The dinner table was silent. They were in "Orphée," a private dining room in the basement of the Hotel Vanvert Tokyo. Candle flames flickered faintly above the two plates set on the table. Beyond the window, the lush, rain-dampened greenery of a lit Japanese garden stretched into the night. Shiori couldn't look directly at the man across from her. She set down her fork. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. Every movement felt stiff, awkward, as if she were being watched through glass — a tension that made her clumsy. *(I shouldn't have come.)* She couldn't shake the message she'd seen in the infirmary. *You are a tool of revenge.* Last night, Reima had definitely said it. *Become mine.* And then, right after: *I was joking.* Had that really been a joke? Or was it — "...Why do you keep calling me here?" Her voice trembled. It was so faint it surprised even her. Reima paused, his hand tilting the wine glass halfway. His ice-blue eyes slowly pierced through Shiori. He set the glass down on the table. A small *clink* shattered the silence. "[cold]Your father — Kagami Seiichirou — was, three years ago, the executive my father trusted most." Shiori's breath stopped. "[cold]That man sold confidential information to a competitor. In exchange for his betrayal, he received personal financial gain. Because of that, my father's company suffered over a billion in damages. And — my father died of a heart attack." Reima's voice held neither anger nor sorrow. Just a tone that coldly stacked fact upon fact. "[cold]I haven't forgotten. What your father did. And — whose daughter you are." Inside Shiori's head, the words detonated like a bomb. A tool of revenge. "[scared]I — I —" Her voice wouldn't come. Everything she wanted to say stuck in the back of her throat, refusing to become words. Her father would never do something like that. But if — if it *was* true... Reima shifted his gaze to the nightscape outside the window. The red lights of Tokyo Tower coldly illuminated his profile. "Continue your meal." That was all he said before picking up his wine glass again. Shiori gripped her fork. Her fingertips trembled. A dull pain spread through the center of her chest, as if a cold iron rod had been driven into it. No tears came. She could only stare as the food before her slowly, steadily grew cold. --- When dinner ended, Reima stood up without a word. They left the dining room, headed for the elevator. Shiori watched blankly as his fingertip pressed the button for the top-floor Presidential Suite, "Gekka." They entered the room. A spacious living area, a king-sized bed. Outside the window, Tokyo's nightscape glittered like a jewel box. "[serious]I'm going home now." Shiori stopped in her tracks. She bit her lip, clutching her bag with trembling hands. If she stayed with this man any longer... She felt as if something inside her would break irreparably. Reima turned around. His blue eyes crawled over her entire body, a gaze so intense it was palpable even through his suit. "[cold]Going home?" A low voice. The next instant, Reima's hand seized the collar of Shiori's blouse. *Riiip —* The sound of tearing fabric echoed through the quiet room. Buttons popped off, clattering dryly against the floor — *clack, clack*. "[cold]I told you not to run." The same words. But tonight, they were different. A declaration of domination, devoid of even a shred of affection. "[scared]Sto—" Reima's large hand caught both her wrists as she tried to resist, binding them together. He pushed her down onto the bed. The springs groaned under the weight. His hands roughly flipped up her skirt. Her stockings were torn away, and cold air touched her exposed thighs. "[cold]In your father's place, you will repay me." Those words were the finishing blow. The strength to resist drained out of her, all at once. Shiori stared at the ceiling. Her vision blurred, the chandelier's light bleeding into a haze. Reima's finger traced firmly along her slit over her underwear. Her body jolted at the pressure felt through the fabric. To her own disgust, she was already starting to get wet there. "[cold]You're feeling it, aren't you." A cold voice, laced with mockery. Her underwear was pulled off her legs. Reima undid his belt and freed his already rigidly erect penis from his trousers. Pre-cum glistened at the tip. He forced Shiori's legs apart without hesitation and pressed the glans against her vaginal opening. "[angry]No...!" With a wet, squelching sound, his penis pushed inside. Though she was wet with arousal, it was the pain and pressure of being forcibly invaded in a place not yet ready. Every time the entrance of her womb was knocked, voiceless cries escaped Shiori's lips. "[cold]This is the price for what your father did." Reima began to thrust his hips violently. The dry sound of skin slapping against skin — *smack, smack* — filled the room. Each time she was struck deep inside, Shiori's body, against her will, generated a sweet, tingling numbness. I hate him — I hate him — I hate him —. Inside her heart, only those words repeated. And yet. "[cold]Come. Deep inside." Simultaneously with the low command, he thrust up into her deepest point with all his might. "Aaah...!" Shiori's vision exploded into white. Her vagina clenched around his penis, and her whole body arched like a bow. Swallowed by the waves of climax, a single tear traced a path down her temple. Without a word, Reima released his semen deep inside her. The sensation of hot cum pumping into her — *throb, throb* — etched humiliation and pleasure into her simultaneously. When the act was over, he pulled away immediately. The sound of his footsteps heading toward the bathroom faded, and soon only the sound of the shower water could be heard. Shiori was left alone on the dark bed. Clutching the rumpled sheets, she cried, killing her voice. It was the first time. The first time, since this relationship began, that she had cried in the truest sense. --- The next morning. Having barely slept, she headed for the 39th floor of Roppongi Hills Mori Tower. Even inside the elevator, Shiori kept rubbing her arms. The red marks Reima had left on her wrists were hidden by her long-sleeved blouse. When she sat down at her desk, she noticed the atmosphere on the floor was different from usual. A restless buzz. Everyone was looking in the same direction. From the elevator hall, a woman was walking toward them. Jet-black long straight hair, cat-like, narrow red eyes, and lip rouge as red as blood. Her tall frame, easily 170 centimeters, was further emphasized by a black dress and high heels. It was as if a black rose in full bloom was walking. "[surprised]Who is that? She looks like a model..." At the next desk, Ai was staring with her mouth slightly agape. The woman — Jinguji Mirei — paid no heed to the surrounding stares and approached Shiori's desk directly. "[gentle]Kagami Shiori-san?" A low, sweetly melting voice. And yet, it sent a chill down Shiori's spine. "[scared]...Yes." "[gentle]I am Jinguji Mirei. Saionji Reima's former fiancée. Might you have a moment?" There was no way to refuse. --- A small conference room on the 39th floor. Mirei crossed her legs elegantly and observed Shiori, who sat in the chair opposite her, with great deliberation. Her eyes were like a snake appraising its prey. "[sarcastic]Are you aware that Reima acquired you deliberately, from the very beginning?" It was sudden. Shiori's fingertips trembled on her lap. "[sarcastic]Your meeting at Bar L'arme wasn't a coincidence either. He knew you would be there. Everything was a script orchestrated for revenge." "[scared]...Do you have proof?" The voice she managed to squeeze out was so small she could barely hear it herself. Mirei's smile deepened. Her eyes weren't smiling at all. "[cold]You need proof? You've been receiving them on your smartphone, haven't you? Warning messages. The one who sent those — was me." Shiori's heart froze solid. "[sarcastic]Every time Reima holds you, his revenge nears completion. Treating you coldly by day, dominating your body by night. That was the form of revenge he desired. You poor thing." A sneer clung to the end of her words. Not even pity — a resonance of pure malice. "[angry]Why... why are you telling me this?" Mirei rose smoothly. The sound of the chair being pushed back echoed strangely loud in the room. "[gentle]Shall I say... because I felt pity for you?" The gesture of bringing her hand to her mouth as she spoke was perfectly crafted elegance. But the lie was transparent. *(This woman — she wants Reima.)* Shiori understood it intuitively. What burned deep in this woman's eyes wasn't pity. It was a twisted possessiveness toward Reima. Heading for the door, Mirei tossed her final words without looking back. "[cold]If you want to know the truth, I suggest you investigate it yourself. But — by then, it may already be too late." The door closed. Shiori remained seated in the conference room chair, unable to move. Last night, Reima's cold voice. *In your father's place, you will repay me.* And now, Mirei's voice, like sweet poison. *He acquired you deliberately, from the very beginning.* The two voices overlapped again and again in her head. *(Was I — a tool... for revenge?)* Had Reima's fingers, his lips — had it all been an act? That whisper on that night — *Become mine* — wasn't a joke, but a declaration of conquest? The door opened. "[worried]Shiori? Are you okay? Did that woman say something to you?" She must have been waiting in the hallway. Ai's hazel eyes peered worriedly into Shiori's face. "[gentle]No, it was just about a client... it's nothing." She lied. Ai's eyes showed she wasn't convinced. "[worried]That's not a 'nothing' face. You've been acting strange lately, and yesterday, your eyes were all red." "[gentle]...I'm really okay." She couldn't tell her. Her relationship with Reima, the suspicion of her father's breach of trust, the matter with Mirei — it was all too tangled up. She couldn't drag Ai into it. "[gentle]Thank you, Ai-chan. I'm really okay." Mustering her best smile, Shiori left the conference room. She returned to her desk. On the screen, the project proposal she'd been redoing was still open. She placed her hands on the keyboard. Her fingers were still trembling. *(I want to hate Reima.)* But — The heat she'd felt on the bed. The voice whispered in her ear. Those gentle fingertips that had stroked her hair. A part of her didn't want to believe all of it had been a lie. *(Even so, that person —)* The self-loathing for still loving him, and the faint gravitational pull that refused to disappear despite it all — both burned simultaneously inside her chest. Outside the window, Tokyo's overcast sky hung heavy and low, looking as if it might start raining at any moment.