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The chandeliers above blazed with a thousand candles, filling the grand hall with golden warmth as couples whirled across the marble floor. The scent of roses and expensive perfumes clung to the heavy air, and the sound of violins floated high above the laughter and chatter.
Lady Utahime Iori stood near the edge of the ballroom, fingers lightly clutching a crystal glass. Her pale blue gown shimmered with every subtle movement, yet she felt terribly out of place among the gleaming debutantes and elegant gentlemen.
Her gaze flickered — almost unconsciously — to where Lord Satoru Gojo laughed brightly among a circle of admirers, his white hair gleaming like silver under the candlelight, his blue eyes crinkled in mirth. He looked so at ease, so unbothered by the world. And worse — so admired. Again.
Utahime’s heart twisted unpleasantly in her chest.
He had always been admired — ever since they were children running across the meadows without a care. Always the golden boy, the charming rogue who could never do wrong. And she had always been... his plain little friend, tucked stubbornly at his side.
But now, they were adults. And everything had changed. Or at least — it had for her.
"Lady Utahime," came a bright, simpering voice beside her. She turned, barely masking her irritation. It was Miss Clarissa Montford — the same Clarissa who had trailed after Satoru for the better part of the evening, laughing too loudly at his jokes and touching his sleeve far too often.
"Enjoying yourself?" Clarissa asked, her voice thick with the sweet poison of false concern. "You seem rather... alone."
Utahime smiled tightly. "I enjoy my own company, Miss Montford."
Clarissa tittered behind her fan, casting a sidelong glance toward Satoru — who was still engaged in animated conversation.
"Lord Gojo is ever the charming one, is he not? Such charisma... such looks. It is a wonder he is still unattached," Clarissa sighed dramatically.
Utahime said nothing, but her knuckles whitened around her glass.
"And he speaks so fondly of you!" Clarissa added, a little too brightly. "As a dear childhood friend, of course. I find it so... admirable, how he treats you with such affection. Like one would treat a beloved sister."
A beloved sister.
The words fell like lead in Utahime's stomach.
She nodded stiffly and excused herself, not trusting her voice. Her shoes clicked softly against the marble as she fled toward the quieter parts of the house, toward the empty, darkened hallways away from the noise.
She found an unused salon, the fire low and forgotten. She pressed her back against the door, her chest heaving. Why did she come? Why did she allow herself to hope — after all these years — that perhaps he could see her differently?
The ballroom shimmered with golden light, the air thick with perfume and laughter, but Satoru Gojo stood still, feeling none of it.
His gaze swept the crowded room once more — where was she?
He had seen her earlier, near the French doors, a vision in pale blue silk, her hair braided with tiny white flowers. She had smiled — not at him — but at some simpering lord who bowed too low over her hand. Satoru had barely contained the urge to march over and knock the fellow clean off his feet.
And then — she was gone.
A pang, sharp and immediate, pierced him.
Panic — ridiculous, unwelcome — stirred in his chest. He excused himself with a murmur to an approaching group of young ladies, ignoring their protests. He moved through the crush of people, scanning every corner, every alcove.
Not here.
He pushed out onto the terrace. Cool night air brushed his face. A few couples lingered under the stars, whispering sweet nothings. But no sign of her.
His heart thudded painfully. Where could she have—
A flash of blue silk caught his eye, disappearing into the western wing of the manor, where only darkened corridors stretched away from the party.
Without thinking, he followed.
The music and laughter faded behind him as he walked swiftly down the dim hallway, the faint creak of old floorboards the only sound. A door stood slightly ajar, a warm glow leaking from within.
He hesitated for a bare second, then pushed it open.
"Utahime?"
His voice — low, concerned — slid through the stillness like a blade.
She jerked her head up from where she sat curled on a chaise by the fire, her gown spilling around her like a pool of moonlight. Her face — usually so composed — was a study in raw, aching vulnerability.
At the sight of her expression, Satoru’s breath caught.
Her eyes — those clear, steady eyes — shimmered with unshed tears. And in that moment, he hated the world. Hated every man who had ever made her doubt herself. Hated himself most of all, for letting her believe she was anything less than extraordinary.
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.
"Are you well?" he asked, careful to keep his voice gentle, even though every nerve in his body screamed to go to her, to gather her into his arms.
She turned her face away. "Perfectly."
The lie was so stark, so brittle, that it made something deep inside him twist.
He studied her, aching to bridge the distance between them. Her hands trembled slightly where they gripped the fabric of her dress. Her shoulders, usually so proud, were drawn tight.
"That," he said, very softly, "is a lie."
She flinched as if struck.
"Why must you follow me, Satoru?" she snapped suddenly, her voice sharper than a whip. "Return to your admirers."
He blinked, genuinely confused by her anger. "I was looking for you."
"For me?" she laughed — a harsh, bitter sound so unlike her usual warmth. "Your dear sister?"
The word landed like a slap.
A muscle in Satoru's jaw ticked. In two long strides, he crossed the room, stopping just before her, crowding her against the chaise, the dying fire casting flickering shadows over his face.
"Is that what troubles you?" he asked, voice low and dangerously soft. "That someone likened you to my sister?"
Her mouth twisted, a broken imitation of a smile. "It matters not. What do titles mean, after all? Childhood friend. Sister. Acquaintance."
The despair in her voice shredded what little restraint he had left.
He reached out, slowly, as though touching something precious, and tilted her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"I have never," he said, voice rough, "seen you as a sister."
Her breath hitched. He could see it — the struggle in her, the fierce pride that warred against the heartbreak.
"I..." she faltered, trying to summon her anger again, to push him away. "It does not matter. You will marry someone worthy. Beautiful. Graceful."
"And what of you?" he asked, stepping closer still, until their bodies nearly brushed. "Are you not all of those things and more?"
She shook her head violently, as if trying to dislodge the words, the hope creeping into her expression.
"You deserve someone better," she said, voice breaking.
"Better," he said fiercely, "than the only woman I have ever loved?"
Her mouth fell open.
"You think me blind, Utahime?" His voice cracked with the force of emotion he could no longer contain. "All these years — all these endless, torturous years — I stayed at your side. I laughed with you, argued with you, danced with you. I thought I would be content with whatever pieces of you I could have. But I was a fool."
He took her trembling hands in his. "Because I could never bear to be away from you," he whispered.
She stared at him, her entire body trembling, her lips parting in a silent, disbelieving gasp.
"But you — you never said anything—" she whispered.
"Because you were always so careful," he said, forehead pressing lightly against hers. "So reserved. I thought you did not feel the same. And I..." He laughed brokenly. "I was terrified. Terrified that if I confessed, you would turn away, and I would lose even your friendship."
Her hands clutched at his coat, desperate now.
"And tonight," he rasped, "watching that fool lord preen before you — watching you smile for him — I thought I would lose my mind. I am losing my mind, Utahime."
Her wide eyes shimmered with tears. "You were... jealous?"
He laughed, a rough, broken sound. "I still am. I always will be. Oh dear, help me."
A sob escaped her lips — half laugh, half cry. "I too," she whispered. "I too."
The dam inside him broke. He kissed her. It was not soft. It was not tentative.
It was years of longing, years of agony, years of desperately trying to love her from afar crashing down into that single moment. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her so tightly against him she could feel every frantic beat of his heart.
She kissed him back with equal ferocity, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, closer, as if she could fuse herself to him.
When they broke apart, both gasping, he rested his forehead against hers again.
"Say you are mine," he whispered, voice ragged. "Say it, Utahime."
She laughed — a beautiful, broken sound, full of years of hidden love. "I have been yours since we were children, you fool."
He kissed her again — reverently, tenderly — like a man worshiping at a shrine.
The world outside the door fell away. There was only this — only them — finally, finally together after so many years adrift. When at last they pulled apart, Utahime rested her head against his chest, listening to the frantic thundering of his heart.
"You will have to court me properly," she murmured, her voice full of warmth and mischief.
"I shall," he vowed solemnly, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Flowers every day. Letters every night. No woman in England shall ever be more properly — or more thoroughly — courted."
She smiled against him, her laughter a soft, luminous thing.
"And you will have to apologize to Miss Montford," she added slyly.
He groaned in mock horror. "I would rather face a firing squad."
She laughed again, and he wrapped his arms tighter around her.
"Let them gossip," he said into her hair. "Let them call it scandal, call it madness. Let them tear the stars from the sky. I care not. I have you."
And this time, Utahime — fierce, proud, stubborn Utahime — let herself believe it.