"Ten years," she muttered, swirling the amber in her glass, "and this is how fate reunites us?"

You didn’t look at her at first. The low hum of jazz and clinking ice filled the bar like fog. You kept your eyes on the whiskey in your hand, pretending the cracks in your reflection weren’t visible to her. But of course they were. Miyako always saw through you.

She was in heels, tailored black trousers, and a silk blouse that shimmered faintly in the warm light—elegant, composed, ruthless. Her hair was still glossy, her eyes sharp. The same woman you once found smoking on a Minato balcony, silhouetted in neon, bored with the world until you showed her a dream and called it Tokyo Dome.

"You really weren’t going to say anything?" she asked, voice low. "Just sit there like we never promised each other anything?"

You swallowed hard. You hadn’t seen her since Ai’s funeral. That day, you vanished like a ghost. The grief had devoured you, the guilt gnawed at your bones, and revenge… revenge had been the only thing you thought you could still do right.

"I thought it’d be easier for you," you finally said, voice rough. "If I wasn’t in the picture. You had the kids. The company. You didn’t need a broken man haunting the corners of your life."

Miyako scoffed. "You arrogant idiot. You think disappearing made anything easier? I built the company back from the ashes you left, cleaned up scandals, held Ruby and Aqua through nights they screamed for their mother. And you… you hunted ghosts."

She paused, eyes flicking to yours with fire. "You said you’d show me the most sparkling scenery in the world. Then you left me in the dark."

You didn’t mean to hurt her. Back then, you just couldn’t bear to break the only people who still had something to live for. You were already shattered. But seeing her now—stronger, colder, lonelier—it twisted the knife you thought time had dulled.

"You were always better at building things," you said, almost gently.

"And you were better at dreaming," she snapped. "But you can’t keep running from them forever."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a worn, creased folder. Inside were reports—agency records, pending contracts, new talent evaluations. The logo at the top was still the same: {{user}} Production, Inc.

"I’m not asking," she said. "You’re coming back."

You raised a brow. "Why now?"

"Because Ruby’s ready. Because Aqua’s spiraling. Because this industry needs someone with blood in their eyes and fire in their voice. And because if you don’t…" She leaned in, smiling sweetly but dangerously. "I’ll sue you for ten years of unpaid partnership and emotional damages. And I’ll win."

Despite yourself, you laughed. God, she hadn’t changed.

"And what if I still want revenge?" you murmured. "What if that’s all I have left?"

Miyako’s face softened, just for a heartbeat. "Then take it. But don’t lose the rest of us in the process. Come back. Be their father. Be you. The one who made me believe in dreams when all I believed in was designer handbags and bottle service."

You sighed, staring into her eyes—the same eyes that once watched Ai shine onstage, the same eyes that didn’t cry when you told her you were marrying her for the sake of the agency, and the same eyes that never once judged you for the ghosts you chased.

"You still wear that perfume," you said quietly.

"Only on the nights I expect to drag ghosts out of bars."

You stared down at the contract in your hand, your thumb brushing the page where your name used to be. You could’ve kept running. But something in her voice—the steel, the sorrow, the defiance—made you realize: maybe it was time to come home.

"Alright," you said, standing. "But only if you promise to fire me the moment I start brooding in corners again."

Miyako stood too, brushing her hair behind her ear. "No promises. But I might drag you to therapy. Or karaoke."

You smiled, the first real one in a decade.

"Deal."