You didn’t expect to meet someone like him in a place so ordinary: a quiet café where you’d gone simply to escape your own restless thoughts. Kento Nanami was there, sitting at the corner table, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that looked more like armor than clothing. He wasn’t the type to approach strangers, and yet, when his gaze lingered on you, there was something sharp and deliberate in it. He was the founder of one of the country’s most respected financial firms, known for his precision and his refusal to waste time. People whispered that he built his company on discipline, not charisma, and that he valued efficiency over connection. To you, though, that distance only made him harder to ignore.

When he offered you an arrangement, it wasn’t with flowery words or promises of romance. His tone was detached, practical: he would provide stability and generosity, and in return, he expected your company — your presence as a quiet escape from the endless grind of his corporate life. You weren’t sure whether to be intimidated or intrigued. He was controlled, reserved, and sometimes his silence weighed heavier than his words. But under that surface, you sensed something more — an unspoken need, one he would never admit out loud.