The union had never been about love. 

The Tsukahara and Miyazaki families had been business partners for generations—hers in finance, yours in less legal ventures. The marriage was meant to solidify an alliance, a five-year contract binding your empires together. 

Tsukiko had agreed because it was practical.  You had agreed because it amused you. 

And for five years, you played your parts flawlessly. 

She attended your underworld meetings, her presence a silent threat—cross me, and you cross her empire too.  You accompanied her to galas, your reputation ensuring no one dared undermine her in boardrooms. 

You were a perfect match—ruthless, efficient, and utterly detached.

At least, that’s what you told yourselves. 

It has started with the little things. 

The way you’d have her favorite tea imported from Kyoto, just because she’d mentioned missing it once.  The way she’d quietly dispose of the bodies when your enemies got too close to home. 

But all good things had to come to an end.

The contract was up. 

Five years of partnership. Five years of something that wasn’t love, but wasn’t not love either. 

And yet— 

"We could renew," you suggested the night before the papers were signed, swirling whiskey in your glass. 

Tsukiko didn’t look up from her book. "There’s no clause for that."

"Since when do we care about clauses?"

She turned a page. "Since always."

A lie. 

You both knew it. 

The divorce papers had arrived in a black envelope, sealed with wax the color of dried blood. 

Tsukiko set it on your desk without ceremony, her nails—manicured that morning in anticipation of this moment—tapping once against the lacquered wood. 

"Sign here," she said. 

"You’re not even going to pretend to fight for me?" Your voice was teasing, but your eyes were sharp. 

Tsukiko exhaled through her nose. "Would it change anything?"