The protector

Seo-jin's Choice (Se-ri's POV) (M)

Seoul, 2027, November – December

Headquarter of a newspaper Seo-jin can't remember the name of which for having him visited too many newspapers' headquarters through the last weeks, 2.30 PM

The CEO gave a quick look to his watch with the corner of the eye, hoping for the photographer and his team to not notice him. That damn self-proclaimed artist was making them pose for hours, under lights so bright that, at a certain point, they had to stop because their eyes were tearing.

"Now switch," the artist asked. Or better, ordered.

Seo-jin released a noiseless grunt. The entire situation was having him exceedingly nervous. Standing beside him – he really couldn't get the point in making a zillion of shots with Se-ri standing at his side while he was sitting on a barstool, then Se-ri sitting on a barstool while he was standing at her side. And did the artist know they didn't use barstools at all? – his wife, heels insanely high, and a dress that screamed "cross me and I'll eat you raw," was striking her poses dutiful and quiet, submitting herself to that intricate torture without the minimum sign of tiredness.

Apparently without the minimum sign of tiredness. Just apparently, Seo-jin repeated inside his mind. Because he'd seen her at home, without the layers of concealer and other byzantine makeup that another artist – this one pretty good, he had to admit it, they had put makeup on him too, even a lipstick! And he didn't look like an idiot – had put on her. She had lost some weight, the skin of her cheeks looked tight. She was tired, and all those stupid photos only were tiring her more.

Se-ri offered a smile to the camera. Then another one, this time imperceptible. Then a stern expression. Then turned her head in a three-quarter position. Then lifted her chin up, fondly smiling at Seo-jin. Crossed her legs, the right on the left. Then the left on the right. Then both down, hands on the knees, elbows out in a trendier pose. Asked the photographer if she could have Seo-jin at her back instead than at her side, hands on her shoulders. Then both standing, his arms protectively wrapping her at the height of her chest. Then some close up of their faces, but these lasts were just for them to take at home, the closeups being too fashionable for the business magazines, and too intimate for the fashion ones. The shred of a second to breathe a little, and then she sucked the air in again. It was an old trick, sucking the air in with the mouth closed, so that the cheeks would have looked higher, the neck longer, and the chest skinnier.

If it would have been up to her, that photoshoot would have lasted forever. Photoshoots always were the best part, ever, when she had some news to drop. Long hours sitting on a comfortable armchair, doing nothing but offering her face to a brush. Someone else picking a bunch of outfits she only had to approve – not ideating nor drawing nor thinking in two different fabrics nor testing, just approving – and then it was all about lifting her chin up, looking to the right, looking to the left, smiling, not smiling. Obviously, it wasn't like that for the professional models. But, to her, the photoshoots were the most relaxing part of her work. Without them, she wouldn't have come out alive from that period.

After Jeju, they hadn't had a single second for breathing, it was like living in apnea. First, there had been the final part of the negotiation with the Americans. Pretty convenient: they would have managed all the boring stuff, from the shipping to the distribution, she only had to take care of the production. But, Se-ri would have had the last word about every strategical decision which would have involved the brand image. Which was exactly what she wanted. And the Americans had been glad to accomplish her requests, because they were looking for an authentic Korean touch. Maybe, Se-ri thought, they were aware of their extraordinary ability in making everything look cheap.