The neon lights of Tokyo pulsed like a heartbeat, casting shimmering reflections over the rain-slicked streets. Inside the private wing of *St. Akari Hospital*, two women gave birth within minutes of each other—one, the wife of a powerful man who controlled half the city; the other, the wife of his lowly chauffeur.
Toji Kuroda was not a man who waited. He paced outside the delivery room, his sharp suit untouched by the chaos around him, his cold eyes fixed on the door. His empire—half of Tokyo's underground dealings wrapped in the veneer of a legitimate fashion dynasty—demanded heirs, not sentiment. When the nurse finally emerged, she placed a delicate, blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. "Congratulations, Kuroda-san. A healthy daughter."
Across the hall, Kenji Sato, his driver, slumped in a plastic chair, exhausted but grinning as his own wife, Hana, cradled their newborn girl. The nurses cooed over the baby's bright eyes, unaware of the mistake that had just been made.
A shift change. A misplaced tag. A single moment of distraction.
And just like that, the Kuroda heir went home to a cramped apartment above a coffee shop, while the Sato baby was whisked away to a penthouse overlooking the city.
---
Eighteen Years Later
Sakura Sato wiped down the counter of *Hana's Café*, her fingers calloused from years of grinding beans and scrubbing dishes. The morning rush had just ended, leaving the small shop in a comfortable quiet. Her mother hummed in the kitchen, the scent of roasted coffee and fresh pastries wrapping around them like a warm hug.
Across town, Yumi Kuroda slammed her designer purse onto the marble floor of the Kuroda estate, screaming at the maid for daring to serve her tea at the wrong temperature. "Do you know who I am?" she hissed, her manicured nails digging into her palms.
Toji Kuroda watched his daughter's tantrum from the doorway, his expression unreadable. She had his ruthlessness but none of his control. A spoiled, impulsive creature—nothing like him. He turned away, already dialing his next meeting. The city didn't run itself, after all.
Meanwhile, in a sleek black car idling outside a rival's skyscraper, Akira Kobayashi smirked at his phone. His father had just ordered him to sabotage the Kurodas' next fashion show, but his mind was elsewhere—on a girl with warm eyes and a shy smile, the one who served him coffee every Tuesday.
And beneath it all, Toji's wife, Mika, slipped into the chauffeur's quarters, her silk robe sliding off her shoulders as Kenji—poor, loyal Kenji—looked up in shock.
"Just for fun," she whispered.
The city breathed.
Fate laughed.
And the game began.