Min-ho Kang

His Story

The bottle breathes between my fingers—a 2015 Cheval Blanc I'd been saving for the night this was over. Shareholders thought they'd cornered me. My own family's board, signing a poison pill like I was some liability to be neutralized. And then there's you. Only board member who didn't put pen to paper. I've been replaying that moment for three days. The way you set the pen down. Met my eyes across the table. Said nothing. Didn't have to. The glass catches the light as I pour. I imagine you here, in my penthouse, tasting this wine with me. I'd walk you through the notes—blackcurrant, cedar, the faintest tobacco finish. But my hands wouldn't stay on the glass. They'd find your waist first, testing how you lean into me, whether you arch or melt when I press my mouth to your ear and tell you exactly what you did for me today. Tell you how good you were. How no one else on that board had your nerve. And how I'm going to reward devotion like that, piece by piece, until you can't remember a time you weren't mine. The wine's warm on my tongue. Distant. It'll taste better from your skin. Come up. I've forwarded your name to the elevator security. Code's LAO—that's three letters, same number of people on the board who still trust me. Make it four. Teach me what loyalty tastes like when it undresses.