The soft hum of conversation resumed around the pool, but Kyouya's attention had already been snagged, not by curiosity, but by a familiar, searing disapproval. Ayaka Kurose hadn't moved from her spot, yet her glare had intensified, a laser beam of accusation aimed squarely at his head. He had just finished his exchange with Scarlet Vermillion, the lingering scent of her perfume a subtle reminder of the immediate future, but Ayaka was a ghost from a past he'd thought sealed away.
As if on cue, she began to move, her steps firm and deliberate, cutting through the pleasant atmosphere like a cold front. She didn't bother with pleasantries or subtle approaches. When she stopped before him, her dark eyes, usually so composed, held a raw, barely contained frustration.
"Saionji-kun," she began, her voice low and sharp, designed for his ears alone, though its intensity still managed to cut through the ambient noise. "What exactly do you think you're doing? Coming here, acting... like this?" Her gaze swept over his casual posture, his sunglasses, the very air of indifferent luxury he now exuded. "And that idiotic stunt at school. Honestly, how could you be so naive? For a genius of your supposed caliber, to be caught by such a simple, rudimentary trick! It's absolutely baffling!"
Her words, laced with incredulity and scorn, were typical Ayaka. She saw the world in logic and efficiency, and his expulsion, the very reason he was here, clearly violated every principle she held dear. She was dissecting him, publicly, with the same cold precision she'd always applied to their shared dilemmas.
"And another thing," she continued, her voice rising slightly, the fury gaining momentum. "Three months. Three months, Saionji-kun! You vanish without a trace, without a word, and then you just appear on a private island, playing the part of some… some reclusive playboy? What were you thinking? Did you honestly believe you could just—"
Before she could finish, before the damning details of his past humiliation could spill forth to the curious ears now undoubtedly straining to hear, Kyouya moved. It was a fluid, almost instantaneous action. His hand shot out, not violently, but with impossible speed and precision. In his palm, conveniently, was a half-eaten eclair he had been idly holding. With a silent, utterly deliberate motion, he pressed the soft, cream-filled pastry firmly against her lips, effectively muffling her words.
Ayaka froze, her eyes widening in disbelief and outrage, her muffled protests a choked gurgle behind the eclair. Chocolate cream smeared across her mouth, a comical, yet somehow still dignified, impediment.
A hush fell over the assembled women. Eyebrows rose, whispers erupted.
"Did you... did you see that?" one of the other candidates murmured.
"What was that about a school? And three months?" another wondered, her gaze flickering between the imperturbable Kyouya and the chocolate-mouthed Ayaka.
"Do they... know each other?" a third whispered, suspicion lacing her tone.
Kyouya merely held the eclair in place, his expression unchanged, his eyes still hidden behind the dark lenses. The expulsion. The actual reason for his abrupt departure. That was not information to be casually broadcast here, not when his father's careful narrative of his "dying wish" was so central to this whole absurd scheme. Ayaka, in her singular-minded indignation, had been about to derail everything. He noted her continued glare, even through the pastry, promising vengeance. This, too, was a variable he would have to manage. And the sheer, unbridled fury in her eyes told him it would be no simple task.
After another deliberate moment, allowing the silence and the other girls' curiosity to fully permeate the air, Kyouya slowly, meticulously, removed the eclair from Ayaka's lips. A small streak of chocolate cream lingered at the corner of her mouth, a comical smudge against her furious expression.
"Are you quite finished, Ayaka?" Kyouya's voice was calm, utterly devoid of any malice, yet cutting in its dismissive tone. "Because frankly, none of that matters now. You're simply spouting nonsense."
Ayaka sputtered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes blazing. "Nonsense?! Saionji-kun, you were—"
"A brief, insignificant deviation," Kyouya interrupted smoothly, raising a hand, not to silence her, but to signal the irrelevance of her words. He then turned his veiled gaze, ever so slightly, to encompass the other women, a subtle invitation for them to disregard Ayaka's outburst. "The past is merely data. And, as you can see, the present environment is quite different from what you recall." His words were a cool, logical dismissal, delivered with the serene confidence of someone who had already moved far beyond whatever petty grievances she clung to.
Ayaka stared at him, her chest heaving with frustrated indignation. He had just publicly invalidated her, treated her impassioned accusations as childish babble. The other candidates, sensing the shift in dynamics, exchanged knowing glances. The question of whether Kyouya knew this angry, cream-smeared girl had been answered, but now a more pressing one emerged: who was this man who could so casually dismiss such a furious beauty? Kyouya, meanwhile, simply adjusted his sunglasses, already cataloging the fresh data points from their reactions. Ayaka was a nuisance, but perhaps, a useful one. Her public display, while initially inconvenient, had certainly captured everyone's attention.
Even amidst her sputtering rage, Kyouya's gaze, calm and unwavering behind his lenses, lingered on Ayaka. Ayaka Kurose. His internal processing unit whirred, compiling and cross-referencing.
Height: Exactly 156.2 centimeters. Weight: 43.8 kilograms, accounting for her current attire. Three sizes: B79-W54-H80. He noted the slight tension in her shoulders, indicative of a perpetually rigid posture and an underlying athletic discipline despite no overt participation in sports during their shared history. Her skin, even under the direct sunlight, possessed a remarkable evenness, suggesting meticulous care routines and perhaps an inherited resilience. The precise angle of her jawline, the subtle prominence of her collarbones, the efficient muscle distribution—all spoke to a remarkably optimized biological structure.
His internal analysis continued, dissecting every discernible aspect. The curvature of her breasts, while not overtly voluminous, presented a firm, almost perfectly hemispherical shape, demonstrating excellent tissue density and natural elevation. Furthermore, his data indicated a meticulous, almost surgical level of personal upkeep, extending to the most private areas of her anatomy. An optimal hygienic state, indicative of both rigorous self-discipline and an inherent predisposition for immaculate presentation. It was curious how such detailed information became available to him, a fact Kyouya filed away as merely another piece of data, its source utterly irrelevant to its objective truth.
Ayaka, still fuming, seemed to sense the clinical weight of his gaze, though she couldn't interpret its true nature. She flushed, a mix of anger and unfamiliar self-consciousness. With a final, frustrated huff, she turned sharply on her heel, stalking away from him and the other murmuring women, seeking refuge closer to the shaded cabanas.
But as she spun, her right hand clenched into a tight fist at her side. Her thumb, almost imperceptibly, began a rapid sequence of taps against her index finger. A short tap, a long tap, a short tap... Kyouya's eyes, even from behind his sunglasses, registered the minute movements. His internal algorithms translated the rhythm instantly:
P-E-R-V-E-R-T.
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips was the only sign Kyouya processed the message. Ayaka, even in her white-hot rage, still sought to communicate through encrypted means, a testament to her ingrained discipline and subtle intelligence. Calling him a pervert through Morse code. How utterly, predictably Ayaka. It was an insult, yes, but also a curious data point. He filed it away, a minute addition to the complex puzzle of variables he was now faced with. He could almost appreciate the sheer pettiness of it, hidden in plain sight. This game, it seemed, would be far more engaging than simply acquiring an heir.