Monday morning. As she passed through the entrance of Roppongi Hills Mori Tower, Shiori repeated the same words over and over in her mind. (Forget it. I'll definitely forget it.) What happened Friday night—she would simply erase it from her life. A single mistake with a stranger whose name she didn't even know, someone she'd happened to sit next to at a bar. That was all it was supposed to be. And yet. That man turned out to be her new company president. Inside the elevator, Shiori let out a small breath. Just before the doors closed, Tsujimura Ai came rushing in. Her vivid red hair swayed as she flashed her usual bright smile. "[excited] Morning, Shiori! Working on documents first thing again today?" "[gentle] Yes, well... something like that." Shiori smiled vaguely. Ai was a fellow hire in the Production Division, a small-scale creator. Always energetic, always a good listener. At a time like this, that brightness seeped into Shiori's chest just a little. But there was no way she could talk about it. Spending a night with the new president—that wasn't something she could tell anyone. When they reached the thirty-eighth floor, the entire level was buzzing. There were clearly more people than usual. Everyone was straightening their suit collars, heading toward the large conference room with tense expressions. "[surprised] Huh, was something going on today?" The moment Ai tilted her head, the building-wide announcement came on. "Attention all employees. The first management reform meeting will now commence. All managerial staff and key personnel, please proceed immediately to the large conference room on the thirty-eighth floor." It was the voice of Secretary Todo. Emotionless, businesslike, cold. A shiver ran down Shiori's spine as memories of Friday night flickered through her mind. (Reima—the president.) Just picturing his name made her lips feel faintly warm. Realizing this, Shiori shook her head forcefully. No. Don't think about it. — Nearly eighty employees had already gathered in the large conference room. The buzz of conversation swelled, almost reaching the ceiling. Beyond the wall of glass windows, Tokyo Tower and the Roppongi cityscape stretched out, but no one had the luxury of enjoying the view. Shiori sat with Ai in a seat along the wall, her hands clenched tightly on her lap. A tall man stepped up onto the platform. 185 centimeters. Jet-black hair. Eyes of icy, piercing blue. Saionji Reima. The moment he appeared, the air in the conference room snapped taut. Everyone straightened their backs, their gazes fixed on the platform. Reima slowly surveyed the floor. His eyes seemed to stop—just for a fraction of a second—in front of Shiori's row. But then they slid smoothly onward. It was a coldness impossible to reconcile with the man who had called Shiori's name with those same lips on Friday night. "[serious] We will now begin the first management reform meeting." His low voice resonated through the conference room via the microphone. "[serious] I will now convey my assessment of the monthly reports submitted by each department last week." A list of documents appeared on the large screen. Sales Division, Media Division, Administrative Department—one by one, Reima added dispassionate comments. His voice held no trace of emotion whatsoever. Then, the moment the Production Division's document appeared on screen— Shiori's breath stopped. It was the document she had submitted on Friday afternoon. The one where she'd gotten the date wrong because of the heartbreak. (No way.) "[cold] This document provides not a single basis for its figures." Reima's voice sliced through the air of the conference room. "[cold] Where is the data source for the market analysis? Where are the references for the competitive comparison? Above all, the figures that form the premise of the proposal have no supporting evidence whatsoever. This level of quality is unacceptable." Saegusa, the head of the Production Division, promptly spoke up. "[sarcastic] My apologies, President. This document was handled by Kagami from Sales Assistance. We will have it corrected immediately." A faint sneer played across the face of Saegusa, a man in his fifties. A member of the old management faction, he thought poorly of Reima. But lacking the courage to oppose him directly, he made Shiori the target instead. Reima didn't so much as glance in Shiori's direction. "[cold] I don't care who handled it. Submit a complete version by the end of the week. That is all." With that, Reima moved on to the next agenda item. Shiori's cheeks flushed hot. The stares from those around her stung. Pity, scorn, or perhaps the silent accusation of "she's the traitor's daughter after all"—all of it mingled together, piercing her skin. (That night...) Let me hear your voice. Don't run. The same man was now acting as if Shiori didn't even exist. The disparity tightened something deep in her chest. Beside her, Ai quietly took Shiori's hand beneath the desk. "[whispers] This is awful... It's not even your fault, Shiori." Ai mouthed the words. Her hazel eyes held a glint of genuine anger. Shiori couldn't say anything. All she could do was give a small nod. — The meeting ended just past eleven in the morning. Shiori walked briskly down the hallway, heading back to her desk on the thirty-ninth floor. On the way, she saw Reima coming from the opposite end of the corridor. He was talking with Secretary Todo and someone from the Planning Department. Her heart began to pound like a warning bell. (What should I do?) They passed each other. In that moment, Reima didn't so much as glance at Shiori. He simply continued his conversation with his subordinates and walked past, as if she were a complete stranger. The man who had kissed her with those same lips on Friday night. The man whose hands had stroked her hair, traced her skin. Now, he was acting as if he didn't know her at all. Something creaked faintly deep in her chest. Anger—was it? Sorrow—was it? An emotion she couldn't quite identify caught in her throat. — Lunch break. In a corner of the employee cafeteria, Shiori picked at a sandwich. She had no appetite, but she felt like she might collapse if she didn't eat something. Ai plopped down into the seat across from her, tray in hand. "[sad] That meeting was seriously awful. Didn't it seem like the president was kind of targeting you specifically, Shiori?" "[gentle] That's not true. It just happened that my document was poor." Shiori answered, averting her eyes. Ai gazed steadily at Shiori's face. "[serious] ...You know, you've been kind of off since last week. Ever since the morning assembly, you've been sort of... floating, I guess?" Shiori's heart skipped a beat. "[surprised] N-no, not at all." "[sarcastic] Oh, come on, there's definitely something. Did you find someone you like?" Ai grinned. In that instant, Shiori shook her head vigorously. But Ai didn't miss the faint blush that rose to her cheeks. Ai's eyes sparkled. "[excited] Ah, your face just turned a little red! I knew there was something!" "[scared] I said there isn't, there isn't!" Shiori shoved the sandwich into her mouth so she couldn't say anything more. (Someone I like...) Ridiculous. The other person was the company president, and she was just an assistant. What's more, he was someone who might hate her as the daughter of a traitor. There was no way she could fall for him. And yet. Deep in her chest, the warmth of that night still smoldered. — Even during the afternoon's work, Shiori sat at her desk redoing the document, completely unable to concentrate. She typed numbers into the computer screen, deleted them, typed them again. But in her head, Reima's voice echoed in alternation. "This level of quality is unacceptable." "Let me hear your voice." A cold voice, and a heated whisper. Two voices that didn't seem like they could belong to the same man echoed round and round in her head. (Which one is the real him?) In the meeting, Reima had been cold and ruthless, like a machine. But at Van Vert, Reima had been passionate, like a completely different person. Shiori no longer knew which one was the real Saionji Reima. — It was past nine at night. At her apartment in Ebisu, Shiori was still redoing the document. The room was overflowing with books and advertising materials, with a few houseplants placed by the window. The refrigerator held several pre-made side dishes. It should have been her usual everyday life, but today, everything looked different. Her smartphone vibrated. A message from an unknown sender. "Come tonight as well." The same message as last time. Her fingertips trembled. Determined not to go this time, she typed out a reply: "I can't go." She pressed send. Immediately after, a ringtone blared. The screen displayed [Unknown Caller]. The first direct call. Shiori clutched her smartphone, unable to move for about ten seconds. Her fingers trembled, and she couldn't press the button properly. Finally, she managed to tap the call button and held it to her ear. "[serious] I don't need a reply." The low voice vibrated directly against her eardrum. "[serious] Come." He said only that, and the call ended. Still clutching her smartphone, Shiori sank down onto the edge of her bed. (I mustn't go.) She understood it in her head. This was a twisted relationship. President and subordinate. And on top of that, being treated so coldly during the day, only to be summoned at night—no matter how you looked at it, it wasn't normal. And yet. Before she knew it, Shiori was pulling her coat out of the closet. — A residential area in Nishi-Azabu. Van Vert Tokyo, a hotel tucked away as if hiding behind a hedge. An ultra-luxury, fully membership-based hotel that didn't even display a sign. A butler silently guided her to the top floor. The Presidential Suite, "Gekka." The moment the door opened, what leapt into Shiori's vision was the sight of Reima, his jacket off and his necktie loosened. Outside the window, Tokyo Tower glowed red. Reima approached Shiori without a word. "[cold] Why did you come?" "[scared] ...That's..." She couldn't answer. She didn't even know herself. There was no reason at all to go. And yet, her legs had moved on their own. Reima forcibly pulled Shiori's coat from her shoulders. "[whispers] Because I called you." Answering his own question, Reima pressed Shiori against the wall. The cold ruthlessness of the daytime had vanished as if it were a lie. Reima's hand lifted Shiori's chin, and he pressed his lips to hers. A deep, rough, yet somehow desperate kiss. "[whispers] You belong only to me." Along with the whisper, the buttons of her blouse were undone, one by one. Reima's hand traced the nape of Shiori's neck, and he set his teeth against her collarbone. With enough force to leave a faint mark. (I have to run.) Someone was screaming somewhere in her head. But her body wouldn't listen at all. Rather, her hips moved faintly, as if begging to be touched more. Reima's fingers slipped beneath her blouse and gently cupped Shiori's breast. When his thumb brushed over her nipple, a sweet numbness raced down her spine. "Ah...!" A sound escaped her. "[whispers] Let me hear more." Reima gave the low command and slid his hand under Shiori's skirt. As he traced her inner thigh through her stockings, Shiori's body jolted. Just like that, Reima guided Shiori to the bed. Clothes fell to the floor. Blouse, skirt, stockings—everything was removed, and Shiori was laid bare upon the sheets. Only the nightscape outside the window illuminated the two of them. Reima quickly shed his own clothes as well. A well-trained chest, taut abdominal muscles, and—his penis, already erect and rigid, stood out illuminated by the light of Tokyo Tower. "[whispers] You belong only to me. I won't hand you over to anyone." Reima whispe