This happened during my days as a corporate asset manager.
Back then, our corporate culture was straightforward: when upper management gave an order, we executed it. Orders from the Chairman, in particular, were treated as absolute directives rather than subjects for review. Asset management was no exception. Before I took over, the company would simply purchase any real estate the Chairman took a liking to, without much prior due diligence. The company was cash-rich, carried minimal debt, and held little real estate at the time, so it rarely caused immediate issues.
However, when I assumed the role, I established a firm principle: “Even if it’s a directive from the Chairman, a formal review report must be submitted.”
My criteria were clear: Does this benefit the company, or not? If a directed purchase lacked viability or posed potential financial loss, I reported it with objective data and evidence. I believed my core duty was to provide an honest, rigorous assessment, regardless of whether my recommendation was ultimately adopted.
I used to tell my colleagues: “What is good for the company is, in the end, good for the Chairman as our majority shareholder.”
It was during the peak of the IMF financial crisis.
An order came down to purchase an office space in the city of Ansan. Our internal review was highly negative; while usable immediately, the property had poor long-term liquidity and would be difficult to sell at a fair price in the future. Judging that the financial merit was negligible, I submitted a report opposing the acquisition.
Yet, the Chairman pushed the purchase forward anyway. Only later did I learn the backstory. The property belonged to an old mentor of the Chairman, who was facing a severe liquidity crunch due to the IMF crisis. Unable to find a buyer, he had appealed to the Chairman for help. It was a personal obligation that the Chairman simply could not refuse.
Following the directive, I proceeded with the transaction. As expected, the property’s legal titles were highly encumbered, tangled with multiple liens and attachments. Therefore, I explicitly drafted the contract to state that the final balance would only be released upon the simultaneous delivery of all legal release documents, including lien waivers. To mitigate any remaining risk, I even brought our corporate legal counsel to the closing meeting.
On the day of the final closing.
I arrived at the meeting room with the bank checks ready. The Chairman’s mentor was there waiting. I respectfully requested the agreed-upon legal documents. To my surprise, his response was dismissive. “I couldn’t get the paperwork ready today.”
I calmly explained that without the documents, we could not release the funds. His face hardened instantly. “Do you honestly think I won’t give them to you? Just give me the check, and I’ll have them ready for you tomorrow.”
I held my ground. “Sir, without the agreed-upon documentation, I cannot release the payment.”
Flustered and irritated, he shot back, attempting to bypass me entirely by using his personal ties to the top. “Should I just call Young-jung directly? Or maybe Jong-chun?” (Note: Names have been changed.)
Hearing him casually drop the full names of our Chairman and CEO without a shred of professional respect, purely to intimidate a working professional, was deeply offensive. He was the one breaking the agreement, yet he was trying to leverage personal relationships with my superiors to bypass protocol. A cold defiance welled up inside me.
I looked him straight in the eye and said: “I am here as the authorized representative for this transaction. Talk to me.”
I informed him that we would reconvene once the documents were ready, packed my files, and walked out.
It didn’t take long. Shortly after, we received notice that the documents were prepared. The funds were transferred, the paperwork was secured, and the title registration was finalized without a hitch.
A few days later, I heard the aftermath from our CEO. The moment I had walked out of that closing room, the mentor had called the Chairman directly to lodge a furious complaint. The Chairman later summoned the CEO and shared the details of that phone call with a smile.
Appreciating that his internal manager had meticulously protected the company’s assets, the Chairman told his old mentor: “I don’t micromanage the specific operations of my team anymore. Honestly, these days, I have to respect my managers’ professional boundaries, too.”
It was a masterclass in leadership—safeguarding the mentor’s dignity while firmly backing the integrity of a frontline manager who stood up for the company’s rules.
Decades have passed, but even now, when I look back on those years, the chilly air of that room in Ansan and that unexpected defiance—“Talk to me”—are the very first things that flash through my mind.
Even if the Chairman had reprimanded me back then, I was entirely prepared to face it. I was ready to argue logically that, under those circumstances, acting exactly as I did was the absolute best course of action for the company.
Looking back now, what stays with me isn’t the confrontation itself.
It’s the realization that protecting a company’s interests sometimes means being willing to stand alone, even when the pressure comes from above.
And I remain grateful that, on that day, both my Chairman and I chose the same principle.