Three weeks had passed since the contract marriage was finalized. On the 42nd floor of Residence Prisma—ever since Hana moved into Ren's penthouse, each day had felt strangely unreal. The rooms were too spacious. The mornings were too quiet. And despite trying to avoid crossing paths, she kept catching his eye in the kitchen. Hana had grown accustomed to this strange life, or so she thought. That's what she believed. "[serious]There's a party the day after tomorrow," Ren spoke without lifting his eyes from the documents he was reading on the living room sofa. Hana, who had been planning tomorrow's lunch menu at the dining table, looked up reflexively. "[surprised]A party...?" "It's a Crossfield company event. Your attendance is required." He said nothing more, returning his gaze to the documents. Hana answered "Understood," but internally, anxiety was spreading through her. (Attendance as...my wife, then?) When she thought about it, that was the contract's content. Being his wife was the condition, so of course a situation like this would come. She'd known it. She'd known it, and yet—why was she so shaken? She didn't even own a dress. She didn't know the etiquette. She had no idea what expression to wear in front of Crossfield's executives. Hana opened her planner and wrote "Party—day after tomorrow," remembering that thick contract. 800,000 yen per month. Her father's dialysis costs. Full coverage. —There was no choice but to do this. --- The next day, around noon, the concierge Kashiwagi rang the intercom. She was a woman in her mid-forties with an always-gentle smile. Since Hana's first day at the apartment, she'd been thoughtfully considerate. "[gentle]I've come at Mr. Kurosaki's request to deliver this," In her hands was a large white garment bag. When Hana unfolded it, a navy dress emerged. Simple, elegant lines. Not too flashy, not too plain—the kind of thing Hana herself would have chosen. When she tried it on, the size was perfect. (He knew my measurements...) It wasn't surprising, really. If Ren wanted to know something, he could find out anything. That's the kind of person he was. Her head understood that. But somehow, deep in her chest, there was an uncomfortable tickle. Her contract husband had prepared a dress for her. That was all it was. And yet—the fact that the dress had been chosen with her exact measurements in mind, that it fit her body perfectly—for some reason, it embarrassed her. Hana stood in front of the mirror in the dress for a while. --- The following evening. The upper floors of Crossfield Tower wore a different face than the usual cold office building. All Hana knew were the first-floor glass art installation and the reception area. But tonight, the 28th floor was lit with chandeliers, white-clothed tables were arranged in rows, and over a hundred people had gathered. The dresses and jewels of the women were all beyond Hana's sense of "normal." "[cold]Don't look so excited," Ren, walking beside her, said quietly. "[serious]I'm not," "You are. Your shoulders are tense. Don't mind the stares." Hana gently lowered her shoulders. There were stares, certainly. Women in glittering dresses—probably the wives of executives—were looking at her as if appraising her. Hana worked in sales administration at a small stationery company in a working-class neighborhood, made 3.2 million yen a year, and had slightly dry hands—she had no business being in a place like this. (But I'm here. I just have to do this.) She took a glass and stood slightly behind Ren. He was talking with executives who kept approaching him. Hana barely had to say anything. Just smile, and that was enough. That was her job for tonight. —Or so she thought. "Well, well. Is this Ren's wife?" When she turned, a stout middle-aged man was standing there with a smile. A gentle-looking face. A soft smile. He bowed his white-streaked head slightly and said, "You look lovely together." But his eyes weren't smiling. Behind that cheerful expression, something was searching, examining Hana. (Who is this person...?) "I'm Kurosaki Seiji. I'm Ren's uncle." —Ren's uncle. Executive Vice President of Crossfield. Now that he mentioned it, she remembered seeing that name in the documents she'd been given at the start. When Hana bowed and said "I'm Kirishima Hana," Seiji moved closer to her. Other groups were talking around them. Ren was in one of those circles, not looking her way. Seiji whispered near her ear. "[whispers]You see, Ren can't love people," Hana froze. "[whispers]Not since his mother died. That boy—he truly can't love anyone. Of course, not you either." He said it in a gentle voice, still smiling. That made it all the more unsettling. Seiji gave a light bow and disappeared into the crowd. Hana stood there, glass in hand, unable to move for a moment. (Can't love people...) She'd known it. This was business. A contract without emotion. That was the condition from the start, and the idea of Ren developing feelings for Hana had never existed. She understood that. So why was her chest churning like this? —Then, something warm touched her back. "[cold]There are a lot of executives' wives over there. Standing still with a drink in your hand will draw attention." Ren had appeared beside her. His palm rested gently against her back. A guiding gesture, casual and unobtrusive. That warmth pushed Seiji's words away, just for a moment. (This person...can't love people?) Hana felt her confusion deepening as she walked beside Ren. --- Midway through the party, Hana quietly moved to the edge of the venue. She left half the white wine in her glass and looked out through the wide windows. Tokyo's night view spread before her. A sea of lights visible from Minato Ward. Tokyo seen from above Crossfield Tower was a completely different angle from Bunkyo Ward, where she commuted every day. (It's so high...) As she thought that vaguely, she noticed a figure beyond the balcony glass door. A black back. Black hair with red mesh. 185 centimeters tall. It was Ren. He'd stepped away from the party and was standing alone on the balcony. The silver ear cuff on his right ear caught the light of the night view, glinting softly. Hana hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the glass door. The late-April night breeze brushed her cheek. It was cooler than she expected. Hana felt the chill on her dress's shoulders as she stood beside Ren. He didn't turn around. For a while, neither of them said anything. Tokyo Tower was visible in the distance. Its orange light blurred in the night air. The voices and music from the venue drifted faintly through the glass. Hana held her glass with both hands and glanced at Ren's profile beside her. It was neither stern nor soft. Just a face looking at something far away. Seiji's words surfaced in her mind again. Since his mother died. Hana opened her mouth. Without fully understanding why, the words came out. "[gentle]...Can I ask about your mother?" Silence. Ren didn't answer. Hana thought she'd said too much. Asked something she shouldn't have. The contract had no such clause. Don't interfere in each other's private lives—that's what it said. But now she didn't know how to take it back, so she just kept looking at the night view. After a while, Ren spoke. "[serious]...My mother," His voice was slightly different from usual. "She died when I was fourteen. That's all." Short words. But the last part—"that's all"—trembled faintly. Hana said nothing. She didn't say "How sad" or "That must have been hard." Not because the words didn't come to her. She understood, somehow, that such words wouldn't be right. Over these three weeks, she'd learned a little that this wasn't someone who wanted pity. So Hana simply stood beside him. The night wind blew. Tokyo Tower's light continued to blur. Ren exhaled slowly. It wasn't quite a sigh—it was more like something that had been taut for a long time, finally loosening just slightly. His shoulders seemed to drop a fraction. Hana thought it might be her imagination, but also thought it wasn't. They stayed there for a while longer. Without speaking, watching the night view. It was enough. --- The taxi ride home was quiet. Ren and Hana sat side by side in the back seat. Both facing the windows. The dim interior light reflected the flowing night streets on the glass. Hana clasped her hands in her lap, trying to organize her thoughts about tonight. Seiji's words. The warmth of Ren's hand on her back. The silence on the balcony. The trembling voice saying he was fourteen when she died. The taxi stopped at a red light. In the silence, Ren said quietly. "...I was helped today." Hana asked, "Huh?" Ren was already facing the window again. He said nothing. As if he hadn't heard her question, he simply watched the night scenery. Hana regretted asking him to repeat it. She'd wanted to confirm it, but couldn't. It wasn't a mishearing, was it—but Ren wasn't looking at her anymore, so she couldn't ask again. Hana faced forward and repeated the words silently in her chest. —I was helped. --- Back at the penthouse, she entered her room. Still in the dress, she collapsed onto the bed. The ceiling was white. The ceiling light spread in a circle. Hana stared at it for a while. Seiji's face floated into her mind. That smile as he whispered in her ear. A person who can't love. Whether that was true or not, she didn't know. But the way he'd said it—she hated it. (Why am I angry about this?) It was business. Whether Ren could love anyone was irrelevant. For two years, she just had to act as his wife. That was all. But Ren's words on the balcony kept echoing in her head. She died when I was fourteen. That's all. The tremor in his voice. What Ren felt in that moment, she didn't know. But Hana had felt something. She tried to tell herself it was business. But somehow, it wouldn't work. Hana placed one arm over her eyes and darkened her vision. Deep in her chest, something was slowly beginning to change shape. --- The next evening, Hana called her family home. Her father, Soichiro, answered in a cheerful voice. When she asked how his dialysis was going, he said it was so-so. The doctor was taking good care of him, he laughed. That "doctor" was the director of Ono Clinic—Sota—Hana knew that. "By the way," Soichiro said. "[gentle]Sota was worried about you the other day during my checkup. He asked how you were doing," "[surprised]Sota was?" "Yeah. He was surprised when he heard you'd suddenly moved." Hana replied, "Oh...I see." After hanging up, she stared blankly at her phone screen. She opened her contacts and saw "Ono Sota" listed there. When had she last messaged him? Six months ago...or maybe longer. Her father's next regular checkup was next month. She'd have to go to Ono Clinic, Hana thought. She had to go. She understood that. But somehow, there was a slight awkwardness to it. Hana set her phone on the table and looked out the window. That night, in Crossfield Tower, Seiji was quietly making a phone call—turning over in his mind what he'd witnessed at the party. "I need you to investigate a woman named Kirishima Hana in detail." His voice was gentle. Still smiling, he said it. Ren had placed his hand on the woman's back on the balcony. That scene wouldn't leave Seiji's mind. Before the contract marriage became real—he needed to take action.