Chapter 1
The suit was a cage, but at least it was a bespoke one.
Arata stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the executive washroom, gripping the cold marble sink until his knuckles turned white. The man staring back at him did not look like he was about to vomit from anxiety. He looked like a king.
At 27, Arata was a terrifying specimen of a man. Standing at 188 centimeters, he filled the room with a suffocating, masculine gravity. The mirror caught the sharp, aggressive cut of his jawline and the heavy, sensual shape of his eyes—dark brown, molten, the kind of eyes that people called "bedroom eyes" but currently held the warmth of a grave.
Under the midnight-blue fabric of his three-piece suit, his body was coiled tight, a sculpture of hard muscle and six-pack abs that no one in the boardroom would ever see, but would definitely feel in the way he moved.
He looked expensive. He looked capable. He looked like a man who took what he wanted.
Liar, Arata thought, staring at his own reflection. You are a fraud. You’ve been back from America for 3 weeks and you still don't understand half of these reports.
He splashed ice-cold water onto his face, ruining the perfection for a split second before toweling it dry. He slicked back a stray lock of jet-black hair.
"Showtime," he whispered to the empty room.
The boardroom was a theater of silence.
Twenty senior executives sat around the mahogany table, their eyes fixed on him. They were waiting for him to fail. They knew his father was dying in a hospital bed in Shinjuku. They knew Arata was the "Party Prince" who had just returned to take the throne.
"The Q3 projections regarding the merger are... complex," a balding Director named Sato said, sweating slightly. "The EBITDA margins are fluctuating due to external volatility."
Arata looked at the papers. The numbers swam before his eyes. Panic flared in his chest, hot and sharp. He needed to say something intelligent. He needed to dominate.
"Fluctuating?" Arata’s voice was a deep baritone, smooth like expensive tobacco smoke. He leaned back, masking his terror with arrogance. "If you can’t stabilize a margin, Mr.Sato, perhaps you shouldn't be a Director."
The room went cold. But Sato didn’t apologize. Instead, he looked past Arata, toward the far end of the table where the junior staff sat.
"Actually, sir," Sato stammered, "Our Lead Strategist has prepared the solution. If I may?"
Arata waved a dismissive hand, expecting another grey-haired veteran to stand up. "Get on with it."
A chair scraped back.
Arata looked up—and stopped breathing.
The person rising from the chair wasn't an old man. It was a boy. No, a young man, but possessed of such startling, aesthetic perfection that he looked like he had walked out of a high-fashion editorial, not a corporate cubicle.
He perhaps 176 centimeters, slender and compact in a crisp white shirt that fit him impeccably. He had a flawless "baby face"—skin like porcelain glass, cheeks that looked soft to the touch, and dark, curly hair that fell artistically over his forehead.
He looked angelic. Innocent. He looked 25 at most.
Who is this kid? Arata thought, stunned. Is this a joke?
But then the young man looked up.
His eyes were grey. Not blue, not brown, but a striking, metallic grey. And they were completely empty of fear.
"President," the young man said. His voice was soft, low, and terrifyingly calm. "My name is Daiki. I lead the Core Strategy Unit."
Arata watched, fascinated, as this "angel" walked to the front of the room. What happened next shocked him even more.
As Daiki passed the table, older men—men in their fifties who had worked here for decades—shifted in their seats to make room for him. They stopped shuffling their papers. They looked at Daiki with an expression Arata recognized immediately: Deferential respect.
They listen to him, Arata realized. He’s a child compared to them, and they are listening to him.
Daiki didn’t use notes. He didn’t stutter. He simply placed one slender, beautiful hand on the table.
"The volatility isn't external," Daiki said, his grey eyes locking onto Arata’s dark ones. "It is a redundancy in the logistics chain. I have already drafted a restructuring plan that cuts the overhead by 12%. Director Sato has the files."
The room was silent. The logic was undeniable. It was surgical.
Arata found himself leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand. He wasn't listening to the math anymore. He was staring.
He watched the way the overhead light caught the curve of Daiki’s long eyelashes. He watched the way Daiki’s pink lips moved, revealing a glimpse of blindingly white, straight teeth. There was a weird dichotomy to him—he looked so cute, so soft, like a plush toy you wanted to squeeze, but his presence was colder than liquid nitrogen.
"Twelve percent?" Arata asked, his voice losing its harsh edge, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"Conservatively," Daiki replied. He didn't flinch under the CEO’s intense, predatory gaze. "Fifteen if we are aggressive."
Arata smirked. It was the first real smile he had worn in months.
"And how old are you, Daiki?"
The room stiffened. It was an inappropriate question.
Daiki blinked, slow and unbothered.
"I am twenty-five, sir."
"Twenty-five," Arata repeated, letting the number roll around his mouth.
"And you have Director Sato nodding at you like a schoolboy."
Daiki didn’t smile. He didn’t blush. "I deal in data, President. Rank is irrelevant to numbers."
Arata felt a rush of adrenaline. He wasn't in love—that was a ridiculous notion for a man like him. But he was mesmerized. He was looking at a creature that was beautiful, efficient, and seemingly untouchable.
He stood up. The sudden movement made the other executives flinch, but Daiki just stood there, holding his ground.
Arata walked over to him. Up close, the difference in their size was striking. Arata towered over him, broad and imposing, smelling of sandalwood and power. Daiki was slender, pretty, smelling of nothing but clean soap.
Arata leaned down, invading his personal space just enough to be unsettling.
"You have beautiful eyes, Daiki," Arata whispered, low enough that only Daiki could hear. "Don't hide them behind those spreadsheets."
For a second—just a microsecond—Arata saw a flicker of confusion in those grey irises. A glitch in the machine.
"Is the presentation satisfactory, President?" Daiki asked, ignoring the compliment entirely.
Arata laughed, a dark, rich sound.
"The presentation was boring," Arata said, turning back to the terrified board members. "But the presenter is the first interesting thing I’ve found in this damn building."
He looked back at Daiki, his eyes sweeping over the curly hair and the perfect face one last time.
"Meeting adjourned. Everyone get out. Except you, Daiki. Stay."
