Chapter 37: A Week Without Color

POV: Kaito Minami

The boardroom had felt suffocating the moment I stepped inside.

Twelve board members sat around the long table, expressions carefully neutral, but their eyes were sharp, watching me for any sign of weakness. I sat down, straight-backed, hands folded.

“Director Minami,” one of the older members began, tapping the projection on the wall, “we need to address the photograph that surfaced online last week. It shows you with a woman whose identity is unknown. Shareholders are concerned.”

I let a brief flash of irritation creep in. “Yes. I’m aware of it. The woman is a private acquaintance. No company resources were used. No policies were violated. There is no impropriety here.”

The thin man at the far end leaned forward. “Sir, optics matter. Even if no resources were involved, public perception affects shareholder confidence. Some are questioning your judgment and discretion.”

I felt heat rise in my chest. “Speculation is not a breach of duty,” I said sharply. “It is insulting to assume that my private life cannot remain separate from professional responsibility.”

I noticed a few of them flinch. Good. I let the irritation linger for just a heartbeat, then forced it down. Control was necessary. Always necessary.

“I have taken measures,” I continued evenly, “to ensure no company interests are compromised. Legal and PR teams are handling the situation. That should satisfy any concerns.”

The thin man pressed on. “Even so, sir, shareholders may demand a formal review to prevent future incidents that could be misinterpreted as distractions.”

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the edge of anger prick again. Briefly, I considered letting it flare—letting them know exactly how little I thought of their interference—but I forced it down, smoothing my tone back into measured calm.

“Then let them request it,” I said evenly. “Nothing improper has occurred. Nothing affecting operations. I will not allow private matters to be politicized under the guise of corporate governance.”

A soft cough, an attempt at concern from the far side of the table, made me clench my jaw. For a moment, I felt the heat of anger prickling under my skin. I exhaled slowly, forcing the control back into my posture and voice.

“This meeting is over,” I said, standing and letting the binder snap closed. The subtle noise punctuated my regained composure.

I didn’t wait for their murmurs. I left the room, letting their shuffled protests echo behind me.

---

Back in my office, I loosened my tie and sank into my chair. The city beyond the windows was gray and muted, overcast, matching the quiet weight in the room.

My phone lay on the desk, screen lit with her message.

I arrived safely. Thank you.

She had sent it hours ago, confirming what I already knew—I had insisted, firmly, that she take a week off to let this blow over. No arguments. No hesitation. I had forced it, for her own safety, for the company, for the rumors that had spread faster than I could control.

I hadn’t seen her leave. I hadn’t watched her disappear from the apartment. I had forced her away with logic, with authority, and yet now the emptiness she left behind was sharper than any boardroom confrontation.

Seven days. That’s all. A week of distance, necessary, sensible, protective. But as I stared at the message, the hollowness under my ribs reminded me that control came with its cost.

I typed a message back:

Good. Stay with your family and don’t worry about anything here. I’ll handle it.

I stared at it before deleting it and set the phone down. Silence stretched through the office. Comforting, because at least she was safe.

A knock interrupted my thoughts. Sato stepped in cautiously. “Sir, the board is requesting a follow-up meeting.”

“Tell them I’m unavailable,” I said without looking up.

“For how long?”

I finally met his eyes. “A week.”

He blinked. “A full week?”

“Yes. Seven days. No compromise.”

He nodded, leaving without another word.

I leaned back, staring at the empty office, thinking of her.

Seven days.

I had control. The board would not unsettle me. The leaks would be contained.

And yet, even in control, the hollow ache of her absence remained.