"I want to protect you." Those words were still alive in her chest. Yukari remained seated on the edge of her bed, retracing last night's dining room. Tōma's counter-question—"And if you know, what then?"—the words that had spilled from her mouth before she could stop them. She hadn't meant it romantically. But she couldn't deny the weight of it either, couldn't claim it held no romantic meaning. (I surprised myself.) Only after speaking aloud did she understand the heaviness of her own feelings. Those ash-blue eyes had been looking at her. Something moved in their depths—different from what she'd glimpsed in the study at midnight, different from what she'd caught sight of at the Ebisu restaurant. Something quieter. Something deeper. Yukari looked out the window. The November morning sky over Shirokane was overcast, and the weeping cherry in the Shimoka mansion's garden swayed slightly in the winter wind. Late November. The dry cold air transmitted through the glass. When she emerged into the hallway after preparing for the day, Murase Kikue—the head housekeeper who had served Shimoka for thirty-five years, who had watched Tōma since his predecessor's time, a small woman with deep lines around her eyes—was wiping a window at the end of the corridor. Noticing Yukari, she smiled, creasing the corners of her eyes. "Breakfast is prepared in the dining hall. The master is departing early today." "Thank you," Yukari replied. Walking toward the dining hall, Yukari thought again about how Murase quietly supported everything in this house. She said nothing. She asked nothing. She simply existed here, keeping this house alive. ────────────── The thirty-sixth floor of the Ichijō Center Building. She arrived at the Strategic Planning Department just after nine in the morning. She'd deliberately chosen to go down to lunch slightly earlier than when the employee cafeteria "Marunouchi Kitchen" got crowded—honestly, she'd wanted a time with fewer people. Last night's words were still in her chest, and she didn't have the composure to make small talk with anyone. She picked up a tray, joined the line, and selected today's set meal—pork soup, white rice, and grilled fish. The basement-level cafeteria had high ceilings, and the pre-noon light streamed through the skylights. As she turned to find a seat, a hand rose from a table in the back. Bright golden hair in a short bob. Vivid emerald-green eyes blinking toward her. It was Sonoda Mizuki. She pulled the opposite chair back slightly with her foot, her expression saying "come here." Yukari carried her tray over and sat down. Mizuki had placed her smartphone face-down in front of her salmon-flake rice ball and corn soup. Today her eyes held something slightly more serious than usual, Yukari thought. "Tanaka, got a minute?" Mizuki asked. Her voice was lower than normal. "What is it?" Yukari replied. Mizuki wrapped both hands around her soup cup and quickly scanned the other tables in the cafeteria. After confirming no one was nearby, she lowered her voice further. "There's an emergency convening of the Okuinsho Council today. The Ichijō family's clan meeting." Yukari's hand holding her spoon stopped. The Okuinsho Council—the clan meeting held in the study chamber beneath the Shimoka mansion in Shirokane, where important matters of the Ichijō family were decided. The appointment and removal of the family head were also deliberated there. Yukari was aware of this emergency convening through her secretarial duties to Tōma. "I know," Yukari said. "There's talk that falsified documents might be brought to that meeting," Mizuki continued. Her words fell quietly. "...What do you mean?" Yukari asked. "Apparently, a document claiming there were accounting irregularities in Tōma's accounting procedures right after he became head is scheduled to be submitted as today's agenda. But—when I looked into old company records and various things, the numbers in that document are off. I think there's a high possibility it's been falsified." Yukari looked at Mizuki. Those emerald-green eyes held a serious light. Not the face of the mood-maker who usually brightened those around her, but eyes that saw reality accurately. "The Okuinsho Council deliberates formally submitted documents right there on the spot, right? I heard the structure is set up so there's no opportunity for rebuttal—it becomes an established fact." Something solidified in Yukari's chest. "Mizuki, where did you—" "Old company records, gossip, and a little intuition," Mizuki said matter-of-factly. "...Though I can't guarantee accuracy," she added. In that moment, Yukari froze completely, spoon still raised toward her pork soup. (You're telling me this now?) Mizuki showed no sign of regret, adding casually, "But my hit rate isn't bad," before taking a bite of her rice ball. The gap in her attitude made Yukari exhale softly despite herself. It was true—Mizuki's information had never been wrong before. The accuracy of her office gossip sometimes exceeded even the official information Yukari possessed. (Which is exactly why it's terrifying.) Yukari set her spoon on the tray. The pork soup that should have been warm already felt like it was cooling. "Thank you," she said quietly. She looked out at the cafeteria's skylights. November light falling from the cloudy sky spread thinly across the table. (I want to protect you. You.) The words she'd spoken last night echoed in her chest once more. When she'd said them, Yukari had been speaking from impulse, not logic. But now—now that she knew of this concrete threat, the falsified documents—that impulse was finally taking the shape of will. From wanting to know, to needing to act. She was aware that this had already transcended the bounds of their contract. And yet she couldn't stop. ────────────── The Shimoka mansion in the evening was different from daytime. The wooden floorboards of the hallway, absorbing the winter cold, creaked faintly with each of Yukari's steps. The staircase to the underground study was beyond the entrance hall, and this was the hour when the Ichijō family relatives attending tonight's Okuinsho Council would be gathering. Yukari walked down the corridor toward the basement. Strictly speaking, she couldn't participate in the meeting. But if there was anything she could do near that door—some wordless gravity was moving her feet. "Yukari." The voice fell on her back. Yukari's feet stopped. Her breathing stopped. Then her entire body stopped. (What... did he just say?) In those few seconds before turning around, she tried to confirm the meaning of those two syllables. But there was no need to confirm. There was only one person who could have spoken. And those two characters—"Yukari"—she had never heard them from Tōma's mouth before. Not "Secretary Tanaka," not "you," not "Tanaka"—but her name itself, falling from that low, terse voice. Yukari turned slowly. Tōma stood down the corridor. The usual black suit. The usual composed silver-white hair. His 183-centimeter frame stood in the dim hallway lighting. But—his expression was different. Not the face of "the Billionaire's Thaw." Not the perfectly expressionless face of someone who had stripped away emotion. It was as though layers accumulated over a long time were peeling away soundlessly—and he was caught in the middle of that process. Tōma's right hand was trembling slightly. (He's let me see it.) Yukari couldn't look away. That hand was shaking. The man who had perfected self-restraint—and yet something he couldn't suppress was showing in the tips of his fingers. "I regret dragging you into this," Tōma said. The words were terse. But a long silence followed. In the cold of the hallway, only their breath was visible as white vapor. Yukari remained silent. Waiting. She somehow knew he hadn't finished. The silence continued. "...But," Tōma said. His voice changed slightly. Not in the form of a command, not in the form of a business decision. Just as the voice of a human being. "I can't bear nights without you anymore." Yukari's vision blurred. (Twelve years.) This man had sealed away his emotions for twelve years, from age twenty-two until now, protecting his position as head. Bearing the family precept like a curse: "Sever emotion to open the path." And now—he said he couldn't bear it. Not as a command, not as a transaction, not as strategy, but simply admitting it to another person. Her throat tightened. Her feet wouldn't move. She didn't know which of them moved first. When she realized it, the distance between them had closed. In the winter cold of the Shimoka hallway, they stood at a distance where their breath mingled white. Tōma's forehead touched hers, gently. They froze. Body heat transmitted from the point of contact. Something in Yukari's chest pulsed intensely. But she couldn't move. Didn't want to move. All the things that couldn't be put into words until now seemed compressed into these few seconds—and neither of them moved. The white breath mingled and quietly dissolved into the hallway's cold air. ────────────── Yukari stood before the underground study's heavy wooden door. The meeting had begun. Fragments of voices occasionally leaked from beyond the thick wood. Among the twelve Ichijō family relatives, Tōma was alone in there right now. She felt that fact with her entire body, separated by only one door. (I want to protect you. But right now, I can do nothing.) That helplessness and the will that kept her from leaving the door's side existed simultaneously within her. It was contradictory. But tonight, she didn't try to resolve that contradiction. A voice rose from beyond the door. Ichijō Eiji—Tōma's uncle, vice chairman, leader of the Tokiwa faction—his voice, seemingly gentle but calculated, carried the sense of presenting something. Yukari stared at the door, tracing through her mind the flow from yesterday morning to today. Mizuki's information. Would Tōma have known? If he had, how would he have moved? That Asakura Tōma—the Strategic Planning Department director and one of Tōma's few close friends from university—had been nowhere to be seen since this morning might be connected to something. The voices beyond the door suddenly quieted. Yukari held her breath. She could tell something had changed by the quality of the sound. Whatever was about to be presented had been stopped. After the silence, another low voice—it was Asakura's—continued quietly, accompanied by the sound of something being placed on the table. (He'd already made his move.) Yukari understood this fact while staring at the door. Tōma had already known what Mizuki had told her—the "possibility of falsification"—or had grasped it through another route, and through Asakura had prepared counter-evidence. Tōma wasn't fighting alone tonight. (Thank goodness.) Something that had been taut in her chest loosened slightly. The voices in the meeting resumed. There was confusion. But Eiji's opening move had been blocked. ────────────── The heavy door opened. Yukari reflexively stepped back and positioned herself against the corridor wall. The attendees exited in order. Yukari kept her gaze lowered, standing where she wouldn't be in the way. When Tōma emerged, their eyes met. No words were exchanged. But the memory of their foreheads touching in the corridor filled the space between them. Both understood that the quality of their relationship had truly changed. A stillness that lasted only a second, but was unmistakable. From behind the line of attendees, Ichijō Eiji emerged into the corridor. Fifty-eight years old, silver-rimmed glasses, traditional clothing. That face with its gentle smile plastered on looked Yukari up and down from above. "So this is the fiancée," Eiji murmured. Low. Quiet. Deliberate. Yukari instinctively straightened her spine. "Yes, I'm Tanaka Yukari," she replied. She named herself d