There are moments that don’t announce themselves with thunder.
They arrive quietly.
A key turning in a lock.
Soft footsteps in a familiar hallway.
A bedroom door opening just a few inches.
And a woman realizing that everything she believed about her marriage had already died long before she came home.
Seiwa didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
She simply stood there, one hand still resting on the doorknob, staring at the two people frozen beneath her own blankets.
Her husband.
And the maid she had hired.
Neither of them noticed her at first.
For one impossible second, the room remained perfectly still.
Then Dio slowly turned his head.
The color drained from his face.
Remy clutched the sheets against herself, unable to speak.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The silence was louder than any argument.
If only that had been the worst part.
Because six weeks later, Remy would whisper four words that would destroy what little remained of every life inside that house.
“I’m pregnant… I think.”
Two months earlier…
People often assumed Dio Nakamura had the perfect life.
At forty-two, he owned one of the fastest-growing logistics companies in Osaka.
His name appeared in business magazines.
His investments multiplied every year.
Executives waited weeks for a meeting with him.
Employees admired him from a distance.
He lived in a modern hilltop mansion overlooking the city, drove imported luxury cars, and never worried about money again.
From the outside, he had already won.
But every evening, when he walked through the front door, none of those things mattered.
Only one person did.
Seiwa.
She never asked how much he made that day.
She never cared about stock prices or business rankings.
Instead, she would ask,
“Did you eat lunch?”
“Are you sleeping enough?”
“You look tired.”
She remembered the little things.
She knew exactly how he liked his tea.
She noticed when his shoulders were tense.
She could tell from the sound of the front door whether he’d had a good day or a terrible one.
After fifteen years together, she had become the warmth inside a house that otherwise felt far too large.
They never had children.
Not because they didn’t want them.
Life simply refused to cooperate.
Years of doctor appointments.
Medical treatments.
Hope followed by disappointment.
Eventually, they stopped talking about it.
Neither blamed the other.
Instead, they quietly chose each other again.
Or at least Seiwa did.
Dio believed he had too.
Until one conversation planted a seed that should never have been planted.
It happened during a private dinner with several longtime business associates.
The conversation drifted from investments to retirement.
Then one of the older executives laughed.
“Dio,” he said, raising his glass.
“When are you finally giving your company an heir?”
The table chuckled.
Dio smiled politely.
“We’re fine.”
Another man leaned forward.
“Fine?”
“You’ve built an empire.”
“What’s the point if there’s nobody to inherit it?”
Someone else added,
“A successful man needs a legacy.”
Another laughed.
“Or at least a son.”
The jokes continued.
Most of them harmless.
At least on the surface.
But repeated words have strange power.
They don’t convince you immediately.
They simply stay.
Like tiny cracks in glass.
Days later…
The conversation still echoed inside Dio’s head.
An heir.
Legacy.
A family name.
For the first time in years, he looked around his enormous dining room and noticed how empty it really was.
Three weeks later, Seiwa received unexpected news.
Her company’s largest overseas client demanded immediate negotiations in Singapore.
The trip would last nearly a month.
“I hate leaving now,” she admitted while packing.
Dio forced a smile.
“It’s only a few weeks.”
She zipped her suitcase.
“I’ll call every night.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Before leaving, she walked through the house one final time.
She checked the pantry.
Filled the refrigerator.
Prepared several meals in labeled containers.
Even reminded Remy about Dio’s medication schedule.
“He’s terrible at remembering.”
Remy smiled politely.
“I’ll make sure he takes it.”
Seiwa thanked her.
She had trusted Remy from the very beginning.
Twenty-six years old.
Quiet.
Hardworking.
Never late.
Never disrespectful.
She had worked in the house for nearly two years.
She knew every routine.
Every room.
Every responsibility.
More importantly…
She knew boundaries.
Or so everyone believed.
The first week without Seiwa felt strangely silent.
The television stayed off.
Dinner tasted bland.
The house echoed.
Every evening, Seiwa called from Singapore.
Sometimes while walking between meetings.
Sometimes from her hotel.
Sometimes exhausted after midnight.
“I’m sorry,” she’d say.
“Another meeting.”
Dio would answer,
“It’s okay.”
Their conversations became shorter.
Not because they loved each other less.
Because both were tired.
Neither realized how dangerous distance could become when mixed with loneliness.
One rainy evening, Dio returned home much later than usual.
His jacket was soaked.
His tie hung loosely around his neck.
He looked exhausted.
Remy noticed immediately.
“I’ll warm dinner.”
“I already ate.”
She hesitated.
“You didn’t.”
He looked surprised.
“The lunchbox you packed this morning is still in your briefcase.”
For the first time that day…
Someone had noticed him.
He sighed.
“I forgot.”
“I figured.”
Without another word, she reheated the soup Seiwa had prepared before leaving.
The familiar smell filled the kitchen.
Dio sat quietly while Remy placed the bowl in front of him.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
Finally he muttered,
“Thank you.”
She smiled.
“Mrs. Nakamura always says people make bad decisions when they’re hungry.”
He almost laughed.
“She really says that?”
“Every week.”
For the first time since Seiwa left…
The house felt less empty.
Small conversations became routine.
Nothing inappropriate.
Nothing secretive.
She reminded him about medicine.
He asked whether she needed groceries.
Sometimes they discussed recipes.
Sometimes the weather.
Sometimes nothing at all.
If anyone had watched them then…
They would have seen nothing unusual.
Just an employer.
And an employee.
But loneliness rarely announces when it begins changing shape.
It disguises itself as comfort.
Then familiarity.
Then dependence.
One evening, while clearing the table, Remy accidentally dropped a ceramic bowl.
It shattered across the kitchen floor.
“I’m so sorry.”
She immediately knelt to collect the broken pieces.
Dio stopped her.
“Don’t.”
She looked confused.
“You’ll cut yourself.”
He grabbed a broom instead.
Their hands briefly touched.
Only for a second.
Yet both noticed.
Both immediately pulled away.
Neither mentioned it.
The next morning, Dio found himself thinking about that brief moment far longer than he should have.
He hated himself for it.
He loved Seiwa.
Didn’t he?
He reminded himself that loneliness was temporary.
His wife would be home soon.
Everything would return to normal.
Yet another voice quietly whispered…
You’re already eating dinner with someone every night.
You laugh more now.
The house doesn’t feel so empty anymore.
He pushed the thought away.
But once a line becomes visible…
You begin noticing how close you are to crossing it.
Part 2
For the next several days, Dio became careful.
Too careful.
He stopped lingering in the kitchen after dinner. He took his meals into the study. He answered Remy with short, formal sentences and avoided looking at her for more than a second.
It should have made things easier.
Instead, it made the tension impossible to ignore.
Remy noticed the change, but she never asked about it. She simply returned to her work, moving through the house with the same quiet efficiency she had always shown.
That somehow made Dio feel worse.
She had not crossed a boundary.
He had.
Even if only in his mind.
One Thursday evening, Seiwa called during dinner.
Her face appeared on the tablet screen, tired but smiling. Behind her, the windows of the hotel room showed Singapore glowing in the rain.
“I might be delayed another week,” she said.
Dio paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Another week?”
“The client changed the terms again. My team wants me to stay until the contract is signed.”
He looked toward the far end of the dining table.
One empty chair.
Then another.
The room seemed larger than usual.
“When will you know for sure?”
“Tomorrow, maybe.”
Seiwa studied his face.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
She smiled softly.
“Then sleep early. And don’t work through the weekend.”
He nodded.
In the background, someone knocked on her hotel door.
Seiwa glanced away.
“I have to go. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“I love you.”
Dio hesitated.
Only for half a second.
But Seiwa noticed.
“I love you too,” he said.
The call ended.
The screen went black.
Dio sat alone in front of his unfinished meal.
From the doorway, Remy spoke quietly.
“Would you like me to make tea?”
He looked up.
She had heard enough to understand.
His wife was not coming home.
Not yet.
“Yes,” he said.
Then, after a moment, he added, “Sit down.”
Remy did not move.
“Sir?”
“Just for tea.”
Her eyes flickered toward Seiwa’s empty chair.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
The refusal surprised him.
It should have relieved him.
Instead, it stung.
“I’m not asking you to do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
“Then sit.”
Her hands tightened around the dish towel.
Dio heard the command in his own voice and immediately regretted it.
He softened his tone.
“I’m sorry. Forget it.”
He rose and carried his plate toward the kitchen.
Remy stepped aside to let him pass.
But as he reached the doorway, she said, “I can sit for five minutes.”
Dio stopped.
That was how it began.
Not with desire.
Not with a plan.
With five minutes of tea.
The next evening, it happened again.
Then the evening after that.
They sat at opposite ends of the dining table at first.
Remy spoke about her younger brother, who was studying engineering and working nights to pay tuition. She spoke about her mother, who lived in a small town and believed every wealthy household looked like the ones on television.
Dio listened.
No one in his office spoke to him that way.
Employees brought numbers.
Executives brought problems.
Investors brought expectations.
Remy brought ordinary stories.
Her brother had failed his driving test twice.
Her mother had once mailed her a box of homemade cookies that arrived crushed.
The neighbor’s dog had learned how to open the front gate.
The stories were meaningless.
And Dio found himself waiting for them.
In return, he told her things he rarely told anyone.
How his father had died before seeing the company succeed.
How he still woke at three in the morning before major deals.
How he sometimes walked through his own house and felt like a guest in it.
Remy listened without interrupting.
“You have everything,” she said one night.
Dio looked around the room.
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
Remy lowered her eyes.
It was not sympathy in her expression.
It was understanding.
That was more dangerous.
By the second week, Dio stopped pretending the dinners were accidental.
He began leaving the office earlier.
He asked the chef to prepare two plates.
He ordered wine.
He told himself it was harmless because they were only talking.
Then one evening, Remy arrived at the table in her uniform, and Dio frowned.
“Change first.”
She stared at him.
“Change?”
“You’ve finished work.”
“I live in the staff quarters.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Dio looked at the empty chair across from him.
The answer came too quickly.
“Because I don’t want to feel like I’m dining with an employee.”
The words settled between them.
Remy’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
She understood what he was asking, even if he had not yet admitted it to himself.
“I am your employee,” she said.
“Not tonight.”
Her eyes moved toward the hallway leading to Seiwa’s study.
“Mrs. Nakamura trusts me.”
Dio’s jaw tightened.
“This has nothing to do with her.”
It had everything to do with her.
Both of them knew it.
Remy remained standing.
Dio pushed back his chair.
“I’ll pay you.”
The moment he said it, shame rose in his throat.
Remy’s expression hardened.
“For dinner?”
“For your time.”
“My time is already paid for.”
“Then consider it overtime.”
“You said you didn’t want me to feel like an employee.”
Dio said nothing.
Remy looked at him for several long seconds.
Then she removed her apron.
“I’ll change.”
Twenty minutes later, she returned wearing a simple navy dress.
It was not expensive.
It was not revealing.
But she no longer looked like the woman who dusted the shelves and changed the linens.
She looked like a guest.
Dio stood when she entered.
Neither of them acknowledged how strange that was.
Remy sat in Seiwa’s chair.
The room changed immediately.
That chair had belonged to one person for fifteen years.
Dio knew it.
Remy knew it.
Still, neither moved.
Dinner lasted two hours.
They talked.
They laughed.
At one point, Dio poured her more wine and said, “You look different tonight.”
Remy traced the edge of her glass with one finger.
“So do you.”
“How?”
“Less lonely.”
He should have ended the evening there.
Instead, he smiled.
The arrangement continued.
At first, Dio paid Remy to join him for dinner.
Then to accompany him during a private film screening in the house.
Then to sit beside him while he reviewed plans for a company charity gala.
Each time, the line shifted slightly.
Each time, the previous boundary began to seem harmless.
He bought her a dress for the gala.
She refused it.
He left the box outside her room.
The next morning, it was gone.
A week later, he found her wearing it while pouring tea in the sitting room.
For a moment, Dio forgot how to breathe.
The dress was pale green, elegant and tailored. Seiwa would have chosen something similar.
That resemblance disturbed him.
It also drew him closer.
“You kept it,” he said.
Remy looked down at the fabric.
“You paid me to wear it.”
The answer was cold.
Businesslike.
It gave him permission to pretend there was no emotion involved.
“How much?” she asked.
“For tonight?”
“For all of it.”
Dio looked at her.
“All of what?”
“This.”
She gestured between them.
“The dinners. The dress. The pretending.”
“I never asked you to pretend.”
Remy’s gaze moved to Seiwa’s framed photograph on the mantel.
“Yes, you did.”
The truth struck with embarrassing precision.
Dio walked toward the window.
Outside, rain streaked the glass.
“What do you want?”
“My brother’s tuition is due next month.”
“How much?”
She told him.
The amount was nothing to Dio.
It was more than Remy earned in a year.
He transferred the money that same night.
After that, neither of them could call the arrangement innocent.
The next morning, Remy returned to her uniform.
She cleaned the dining room.
She organized Seiwa’s desk.
She replaced the flowers in the entrance hall.
Everything looked normal.
But Dio had seen her in the green dress.
He had seen her sitting in Seiwa’s chair.
He had watched her touch the wineglass the way his wife did.
The image followed him to work.
By lunch, he sent her a message.
Wear the dress tonight.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally, she replied.
You said dinner only.
Dio stared at the words.
Then he typed:
Dinner only.
It was the first lie he put in writing.
That evening, the dining table was set for two.
Remy entered in the green dress.
Dio had arranged candles.
Soft music played from hidden speakers.
For one moment, the scene looked like an anniversary dinner.
Remy noticed it too.
She stopped in the doorway.
“This is wrong.”
Dio poured the wine.
“You’ve said that before.”
“And it is still true.”
“Then leave.”
He expected her to turn around.
She did not.
Instead, she walked toward the table and sat in Seiwa’s chair.
Dio watched her.
“Why did you stay?”
Remy’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Because my family needs the money.”
It was not the answer he wanted.
But it was the answer that allowed him to continue.
During dinner, he asked her to tell him about her childhood.
She asked him about his first years in business.
They laughed once.
Then twice.
The unease began to fade.
After dessert, Dio moved to the sitting room.
Remy followed.
They sat on the same sofa, separated by less than a foot.
Neither touched the other.
The space between them felt louder than the music.
Dio lifted his glass.
“To companionship.”
Remy did not raise hers.
“To pretending,” she said.
He looked at her.
“What exactly are you pretending to be?”
She held his gaze.
“You already know.”
Dio should have looked away.
He did not.
“Say it.”
Remy’s face tightened.
“Your wife.”
The word changed the room.
Dio’s hand froze around the glass.
Neither spoke.
Then, slowly, Remy stood.
“I’m going to my room.”
Dio rose too.
“Stay.”
She shook her head.
“You paid for dinner.”
“I can pay for more.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Remy slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
Dio stood motionless.
Remy’s hand trembled.
Tears filled her eyes, but she did not let them fall.
“Do not speak to me like that.”
Dio touched his cheek.
For the first time since the arrangement began, the reality of what he was doing became visible.
Not romance.
Not loneliness.
Power.
He was using money to move another person across boundaries she had already tried to protect.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Remy stepped back.
“You should be.”
She left him standing alone.
The next day, Dio avoided her.
That evening, he ate alone.
The following morning, he transferred another payment into her account.
There was no explanation.
Remy returned it.
He sent it again.
She returned it again.
By noon, he found her packing a suitcase in the staff quarters.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“You have a contract.”
“I’ll repay what I owe.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Remy zipped the suitcase.
“My brother’s tuition.”
“It was a gift.”
“No. It was payment.”
Dio blocked the doorway.
Remy’s eyes sharpened.
“Move.”
He did not.
“Please,” he said.
The word sounded foreign in his mouth.
Remy stared at him.
“I have worked in this house for two years. Mrs. Nakamura treated me with dignity. She trusted me with her home, her privacy, and her marriage.”
Dio looked away.
Remy continued.
“You are not lonely because she abandoned you. You are lonely because you decided her absence gave you permission to become someone else.”
The accusation landed harder than the slap.
Dio stepped aside.
Remy picked up her suitcase.
As she passed, he said, “What will you tell Seiwa?”
Remy stopped.
Her back remained turned.
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because she deserves to hear the truth from her husband.”
Then she walked away.
Dio stood in the empty hallway for several minutes.
He should have let her go.
He should have called Seiwa that night.
He should have confessed everything before the betrayal became irreversible.
Instead, he made one more decision.
The worst one.
He called Remy’s brother.
He offered him a paid internship at one of Dio’s companies.
A salary.
Housing.
Full tuition support.
The young man accepted before Remy even knew about the call.
When she found out, she returned to the house furious.
“You had no right.”
Dio sat behind his desk.
“I helped him.”
“You trapped me.”
“I gave him an opportunity.”
“You knew I couldn’t take it away from him.”
Dio said nothing.
Remy’s voice broke.
“You wanted me back here.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at her.
For once, he did not hide behind payment, loneliness, or excuses.
“Because when you leave, the house becomes empty again.”
Remy stared at him.
Something in her expression softened.
Not forgiveness.
Not affection.
Recognition.
She understood that Dio was no longer pretending this was harmless.
And perhaps, by returning, neither was she.
“I will stay until Mrs. Nakamura comes home,” she said.
Dio stood.
“Under what conditions?”
“I work during the day. I eat alone. I do not wear your gifts.”
“And at night?”
“There is no ‘at night.’”
Dio nodded.
“Agreed.”
It lasted three days.
On the fourth evening, a storm knocked out power across the neighborhood.
The mansion fell dark.
Remy found Dio in the sitting room, lighting candles.
The rain hammered the windows.
Without electricity, the house felt smaller.
Closer.
Dio handed her a candle.
“You’re afraid of storms.”
Remy looked at him.
“How do you know that?”
“You always close the curtains before thunder.”
She said nothing.
A violent crack shook the glass.
Remy flinched.
Dio reached for her instinctively.
His hand closed around her wrist.
Neither moved.
The candlelight flickered across their faces.
Remy looked down at his hand.
Dio released her.
“I’m sorry.”
She should have left.
Instead, she sat on the edge of the sofa.
Dio sat several feet away.
For nearly an hour, they listened to the storm.
No wine.
No dress.
No payments.
Just darkness.
At one point, Remy said, “What happens when she comes home?”
Dio answered too quickly.
“Everything goes back to normal.”
Remy turned toward him.
“You believe that?”
He did not respond.
She looked at the candle in her hands.
“You cannot borrow another person’s life and return it unchanged.”
Another flash of lightning filled the room.
Then darkness again.
Dio moved closer.
“Remy.”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
She closed her eyes.
But she did not move away.
And sometimes, the most dangerous answer is not yes.
It is silence.
The next morning, the power returned.
So did the rules.
But something had shifted during the storm.
Dio began standing closer when he spoke to her.
Remy stopped stepping away.
He touched her shoulder once while passing behind her.
She pretended not to notice.
Two nights later, she wore the green dress without being asked.
Dio found her in the dining room, lighting candles.
He stopped in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
Remy placed a match beside the candleholder.
“Pretending.”
Her voice was calm.
But her hands were shaking.
Dinner went untouched.
The music played softly.
At some point, Dio reached across the table and took her hand.
Remy looked at their fingers.
Then at Seiwa’s empty chair beneath her.
“This is the last time,” she whispered.
Dio told himself he believed her.
He told himself he believed himself.
But by then, the lie had become larger than both of them.
Four days later, Seiwa called from Singapore.
“I have good news.”
Dio was in the bedroom.
Remy stood near the closet, holding one of Seiwa’s silk scarves.
Dio turned his back to her.
“The contract?”
“Signed this morning.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I booked my flight.”
His stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Next Friday.”
Dio looked at Remy.
She had gone completely still.
“Next Friday,” he repeated.
“Yes. I’ll send you the details.”
Seiwa smiled at the screen.
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I am.”
“You look pale.”
“Long day.”
She laughed softly.
“Seven more nights.”
Dio forced a smile.
“Seven more nights.”
After the call ended, Remy placed the scarf on the bed.
“This ends now.”
Dio stared at the dark screen.
“She isn’t home yet.”
“She will be.”
“We have a week.”
Remy’s face hardened.
“You speak about time with her as though it belongs to us.”
Dio moved closer.
“Doesn’t part of you want one more week?”
Remy looked at him.
Her eyes said yes.
Her voice said, “No.”
She walked out.
For the next six days, they barely spoke.
Remy returned the green dress to its box.
Dio removed the candles from the dining table.
The house slowly began transforming back into the version Seiwa had left behind.
Fresh flowers in the entrance hall.
Her favorite tea in the kitchen.
Her slippers beside the bedroom door.
Every detail looked correct.
That was what made it unbearable.
On Thursday evening, Dio found Remy in Seiwa’s dressing room.
She was placing the silk scarf back into its drawer.
“You missed one,” he said.
Remy closed the drawer.
“I was checking.”
Dio stood behind her.
Their reflection appeared in the mirror.
For a brief second, they looked like husband and wife preparing for an evening out.
Remy saw it.
Dio saw it.
Neither turned away.
“This is the last night,” he said.
Remy’s eyes remained fixed on the mirror.
“We already had the last night.”
“Then this is goodbye.”
She turned.
Dio was too close.
“You have a wife,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“She loves you.”
“I know.”
“She trusts me.”
“I know.”
Each answer sounded weaker than the one before.
Remy’s eyes filled with tears.
“Then why are you doing this?”
Dio reached for her face.
“Because knowing something is wrong does not always make a person strong enough to stop.”
This time, she did not pull away.
Across the city, a storm delayed several international flights.
Seiwa’s Friday morning departure was canceled.
The airline offered her a seat on a Thursday night flight instead.
She considered calling Dio.
Then she smiled to herself.
After nearly a month away, she wanted to surprise him.
She imagined walking through the door while he was asleep.
She imagined his face when he woke and saw her.
She bought a small box of sweets from the airport shop.
One for Dio.
One for Remy.
At 11:48 p.m., her flight landed.
At 12:31 a.m., a taxi turned onto the quiet road leading to the mansion.
The house was dark except for one light upstairs.
Seiwa paid the driver, lifted her suitcase from the trunk, and stood for a moment beneath the front steps.
Home.
She had never been more relieved to see it.
She opened the front door quietly.
The entrance hall smelled different.
Not bad.
Just unfamiliar.
A perfume she did not wear.
Seiwa paused.
Then she noticed two wineglasses on a side table.
One of them had a faint mark of lipstick around the rim.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Not raced.
Slowed.
As though her body already understood something her mind refused to accept.
She left her suitcase near the door.
The stairs creaked beneath her feet.
At the top of the landing, she saw Remy’s uniform folded over a chair.
Neatly.
Deliberately.
Seiwa walked down the hall.
The bedroom door was almost closed.
Light spilled through the narrow gap.
She placed one hand against the wood.
For a moment, she heard nothing.
Then Dio laughed quietly inside.
It was a sound Seiwa had not heard from him in months.
She pushed the door open.
And saw them.
In her bed.
Under her sheets.
Remy turned first.
Her face collapsed.
Dio looked over his shoulder.
The blood drained from his skin.
“Seiwa.”
She did not answer.
Remy pulled the blanket around herself.
“Mrs. Nakamura—”
Seiwa raised one hand.
Remy stopped speaking.
No scream came.
No accusation.
Seiwa looked at the green dress lying on the floor.
The wineglasses beside the bed.
Her scarf draped over the chair.
Then she looked at her husband.
Dio opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
For fifteen years, Seiwa had believed she knew every version of his silence.
The tired silence.
The angry silence.
The grieving silence.
This one was new.
It was the silence of a man who had finally seen himself through the eyes of the person he had betrayed.
Dio’s shoulders folded.
His face lost every trace of authority.
For the first time in his life, he looked small.
Seiwa nodded once.
Not because she understood.
Because she understood enough.
She removed her wedding ring.
Placed it on the dresser.
Then walked out.
Dio jumped from the bed and followed her into the hallway.
“Seiwa, wait.”
She kept walking.
“Please.”
He reached for her arm.
She turned so sharply that he froze before touching her.
“Do not,” she said.
Two words.
Calm.
Precise.
More frightening than rage.
Remy stood at the bedroom door, trembling beneath the sheet.
Seiwa looked at her.
Remy lowered her head.
“I’m sorry.”
Seiwa’s expression did not change.
“You will be.”
Then she walked downstairs, picked up her suitcase, and left the house before either of them could say another word.
The front door closed softly behind her.
And that soft sound ended the life Dio thought money could protect.
