Storm of Confessions

An hour later, the Club Joint Meeting finally came to a close.

There had been a few heated exchanges during the session, but overall, it was relatively peaceful. No one pushed things too far. Public decorum mattered—everyone knew better than to tear off the thin veil of politeness. Whatever grudges existed, they would be handled in private.

Even Ryuzhu Momo and Kojima, usually the loudest combatants, had stayed surprisingly quiet. The budget tug-of-war played out more like a low-key chess match than a battlefield.

After all, every person in that room was the son or daughter of someone powerful in the island nation. The next time they met, it could be in a corporate boardroom, a government ministry, or an international conference. Burning bridges here would be shortsighted.

Outside the meeting room, Shirogane Miyuki finally let out a deep breath.

No more of this for a while. No more diplomatic warfare. No more passive-aggressive negotiations disguised as "constructive discussion."

He glanced at Sakurai Saki walking beside him, calmly holding the paperwork like he hadn't just walked out of a minefield.

How the hell is he so calm?

Shirogane couldn't help but wonder. Sakurai was like him—no family name backing him, no legacy to lean on. At least, that's what everyone thought.

What if… he's actually the hidden heir of some legendary zaibatsu? Maybe the external admission was a test. A rite of passage for a future conglomerate lord?

He side-eyed Sakurai, mind already spinning out a hundred different versions of that story.

Back in the Student Council Room, Sakurai began packing his bag.

"Shirogane, I have something to take care of today. I'll be heading out first."

At that moment, his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID: Minamoto Mashiro.

"Hello? Mashiro-nee?"

Her gentle voice came through the speaker like a breeze.

"Saki-kun~ Big sister is at your school gate. Come out quickly~"

He gave Shirogane a nod, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left.

Shirogane, curious, tilted his head slightly but didn't ask. Everyone had their own business.

Outside the school gate, a car was parked roadside. A striking woman leaned out of the driver's window and called out sweetly:

"Saki-kun~ Big sister is here~"

Students heading home from club activities stopped in their tracks.

Eyes widened. Conversations paused.

"Is that Sakurai General Affairs' sister?" a girl whispered in awe. "She's gorgeous…"

"They don't look that alike," another murmured. "Maybe a cousin?"

"Could be that kind of 'sister,'" a boy offered with a knowing smirk.

A group of girls promptly turned to glare at him in synchronized disgust.

Boys, one of them thought bitterly. Show them a wrist and they imagine a bare shoulder. Show them a shoulder and they leap to sex. Their brains are like rubber bands launched off Mount Everest—straight into space, breaking Newton's laws and basic decency along the way.

Sakurai, oblivious to the murmuring crowd, slid into the passenger seat.

"I didn't cause you any trouble, did I?" Minamoto Mashiro asked, glancing sideways from the driver's seat.

"Not at all," Sakurai said softly. "I just finished with the Student Council. You arrived right on time."

She exhaled, relieved.

"We've got time, then. Want to get something to eat first? Your big sister's treating. What do you feel like?"

Sakurai thought for a moment.

"Desserts. Didn't you say you like them, Mashiro-nee?"

"Silly boy~ Isn't it my job to pamper you?" she replied with a smile, clearly aware that Sakurai didn't have a sweet tooth.

"Your other sister—Ueno Yoko—is still caught up with set design," she added. "So it'll just be the two of us tonight."

They ended up at a casual family restaurant inside a nearby shopping mall. Nothing extravagant, but cozy.

By the time they pulled into the photography studio in Shinjuku, the sky was already dark. It was close to 7:00 PM.

Inside the dressing room, Sakurai took a seat in front of a mirror surrounded by warm lights. He listened silently as the makeup team discussed how best to style him.

He didn't speak much today—he'd decided not to lie at all, and that made silence safer.

A few minutes later, the makeup process began.

"Mr. Sakurai, your skin is incredible~" the female makeup artist cooed as she dabbed a cotton pad across his cheek.

She looked closely. No blemishes, no pores worth mentioning. She debated skipping concealer altogether.

She'd worked with countless models, but never encountered skin quite like his. "Flawless" was usually hyperbole. With Sakurai, it was understatement.

"Thank you," Sakurai replied politely.

He never acted bashful about praise. In fact, his self-confidence bordered on delusional. His belief in himself was unshakable—like the corner foundation of a fortress.

If I want something, I'll get it. 100%.

That was his mindset.

The makeup artist, flattered by his composure and grace, found herself even more enthusiastic. Her compliments became more effusive.

Minamoto Mashiro, standing quietly off to the side, smiled to herself as she watched the exchange.

The dressing room was bustling now. Other clients—mostly female models—were also prepping for their shoots. Most had managers standing behind them, offering input or micromanaging every detail.

Laughter, chatter, and light arguments about eyeliner styles filled the room, blending into a warm cacophony.

Then, without warning, the door swung open.

A man walked in—tall, dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit. His hair was slicked back with precision, not a strand out of place. He moved with the confidence of someone used to giving orders, not taking them.

The noise in the room dipped instantly.

People turned, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

And just like that, the temperature in the dressing room dropped by a few degrees.

The entire room fell silent.

The suited man scanned the space with cold detachment, muttered something inaudible, and landed a long, scrutinizing stare on Minamoto Mashiro.

She returned it with a sharp glare of her own, unflinching.

He looked away and walked out without saying another word.

Sakurai Saki didn't react. He simply sat there, expression neutral, as if none of it had anything to do with him.

The makeup artist, however, let out a quiet sigh.

"Ugh. That scumbag again. Always here to ruin the vibe for models… What's so amazing about having a rich family anyway?"

"Ruin models?" Sakurai asked, turning his head slightly, curiosity piqued.

"He goes up to any beautiful model he likes and asks if she's open to a… 'financial arrangement.' Says he'll give them benefits or opportunities in return…"

Casting couch? That tracks, Sakurai thought. Not unusual in this industry.

"And he's got this freaky rule," the makeup artist added, dropping her voice lower. "He only sleeps with each girl once. Just once."

That's a little unhinged. Sakurai's thoughts sharpened. Borderline psychotic, maybe. But if it's consensual…

He had no intention of interfering. Mutual agreement between adults was none of his business.

At that moment, Minamoto Mashiro's voice cut through their hushed conversation like a knife through silk.

"Alright, enough gossip. Don't teach my innocent little brother weird things."

The makeup artist immediately stopped talking, muttering an embarrassed apology under her breath.

Makeup complete, the dressing room door at the back creaked open, and a woman with dyed red curly hair poked her head in, looking worried.

The moment she spotted Sakurai, her whole posture relaxed. She stepped fully into the room and walked over to Minamoto Mashiro and Sakurai Saki.

"Finally! Little brother Sakurai, change out of that outfit, quick. We still have time before the shoot, but seriously—that uniform is a fashion crime."

Minamoto Mashiro giggled softly behind her hand.

"That's Shuchiin Academy's school uniform, you know."

Ueno Yoko wrinkled her nose.

"So what? I'm allowed to hate it. Honestly, it looks like something a retired salaryman would wear. No youthful energy, no aesthetic appeal. Just… decay. That's what it smells like. Rot and mold."

Minamoto Mashiro rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"To a hopeless shotacon like you, everyone probably looks like an old man."

"Exactly!" Yoko chirped, without the slightest hint of shame.

She wasn't being coy—her preferences were well-known and firmly unapologetic.

She liked them young. The younger, the better.

P@treon Rene_chan