise. The store’s location is of immense importance. Certain boutiques receive prime selections befitting their clientele and allure. Dubai, for instance. Until humans wise up or Mother Nature decides to chew us up and spit us out, oil money will forever be en vogue. Seoul, Tokyo, Beijing, and Singapore, of course. Asian wealth epitomizes the ideal mix of old and new. Elegant with a dash of outrageous. Paris, sans question, for Paris is never a question. Madison Avenue, naturally. These are places where money not only talks but sings with unmistakable gusto.

Alas, popular locations such as these can be double-edged swords. The best sales associates – SAs, as they are known in common parlance – have handfuls of top-tier, cutthroat clients. Husbands and wives and assistants to wealthy power brokers and celebrities, itching for their next Himalaya Niloticus crocodile fix.

It’s simple economics. By keeping the tightest of reins on their supply, Hermès controls global demand like a gifted dominatrix. A small allotment of so-called quota bags is offered to stores and then filtered to the salivating masses. Many Birkin collectors swear that boutiques in less-frequented locales are the perfect place to score a coveted quota bag, such as a Birkin or a Kelly. Others claim the best way to gain access is through a well-established relationship with an SA.

And the secondary market? That would necessitate a chapter all its own.

Suffice it to say: caveat emptor on all counts.

Buyer, beware.

FIREBREATHER

‘Are you sure it’s a Birkin 30 in Barenia Faubourg? You know I’m not interested in another—’ Before she could finish her sentence, Jia Song’s wet snow boots slid across the slick granite floor of the skyscraper housing Whitman Volker, one of Manhattan’s most prestigious law firms. The metal art installation flashed into view above her, a thousand scalelike discs soughing on silk strings like whispered threats. Hic sunt dracones.

Here be dragons.

‘Fuck.’ Jia braced herself for the humiliation of a fall. First thing at work. On a Friday.

Just in time, the tip of her umbrella struck the floor, catching her on a precipice. The second she managed to steady herself and regain her composure, her phone slipped from her grasp, clattering to the granite in staccato bursts of sound. Jia squeezed her eyes shut, her thoughts pounding in her skull. The champagne. Richard. Everything about last night.

Regret was a stale cracker on her tongue. Salty. Dry. Unsatisfying.

‘Jia?’ the muffled voice of her SA, Anka, cried out in the distance. ‘Are you all right?’

Cold wind gusted at Jia’s back, the revolving doors behind her hissing.

‘Jia Song.’ This time the voice was louder. Just over her shoulder.

She spun around, recognition flushing her skin. ‘Mr Volker?’

Benjamin Volker. The biggest, baddest fire-breather of them all.

What was her firm’s managing partner doing at work so early on a Friday?

Benjamin Volker’s weathered features crinkled at the edges. Ten years ago, he would have been a silver fox. Now he’d aged into that perfect blend of powerful and wise. Gandalf in a three-piece suit. Zegna. Always Zegna. ‘Here before seven,’ he said. ‘Good to see that making partner hasn’t gotten to your head yet.’

‘Junior partner.’ It wouldn’t hurt for Ben Volker to know Jia was hungry for more.

‘With your work ethic, I have no doubt you’ll make senior partner one day.’ His polished brogues resumed their strides across the gleaming granite. Unlike Jia – who’d been a public-transit peasant since moving to Brooklyn seven years ago – he’d been dropped off outside the revolving doors by a chauffeured Maybach. Jia wondered if Ben had ever worn boots to trudge through the grimy snow while carrying his good shoes to work.

She doubted it.

‘Hope you have a great day, Mr Volker,’ she called after him, grimacing as the words escaped her mouth. Trite. Insipid. Worst of all, forgettable.

Ben paused, then turned back toward her. ‘Pardon the’ – he almost smirked – ‘impolitic question, but your family is Korean, correct? Candace thought they might be Japanese, but I’m fairly certain you’re Korean.’

‘Yes.’ Jia kept her quip in check. ‘We’re – I’m – Korean American.’ She wouldn’t waste another chance to impress him. Besides, she’d learned the hard way that lighthearted jokes about microaggressions didn’t land well on the overlords.

‘Do you speak Korean?’

‘Er… yes. But I’m more comfortable in English. I can understand everything that’s said to me in Korean and can converse well enough to get by, but from a business standpoint, I’ – Jia wanted to fold in on herself, as if she were a note being tucked into an envelope – ‘prefer English.’ Such a shit time for honesty.

Ben Volker nodded once, his head canting to the left like it was hinging on a decision. A bubble of eagerness gathered in Jia’s throat. She swallowed it, hating how much being a middle child had screwed her for life. A people pleaser, they called it. The human equivalent of a goddamned labradoodle.

‘I believe I have a client for you.’ Ben nodded again, his decision made. ‘It would be a favor to me, as this is a referral from a personal friend.’

The bubble threatened to burst in Jia’s throat. ‘Of course.’

‘Clear your desk and report directly to me. Pass your current caseload on to a few first years.’ He paused a moment in thought. ‘Tell Kim to help you dole out the work.’

She mirrored his crisp nod. Keep it simple. Like one of the guys.

‘Good. Come to the conference room beside my office at nine. I’ll be along soon after.’

‘Yes, Mr Volker.’

‘Ben,’ he corrected. ‘In the meantime, I want you to read everything you can on the family of Chilsoo “Seven” Park. They live in Lenox Hill on Park Avenue, and they own a cosmetics company called Mirae.’

‘I will.’ Jia refrained from offering him a firm handshake. ‘Thank you, Ben.’

Without another word, Benjamin Volker continued toward the elevator bank, leaving Jia frozen in his wake.

A personal favor to the firm’s managing partner. A chance to further distinguish herself from the pack of hungry wolves at her firm. To become the kind of awe-inspiring attorney Jia had always dreamed of being. A vested senior partner, sharing in the profits. Whitman Volker’s next Emily Bhatia, the youngest senior partner in the firm’s sixty-year history, with the highest billables for the last four years running. Emily Bhatia, who’d never given Jia more than a passing glance, despite Jia’s countless attempts to garner her attention.

Never mind the celebratory champagne hangover and the visceral memory of Richard’s pale backside as he snored in Jia’s bed this morning. A lesson she still refused to learn.

Regret was the last thing on her mind now.

Her first official day as a junior partner at Whitman Volker, Jia Song was shedding the lizard skin of her former life – one of M&A drudgery and black holes of legal minutiae – to become something bigger and badder.

A fire-breather in her own right.

She glanced up at the ceiling’s flashing scales once more, refraining from raising her right fist to the sky in triumph.

Hic sunt dracones.

‘Jia Song!’ a muffled voice shouted with exasperation from beside her foot.

‘Jesus!’ Jia stooped for her long-forgotten phone. ‘Anka, I’m so sorry. Now, about that Birkin. Are you sure it’s a Barenia Faubourg with gold hardware? And what size is it, again?’ She resumed her walk toward the elevator bank. ‘I can be there tomorrow.’

Mirae. The Korean word for future.

Jia liked it. It sounded hopeful. A tad optimistic, with just the right dash of ego.

As far as stories went, the tale of Mirae epitomized the sort of American Dream that resonated in the ears of immigrants around the world.

But Jia knew there was a sinister underbelly to many American Dreams. She’d been there in the nineties when the only lenders who would give her parents reasonable lines of credit for their bodega had been ones who looked like them. She’d stood firm when a roofing company had accosted her mother for payment, trying to blame Umma’s ‘bad English’ for their poor bookkeeping. In 1998, her father’s cousin in Queens had been beaten by her ex-husband. The police had done nothing, despite numerous recorded incidents of abuse. In one of the reports teenage Jia had read in secret at night, she’d seen an offhand comment about it being ‘difficult to understand the victim.’ As if it were a challenge to interpret the meaning behind a black eye, a fractured nose, and a broken jaw. Her father’s cousin and kids had slept on the floor of the Songs’ apartment for two months until the rest of the community found a place for them.

Jia had witnessed firsthand the struggles her family had experienced with their business. The constant worries about making payroll and the endless supply chain issues and broken refrigeration units with thousand-dollar parts and indecipherable inspection notices and harebrained schemes to sell Spam kimbap and Halmunni’s kalbi sauce under the table in an attempt to become New York’s Next Big Thing.

Three months ago, a white man had come into their bodega in the middle of the afternoon carrying nothing but a bat. Without warning, he’d started trashing the shelves and shouting racial epithets at Jia’s father and their part-time employee, Yung Hee. Her father had defended them with a box cutter until the Syrian florist across the way could call for the police. The man was carted away in handcuffs and sentenced to a year in a mental rehabilitation facility. His attorney claimed he’d suffered a psychotic break after Yung Hee had ended their relationship.

He was released from the facility two months later.

The Syrian florist, Amna, had tsked when she heard. ‘The more things change, the more they don’t,’ she’d said to Jia.

Jia wondered what the underbelly of Mirae’s fairy tale looked like.

On the silvery surface, Mirae’s story began in the early eighties as Mirae Dry Cleaning with just two employees, Chilsoo and Jeeyun Park, the son of a fishmonger and the daughter of a haenyeo, one of South Korea’s famed diving women. Seven and Jenny, as they were known to their American friends, had immigrated to Flushing, Queens, and started with a single dry cleaner, which had become two and then five, all within a handful of years. In the midst of building an empire, they managed to have three children: first twin girls and then a boy. All three were now in their thirties, like Jia and her brothers.

Seven had a head for business, while Jenny proved excellent at managing the day-to-day affairs. Together they parlayed their success into nail salons in Queens, followed by hair salons and spas in Manhattan. In the midnineties, they created a company that began selling Korean beauty products by mail, the first of its kind, complete with proper catalogs catering to Western consumers. No more of the indecipherable English translations that had made teenage Jia cringe. Jenny made sure to hire workers fluent in both Korean and English, which opened their fledgling online business to the world of global commerce. When the Hallyu wave crested, Jenny and Seven were poised at the exact right place and time, their website brimming with the best in Korean beauty.

Conservative estimates now valued Mirae at almost a billion dollars.

Mirae. The future. One of power and promise, even for Korean immigrants who’d arrived on the shores of America unable to speak a word of English, with only four hundred dollars to their names.

The question of what the future might hold was something that had consumed Jia from the age of thirteen, the year her grandfather had put her in charge of their family’s destiny. An honor, of course, but also a lofty responsibility for a young girl with Jonathan Taylor Thomas posters and Baby-Sitters Club paperbacks strewn across her bedroom floor.

It wasn’t that Jia had some sixth sense–ish ability to speak to the dead. This was a very specific, onetime occurrence. Her grandfather’s ghost had sought her out, probably because he and Jia had always shared a special connection, like their passion for late-night Oreos with crunchy peanut butter or the way they both shuddered at the sound of someone eating a banana. As if their souls had been aligned from the beginning.

It happened on a blustery fall night. Jia woke from a deep sleep with a start. Bare tree branches scratched at her window, hail plinking against the roof. Lightning cut across the purple sky, followed by a crackle of thunder.

It was then that she saw him sitting there, at the foot of her bed.

‘Harabugi?’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’ Jia should have been frightened. After all, he was a ghost, and ghosts were supposed to be scary. But she wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was because Harabugi didn’t look different. Perhaps a little paler. A little… less of himself. In any case, she realized, before he uttered a single word, that he wasn’t alive anymore.

Another flicker of lightning sliced through the darkness, a boom of thunder nipping at its heels. The ghost of her harabugi smiled, the crook of his lips sad. ‘From now on, you must take care of our family.’ His accented voice wound through Jia’s ears, reminding her of the songs he liked to sing on their karaoke machine. Their favorites. Kim Gun-mo ballads, his eyes squeezed shut, his features twisted in blissful agony.

‘What?’ Jia said. ‘Why?’

‘Because you will be the one. Not your brothers. Not your cousins. You.’

‘What?’ She scrubbed her nose with the heel of one hand and blinked the dregs of sleep from her eyes.

‘I’m trusting you.’ Harabugi smiled again. ‘It will be up to you now to make sense of this mess. Take care of your brothers. Make sure your halmunni has her medicine. Bring your umma flowers on her birthday, and don’t let your appa lend his friends too much money. I know you will make me proud. Song Jihae, you are destined for true greatness.’ And then he’d vanished in a final burst of lightning.

Jia kicked off her covers and flicked on the lamp.

‘Harabugi?’ she called out, her heart in her stomach. Jia sat there for a full fifteen minutes, waiting for him to return, as if she were in denial. It wasn’t until she heard movement below – the creaking of wooden floorboards and the whining of cabinet doors opening and closing – that she went downstairs.

In the kitchen, Jia stopped short. Her mother was sitting at the darkened breakfast bar, holding a mug of tea while silent tears glazed her cheeks.

‘Umma?’ Jia whispered the question, though she already knew the answer.

‘Your harabugi,’ her mother said softly. ‘He—’

‘I know,’ Jia said in Korean. ‘Ah-ra, Umma. I know.’

That night, her harabugi, the wisest person in the world, had told her she was destined for true greatness while entrusting her with the fate of their family. But it wasn’t until two years later – the morning that Lexi Niarchos wandered into the Song family’s bodega – that Jia truly accepted the responsibility and made the decision to bring great things into her life and the lives of those she loved.

In order to make her destiny a reality, she needed a high-paying job. The sort of career that would make her harabugi proud. Working hard to graduate at the top of her class was the first step. Refusing to fall in love with the first toad who said ‘Kiss me’ was the next. College at NYU and law school at Columbia were logical decisions. The debt was not, which was why she chose the best firm that recruited her during her summer internships. Whenever the stress caught up to Jia, she would think about the wonderful things she would be able to do and buy with the money she would make as a powerful attorney. The prestige and security she would have if she refused to blink and gave every day her all.

At night, she dreamed about walking down Madison Avenue in a white cashmere coat with a jaunty hat, oversize sunglasses, and a caramel-colored Birkin. About one day sauntering into a small shop and changing another girl’s life with a measure of much-needed audacity.

But in the harsh light of day, Jia refused to be starry-eyed. After all, learning of her destiny as her family’s savior had come at the cost of losing her harabugi.

Even now, at the age of thirty-four, she never stopped being vigilant, never failed to question the good fortune that came her way, wondering, waiting. Because in life, there was always a balance that would come due.

Jia’s therapist told her that she needed to pause. Reflect. Seek gratitude.

Simple enough, right?

Jia glanced out the narrow window in the corner of her new office at Whitman Volker. Her window was no wider than the length of a size-thirteen tennis shoe. An oily film clung to its surface, as if a hundred handprints had pressed on the outside, begging to be let in.

At least it was something. A window. An office. Junior partner in less than seven years!

‘A shoebox with a cutout,’ Jia murmured. Like one of the dioramas of her favorite books she’d made in elementary school. One hell of a metaphor.

Gratitude and empathy are the keys to lasting happiness. She heard the words pronounced in her therapist Gail’s sonorous voice. The sort of voice cultivated to convey trust, for four hundred bucks an hour. A small price to pay for lasting happiness.

The best way to deal with your anxiety is to have a system in place to stop the spiral before it begins. Consciously shift your perspective to one of gratitude, Jia. Harboring suspicion makes you seem suspicious. Choose to give everyone – including yourself – the benefit of the doubt.

‘But what if none of us deserves it?’ Jia muttered as she glanced down at her bare feet, sandwiched between her snow boots and the pair of good shoes she’d stuffed in her bag while Richard snored in the early morning darkness.

‘Fuck!’ She shouted the single syllable, then shrank into herself, her eyes locked on the door.

Sure enough, a knock sounded a second later.

‘Yes?’ Jia cleared her throat and lifted her chin.

‘Is everything all right, Jia?’ Nate Willoughby pushed open the door without waiting for a response. Of course it was Never Late Nate. Jia had nicknames for all the first years she worked with, except for the few she didn’t hate. It was her way of making them seem less like shark-toothed guppies in need of a culling.

Never Late Nate’s favorite icebreaker was to tell people he’d been born ten weeks early on a yacht, which made him a gunner with sea legs. Never mind the fact that his mother almost died, a fact Jia learned much later, listening as Nate chuckled while sharing the tale. Men who chuckled were the worst. The nicest thing she could say about Nate Willoughby was that he wore a tan well. At least once a week, Jia daydreamed of tying him down so that she could admire his physique while drowning him in a bucket, just to test out his sea legs theory.

She could hear Gail now. Could see her patient, veneered smile. Jia, it’s not always a good idea to entertain such violent thoughts, even in jest. Instead, why don’t we –

‘Everything’s fine, Nate.’ Jia grinned, folding her hands beneath her chin.

‘I just thought I heard—’

‘Find out if any of the other first years wear size seven-and-a-half shoes, please.’

Nate drew back, his eyes wide. ‘Like, the… female first years?’

Fucking Yalies. Jia sharpened her smile. ‘No. I’ve decided to wear men’s shoes from this day forth.’

A frown pulled at his face. Her sarcasm failed to land well on any kind of overlord, especially future ones like Never Late Nate.

‘Be a pal and ask around, would you?’ Jia said. ‘Nothing higher than three inches and no red bottoms. I’m not a clown.’

‘Sure thing.’ His stare pierced into hers. A second too late, Jia realized the reason when his gaze dropped to the floor and back up again.

Jia tucked her feet out of sight and hated herself for it. Nate made mistakes, too. Just last week, she’d had to fix the Shatner commas in one of his briefs.

‘Did you step in something?’ he pressed.

‘Yes,’ Jia lied. ‘Dog shit.’ That was better than him knowing she’d brought shoes from two different pairs.

‘I thought I smelled something.’

A familiar anger flared in Jia’s chest, hot and fast. ‘Just find me some shoes, Ken.’

‘Nate,’ he corrected, his tanned brow creasing.

‘Uh-huh.’ She grinned and let her eyes squint like a stereotype, for good measure.

His expression quizzical, Nate took hold of the door handle. ‘Congrats on making junior partner, Jia. You deserve it.’

‘I know.’

‘Holler if you need anything else. I’ll be right outside.’

Ready and waiting to kill her if it meant getting a leg up. ‘Will do,’ she said through gritted teeth. Then she clicked open the next article on her computer, which was an Architectural Digest spread on Sora Park-Vandeveld’s home in the current building du jour on Billionaires’ Row.

The perfectly styled photos revealed a slender Korean woman about Jia’s age dressed in Prada and Zimmermann, her long black hair shining like onyx in the sun. Two small children clambered at her feet, their faces artfully hidden from view. The Park-Vandeveld manse sported white walls and light oak floors, with accents of black metal and jade silk. Subdued and elegant, save for splashy art and the occasional item of whimsy meant to ‘bring character to every corner and highlight cherished memories.’

A further internet search told Jia that Sora had attended Harvard for undergrad and Johns Hopkins for medical school, where she’d graduated summa cum laude and had embarked on a career as a pediatrician. In residency at Cedars-Sinai, she met Dr Charles Alexander Vandeveld III, future dermatologist to Manhattan’s über-rich and scion of one of its wealthiest families. His grandmother was a DuPont, and his father could trace his roots back to the Astors. Sora and Alex had married five years ago in a star-studded gala at his family’s summer home in East Hampton and had two children since.

Sora’s younger twin sister, Suzy, lived in an immense loft in SoHo. A graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, Suzy had begun her career as a mixed-media painter and sculptor with all the eyes of the art world upon her. Though she had yet to hold a full show of her own, she hobnobbed with the city’s elite and was often spotted on the edges of paparazzi photos at a club or gallery opening, her elbows linked with actors and other LA-to-Brooklyn transplants.

In contrast to the twins, Jia could find very little information on the youngest member of the Park family. His English name, Jia discovered, was rather unfortunate: Mark. Mark Park. As such, he used his Korean name, Minsoo, in professional settings. A Stanford graduate, Minsoo Park worked at a hedge fund on Wall Street known for its extreme discretion and its small, select clientele. He lived in a co-op in Tribeca and enjoyed playing golf and driving Italian supercars.

In short, the Park family was rich. Very rich.

Jia inhaled through her nose. ‘I don’t know what they want from me,’ she sang under her breath. ‘It’s like the more money we come across, the more problems we see.’ Her attention snagged on the clock. Less than half an hour to refresh her hair and makeup before she was due at the conference room on the opposite side of the floor.

But first she needed to find Nate. If this family was anything like their online personas suggested, Jia would rather eat glass than meet them wearing mismatched shoes.

Trepidation settled in her stomach, mixed with a tinge of excitement. Like that last bite of a Cheongyang chili pepper, seeds and all. The bite you know is going to be too hot but eat anyway, just to relish the burn.

Jia hadn’t decided what this mirae would bring her. But she was prepared to take the bad along with the good.

‘The Parks of Park Avenue,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Do your worst.’

GIJIBAE

Ben Volker was already seated in the conference room when Jia arrived ten minutes before nine o’clock. Without saying a word, he managed to take her off guard, yet again.

She’d expected to deal with the ego of a man accustomed to being in charge. After all, Ben was a named partner, and Jia was his junior, in more respects than one. He represented billion-dollar deals and did the kind of pro bono work Jia dreamed of taking on later in her career, when she vacationed in the Hamptons and owned a restored Porsche from the early nineties. Like James Bond, but Korean American. And a lady, of course. Her gun of choice would be the law, not a Walther PPK. And when Jia Song took aim for justice, she would not miss.

Ben frowned, as if he could see her ridiculous fantasy playing out before him like a poorly scripted movie trailer.

Jia straightened. She was here in a support capacity. Nothing more, especially when they were client-facing. Ben Volker was in charge.

Except… it didn’t appear like he was.

Ben had chosen to sit against the wall in a small chair meant for transcribers and secretaries, rather than at the head of the immense conference table running the length of the glass-walled chamber reserved for the firm’s top clients.

The ones they meant to impress.

This table had been among the many reasons Jia had chosen to intern at Whitman Volker the summer after her second year at Columbia Law. It was a custom piece, known throughout the furniture world as a river table. Two pieces of live-edge oak framed a channel of rich black resin finished by a layer of epoxy so perfect, Jia could see her reflection in it. A Dutch master had crafted it to the specific dimensions of the room, using wood from a hundred-year-old tree he’d chopped down himself. It was intimidating and elegant. Something that spoke for itself. Exactly what Jia aspired to be.

She stared at Ben sitting in the corner, his legs crossed, the face of his Patek Philippe watch gleaming. Jia waited for him to speak.

He raised his eyebrows.

‘I… read everything I could find on the Park family.’ She clutched her folder and pushed her feet deeper into the toe bed of her borrowed size-eight heels. A hair too big, but a vast improvement over the mismatched alternative.

‘Good. You’re running point on this.’

‘I am?’

Ben nodded. ‘I possess very little information on this situation. As I said, this is a referral from a friend. The Park family business is with CHM. This appears to be a personal matter.’

‘I see.’ Jia refrained from making a face. This meant there was trouble in the family. One member of the family might be suing another, which was why the law firm handling their business could not represent whoever Ben and Jia were about to meet.

‘I will be learning about the situation at the same time as you,’ Ben said. He checked his watch again. ‘I believe we will be dealing primarily with the kids.’

‘Mark is thirty-one. Sora and Suzy are thirty-four.’ Jia was thirty-four. Did Ben think she was a kid?

‘I know,’ Ben said.

Guess that answered her question. Was sweat pooling on her upper lip? It would only be a matter of time before she began perspiring through her taupe silk shirt and charcoal blazer. ‘Perhaps we—’

‘It’s no secret that the firm has been seeking opportunities to work with major players in the beauty industry for quite some time. Globally, it’s worth over half a trillion dollars. The Park family’s current case appears to be personal, but this could be a chance to get their company’s business in the future.’ Ben locked eyes with her, his gaze piercing. ‘This requires the kind of undivided attention I’m unable to offer clients as managing director, but I expect you to devote yourself entirely to their needs and report to me at every turn. I want to stay fully abreast of everything, and all major decisions should be run through me first.’

Jia threw back her shoulders while he spoke, as if he were a military commander issuing orders to his subordinate. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m aware this is not a small ask. But I believe you’re up to it, Jia.’ He recrossed an ankle over a knee. ‘And if you’re successful in getting the Park family to move their business to us, I will recommend you for senior partner next year.’

Jia’s pulse trilled in her veins. The ambient noises around her faded to a dull roar. Senior partner only a year after making junior partner? Had that ever happened at Whitman Volker?

‘That would make you the youngest senior partner in the firm’s history.’ One side of Ben’s mouth kicked up.

Younger than Emily Bhatia.

Jia nodded slowly, taking time to process her swirling thoughts. Becoming a vested senior partner was not a given for any lawyer. If she made this happen, she could reach that goal by the age of thirty-five, with all the trappings and money and influence that came along with the title. Everything she’d spent her entire life working toward would be possible. Security for herself and her family. Honoring her grandfather’s last request. A self-made multimillionaire before she turned forty.

But only if she could win over the Park family and their billion-dollar business.

A wave of anxiety built in Jia’s stomach, cresting at the base of her throat.

Breathe, she admonished herself. Think of the worst thing that can happen. Have a plan to deal with it moving forward. Always forward. She waited for the pounding of her heart to subside.

A well-dressed young man rounded the corner, just beyond the glass wall parallel to the river table. He was accompanied by Ben’s secretary, Candace, who opened the gleaming door to the conference room.

‘Would you care for something to drink, Mr Park?’ Candace asked as soon as they crossed the threshold. ‘We have bottled water – still and sparkling – as well as any kind of coffee or tea or soda you would like.’

‘I’ll have a bottled water, please. Still,’ Minsoo Park said with a tight smile. He moved with smooth, precise steps toward Ben and Jia, his navy pinstriped suit perfectly pressed. Almost old-fashioned. The starched white collar on his otherwise robin’s-egg blue shirt reminded Jia a bit of Gordon Gekko. A hint of lavender silk suspenders and a solid gold tie clip peeked out from beneath his double-breasted jacket. His two-toned Rolex was tasteful rather than outlandish, and she could bet he had the same pair of Ferragamo shoes in every color imaginable.

Ben stepped aside to make room for Jia, allowing her to take the lead… which, really?

Jia almost laughed. Instead, it came out as a nervous snort.

Humor was, as always, the best medicine. It never failed to brighten the darkness.

‘Good morning, Mr Park.’ Jia reached a hand toward him, trying her best to appear unruffled. ‘My name is Jia Song.’

His otherwise even brow furrowed. He shook her hand, and Jia caught a whiff of his cologne. The soothing musk of vetiver. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Ms Song, but I was under the impression we were speaking with one of the named partners.’

‘I’m Benjamin Volker,’ Ben said, gliding forward. ‘Jia is one of our finest junior partners. We’ll be working together on this.’

Minsoo Park shook Ben’s hand slowly. He looked from Ben’s smiling face to Jia’s. Then back to Ben. When he glanced at Jia again, they shared an understanding.

Minsoo knew why Jia was here. And he didn’t like it.

Which meant Jia would have to work even harder to earn his trust. It was something she loved and hated about her people. They wanted to work with their own kind. But they wanted their own kind to deserve it.

Minsoo Park thought Jia was only here because she was Korean, not because she was competent. Jia had to make a choice. She could either let her anxiety take control or use it to stoke her anger. It was an old remedy, one Gail would not advise. But it had proven useful to Jia on more than one occasion.

It was easy for her to choose anger. Letting anger take the reins felt empowering. The Korean part of her wanted to rage at him. Demand that he start calling her noona and defer to her as his elder. Who did this jashik think he was? The American part of her hunkered down for a barroom brawl.

Jia’s jaw set. ‘Please have a seat.’ As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized her voice had changed. It no longer sounded accommodating or eager to please. There was a sharpness now, as if it had accepted Minsoo’s wordless challenge.

Pistols at dawn, motherfucker, it said.

Maybe the youngest Park sibling wouldn’t like her. But he would respect her.

If Minsoo noticed Jia’s reaction, he didn’t show it. ‘My sisters should be along shortly.’ He sat in a swivel chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘I spoke to Sora twenty minutes ago, and she was on the way.’

He did not mention Suzy, Jia noted.

Ben sat across from Minsoo, and Jia selected the chair beside her boss. ‘Should we wait until they both arrive to begin?’ she said, refusing to operate from a place of deference. Ben wanted her to take the lead, and Minsoo Park didn’t like that she was here at all. Jia was determined to carve out space for herself, even if she had to do it with a dull knife.

Minsoo nodded. ‘We should at least wait for Sora. She and I are on the same page, more or less. Suzy – well, I’m not sure Suzy will be much help. She’s not exactly reliable. My father refers to her as Punxsutawney Phil.’

Ben chuckled. Minsoo chuckled in return, but it felt rehearsed. As if he’d stolen the line because he’d been told to. Like, use that, it’s a good one. Nevertheless, their laughter grated on Jia. One day, she was determined to write a think piece on The Chuckling of Men in Meetings.

Minsoo inhaled, his mouth puckering like he’d taken a bite out of a lemon. ‘I wanted to mention something before my sisters arrived that is… pertinent, as it may complicate matters moving forward.’

Jia nodded. ‘Please go ahead.’

‘Suzy and Sora have not spoken in over two years,’ Minsoo said.

Jia did not react. ‘I see.’ She had many follow-up questions, but from Minsoo’s body language, Jia gathered he would not be forthcoming. Minsoo Park – like many Koreans Jia knew – would rather swallow rusty nails than air his family’s dirty laundry in public. He was sharing this limited amount of information because he knew, without a doubt, that what was about to unfold would be unpleasant. It was necessary for Ben and Jia to be prepared.

‘If they are’ – Minsoo took his time choosing his next words, like Halmunni selecting a piece of fruit – ‘impolite to each other, that is the reason why.’ The lemon sucking continued. ‘Sora will try her best. Suzy will do her worst. Understand, they are… both in the wrong. I will not get involved unless I am forced to.’ He leaned forward, his ankle crossing over one knee, showing navy silk socks and old-fashioned garters to match his lavender suspenders. ‘It goes without saying that this is all privileged information.’

‘It goes without saying,’ Ben echoed. The entire time Minsoo spoke, Whitman Volker’s managing partner had mirrored their newest client’s movements in an effort to put him at ease. Law firms made their living off fraught situations like this. Family drama never failed to set the cash registers ringing. And family drama among centimillionaires? It was better than striking an oil geyser in Texas. The more bullshit WhitVo’s first years had to sift through, the more billable hours the firm could collect.

The Park family could easily become one of the firm’s largest accounts. If this was an estate battle between the siblings, it could turn into a full-on fistfight. The only thing that gave Jia pause was this: she did not recall reading about either Seven’s or Jenny’s impending demise.

What, then, were the Park siblings fighting about? Why had the twins been at odds for years?

She glanced back at Minsoo and found him staring at nothing, his features caught between sadness and resignation.

For the first time since meeting him, Jia felt a drop of sympathy. For all his aloofness, Minsoo Park wanted to protect his sisters in the quiet way she’d longed for her older brother, James, to look out for her and their younger brother, Jason. Too bad James Song had been more interested in riced-out Hondas and gaming.

Then again, Minsoo was Sora and Suzy’s younger brother. Maybe it had nothing to do with age or birth order. Maybe it was just the luck of the draw.

Jia, Ben, and Minsoo waited in silence for a few more minutes, checking messages on their respective phones until the glass door to the conference room swung open with a depressurizing sound, like the hatch on a space station. When Jia glanced toward the entrance, the welcoming smile on her face faltered.

The woman standing beyond the threshold was staring at Jia from straight down her nose, her expression a perfect portrait of judgment. As if Jia were a pulae. A bug meant to be squished to a pulp beneath her polished heel.

Sora Park-Vandeveld. The Grand Gijibae herself.

Her long blue-black hair was parted down the middle, the ends curled halfway down her back. Her YSL sunglasses were cat-eyed, her diamond studs flawless. The bell sleeves on her white button-down shirt peeked out from underneath the cuffs of her oversize mohair coat. Her tailored pencil skirt and midcalf black boots were coordinated in matching lengths. The handle of a noir Hermès Kelly 28 with palladium hardware was tucked into the crook of her left elbow.

She was flawless. Lithe. A fixed presence in the front row at Fashion Week. The kind of fancy Korean Korean girl who’d disdained Jia at Columbia.

Of course Sora preferred a Kelly over a Birkin. She was just the type of gijibae to do that. Jia knew Sora Park-Vandeveld’s kind of Korean girl quite well. She could bet Sora spoke the highest form of jondaemal with the same ease that Jia used to cuss out bad drivers on the BQE.

Jondaemal was the sort of Korean high speech that made Jia feel most like a fish out of water around other Koreans. To her, it drew invisible lines where there had been none. In wealthier families, children often addressed their parents and grandparents using jondaemal. A generation or so ago, it was unheard of to use anything less within ‘proper’ circles. In modern Korean business settings, it was often a requirement.

Jia had used banmal – casual Korean – with all the members of her family, even her grandparents, since she was a child. It was why she hesitated to speak Korean outside her home.

The few times she’d spoken jondaemal around Korean Koreans, she’d felt their judgment. Felt her blood warm and her skin flush when she’d uttered the wrong ending to a phrase or misused a greeting or failed to perform some ridiculous rule of etiquette, like Julia Roberts with the escargot spoon in Pretty Woman.

Sora Park-Vandeveld hated Jia on sight, before they’d shared a single exchange. No amount of pleasantries would help now. It burned Jia’s biscuits to see this kind of scenario play out. How the patriarchy insisted on setting powerful women against each other, as if one woman couldn’t rise to the top without stepping on a few of her own kind to get there. Jia wanted to deny this fact. Make mincemeat out of it. Why did Sora Park-Vandeveld have to hate her? They could help each other. Maybe even be fast friends. They were both Korean. Both the children of self-made immigrants. Sure, Sora was incandescently wealthy and married to an Astor or whatever. Did that mean she couldn’t fraternize with the child of bodega owners from Queens?

Jia met Sora’s ice-cold glare and swore she could see rime crystallizing around the edges of her YSLs.

On another day, Jia might have withered. But she refused to let this gijibae get the better of her. If Sora wanted to hate her without any good reason, Jia was happy to return the sentiment. She stood and made her way toward Sora, her strides determined. As she walked, she felt her borrowed shoes slide from her sweaty skin. ‘I’m Jia Song.’ She extended her hand in welcome.

And tripped in front of Sora Park-Vandeveld, her body sprawling like a supplicant at the gijibae’s feet.

‘Jia.’ Ben Volker leaped into action, stooping beside Jia, hammering the final nail on her coffin of humiliation.

‘Minsoo-ya,’ Sora said softly, addressing her younger brother in angelic tones while she removed her sunglasses and crossed her arms. ‘Eegae mohyah?’ She stared down at Jia as if Jia were the pulae-est of pulae.

Minsoo, dear. What the hell is this?

RED RUM

Jia wanted to unhinge her jaw and swallow herself whole. Even during puberty, she hadn’t been this clumsy. In fact, she’d played volleyball in high school and danced well at school functions, and on normal mornings she managed to walk in straight lines without tripping at the first sign of distress.

Today was for day drinking. It was official.

With Ben’s help, Jia stood and straightened her hair and clothing. Her wounded pride was a matter to be dealt with alone. Later. With a fourth of Michter’s and a cilice belt.

Refusing to be deterred, Jia smiled again at Sora and held out her hand once more. ‘I promise that will be the only mistake I make, Suzy,’ she joked.

It was petty. So petty. But Jia felt a stab of satisfaction nonetheless.

‘Hmm,’ Sora said.

Minsoo Park exhaled with the weariness of a much older man. ‘Ms Song is working with Benjamin Volker on our case,’ he said to his sister.

‘I see.’ Sora took Jia’s hand and shook it like a soiled dishrag. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Ms Song.’ Her smile was serene, her eyes the color of teakwood.

‘Please have a seat, Mrs Park-Vandeveld.’ Jia plastered a grin on her face. ‘Would you care for something to drink?’

‘A Perrier with lemon, please,’ Sora replied. ‘No ice.’

Candace stepped forward, her ruddy cheeks darkening, her blond curls trembling. ‘I’ll grab one right away.’ She mouthed an apology to Jia, who waved it off. What Jia really wanted to do was pantomime slicing her own throat, but no one would appreciate her dark sense of humor. Not here, at least.

Her therapist, Gail, would have a field day.

Sora sat beside her brother and made no move to shed her mohair coat. She folded her sunglasses and set them down. Both Park siblings moved with the same sort of deliberation. The simplest motion had a practiced air to it, as if they meant to pose even in rest.

‘Mr Volker?’ Sora’s attention slid to Ben, her head shifting like a hawk’s.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms Park-Vandeveld. Your father-in-law speaks so highly of you.’ Ben rose to shake her hand.

The Parks’ connection to Whitman Volker was through the Vandeveld family. The ones with relatives who were DuPonts and Astors. They were likely trying to protect the wealth Sora was meant to inherit.

The hint of a smile toyed with Sora’s lips. ‘Chip is such a dear.’

Jia knew Sora was referring to Charles Alexander Vandeveld II. There was something odd about calling a man who collected Klimt paintings ‘Chip,’ as if he were a buddy you met at the corner bar every Thursday night.

‘He says you’ve been playing squash at the club together for the last fifteen years,’ Sora continued. There was a hint of an accent in the way she spoke. Nothing meaningful or specific. Just a rounding of tones and a lengthening of vowels, like the way Madonna spoke while she was married to Guy Ritchie.

Ben said, ‘Only when Chip lets me win.’

Sora laughed, and it reminded Jia of the bells chiming at Mass during transubstantiation, when the bread and wine changed into the actual body and blood of Jesus Christ.

Jia leaned back in her chair to study Sora from a distance. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to slow-clap or scream. The pole up this chick’s backside had to be shoved straight through to her head. The urge to laugh took hold of Jia. She wanted to tilt her head to the sky and crow. To release a ribald, robust guffaw into the modern chandelier hanging above the conference table. She bet if she laughed loud enough, she could make the rectangular crystals tremble as if she were a giant stomping around the room yelling ‘fee-fi-fo-fum.’

‘Well, fuck me sideways.’ The door to the conference room thunked shut. The young woman standing beyond the threshold blew her balayaged bangs off her forehead. ‘And I tried so hard to get here early.’ She plodded toward the side of the table where her brother and sister sat. Stopped. Smirked. Reconsidered. And then took the seat beside Jia.

‘I’m Suzy.’ She shoved her right hand in Jia’s face. ‘Who are you?’

‘Jia Song.’ She shook Suzy Park’s hand, impressed by both her grip and the six Cartier LOVE bangles clinking together on her wrist, which seemed incongruous with the rest of Suzy’s ensemble. She wore a flowing Réalisation Par maxi dress with a flowery print over a thin black turtleneck and at least five different gold necklaces of varying lengths. A large green puffer coat, emerald Doc Marten boots, and a vintage Balenciaga tote completed the outfit. Artsy and expensive, albeit a bit young.

‘Hmm,’ Suzy said in an unnerving echo of her twin. ‘You’re Korean, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Jia replied with a smile that failed to reach her eyes. ‘I am.’

‘Did you go to Harvard Law?’ Suzy pressed, focusing on Jia with an intent expression.

‘No. Columbia.’

Suzy snorted. ‘Were your parents proud of you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though you didn’t go to Harvard?’

Jia’s fake grin widened. ‘Were your parents proud of you even though you didn’t go to Harvard?’

‘Nope.’ Suzy cackled. ‘My mom loves me, but she was never proud. And my dad can go suck a big fat—’

‘I think we should probably get started,’ Minsoo interrupted in a quiet but firm voice.

Suzy laughed. ‘Ah, Marky.’ A sigh flew from her lips. ‘I missed you.’

‘Ms Song,’ Sora began, zeroing in on Jia. ‘Mr Volker.’ She turned to Ben. Jia had to admit she was impressed by Sora’s dedicated efforts to ignore her twin. ‘We don’t want to waste too much of your time. My father-in-law recommended your firm because of your discretion and because of your history in dealing with delicate financial matters.’

Jia nodded. ‘Please go ahead, Mrs Park-Vandeveld.’

‘I can assure you, we will handle this matter with the highest levels of both prudence and professionalism,’ Ben added.

Sora picked up her sunglasses and tapped one of the earpieces on the smooth surface of the river table, the noise rhythmic. ‘We find ourselves in a rather… uncomfortable situation.’

Suzy snickered. She inclined in her swivel chair and tossed her wavy hair over one shoulder, fluffing it with her hands as if she were already bored by the entire affair.