Hayate Miyazaki had sat at boardroom tables where men twice his age trembled before him. He had watched governments bend to his innovations, investors beg for his attention, competitors fold under the weight of his silence.
And yet tonight, sitting across from Rin Nishina's father, he felt the peculiar heaviness of judgment that no negotiation could disarm.
Mr. Nishina looked at him not as a CEO, not as the quiet power behind an empire of algorithms, but as a man who had taken his daughter away from him. Nothing Hayate said could erase the image in the man's mind: Rin, stranded, dependent, vulnerable.
The truth, of course, was very different. Rin had not been a fragile creature on that island. She had been… something else entirely.
Hayate's gaze flicked once to her during the meal. She sat straighter than he remembered, sharper, her wit clashing even with Hana's polished edges. He remembered her first day on the island, when she had nearly burned her hands trying to start a fire. And then he remembered her last week there — stubbornly cooking rice on her own, dirt on her cheek, her smile bright despite hunger.
That growth had not been his doing. He had only provided tools. She had chosen to change.
He doubted her father would ever see that. But Hayate had.
He hadn't been surprised when Hana appeared at dinner. She had always had a knack for appearing where she wasn't invited, smiling sweetly as though the world belonged to her.
On the yacht years ago, she had hovered beside him the same way — always too close, always ready with a laugh that felt rehearsed. It wasn't that Hana was insincere. She was ambitious, brilliant in her own right. But she wanted something from him he could never give: his attention, his partnership, his world.
And now she wanted Rin to see that history.
He saw the way Rin's hand tightened on her fork. The faint narrowing of her eyes. The way she tried, valiantly, to meet Hana's barbed words with her own.
Hayate almost smiled. Rin wasn't subtle. But she was honest. And he preferred honesty to Hana's practiced polish.
Miyu Takahara was another matter. He had met her only a handful of times at business gatherings — always graceful, always poised, the kind of woman who could silence a room with a tilt of her head. Unlike Hana, Miyu didn't cling. She simply existed in a way that demanded admiration.
At the table, she had spoken little, but every word was perfectly chosen. She played to Rin's father, aligning herself with discipline, tradition, and respect. A flawless move.
But Hayate knew what Rin did not yet: Miyu was dangerous not because she clawed openly like Hana, but because she never needed to.
When the dinner ended, Hayate offered polite bows, words of thanks, and nothing more. Outwardly, he was unshaken. Inwardly, his thoughts lingered on Rin.
Her eyes, when they met his, burned with questions she hadn't asked. He remembered them vividly: in the firelight of the villa's hearth, in the pale dawn after storms, in the quiet moments when she thought he wasn't watching.
He had told himself that solitude was his peace. That he could live and die on that island, untouched by the falseness of the world he had left behind.
But Rin had undone that lie.
Her laughter had filled the spaces silence once owned. Her stubbornness had turned inconvenience into something almost… welcome. Her presence had shifted solitude into companionship, and it terrified him how much he missed it already.
As his car rolled away from the Nishina estate that night, Hayate leaned back in the leather seat, eyes half-closed. Hana was already speaking beside him, recounting the night's details, her words flowing like water over stone. He barely listened.
Miyu's perfume lingered faintly in the car. She had chosen to ride separately, of course, but her shadow stayed behind — the elegance, the impression she left on her hosts.
None of it mattered.
Because when Hayate closed his eyes, the only thing he saw was Rin's face as she slammed her hand against the table in his defense.
He had walked away from countless alliances, millions on the table, entire industries waiting for his nod. But this — this quiet war of hearts — was not one he could walk away from so easily.
For the first time in years, Hayate Miyazaki found himself at a disadvantage.
And strangely, he didn't mind.
Later that night, Rin threw herself face-first onto her bed, muffling a scream into the pillows.
Mai sat cross-legged at the foot, nibbling on a rice cracker like this was late-night theater. "Well," she said around a crunch, "that was… dramatic."
Rin rolled over, hair a mess. "Dramatic? That was a disaster. My father practically interrogated him, Hana waltzed in like she owned the place, Miyu bowed and sparkled like some elegant fairy princess, and I—" She flung her hands wildly. "—just sat there like a boiling teapot about to explode!"
Mai calmly reached for another cracker. "And yet, here you are. Alive. Dignity… eh, partially intact."
Rin sat up, glaring. "Don't joke. Did you see the way Hana touched his shoulder? Like she's entitled to him. And Miyu! My father practically swooned over her family name. Meanwhile, I'm the one who actually survived an island with him. Where's my credit?"
Rin groaned and buried her face in the pillow again. "You're supposed to be on my side!"
"I am." Mai patted her leg sympathetically. "Which is why I'm telling you — you're jealous. And it's hilarious."
"I am not jealous," Rin muttered into the pillow.
"You so are," Mai sang. "Rin Nishina, jealous for the first time in her privileged little life. And over a man, no less. Oh, I wish I had popcorn."
Rin threw the pillow at her. "Stop making it sound ridiculous!"
"It is ridiculous," Mai said cheerfully. "But also kind of… sweet. You like him. Really like him. Enough that Hana and Miyu standing within three feet of him makes you want to break cutlery."
Rin groaned again, dragging her blanket over her head. "He's impossible. Calm, unreadable, polite to everyone… he looked at Miyu like she was an investment, Hana like she was an old habit, and me—"
"And you?" Mai prompted.
Rin peeked from under the blanket, cheeks warm. "…Like I was still that girl he met on the island."
Mai softened, just for a moment. "And that bothers you?"
"It terrifies me," Rin admitted. "Because what if Hana's right? What if he belongs in her world, or Miyu's? What if I was just… an interlude?"
Mai flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. "Listen, Rin. You survived storms with him. You argued over coconuts, you shared mosquito bites, you literally learned how to gut fish. Hana can't top that with her yacht stories. Miyu can't outshine that with her curtsies. You've already lived something real with him."
Rin frowned, fidgeting with the blanket edge. "Real doesn't mean permanent."
"No," Mai agreed. "But it means something worth fighting for. And judging by how fast you nearly snapped your fork in half when Hana opened her mouth, you're already fighting. You just haven't admitted it yet."
Rin groaned again. "Why are you so annoying?"
"Because I'm right," Mai said smugly.
Mai suddenly sat up, grinning. "Okay, confession boot camp, round two. You're going to practice telling him how you feel."
"Absolutely not."
"Too late." Mai cleared her throat, lowering her voice in a ridiculous imitation. "Rin… it's me. Hayate. Calm, handsome, mysterious. Please tell me how you feel while I silently stare into your soul."
Rin nearly died of second-hand embarrassment. "Mai, I swear—"
"Go on," Mai urged. "Practice. If you can't say it to me, how are you going to say it to him?"
Rin sat frozen for a long moment, then mumbled, "I… miss you."
Mai leaned closer. "Louder."
Rin clenched her fists. "…I miss you. And I—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, forcing it out. "And I don't want to be just… memories."
The words hung between them, raw and trembling. Rin's face burned, but Mai didn't laugh.
Instead, her best friend smiled softly. "See? Not so hard."
Rin collapsed backward, covering her face with her hands. "It's impossible."
"No," Mai said firmly, tugging the blanket away. "It's inevitable."
Later, when Mai had left and the house was silent, Rin lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Her father's doubts replayed in her mind. Hana's smile. Miyu's perfect bow. Hayate's calm face.
But what haunted her most was the look in his eyes, brief and unreadable, when they had met across the table.
She whispered into the dark, "I'm not going to lose to them."
The silence gave no answer, but her chest felt a little lighter — as if somewhere, across the city, someone else was staring into the dark, thinking of her too.