Chapter 19: The Man Who Smiled Too Easily

POV: Hana Fujimoto

By the time the message came through, I had already slipped into the quiet rhythm of my morning route — wiping down tabletops, listening to the soft hum of appliances, letting the world settle into its usual, muted palette.

The text from the dispatcher flashed across my screen:

> “Can you cover for Sugimoto-san today? Client at Horizon Tower, same district. Penthouse suite.”

Horizon Tower.

The name stirred something faint — a memory of glossy magazine covers, photos tinted in gold, places designed not to be lived in, but to be photographed.

Still, I typed back, Understood, and adjusted my path.

Switching assignments was normal.

The unease that settled into my chest as soon as I entered the building was not.

The lobby was all black marble and champagne-colored mirrors. The kind of space where you couldn’t see yourself — you only saw a better, thinner, richer version. Every surface gleamed, reflecting the fluorescent lights in long, bladed streaks. Even silence felt rehearsed, as though the walls were waiting for someone with a more expensive voice to speak.

The elevator rose so quietly that I didn’t feel the movement — only the pressure in my ears.

At the top floor, the doors opened into a hallway of muted gold and onyx. No room numbers, only a single emblem etched into the frosted glass of the largest door:

Kurosawa Holdings.

I recognized that name immediately.

Minami Group’s rival.

The kind of rival that smiled for the cameras and then sank knives beneath the tablecloth.

My stomach tightened.

I rang the bell once.

Footsteps approached — slow, unhurried, confident in the way only wealth or recklessness could explain.

The man who opened the door looked like someone sculpted for a magazine spread.

Late twenties, tall — the kind of tall that made doorframes look decorative. His platinum-blonde hair fell in a deliberately effortless wave, bright as winter sunlight. The shade was so pale it almost shimmered against the soft glow of the hallway. His suit was charcoal, slim-cut, expensive enough that the fabric moved like water.

But it was his eyes that landed the first blow — pale blue and frost-bright, a color that belonged to winter mornings. Clear, cutting, and focused on me as if they were quietly weighing my thoughts.

His attire struck me next:

A deep, saturated maroon suit jacket, rich and sharp, its color glowing where the light hit the fabric along the lapel and sleeve. Paired with it was a dark tie, a shade between wine-red and black, blending almost seamlessly with the jacket. Beneath it all, a bright white dress shirt glowed like a clean, unyielding line.

The effect was deliberate — striking, intimidating, impossible to ignore.

Then came his smile — and that struck even deeper.

Wide. Perfect.

A smile practiced a thousand times until it could sell anything, seduce anything, disarm anything.

“You’re not Sugimoto,” he said.

His voice was smooth and warm, like he enjoyed hearing it fill a room.

“No, sir,” I said quickly, bowing. “Sugimoto-san had a family emergency. I’m covering in her place. Fujimoto Hana.”

He leaned against the doorframe with casual ease, like he could stand that way for hours. His pale blue gaze swept over me — not crudely, but with the assessing precision of someone deciding whether a new acquisition was worth keeping.

“Fujimoto,” he repeated, tasting the syllables like a wine. “All right. Come in.”

---

The penthouse was larger than Kaito Minami’s — and louder.

Dark wood polished to a mirror. Red accents bright as lacquered blood. Gold trim that caught the light like it was hungry.

Nothing in this place whispered.

Everything declared.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” I said, unpacking my supplies.

He didn’t respond. His attention rested on me with an ease that felt too deliberate, too practiced — like observing people was a sport he had mastered.

A few minutes passed in near silence, except for the soft sweep of cloth against glass.

“You work for Shimizu Agency, right?”

“Yes.”

He nodded as if he’d already known the answer. “Then you’ve been to Minami Tower.”

My hand paused mid-wipe.

“…Yes.”

His smile stretched a little wider. “Thought so. You have that look.”

I turned slightly. “What look?”

“The kind that knows when not to talk.” His pale blue eyes glinted. “Minami teaches that to everyone who goes near him.”

He walked closer, not invading my space, but skimming the edges of it — enough to feel intentional.

“I’m Ren Kurosawa,” he said lightly, as though unveiling a gift.

I knew the name.

Everyone did.

The youngest Kurosawa heir.

Investor. Public charmer.

A man with too many tabloid articles and not enough consequences.

He glanced around his penthouse. “I usually don’t let anyone clean this place. But you…” His gaze flicked to me again. “You’re not the chatty type. That’s refreshing.”

“I just focus on my work,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“Your work,” he echoed, amused. “You say it like you’re holding it between you and the world.”

I swallowed. “I only mean that I’m here to do my job, sir.”

He laughed softly — a small, knowing sound. “You’re interesting, Fujimoto. You don’t react easily. Most people fluster if I look at them too long.”

My grip on the rag tightened. “Please don’t say things like that while I’m working.”

“Ah.” His pale eyes gleamed in the soft light — cold, sharp, almost silver-blue. “So you do react.”

His tone wasn’t cruel.

But the confidence in it — the certainty of his effect — scraped something uncomfortable inside my chest.

“I have a girlfriend,” he added suddenly, strolling toward the window. “She models for one of our luxury campaigns. Beautiful. Photogenic. Perfect.”

He glanced back at me over his shoulder.

“But she’s always performing. You… aren’t.”

I froze. “Kurosawa-san, that’s not appropriate.”

He held my gaze for a moment — long enough to make the air thicken — then smiled again.

“Right. I forget people don’t always play.”

Play.

The word felt slick and cold.

I finished the room quickly after that, keeping my back straight, my breaths even, my eyes on my work.

He didn’t speak again until I was at the door.

“Fujimoto,” he said lazily, hands in his pockets, “tell Minami that some of us know how to enjoy what we build.”

I turned, confused. “Sorry?”

His smile sharpened.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

The elevator closed before I could answer.

---

Outside, the world felt suddenly brighter — the real kind of bright, not the curated glow of penthouse lighting.

The wind was crisp.

The sky a soft winter blue.

When I realized my hands were shaking, I held them tighter.

Ren Kurosawa wasn’t like Kaito Minami at all.

Kaito’s silence made room.

Kurosawa’s smile filled every inch of space until there was no air left.

Power came in different forms.

Some was cold.

Some was quiet.

Some — like Ren’s — was sharpened into charm.

And charm was the most dangerous weapon of all.