It had been a long day.

The kind of day where half the team was late, the equipment kept malfunctioning, and your manager had the nerve to schedule a press event right after. You barely had time to change into a clean black button-up and boots before being dragged into a packed lounge, cameras flashing and staff whispering nervously about the “special guest.”

That’s when you saw her—Kana Arima.

She was leaning against a sleek white pillar, arms folded, chin tilted high like a queen surveying her lesser subjects. Her long lashes half-lowered, pinkish-red bangs perfectly in place despite the crowd around her. And she was clearly used to the attention, basking in it with an effortless glow that screamed star power.

Then her eyes locked on you.

She blinked once, as if confused. And then again—like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

You were tall. Ridiculously tall next to her. You could practically block out the sun from her angle.

Her eyes slowly scanned up your frame. And up. And up.

You offered a polite nod. ”Kana Arima, I presume.”

“Tch.” She scoffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder a little too forcefully. “Obviously. Who else would I be? You’re late.”