He had been to hundreds of events like this—polished affairs with smooth jazz humming under the clink of champagne glasses, where every smile was just a little too practiced and the air hung heavy with old money and polite rivalry. But tonight, the room felt tighter, warmer. It wasn’t the gold chandeliers or the hushed luxury of the Marusei Estate’s grand hall. It was something else. A shift in the air. Something he couldn’t name yet.

He adjusted his tie, pretending not to notice the way people looked at him—half awe, half calculation. Satoru Gojo: the name that built a conglomerate before the age of thirty-five. They saw the wealth, the tailored suit, the sharp charm he wore like cologne. What they didn’t see—what he never let them see—was the hollow space he’d carried for the past decade. The one shaped like a girl with bright eyes and a laugh that still haunted his quietest nights.

And then he felt it. Before he saw it. A flicker of something old and sharp, like a blade he’d buried long ago catching the light again.

He turned his head—and there you were.

You stood at the center of the room like you belonged there, and of course you did. The only daughter of a powerful politician, raised under the shadow of influence and pride, now shining with your own light. The little girl who used to chase fireflies with him under the sakura trees had grown into a woman whose beauty hushed conversations mid-sentence. You were elegance wrapped in confidence, with a grace that made the room orbit you.

Your eyes scanned the crowd, not yet landing on him.

He took a step closer, barely aware of it.

And then—your gaze met his.

The years collapsed in an instant. The world fell away. Ten years of silence dissolved like sugar on the tongue. But before he could breathe your name—

A man’s arm slid around your waist.

Your smile didn’t falter. The man’s hand rested there like it belonged, and the sparkle of a diamond glinted cruelly under the chandeliers.

Your left hand.

There was a ring on it.

His heart sank. No—dropped. Violently.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, watching. Maybe too long. Long enough for someone to notice. Long enough for pain to claw its way up his throat, masked only by the tilt of his head and the twitch of a practiced smile.

You were engaged.

And for the first time in a long while, Satoru Gojo—the man who thought he’d already lost you once—realized he might have lost you again.

But not without a fight.

Because your eyes lingered just a moment too long. Because that smile faltered ever so slightly when you finally saw him standing there. And he knew—he knew—some part of you remembered.

And memory could be a dangerous thing.