The Oslo Opera House looked like it had been designed by someone who hated right angles and loved money. It rose out of the harbor like a glass iceberg—sharp, elegant, blinding under the spotlights—and somehow managed to look both intimidating and smug. There were people in gowns that cost more than Hana's rent, laughing like they'd never had a real problem in their lives, champagne flutes tilted just so.
Inside was worse.
Warm lighting. Crystal fixtures. A live string quartet playing something that sounded expensive. And people—so many people—floating through it all like they were born in tuxedos. Everything smelled faintly of floral notes and economic stability. Hana hadn't seen this many good posture-havers in one place since that alumni networking event she ditched ten minutes in to get karaage.
When Katsuki handed her coat to the concierge, she hesitated.
"What if I lose it?" she whispered.
"They won't," he said simply. "If they do, I'll buy you one."
"That's not the point," she muttered, shifting closer. "I bought it when I was stupidly drunk in Shibuya."
He gave her the look. The one that meant: What fresh chaos have you been hiding from me?
"When was this?"
"Last year," she said. Then immediately regretted saying it. Because now he was going to file it away for later. For questioning. Possibly for blackmail.
He didn't comment further. Just hummed. And turned to greet someone who looked like he owned a small country.
So this was how rich people partied.
Subtle. Soulless. Sophisticated in the most tax-bracketed kind of way. Everyone was either holding a flute of champagne or the kind of conversation that sounded like white noise if you didn't have a finance degree. It was like someone had filtered reality through LinkedIn Premium.
Katsuki, of course, fit right in. He exchanged business cards with the precision of a weapons deal. Handshake, compliment, strategic flex, ruthless charm. Watching him network was like watching a panther in a boardroom—lethal, refined, casually dominant. The women loved it.
So did the men, honestly.
Hana resisted the urge to yawn.
Don't embarrass Katsuki, she reminded herself.
Smile. Stand straight. Don't fiddle with your hair. Don't say "compliance is sexy" out loud again. You're not in the office, you can't just tell someone to touch grass.
And Katsuki was in a tuxedo.
Like tuxedo tuxedo. Black, crisp, tailored within an inch of its life. The bowtie had been undone halfway through the car ride, because apparently even he had limits to how far his patience stretched. His hair was styled back but already starting to fall, which just made things worse. He looked like sin at a shareholder meeting.
Hana wanted to not stand next to him. Like, for his sake.
Every woman was looking at him. Which made sense. He looked like a scandal waiting to happen.
Hana inched away a little. Just a little. Just enough space so she wasn't the obvious plus-one cluttering the view.
But before she could get more than a foot away, his hand closed around hers—firm, grounding—and pulled her right back to his side.
Like it was nothing. Like she hadn't just tried to disappear herself out of his spotlight.
All while explaining the firm's latest international acquisition strategy to a Norwegian tycoon in perfect, icy cadence. No stutter. No pause. Just casually reeling her in mid-sentence like it was part of the presentation.
God.
She needed a distraction. Something small and chewable and not existential.
The food was fine. Good, even. But mostly pretty. Bite-sized things she couldn't identify with ingredients she couldn't pronounce. She smiled. She nodded. She wanted fries.
And katsudon.
And maybe yakitori, dipped in too much sauce, eaten off a skewer in a dimly lit alley where nobody cared if you talked with your mouth full.
Instead, she was balancing a smoked trout tart on a napkin shaped like a bird and trying to remember if she was supposed to curtsy to a trade attaché.
That's when they arrived.
Three men and two women. Polished. Loud. American. Familiar in that dangerous, we've got history way.
Harvard.
One of the women—tall, elegant, blonde in that expensive American-wheat kind of way—looped her arm through Katsuki's like it belonged there.
"Katsuki," one of the guys said, pulling him into a too-firm hug. "Jesus, man, you look exactly the same. Except meaner. That's impressive."
Katsuki smiled faintly. The kind of smile that meant: I tolerate you because there are witnesses.
"Hasegawa," another woman said, laughing. "We're kidnapping you for a bit. You owe us a round."
"I don't drink," he replied smoothly.
"You can still stand there while we do," one of the men said, already steering him toward a nearby circle.
And just like that, they were pulling him away. Laughing. Familiar. Touching him like they had every right.
Hana started to step back, to give him space, but someone paused beside her.
A woman. Black dress. Silver clutch. American accent.
"You're with Hasegawa?" she asked.
"Yes."
The woman smiled, polite. "It's been a while since we saw him. That woman holding him—Meagan? I think they were together. Anyway—" she gestured casually, like she wasn't lighting Hana's brain on fire—"we're stealing him for a bit. If that's okay."
"Oh," Hana said. "Sure. Go ahead."
The woman nodded, then turned to join the others, already laughing at something Katsuki had muttered under his breath.
Meagan.
They were together.
That woman holding him.
Her stomach flipped.
The three-day block.
Private.
Was that it?
Had he known Meagan would be in Oslo?
Was this the plan?
She tried to breathe normally.
This is fine.
You're a grown-ass adult.
Just act nonchalant.
Don't spiral. Don't think about how good she looks. Or how naturally she touched him. Or how they were together.
Smile.
Eat the overpriced canapé.
Don't think about how your stomach just turned into a knot the size of your student loan.
She reached for another napkin, wiped her hand even though it wasn't dirty, and nodded to no one.
So what if they dated?
So what if she's here?
So what if he blocked off three days to do god knows what and didn't tell you anything and just said it was private and—
She shut it down.
This is fine.
This is fine.
This is fine.
Her smile stretched a little too wide.
Maybe she'd ask for a second coffee.
Or a sedative.
Or both.
-----
She didn't remember how she got there.
One minute she was nodding along to a conversation about maritime tax law while trying not to cry into her overpriced canapé, and the next—
Marble under her heels.
Cold air on her skin.
Silence.
She'd somehow found her way to the rooftop of the Oslo Opera House. Which, for the record, should have had a warning sign that read: Caution—existential dread intensifies at high altitudes. The wind sliced through her dress like it had a personal vendetta, and the open air made her feel like she'd stepped into someone else's movie.
But hey. At least her brain had something new to focus on: not freezing to death.
She folded her arms over her chest and paced near the edge, shoes clicking against the stone, breath puffing out in uneven clouds. The cold helped. A little. It gave her body a job. Stay warm. Stay upright. Don't think.
Which of course meant she was thinking. A lot.
Why was he here?
It was supposed to be Kai. Kai was the one who was fluent in diplomacy, chaos, and charm. Kai was the one who was supposed to handle this trip. Kai was the one who should've been handing out business cards and seducing oil barons with that ridiculous smile.
But no. At the last minute, Katsuki volunteered. Stepped in. Rearranged his entire week.
And now Meagan was here.
Blonde. Gorgeous. Probably Harvard. Definitely used to touching him like she knew what his apartment looked like in daylight.
And then there was the three-day calendar block. Still there. Still marked private. Still screaming in her head like a silent alarm.
What if that's what this was?
What if he kissed her earlier—kissed her, like it meant something—just to keep her quiet?
What if she was just a warm-up act before he disappeared for three days into someone else's arms?
What if she'd misread everything?
God.
She wanted to scream. Or throw something. Or take off her heels and chuck them into the fjord.
She didn't hear the woman approach until the voice cut through the dark.
"You look like you want to jump."
Hana startled—whipped around.
A woman stood a few feet away, watching her with mild interest and the kind of dry, British expression that said she didn't believe in anything but black tea and sarcasm. She looked about mid-fifties. Elegant in a way that felt earned.
"Sorry, what?" Hana blinked.
"I said," the woman repeated, "you look like you wanted to jump."
"Oh." Hana rubbed her arms. "No, not really."
And then—because her brain and her mouth hated each other—she added, "Not that it doesn't sound appealing right now."
The woman raised an eyebrow, amused. "The party's dreadful, isn't it? All that champagne and ass-kissing. It's exhausting."
Hana let out something between a laugh and a breath. "Yeah. That's one word for it."
The woman stepped closer, careful on the marble. "So why are you out here?"
"Escaping."
"Why?"
Hana paused. Because I'm spiraling, was the honest answer.
But what came out was: "I don't think I should really be here. I'm the daughter of sake brewers, not some high-fashion Harvard law graduate with blonde hair and long legs."
The woman tilted her head. "That sounds… oddly specific."
"Right." Hana winced. "Sorry. I'm—Hana Sukehiro."
The woman smiled and offered a hand. "Eleanor Hartwell."
Her handshake was cool, confident, and completely unbothered. Hana kind of wanted to be her when she grew up.
"So," Eleanor said, peering back through the glass at the gala. "Why are you here?"
"Work," Hana said. "We're visiting Lerwick, and they invited us."
Eleanor's eyes narrowed slightly. "You work with Hasegawa?"
"Yeah," Hana said. "You know him?"
"Oh yes. Arrogant young man. Met him last year. Very sharp jawline. Rude, but charming. In an 'I'd sue you and win' sort of way."
Hana couldn't help the laugh. "Yeah, I think that's him."
"You're a lawyer?" Eleanor asked, tilting her head.
"No. Uh… I'm just his assistant."
There was a beat.
Then Eleanor said, deadpan:
"Well. That's fucked up."
"Excuse me?"
Eleanor went on, as if this wasn't one of the most surreal conversations she'd had all week. "Why do women do that? Undermine their own job titles like they're apologizing for taking up space. You're not 'just' anything. You work. That's enough."
Hana opened her mouth. Closed it again.
No one had ever said that to her.
Her family loved her. Her friends hyped her up. But somehow, in the shuffle of not passing the bar, being the assistant, not the associate, not the one leading the meeting, not the one in the room who counted—she'd started shrinking before anyone asked her to.
Eleanor gave her a once-over and made a sound of disapproval. Then—without asking—she reached out and pressed her palm lightly to Hana's upper back. "Stand straighter, my dear. You look lovely, but your posture is ruining the dress."
Hana instinctively corrected herself. Shoulders back. Chin up. Core tucked. Like she wasn't seconds away from hurling herself into a puddle of Norwegian snowmelt and letting it solve all her problems.
Eleanor's gaze swept the rooftop again. "Real estate," she said abruptly. "Luxury, technically. But that sounds dreadfully pretentious, doesn't it? I'm considering expanding into Japan. Tokyo or Kyoto. Possibly both."
"Oh," Hana said. "That's… ambitious."
Eleanor smirked. "Men say 'ambitious' like it's cute. I say it like I already bought the land."
She reached for her purse and fished out a pen—sleek, silver, probably could buy Hana a small car. "Hasegawa gave me his card last year," she said. "Very sharp, very clean. But if I'm doing business with those boys…" She handed Hana the pen and a folded slip of paper. "I want your contact. Phone, email. Whatever you use."
Hana hesitated, then jotted it down. Carefully. Hands cold.
Eleanor tucked the paper into her clutch like a contract had just been signed.
Then, with a strange softness that didn't match her cut-glass voice, she reached out and lifted Hana's chin with two fingers. Light. But firm.
"Girls like you," she said, "need to be more confident. Most men are sharks. They will eat you alive if they smell hesitation. And the ones who aren't sharks? They'll still bleed you dry, just more politely."
Hana swallowed. "Noted."
"Don't apologize for being in the room," Eleanor added. "They should be wondering how they earned your attention."
And with that, she let go. Smiled faintly.
"I'll talk to you later, Miss Sukehiro."
She walked away without another word. Leaving Hana alone on the rooftop, still cold, still spiraling—but standing just a little straighter than before.