Last night, he held her hand back. That was all it was. Just one gesture. And yet — Nagisa stood in the kitchen, her fingertips unconsciously pressing against her left palm. Confirming. That warmth still lingering there — Tōma's warmth — confirming it remained. (He really did hold my hand back.) There had been a contract. There were conditions. A paper that said romance was forbidden. And yet last night, Nagisa's hand had moved of its own will. She'd held Tōma's hand in return. That fact was spreading through her chest this morning, slowly building heat. At the same time — the name in the sealed letter poured cold water on that warmth. The leading candidate in the husband-selection plan. A name connected to the Hōōkai's largest financial conglomerate. That name — the one that had made Tōma's expression tense for just a moment — still glowed in Nagisa's mind. Tōma had known that name. And knowing it, he hadn't let go of her hand. What that meant — Nagisa still couldn't fully swallow it all. She stood before the coffee maker. The steps were supposed to be: grind the beans, then extract. She'd had that sequence in her head. But when she realized what she was doing, she'd already pressed the extraction button first. A click. The machine whirred to life. Seconds later, only clear hot water dripped into the cup. "...Oh." Nagisa froze for three seconds in front of that cup. Her light brown hair fell across her ear. Her chestnut eyes stared at the colorless, steamless liquid. She'd been so spaced out that she'd completely forgotten she hadn't put the beans in. Footsteps sounded from the hallway. She turned. Tōma stood in the kitchen doorway. His formal suit before work — today, his entire frame seemed especially composed. Jet-black short hair, blue-gray eyes. A slight crease between his brows. The same expression as always. But something subtly different hung in the air around him. Nagisa could tell. Since last night, the quality of the air this person carried had shifted slightly. Tōma's gaze fell to the cup. Clear water. The extracted nothing, beans absent. Without a word, Tōma stepped beside Nagisa and gently took the cup from her hands. He poured the contents into the sink, opened the coffee maker's drawer, and added the proper amount of beans. He set the container, pressed the button. The whole sequence was quiet, without waste. The sound of grinding beans spread through the kitchen. Nagisa stole a glance at his profile. Tōma kept his gaze on the window outside, waiting for the machine to finish. Morning light streamed through, softly outlining the contours of his face. The crease between his brows. His lips pressed into a thin line. And yet — she knew this was the face of the person who'd called her name in that voice last night. (This person's hand pulled my hand back.) Nagisa's left hand gently touched her own right palm. It felt as though last night's warmth was still there. Tōma poured the extracted coffee into the cup and offered it to her. He said nothing. But the gesture existed at a different distance than before last night. Nagisa accepted the cup with both hands and took a sip. It had proper aroma. It was proper coffee. That was when Tōma's eyes stopped on the sealed letter sitting on the entryway shelf. The letter Kisaragi had brought yesterday from Kenichi — the notification of attendance at the June Hōōkai dinner party, and that white envelope with the young lady's name written on it. Nagisa had left it there still. Open, but folded. Tōma picked up the sealed letter and looked at Nagisa once. Both of them knew simultaneously that Nagisa had already seen the letter's contents. A brief silence fell. Tōma tucked the letter into his inner pocket and took his coat. Before heading to the entryway, he stopped once. The angle he turned was the same as last night. The way the hallway light fell was almost the same. The way he stood was almost the same. No words came. But in the instant those blue-gray eyes captured her, there existed a clear will: "I'm carrying the continuation of last night with me, and I'm going forward today." Deep in Nagisa's chest, her pulse beat strongly, a beat behind. The door closed. —————— Suzaku Tower, thirty-eighth floor. The Strategic Planning Office — this department, which oversaw fifteen staff members as the direct advisory body to the chairman and president, carried a low tension throughout the morning. Mikage Tsukasa spread documents across his desk while bringing a coffee cup to his lips. Golden eyes scanned the screen. His silver-gray tinged pale hair swayed quietly under the fluorescent lights. On the terminal, today's 3 PM meeting schedule was displayed. Chairman's office. Suzaku Kenichi. Suzaku Tōma. (He'll go alone, Tōma will.) Mikage lifted his eyes from the screen and looked out the window — at the Chiyoda ward sky. It was clear. Tokyo's sky was unusually transparent. Mikage knew from long experience that something important happened on afternoons like this. Twelve years since Tōma and he had met at Tōei University. If you watched each other, you understood most things. Today's Tōma's back was telling him — he's going to fight. But this time, Mikage sensed, he wouldn't be taking logic and numbers as weapons. He'd be taking something else. At lunch, Mikage called down to the Suzaku Food Services floor. —————— "Shōfūtei" — the employee cafeteria on the first floor of Suzaku Tower held the midday bustle of two hundred eighty seats. The aroma of the daily special drifted through. At a two-person table by the wall, Mikage waited for Nagisa. Nagisa appeared just after noon. Her light brown hair gathered loosely, her usual modest expression as she took her seat. Small silver earrings caught the cafeteria light with a faint gleam. "I'm sorry for calling you out like this." "No, please don't apologize." They faced each other. Mikage had chosen the daily special; Nagisa had selected a salad and soup. The lunch bustle surrounded them. Which was why, conversely, this two-person table alone felt strangely quiet. Mikage picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of the special. Then he opened his mouth quietly. "There's something I want to tell you honestly, Nagisa-san." Nagisa's spoon stopped. She looked at Mikage. "Not about Tōma's past or the situation — but about myself." His face remained gentle, but pain seeped into his golden eyes. He wasn't trying to hide it. Nagisa couldn't look away from his gaze. "I thought I was in love with you, Nagisa-san." His voice was low and quiet. The surrounding chatter wrapped around it. "I said that in the past tense. But to be honest, it hasn't completely disappeared even now. That's my current state." Nagisa's hand clenched softly in her lap. Gratitude, apology — and simultaneously, a confirmation of where her own feelings were directed — all pressed against her chest at once. Mikage continued. A slight lift of his brows appeared — the tell that he was choosing his words carefully, Nagisa had learned recently. "This afternoon at three o'clock, Tōma will be called to the chairman's office. The forty-second floor. A dialogue with Kenichi-san." Nagisa's breath caught slightly. "Tōma will go alone. No assistant will accompany him. I don't have the authority to enter that room either." Mikage's voice grew fractionally quieter. "I don't know what Tōma will say today. But — last night, Tōma made a choice for the first time. What it means for him to stand before his father while holding that choice..." He trailed off and reached for his glass. He took a sip of water. That gesture was a pause to compose himself, and Nagisa understood. "I've seen Tōma smile many times. But trying to use emotion for someone else — that's something he's doing for the first time now." Nagisa couldn't speak. Words wouldn't come. But Mikage's words reached deep into her chest. Mikage stood. More than half his special remained on the plate. "The person who suited Tōma was you." With only that, Mikage left the cafeteria first. His back disappeared into the crowd. His silver-tinged pale hair caught the window light for just a moment. Nagisa remained alone. Before the cooling soup, Mikage's words slowly sank into her chest. (Three o'clock. The forty-second floor.) Nagisa quietly stood up. —————— At 2:50 PM, Nagisa stood in the Suzaku Tower elevator lobby. It was during work hours. She'd told her supervisor she was leaving early due to feeling unwell. It wasn't entirely a lie. Her chest wouldn't settle, and she couldn't focus on the screen normally. She pressed the elevator button. She selected the forty-first floor. The forty-second floor was the executive area and required biometric authentication, but the forty-first floor — where Tōma's executive office was — she might be able to wait there if she asked his secretary. She'd come here without any real certainty. She'd just come. (Not as a contract wife.) Nagisa understood. Being here now wasn't "as Suzaku Tōma's wife." It was as Akizuki Nagisa alone, wanting to be near Tōma. That was all. That alone had driven her here. —————— Forty-second floor, chairman's office. At exactly 3 PM, Tōma opened the door. Silence filled the one-hundred-twenty-square-meter space. Through the full-glass windows, Tokyo's entire panorama spread out. Against that backdrop, Suzaku Kenichi sat in his chair. Sixty-two years old. Hair streaked with white, a calm face. The man with immense influence in financial circles sat today with that same composed expression, documents spread across his desk. A thin clear file. Printed data. Copies of call records with lawyers. Numbers showing the Akizuki family's financial situation were arranged there in perfect order. "Sit down." His voice was quiet. There was no anger. And that — Tōma understood — was crueler than direct condemnation. Being presented with truth in an emotionless voice left no room for rebuttal. Tōma didn't sit. He stood before the desk, meeting his father's eyes. Kenichi pressed one of the documents with his fingertip. "Akizuki Nagisa-san. Annual income of 3.2 million yen. Living in a thirty-five-year-old apartment in Katsushika ward. Supporting her younger brother's tuition alone. The motivation for the one-million-yen monthly contract is her brother's enrollment expenses and life reconstruction." His voice was matter-of-fact. The tone of someone reading facts. "I've come to understand the circumstances you wanted to hide from me." Silence fell. In that silence, Tōma confirmed what was happening inside him. Not anger. Not the desire to flee. For twenty-eight years, he'd chosen only complete expressionlessness and logical responses before this father. He could have processed today the same way. He could have. "Is that your answer?" Kenichi's eyes looked directly at his son. Tōma was silent for several seconds. Then he opened his mouth. "Even if it was a contract—" His voice was low, restrained. But today it wasn't — words constructed from logic. "It doesn't change that I chose it. That choice remains mine from today forward." He never once looked away. His words were few. But they contained something Tōma hadn't used in this room for twenty-eight years. The first moment he'd spoken words as emotion rather than logic. Kenichi heard those words. He looked at his son's face. The change he'd glimpsed on the night of the third-act dinner party — that time when he'd sensed "something beginning to shift" — became certainty today. The design he'd spent thirty years constructing was now, slipping from his hands. That reality painted Kenichi's expression in a color more complex than simple anger or simple disappointment. That was when it happened. Kisaragi, who'd been standing in the corner of the room, dropped the documents he'd been holding in his nervousness with a rustling sound. The heavy silence was broken for just an instant by that clumsy noise. Kisaragi's