Sakura was called into the manager's office the next morning.
She walked in slowly, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. The argument with Aiko still echoed in her chest, every word sharp, unfinished. She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the trophy, the dinner, the invisible hands moving her life without permission.
The manager didn't ask how she was.
He slid a thick file across the table.
"You're going to that dinner, right?" he asked, already assuming the answer.
Sakura stared at the file. Her name was printed neatly on the cover, along with charts, photos, and reports.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"Good." He leaned back in his chair. "You'll also need to talk about our new girl group."
Sakura's fingers curled slightly. "Talk… how?"
"Convince them," he said plainly. "That person has influence. If they supported OG once, they can do it again. For the new group."
The words landed heavy.
"So that's it?" Sakura asked softly. "That's why I'm going?"
The manager frowned. "This is business, Sakura. You understand how this industry works."
She opened the file.
Inside were profiles of the new members, projected concepts, debut schedules—plans built on an assumption that someone else would buy their success. Again.
Her stomach turned.
For the first time, Sakura felt it clearly—sharp and undeniable.
She wasn't being protected.
She was being sold.
"Please," the manager added, his tone softer now. "Try. For the company. For everyone."
Sakura closed the file slowly.
In that moment, she felt strangely hollow, like something inside her had finally given up resisting. She thought of Aiko's tears. Of OG crying together on the floor. Of the temple, the chocolate, the kindness that once felt like hope and now felt like a chain.
She stood up.
"I'll go," she said.
Relief flashed across the manager's face.
"But," Sakura continued, her voice steady despite the weakness spreading through her limbs, "I won't promise anything."
He paused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, meeting his eyes, "I'm not going to beg. I'm not going to sell myself. And I'm not going to let anyone control our careers like this anymore."
The manager stiffened. "Sakura, don't be emotional—"
"This isn't emotion," she replied. "This is dignity."
She picked up the file, then hesitated—and placed it back on the table.
"I'll talk to that person," Sakura said. "But not the way you want."
She left the office before he could stop her.
In the hallway, her legs finally gave way. She leaned against the wall, breathing shallowly, her hands trembling.
I feel so weak, she thought. Like I'm disappearing.
But beneath that weakness, something else stirred.
Resolve.
That night, alone in her room, Sakura stared at her reflection. The girl looking back at her was tired, scared, and cornered—but she was still herself.
"I won't let this continue," she whispered.
At the dinner, she wouldn't smile politely. She wouldn't accept gifts or gratitude. She wouldn't play the role written for her.
She would tell the truth.
She would ask that person—whoever they were—to stop.
Because even if it cost her trophies, stages, or fame…
Sakura refused to let love, obsession, or money decide her worth ever again.