9:07 PM. Rinji's Penthouse.
Haruka stood in the foyer, rainwater pooling at her feet, her defiance dampened by the sterile grandeur of Rinji's home. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a storm-lashed Tokyo, the city's lights smeared like wet paint. The air smelled of bergamot and neglect.
Rinji leaned against the kitchen island, a tumbler of whisky in hand. "Negotiate?" His voice dripped with skepticism. "You've broken three clauses today alone."
"Your clauses are suffocating." She kicked off her ruined heels, leaving muddy streaks on marble. "I won't be your puppet."
He set down his glass with a clink. "Then leave. Breach the contract. Watch your career evaporate."
Haruka stepped closer, the open-plan living room amplifying her anger. "You think I'm the only one with something to lose? The board's breathing down your neck too. Without me, you're just another CEO with a scandal."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "State your terms."
"I want equal say in the narrative. No more scripts. And this—" She gestured to the cavernous penthouse. "—ends now. I'm not moving in."
Rinji's laugh was a low, mirthless sound. He pulled a tablet from his briefcase, thrusting it toward her. "Clause 24. Added this morning."
Haruka scanned the text, her stomach dropping:
ARTICLE 24: COHABITATION
Parties shall reside at the Nakano Tower Penthouse for the duration of the contract. Non-compliance voids all compensation.
"You knew I'd come here," she whispered.
"I anticipated." He retrieved his whisky, swirling the amber liquid. "The board requires… authenticity. Paparazzi have already noted your absence from my address."
Haruka stared at the rain sliding down the windows. "Where do I sleep?"
"The guest suite." He nodded to a hallway veiled in shadow. "Far enough to maintain your precious boundaries."
11:30 PM. The Guest Suite.
The room was a showroom of minimalism—a king-sized bed draped in linens the color of bone, a desk devoid of pens, a closet empty save for wooden hangers. Haruka's suitcase looked like an intruder, its floral stickers clashing with the gray-scale perfection.
A knock rattled the door.
Rinji stood in the hallway, changed into a black turtleneck that made him look like a shadow given form. He handed her a folder. "Rules for cohabitation."
She flipped through the bullet points:
No entering the master suite without permission.
Kitchen use limited to 7:00-7:30 AM and 8:00-8:30 PM.
Shared spaces must be vacated if the other party is present.
"You've timed my eating?" She threw the folder onto the bed.
"Efficiency prevents conflict." He paused, his gaze catching on her bare toes, still stained with balcony mud from the gala. "Breakfast is at six. Don't be late."
The door clicked shut.
2:17 AM. Kitchen Incident.
Haruka crept into the kitchen, her stomach growling. She hadn't eaten since the Times interview—a lifetime ago. The fridge hummed, offering a lone bottle of mineral water and a bento box sealed with a Nakano Holdings logo.
"Stealing?"
She jumped. Rinji leaned in the doorway, backlit by the hallway sconces, his hair disheveled. A silver robe hung open over sleep pants, revealing a sliver of toned chest. Haruka looked away, heat rising to her cheeks.
"It's my kitchen," he said, voice rough with sleep.
"Our kitchen," she corrected, clutching the bento. "Per Clause 24."
He moved toward her, barefoot and silent. For a heartbeat, she thought he might reach for the food. Instead, he opened a high cabinet, retrieving a box of artisanal sencha. "You'll need this," he said, placing it beside her. "The chicken karaage is under-seasoned."
Haruka blinked. "You… cook?"
"I survive." He turned to leave, then hesitated. "The cameras in the lobby are motion-activated. If you insist on midnight strolls, avoid the east elevator."
She stared at his retreating back, the bento suddenly heavy in her hands. "Why?"
He didn't turn. "The board monitors it."
6:00 AM. Breakfast Negotiations.
Haruka entered the kitchen at 5:58, her hair still damp from a hurried shower. Rinji stood at the stove, a pan of tamagoyaki sizzling. He wore a charcoal suit, his tie knotted with military precision.
"You're early," he noted, plating the rolled omelette.
"You're… cooking. Again."
He set down two plates. "Sustenance is necessary. Sit."
They ate in silence, the morning news muttering on a hidden screen: "Nakano Love Nest Revealed! Inside the CEO's $20M Penthouse."
Haruka pushed aside her chopsticks. "How long?"
Rinji didn't look up. "The contract stipulates six months."
"No. How long have you lived like this?" She gestured to the sterile expanse. "No art. No photos. Just… rules."
His jaw tightened. "Efficiency requires focus."
"Loneliness requires lies."
The accusation hung between them. Rinji stood abruptly, his chair screeching. "We leave for the office in ten. Wear the navy blazer Aimi sent."
Haruka watched him retreat, his omelette half-eaten. On the counter, the sencha box sat unopened.
She poured herself a cup, the steam blurring her vision.
8:00 PM. The Unwritten Rule.
Haruka returned from work to find the penthouse transformed—or so she thought. A single lamp glowed in the living room, casting long shadows. Rinji's briefcase lay abandoned on the sofa, his shoes neatly aligned by the door.
She paused, listening. No TV. No music. Just the whisper of rain.
In the kitchen, a fresh bento waited, this time with a note:
"Salt in the upper drawer. —R.N."
She opened the fridge. Beside the mineral water, a bottle of her favorite yuzu sparkling tea now sat chilled.
Haruka smiled, despite herself.
Somewhere down the hall, a door closed softly.