Chapter 9: An Authority Above Perfect

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The penthouse felt impossibly large. Light spilled across the marble floors, sharp and unyielding, reflecting in polished steel and glass surfaces until it burned at the edges of my vision. My hands gripped the cleaning basket a little tighter, as if it could anchor me in this sterile world.

I had stepped inside, head low, trying to make myself small. Every instinct screamed to avoid drawing attention. But the moment I moved past the threshold, I sensed him—Kaito Minami. His presence pressed against the room, silent but exacting, bending the air toward him.

“You’re early,” he said.

I froze, barely nodding. “Tanabe-san called in sick again. I came on her behalf.”

I could feel his eyes measuring me, though he didn’t need to speak. There was no anger, no curiosity—only the precise gravity of someone who had already noticed everything.

“Did my father assign you directly?”

“No,” I said, voice soft, careful. “The company sent me here since I was already scheduled nearby.”

He nodded once, expression unreadable, and I turned back to the task. The polish, the microfiber cloths, the faint smell of citrus cleaner—they were my armor. Every swipe, every careful motion was a line I drew around myself, keeping the weight of this space from pressing too hard.

“You know,” he said after a while, “most people would take the chance to call in sick too. You didn’t have to come.”

“I don’t like leaving things unfinished,” I murmured.

I could feel his glance, sharper than sunlight slicing across the floor. My reflection wavered in the glass behind him, blurred by light and tension. I caught a fragment of something—curiosity, maybe, or acknowledgment—and my chest tightened.

Then his father entered.

“So this is where you hide when you’re supposed to be preparing.”

I froze instantly, bowing deeper than I had intended. Chairman Minami’s presence was different, heavier, more deliberate than Kaito’s. Kaito didn’t flinch, but I could feel the room shift as the older man’s steps fell.

“You’re new,” the chairman said, eyes assessing.

I lowered my gaze further. “Good morning, Chairman. I’m with the cleaning service.”

“Ah.” His eyes lingered. Something in that look made my knees feel weak, but I didn’t let it show. “Efficient work is always appreciated. Make sure you don’t overlook the details.”

“I won’t, sir.”

He turned back to Kaito, speaking words I didn’t need to hear but felt like thunder: “I hope you can say the same for yourself.”

The air tightened around me. Sato was nearby, steady and silent, a shadow I barely noticed, but I knew he was watching. I kept moving, careful not to let the fear—or curiosity—show.

Kaito spoke softly, words meant only for himself—or for me, I wasn’t sure. My pulse throbbed in rhythm with each measured syllable.

After a moment, they left. The faint scent of expensive cologne and control lingered, and I exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry,” I said, voice small.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said.

His words caught me off guard. The weight of this place, the unyielding order, the invisible walls of power—he didn’t treat me as if I didn’t belong. He treated me like I existed, and it was dizzying.

“He’s intimidating,” I admitted softly.

He almost laughed. “That’s the point.”

I hesitated, then said the thing I couldn’t quite stop myself from saying: “You look like him when you talk to him.”

The silence that followed was sharp. I kept my gaze on the floor, cheeks warm, trying to ground myself in the rhythm of wiping down surfaces.

When I finally left the room, I realized the weight of the space had followed me, settled in my chest. The city outside moved on—lights, cars, people—all under the same measured control my father and Kaito lived under. But here, in the corner of my mind, his words lingered, a crack in the glass of the world I’d been taught to navigate carefully.