Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Rinji's private office, the sky a bruised purple. Haruka stared at the contract laid bare on his desk, its pages glowing under the stark light of a single lamp. The clock read 11:37 PM.
"Separate residences," Rinji said, his voice clipped. He stood by the window, a silhouette against the storm. "You'll keep your apartment. I'll remain in mine. No shared keys, no unannounced visits."
Haruka leaned forward, her chair scraping against the polished concrete floor. "And what about your late-night 'guests'?" She let the word hang, sharpened with implication. "I won't have tabloids painting me as a jealous wife while you parade strangers through your penthouse."
Rinji turned, his face half-shadowed. "There will be no 'guests.' This arrangement requires discretion from both parties." He paused, the faintest edge in his tone. "Unless you'd prefer a clause limiting your social life as well?"
"Don't flatter yourself." She tapped Clause 12—Public Displays of Affection (PDA) Limited to Media Events—with a manicured nail. "Hand-holding? Arm-linking? Are we auditioning for a soap opera?"
"Necessities." He moved to the desk, bracing his hands against the edge. The scent of sandalwood and rain clung to him. "Investors expect cohesion. A single photo of us arguing could undo everything."
Haruka stood abruptly, her chair toppling backward. The crash echoed like a gunshot. "Cohesion? You've reduced my entire life to a marketing strategy."
For a heartbeat, Rinji's mask slipped. His gaze dropped to her trembling hands, then flickered away. "Sit down."
"No." She circled the desk, heels punching holes in the silence. "You want a performance? Fine. But I set the terms too. No gifts. No surprise dinners. No—"
"—emotional entanglements," he finished coldly. "That was already implied."
"Implied?" She laughed, bitter. "You've implied nothing. You've dictated. Like this is another boardroom takeover."
Rinji straightened, his height forcing her to tilt her chin up. "This is a takeover. Of the narrative. Or would you rather spend the next decade known as the woman who slept her way into a promotion?"
Haruka's hand flew up—then froze, suspended in the charged air between them. Rinji didn't flinch.
"Sign or don't sign," he said softly. "But understand: walking away now won't salvage your reputation. Only mine."
She stared at him, the truth of it a blade twisting in her gut. The board would protect him. They always did.
Her hand fell.
---
1:15 AM. Rooftop Parking Garage.
Haruka's Uber idled in the rain, taillights bleeding red across the asphalt. Rinji stood beneath the flickering awning, a black umbrella in hand.
"The press conference is at 7 AM," he said. "Wear something credible. Not…" His gaze skimmed her rumpled dress. "…this."
Haruka yanked open the car door. "Credible? Should I borrow one of your ties?"
A beat. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Stick to neutral colors. The public prefers its liars bland."
She slid into the backseat, rain soaking her collar. As the car pulled away, she glimpsed him in the rearview mirror—alone, his umbrella a dark island in the storm.
Her phone buzzed. A new email:
Attached: Non-Disclosure Agreement
Body: Clause 21 added: Mandatory joint therapy sessions for media training. First session: Tomorrow. 5 AM.
She typed a reply with numb fingers: "Is 5 AM when you practice smiling in the mirror?"
Three dots blinked. Then:
"Yes. Bring coffee."
Haruka slammed her phone face-down on the seat. Outside, the city blurred.
They were partners now.
In lies, if nothing else.