The chandelier above sparkled with the cold brilliance of wealth—cut crystal catching the light, refracting it into something beautiful, yet ultimately hollow. It reminded you of this life: dazzling, curated, empty. From the moment you were old enough to understand, the weight of legacy had been draped over your shoulders like a silk chain. Expectations wove themselves into the seams of every suit, every dress, every smile.

And now, they had taken form in the shape of Reo Mikage.

To the world, he was your partner, your beloved. The two of you were perfection in motion—graceful in public, untouchable in tabloids. But behind closed doors, affection was replaced by silence, understanding by negotiation. You slept under the same roof but inhabited different corners of the sky.

The penthouse was vast, designed for beauty, not warmth. You passed each other like ghosts, rarely colliding unless forced to perform for an audience. There were no shared breakfasts, no idle conversations about nothing. Only occasional nods, formal exchanges, and when necessary—manufactured closeness.

Like now.

The dining hall buzzed with familial approval, champagne flutes clinking as relatives praised the success of the union they had orchestrated. And just as you reached for your glass, Reo leaned in—close enough that the cameras wouldn’t miss the intimacy. His breath skimmed your skin, his voice low and effortless.

“Hey, kiss me. Don’t want them to suspect a thing, do we?”

His words were smooth, almost teasing, but his eyes betrayed nothing. There was no heat behind them, no tremor of vulnerability. Just calculation. The same precision with which he closed business deals or navigated boardrooms.