Koharu sank slowly to the floor, her knees giving up beneath her as the silence of the room closed in on her. The door Sakura had walked through still felt warm in her mind, as if she might come back if Koharu waited long enough. But she didn't. She never did.
With trembling fingers, Koharu began to pick up the flowers from the floor.
Petal by petal.
Her hand was bleeding, glass still biting into her skin, but she didn't flinch. Red stained the white petals, turning them into something ugly and painfully symbolic. She gathered them anyway, clutching them to her chest like they still held meaning.
For the second time in her life, Koharu cried for Sakura.
Not the quiet, restrained tears of someone used to control—but deep, broken sobs that shook her entire body. She cried for the girl she admired from afar, for the smile she replayed endlessly on her screen, for the version of love she had convinced herself was pure. She cried for the plan that had gone wrong, for the power that couldn't buy forgiveness, and for the realization that she had crossed a line she could never erase.
"I only wanted you happy," she whispered into the petals, her voice barely audible.
Her tears soaked into the flowers, mixing with blood, until exhaustion finally overtook her. Her body curled in on itself, right there on the cold floor, petals still clutched in her injured hand.
And eventually, Koharu fell asleep.
Outside the private dining area, her secretary stood silently.
She had seen everything.
She had followed Koharu for years—through business wars, ruthless negotiations, sleepless nights, and lonely victories. She had never seen her like this. Not weak. Not broken. Not human in such a raw, devastating way.
The secretary stepped inside carefully and closed the door behind her.
She didn't wake Koharu.
Instead, she sat beside her, back against the wall, keeping watch as the night stretched on. The city lights dimmed. The candles burned out one by one. Hours passed, but the secretary didn't move.
Near dawn, Koharu stirred, her brows furrowing as pain finally reached her consciousness.
"Koharu," the secretary said softly.
Koharu opened her eyes slowly, confusion flickering before reality came crashing back. Her hand throbbed, blood dried along her skin.
The secretary gently took Koharu's injured hand in her own.
"Koharu," she said again, quieter now, "I don't know what you see in her."
Koharu didn't respond.
"But I can't see you like this," the secretary continued, her voice breaking just slightly. "Not like this."
She brushed Koharu's hair back from her face with careful fingers, an intimacy born not of desire but of deep loyalty. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a small first-aid kit—something she always carried, just in case.
She cleaned the wound gently, Koharu hissing faintly but not pulling away. The secretary wrapped the cut carefully, her hands steady even as her heart ached.
"You don't deserve to bleed for someone who can't understand you," she murmured, more to herself than to Koharu.
Koharu finally looked at her, eyes hollow. "I ruined everything."
The secretary shook her head. "You made a mistake. That doesn't mean you're beyond saving."
She finished bandaging the hand and rested Koharu's head against her shoulder.
"Sleep," she said softly. "I'm here."
And for the first time that night, Koharu let herself lean into that quiet presence—while the flowers lay crushed beside her, no longer symbols of love, but of a lesson learned too late.