The door opened. The moment the heavy wooden door swung inward, Yukari realized her breath had stopped. The air in the hallway seemed to shift, to change entirely. Ichijo Toma was standing there. It was different from what she'd imagined. The word "head of a conglomerate" had conjured something more weathered, more aged in her mind. But the man before her was exactly thirty-four years old—a body honed and disciplined, wrapped in a navy suit that followed the lines of his frame precisely. Hair the color of pale silver, nearly white, caught the indoor light in the faintest reflection. And then—those eyes. A gray-blue, like the bottom of the sea, she thought. Transparent and yet deep, reflecting nothing. "You are Tanaka Yukari, correct?" Ichijo Toma asked. His voice was low. Toneless. A simple confirmation, nothing more. His gaze seemed to look at her and yet past her, toward some other place entirely. "Yes," Yukari replied. Her own voice came out smaller than she'd intended. With only that answer, Toma gave a slight nod and opened the door wider. No "please come in"—just a glance that gestured her forward. Yukari had taken a private elevator to reach the thirty-eighth floor. The hallway carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps. Soft indirect lighting lined the walls, and the silence was unlike any office building in daylight. When she stepped through the doorway, the sheer size of the room made her pause. Tokyo spread out beyond the windows. The cluster of buildings in Marunouchi, the sky stretching beyond them. Today was overcast, the horizon blurred and indistinct. ―――― By evening, she'd been brought to Shirokane-dai. Through the taxi window, she'd watched the ginkgo trees lining Mikagesaka Street, their leaves already fallen, bare branches spreading against the winter sky. She hadn't thought it lonely, exactly. But there was a quiet tension to it. Shimoka-kan—the Ichijo family estate—was a fusion of Western and Japanese architecture, white walls and dark timber framing. What struck Yukari first was the weight of time. More than the forty-two years it had stood, there was a sense of far longer accumulation layered into its very structure. Something entirely different from her family home in Saitama, from the high-rise in Marunouchi—something else entirely. Beyond the gate, a large tree stood deep in the garden. A weeping cherry. Now it was bare branches spreading against the winter sky, but the beauty of its form alone allowed her to imagine it in bloom. Eighty years old, Murase would tell her later. Perhaps this tree alone had witnessed the entire history of the Ichijo family. "Tanaka-sama, shall I take your luggage this way?" Murase Kikue, the sixty-two-year-old head housekeeper, had called out to her. Small in stature but with a perfectly straight spine, her white apron immaculate. Deep lines framed her eyes, and those lines softened when she smiled. Yukari would learn later that Murase had served the Ichijo family since the previous generation. But from that first impression, there was something reassuring about her. A warmth that seemed to radiate outward naturally. The reception room in the south wing was furnished in subdued tones. The garden was visible through the windows. Yukari sat in the offered chair, her back straight. After a moment, Toma entered. ―――― Documents were spread across the desk. Once seated, Toma opened the first page. His tone didn't change. The explanation began. "Regarding your conduct as a fiancée for external purposes, I believe Asakura has already provided you with an overview. As a supplement, I've prepared a specific set of behavioral guidelines," Ichijo Toma said. The sound of pages turning. His finger pressed precisely against the edge of the document. On his right hand, his ring finger bore a small mole. For some reason, her eyes caught on it. Yukari opened her notepad and began writing. When she wrote the line *Private emotional involvement is unnecessary*, something about those words caught somewhere in her chest. Emotional involvement is unnecessary. In other words, emotions would be unwelcome if brought in. That made sense. This was a contract. She told herself that. This was not the place for emotions. Behavioral guidelines within Shimoka-kan. Basic protocols for receiving guests. Conduct in public settings—— Every word from Toma had been stripped of anything extraneous. There was no ambiguity. No room for emotion. It was like listening to specifications being read aloud, Yukari thought. This was how he spoke. This was the raw part of Ichijo Toma as a person. Her hand holding the pen trembled slightly. She hadn't noticed it herself. But she felt her breathing grow shallow if she let her guard down, so she concentrated on maintaining a steady rhythm, careful not to let it show. Toma suddenly fell silent. One second. Two seconds. When Yukari looked up, he'd already left his chair and was moving toward the sideboard at the edge of the room. The sound of something being retrieved. When he turned back, a white ceramic cup was in his hand. It was placed gently before her. Steam rose in thin wisps. The soft, sweet scent of chamomile drifted up. "Your body is cold," Ichijo Toma said. With only that, he returned to his chair and resumed reading from the documents as if nothing had happened. Yukari wrapped both hands around the ceramic cup. It was warm. Something deep in her chest began beating irregularly. Not quite surprise, not quite confusion. Something from deeper still. Yukari couldn't find a name for the sensation. But she noticed that the trembling in her hands had stopped. *(What is this——)* The question alone settled quietly in her chest. That day, her life in Shimoka-kan began. ―――― Her room in the north wing was too large. About eighteen tatami mats of Western-style space. White ceiling. Clean linens. Perfectly arranged furniture. Everything was refined, quiet, lacking nothing. Which was precisely why it felt wrong. Yukari sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. Her family home in Saitama wasn't this spacious. There were socks dropped in front of the washing machine, instant coffee jars left out on the kitchen counter—the smell of lived-in life. This place had none of that. It was perfectly ordered, and there was still no trace of Yukari's existence here. Deep night came. She couldn't sleep. Sleeplessness wasn't unusual for her, but tonight was a different kind of wakefulness. Her head was too quiet, and something seemed to echo in that silence. The warmth of chamomile tea. Gray-blue eyes. The words "your body is cold," stripped of all emotion. And yet—the action itself had been warm. She'd headed toward the bathroom and stepped into the hallway. It was dark. Only a faint spill of light from her room, and the hallway of Shimoka-kan was vast, deep, silent. The cold touch of the floor beneath her bare feet. She tried to orient herself, but couldn't remember which way the bathroom was. The boundary between the south and north wings—left or right? Her footsteps alone seemed to be absorbed into the silence. She thought of turning back. That was when she saw it. A thin line of light ahead, near the boundary with the south wing. Light leaking from the gap in a doorway. Her feet stopped. She hadn't meant to stop. She'd only meant to pass by. But her body stopped there. What she saw through the gap in the door was Ichijo Toma's back. He was sunk deep into a leather chair. His suit jacket had been removed, and his white shirt sleeves were visible. In one hand, a glass of whiskey. His other hand was placed over it, both hands gripping it as if clinging to something. He wasn't drinking. He was simply holding it. As if grasping for something. Yukari couldn't move. The Toma of daytime was perfect. Without room for emotion, without wavering, speaking in that flat voice like he was reading specifications, handling everything methodically. But now—the profile visible through the gap in the door was like a different person entirely. His brow was furrowed. The corner of his mouth was tense. And his eyes. Those gray-blue eyes were staring into the void. Not seeing something, but afraid of something. He was frightened. The head of the Ichijo Group, that iron-willed man, was alone in the deep night, afraid of something. Her chest tightened. It wasn't quite pain. But it was that kind of sensation. Like she'd seen something she shouldn't have, yet couldn't look away. Like that perfect, expressionless mask from daytime had peeled back by just one layer. *(What is he afraid of, alone at night?)* The question dropped into the depths of her chest. Yukari held her breath. One second. Two seconds. She knew she shouldn't stay there any longer. Quietly, she retraced her steps down the hallway. Slowly, carefully, erasing her footsteps. She closed her door without a sound. Back in bed, she pulled the blanket close. She stared up at the dark ceiling. Her heart was still beating. The same irregular rhythm as when he'd given her the chamomile tea. But deeper this time. Like it was coming from her very core. That eye color wouldn't leave her mind. Fear was something everyone felt. Yukari knew that. But some people could show it, and some couldn't. He—he carried it without showing it, alone in his room at night. Always like that. Without letting anyone see. Her chest tightened once more. Yukari closed her eyes. *(If I could just think it doesn't matter, it would be simple)* But she couldn't cut away that eye color as "unnecessary emotion" the way she was supposed to. Her body didn't know how to see someone afraid and simply forget it. Since childhood, while waiting for her mother to come home, warming up dinner again and again, she'd only ever wanted to give something to someone. That sensation felt somehow similar to what she felt tonight. It was different, she thought. Completely different. And yet—it also felt the same. ―――― Morning came. The dining room of Shimoka-kan faced south, and winter sunlight poured in white and clear. Toma was already at the table. He held a newspaper and didn't look up. There was no trace of last night. His morning face was perfect. His shirt was white again, the creases precise, his tie perfectly straight. "Good morning," Yukari said. Toma turned a page and gave a slight nod without looking at her. Murase brought breakfast. Toast and scrambled eggs were placed before Yukari. Before Toma, only coffee and thin toast. "Would Tanaka-sama also like coffee?" Murase Kikue asked. "Ah, yes. Thank you," Yukari replied. Murase's eyes narrowed slightly. A smiling gaze. There was something warm and watchful in the way she looked at Yukari. Not that she wanted to say anything, but she was watching over her—that kind of look. A small relief spread through Yukari's back. Silence returned to the table. As she cut into her scrambled eggs with her fork, Yukari's mind wandered. The contract said "private emotional involvement is unnecessary." That was the premise on which this relationship was built. Not bringing emotion into it—that was the fundamental condition of the role she'd been given. But. Toma's hand rose to lift his coffee cup. His right hand came into view. The small mole on his ring finger. The same hand that had gripped the whiskey glass with both hands last night. Yukari couldn't look away. One second. Two seconds. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She was surprised at herself. She pretended to look at her scrambled eggs, lowering her gaze. *(Why am I——)* The warmth of chamomile tea. The thin line of light leaking from the study. That gray-blue gaze, and the fear she'd glimpsed in its depths. Three fragments were slowly forming into a single image in her mind. The contract said "emotional involvement is unnecessary." But could she really treat someone's fear as "unnecessary emotion" and ignore it? That was her deepest qu