The rain had begun again, tracing silver lines down the tall windows of the Tachibana estate's east salon. The room was prepared for a private talk — a "courtesy meeting," as the families called it — meant to give the newly engaged couple space to "understand each other."
But understanding was far from reach.
Renjiro Hayama sat slouched on the sofa, his sharp suit contrasting the restless impatience in his eyes. His gaze drifted over the tasteful décor — the antique vases, the soft lighting, the polished quiet — the perfect reflection of the woman sitting across from him.
Aika Tachibana.
She looked serene, poised, and maddeningly calm — as if the entire conversation had already been rehearsed in her mind. Her hands rested neatly on her lap, her long hair draped over one shoulder, her every gesture careful, deliberate.
The silence stretched too long.
Aika finally spoke, voice soft but steady.
"You haven't said anything since you came in."
Renjiro leaned back, exhaling sharply. "Because there's nothing to say. You already made your decision, didn't you? To play the perfect daughter and follow your parents' script."
Her gaze flickered up to him. "It's not a script. It's respect."
He laughed — low, humorless. "Respect? That's what you call giving up your life because two old men want to relive their glory days?"
"Maybe I see it differently," she replied. "Maybe I believe in what they built."
Renjiro's jaw tightened. "You believe in an inheritance. You've never worked for anything real, Aika. Everything you have — your schools, your degrees, your so-called 'design studio' — it's all just part of the show. You wear your family's wealth like perfume."
Aika blinked once, but her expression remained composed. "Is that what you think of me?"
"That's what everyone thinks," he said coldly. "You're a Tachibana. The picture-perfect daughter who learned manners, business etiquette, and a few art classes so she'd look good in charity magazines. And now, they've chosen you to decorate our name, too."
The words sliced like glass.
But she didn't flinch. She simply reached for her teacup, her hand trembling just slightly before she steadied it.
"If you think belittling me will make me back out, you're wrong," she said quietly.
Renjiro's eyes narrowed. "You really don't get it, do you? I don't want this marriage. I don't want you."
Her throat tightened, but her voice stayed calm.
"You don't have to. You just have to stand beside me."
He stood abruptly, scoffing. "So that's all this is for you? A position? A title?"
Her gaze lifted to meet his — not weak, not pleading, just steady.
"It's a promise. Our families built something bigger than either of us. I won't be the one to break it."
He stared at her for a long moment — the girl he remembered, polite and smiling, the one who used to follow him around the school courtyard. Now she sat before him like marble: beautiful, cold, untouchable.
But that only made him angrier.
"You think this makes you noble," he said, voice low and harsh. "But it's pathetic, Aika. You're just another obedient heir waiting to be handed your worth."
For the first time, a flicker of pain crossed her face — gone as quickly as it came.
She set her teacup down carefully and stood, bowing politely.
"If that's what you believe, I won't try to change your mind. But I'll keep my promise — even if you don't keep yours."
He froze as she walked past him, her perfume faint but lingering — subtle, not expensive; warm, not ostentatious. And somehow, that unsettled him more than her words.
At the door, she paused — her voice softer now, almost fragile.
"You don't have to hate me to feel free, Renjiro. You just have to be brave enough to choose something other than running away."
Then she left him standing there, alone with his guilt and fury.
And for the first time, Renjiro Hayama wondered if maybe the woman he thought he knew was someone else entirely — someone stronger.
The hum of the elevator was the only sound in the underground parking garage of the Hayama Tower.
Renjiro leaned against the cool steel interior, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding his phone to his ear.
Hiroto answered after three rings.
"You're up early."
"I need the contract," Renjiro said without preamble. "The marriage terms. All of it."
A pause. Hiroto's tone sharpened. "Why?"
"Because if they're going to bind my life to hers, I want to know exactly what I'm tied to."
"Renji—"
"I'm not asking again."
Another pause, then a quiet sigh. "I'll send it to your private email."
The line went dead.
By the time Renjiro slid into his black sedan and pulled onto the expressway, the document was already loaded on his phone. He opened it at the next red light, scrolling past the family emblems, legal headers, and ceremonial clauses.
And then he found what he was looking for.
Duration: Indefinite.Condition: Valid upon legal marriage certificate and formal registration.Heir clause: At least one direct heir to be named within five years for full consolidation of legacy trust.
Renjiro's jaw tightened. "Of course," he muttered.
There was no clause for annulment, no divorce language. Just the quiet expectation that once it began, it wouldn't end—unless one of them died or someone produced an heir.
It was a trap dressed as tradition.
But his mind had already started working around it.
No duration meant no defined term. That gave him freedom — if not in title, then in strategy. The heir clause could be delayed, avoided. And if an heir was produced… well, that gave him leverage.
Marry. Wait. Exit clean.
He exhaled slowly and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat as the light turned green.
But the quiet satisfaction was short-lived.
Because no matter how tightly he gripped the wheel, Aika's face wouldn't leave his mind.
Not the composed version — but the flicker of hurt she'd tried to hide when he insulted her. The slight tremble in her hand. The way she bowed even after he'd thrown words at her like knives.
She didn't fight back.She didn't cry.She just… stood her ground.
And somehow, that bothered him more than if she had shouted.
He thought of her voice:
"You don't have to hate me to feel free, Renjiro."
The words echoed — soft, haunting.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as the city skyline came into view. Tokyo's glass towers rose like silent witnesses to a future he didn't want — and a woman he didn't understand.
He told himself it was just curiosity.Frustration.Guilt, maybe.
But the truth was simpler.
He'd misjudged her.And he didn't like that one bit.
The studio door clicked softly behind her as Aika stepped inside, shaking off the silence that clung to her like mist.
It was a sanctuary.
Away from the old walls of the Tachibana estate.Away from Renjiro's words.Away from the ache he'd left behind in the quiet parts of her chest.
Muted light filtered through the tall frosted windows of the workspace. Mannequins lined one wall, each draped in early spring silhouettes — sculptural sleeves, layered silks, modern meets heritage. Her sketchbooks were stacked neatly beside bolts of imported fabric. A half-finished gown waited on the center stand, shimmering faintly in moon-silver thread.
Aika slipped off her coat, folded it with precision, and tied her hair into a low twist.
Then she picked up her pencil and began to draw.
The rhythm of it soothed her — the familiar scratch of graphite on heavy paper, the slow blooming of form and texture. She wasn't drawing for a client. Not tonight. Tonight, she was sketching to breathe.
But no matter how detailed the hem or how clean the silhouette… Renjiro's voice still lingered in her mind.
"You've never worked for anything real.""You're just another obedient heir waiting to be handed your worth."
Her pencil paused mid-line.
She closed her eyes.
You don't know me at all, Renjiro…
The intercom buzzed.
"Miss Tachibana?" a voice chimed from the hallway. "It's Miki."
Aika composed herself, quickly setting down the sketch. "Come in."
The door opened, revealing Miki, her assistant — early twenties, bright, loyal, and fiercely protective in her own subtle way. She held a tablet and an excited gleam in her eye.
"You won't believe who called the studio line."
Aika gave her a questioning look.
Miki grinned. "LUMIÈRE. The editor-in-chief herself. They want a feature in their summer issue. Full spotlight. Not just the brand — you."
Aika blinked, surprised. "That's… unusual."
"Very," Miki said, stepping further inside. "You've been turning down media for three years now. Half the fashion world thinks you're a ghost."
Aika sighed gently. "It's better that way."
"But why?" Miki asked, not for the first time. "You're the designer. You built the brand. The elite wear your label like armor. Royals, celebrities, heiresses. You launch one silent drop and everything sells out in hours. You own half the international gala circuits."
She paused, then said more softly:
"Why keep your name a secret?"
Aika didn't answer right away. She looked at the gown she was working on — ivory and blue-gray, inspired by frost-covered cherry blossoms. Timeless, quiet, beautiful. Like the life she wished she could live without the noise of expectations and legacy.
Then, with a faint smile:
"Because the name doesn't matter. The work does."
Miki looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Still. One day, someone's going to dig deep enough to connect 'A.T.' with Aika Tachibana. What then?"
"I'll let them wonder," she said simply, turning back to her sketch. "Let the world fall in love with the design — not the designer."
Miki lingered, watching her.
In her mind, her boss was effortless perfection. Not just polished — powerful. Quiet, but commanding. She ran an empire in heels and silence, yet still came to the studio alone at night to fix a hemline with her own hands.
To the world, 'A.T.' was a brand whispered in boardrooms and red carpets — exclusive, refined, mysterious.
To Miki, Aika was more than that.
She was a woman who had every reason to shine — and chose instead to stay in the background.
Because that's what strength looked like, when it wasn't trying to prove anything.
Later that night, as Aika walked home beneath the quiet Tokyo skyline, she looked up at the clouds passing beneath the moon.
And she whispered, just to herself—
"I don't need him to believe in me."
She placed her hand lightly over her abdomen.
"I just need to believe in myself."
The clinking of glasses echoed in the private lounge of Club Kyōgen, nestled above Tokyo's skyline.
Dim lights. Jazz humming softly in the background. Expensive whiskey and old laughter filled the air — the kind shared between men who'd once burned through their twenties together.
Renjiro Hayama leaned against the velvet-backed seat, his collar slightly loosened, one hand lazily wrapped around a glass of Hibiki. His longtime friends — Naoya and Shun, sons of CEOs, old prep school partners-in-crime — sat across from him, laughing about board meetings and last-night scandals.
"So," Naoya grinned, refilling his glass, "you really got engaged to Aika Tachibana?"
Renjiro made a face. "I didn't get engaged. I was offered as collateral."
Shun laughed. "Damn. Still the Hayama drama king."
"You don't get it," Renjiro muttered, swirling his drink. "She's everything I hate about that world."
"She's everything your family wants," Naoya said. "Elegant, brilliant, loyal, not a single scandal to her name. Dude, people worship her."
Renjiro scoffed. "People worship a mask. She's fake. Ice behind polite words. Always doing what's expected."
Shun raised a brow. "You mean… unlike you?"
That earned him a glare.
Naoya chuckled. "You two were inseparable once. Don't you think it's kind of poetic? Full circle. Fate."
Renjiro slammed his glass down. "It's a curse."
Both friends quieted.
He leaned back, the alcohol buzzing hot in his blood now. "She just… smiles. Like none of it matters. Like being shoved into a loveless contract is just another appointment in her schedule."
His voice cracked just slightly. "And now I have to spend the rest of my life tied to someone who doesn't even blink when they take my freedom."
That night, at 1:32 AM, somewhere between bitterness and the third glass too many, Renjiro sent the message.
No greeting. No filter.
Just rage.
Renjiro [1:32 AM]You ruined everything.You and your perfect image and your perfect silence.Why don't you say no? Why don't you ever fight back?Maybe you like being a puppet.Just know this — I'll resent you every day.I'll hate you more with every breath you take beside me.You've made my life a prison.Hope it's worth it.
He stared at it for a moment. Then hit send.
And passed out.
Tachibana Estate — Aika's Room
The sound of her phone vibrating pulled Aika from light sleep.
She rubbed her eyes, expecting an email or a client update. Instead, it was a message from Renjiro.
She hesitated before opening it.
Then read it.
Word by word. Line by line.
Each sentence dug into her chest, deeper than the last. She read it three times. Four.
Her hands trembled.
And slowly, silently, tears slipped down her cheeks — not dramatic sobs, but a quiet unraveling.
She pressed her palm over her chest, trying to steady herself.
He hates me.
She let herself feel the ache for a moment.
Then stood. Walked to the mirror. Wiped her tears.
And said to her reflection:
"I'm doing the right thing."
She inhaled, slowly.
"One day, he'll see it."
With that, she turned off her phone.
The screen faded to black.
But the weight in her heart stayed — silent, loyal, and unbreakable.