Rika Kawasaki’s nominal home was a detached villa nestled in a quiet, affluent district somewhere within the Tokyo Metropolis.
She rode her rugged, sharply contoured motorcycle and, after receiving a cautious glance and polite nod from the respectful security personnel at the gate, soon parked precisely before the brightly lit main building of the villa.
“Miss, you’re back.”
Coming out at the sound to welcome Rika Kawasaki was a man who looked to be in his fifties, his figure slightly stooped.
He wore a well-pressed, dark uniform; his hair, already streaked with white, was meticulously combed, and his face bore a perfectly measured, respectful smile.
He was the butler who had served the Kawasakiya for many years.
“Mm.”
With practiced ease, Rika Kawasaki took off the black full-face helmet she wore, hanging it casually on the cold, mirrored handlebar of the motorcycle, producing a faint clink.
She shook out her golden short hair, somewhat mussed by the helmet, then turned around and asked in a calm tone,
“Have Mother and the others… all arrived?”
“Yes, Madam and Mister are already waiting for you in the Dining Room. Also… uh… the… Second Young Miss…”
The butler bowed slightly, replying cautiously to Rika Kawasaki’s question.
Yet by the end, it was clear he struggled with how to appropriately address the young girl whom Madam had especially brought home today.
His lips moved a few times, a trace of unease flickering across his face.
After some inner struggle, he finally managed to utter a slightly awkward and very careful title.
When Rika Kawasaki heard this hesitant response, a trace of understanding flashed instantly through her gray-brown eyes.
She immediately realized that her half-sister—her cheap little sister—had actually been brought by her mother to the Main House.
She couldn’t help but arch her bold eyebrows in slight surprise, a clear look of astonishment passing over her face.
After all, in her understanding, her father—that equally domineering and extremely face-conscious man—had always shown undisguised dislike and rejection toward the “illegitimate child” his wife had with another man.
He had always strictly forbidden bringing that girl home, lest she appear before his eyes.
Later, he even went so far as to drive them out, using connections and money to “exile” her and her biological father to a distant foreign country, out of sight and out of mind.
But now, her mother had openly violated the Family Rule her father had tacitly upheld for years and brought the girl back to this house with special significance.
This, of course, struck Rika Kawasaki as quite unbelievable—even inconceivable.
Could it be that her strong-willed and equally proud father had no objections to this? Would he really allow such a thing to happen? Clearly, something was off behind the scenes.
[It seems… tonight’s dinner is bound to involve something unusual…]
While calmly analyzing and speculating inwardly, Rika Kawasaki didn’t ask further.
She strode forward, her long legs in biker boots moving steadily as she entered the brightly lit yet somehow chilly foyer, heading straight for the Dining Room deep within the house.
Inside the spacious and luxuriously decorated Dining Room, soft light from a crystal chandelier poured down, bright but lacking warmth.
In the center of the Dining Room stood a hefty, solid wood rectangular dining table, reflecting the halo of the chandelier above.
At the Master’s Seat at one end of the table sat a woman with a composed demeanor, well-maintained features, and eyes as sharp as they were commanding.
Just sitting there, she naturally radiated the pressure of someone long accustomed to making decisions and giving orders—a true authority figure.
This woman was none other than Rika Kawasaki’s mother, Madam of the Kawasakiya.
At the head seat on one side of the table sat a middle-aged man, likewise in a sharp, dark suit, looking particularly shrewd and capable—Rika Kawasaki’s father.
As for Rika Kawasaki’s nominal little sister, she now sat quietly in the secondary seat opposite Madam.
She wore a simple, modest black knee-length dress. Her sleek, long black hair cascaded down, nearly covering her profile completely.
She kept her head bowed, slender fingers nervously intertwined atop her knees, her gaze fixed firmly on the edge of her white porcelain plate—her expression utterly unreadable.
At this moment, the grand Dining Room was unusually stifling and oppressive, as though the very air had congealed.
When Rika Kawasaki’s tall silhouette appeared at the entrance, the three people at the table made no attempt at conversation—not even the clink of cutlery could be heard.
The silence was suffocating, entirely at odds with the supposed warmth of a family dinner.
Only when Rika Kawasaki’s mother at the Master’s Seat saw her daughter’s familiar figure walk in did she lift her eyes and, with a voice that carried unchallengeable authority, break the abnormal stillness:
“Rika, you’re here.”
Her voice was especially clear in the empty Dining Room.
“Mm.”
Rika Kawasaki responded, her demeanor a stark contrast to the tense, repressed atmosphere at the table.
She was nothing like her little sister, who sat up straight on her chair as if ready for judgment at any moment.
She walked straight over, utterly composed, her movements carrying a rough, unrestrained edge.
She reached across, noisily dragged out the heavy wooden chair directly across from her father’s seat, and sat down unceremoniously—right next to her perpetually downcast little sister.
She sat down and, before her parents could speak again, turned her head and gave the butler standing respectfully nearby a chin nod, speaking naturally:
“I’m hungry. Hurry up and bring out the food.”
Her casual, uninhibited manner at home—more like being in a small eatery—stood out starkly against the stern atmosphere of the Dining Room.
Rika Kawasaki’s mother seemed long used to her daughter’s independent, untamable ways, well aware that forcing compliance would only breed greater conflict.
She did not scold or show displeasure; she merely frowned so slightly it was almost unnoticeable, then quietly let the topic pass, smoothly transitioning to the real reason for tonight’s gathering.
Her voice remained as composed as ever:
“Chinatsu’s father… passed away in a car accident a month ago. She has no one to rely on abroad, so I brought her back. And besides, it’s about time she considered University.”
At the clear mention of her own name, Chinatsu Ayase—who had been sitting like a statue with her head lowered—trembled almost imperceptibly.
Only then did she slowly lift her head, and as she did so, the face long hidden by her hair was finally revealed.
But most striking of all were her pitch-black eyes—like two bottomless pools of dead water, or ancient wells abandoned for years, empty and devoid of any youthful spirit or emotional ripple.
Only silence and indifference remained.
Those eyes met, directly in midair, with Rika Kawasaki’s cool, assessing gray-brown gaze.
The reason she bore the surname Ayase, rather than her mother’s Kawasaki, was something everyone present understood without words—of course, it was due to her unacknowledged status as an illegitimate daughter.
She could only take the surname of her now-deceased biological father—Ayase.
[They really… don’t look alike at all…]
Only now did Rika Kawasaki have the chance to closely observe the specific appearance of her cheap little sister.
She scrutinized Chinatsu Ayase without reservation, her gaze traveling from her smooth forehead, to her delicate nose, to her pale lips, and finally drew her own conclusion.
How to describe this feeling more specifically?
Rika Kawasaki thought it probably came down to the marvel of genetics.
She had, years ago, caught a glimpse of her sister’s father, the man called Ayase.
As she remembered, the man was indeed rather attractive, with a distinctly gentle, refined appearance.
Thus, Chinatsu Ayase, who had clearly inherited more of her father’s genes, had softer, more delicate features, with a traditional Eastern beauty, fair skin, and smooth jawlines.
Such looks perfectly matched current societal preferences for men—evoking an urge to protect.
Her long, unprocessed black hair, as smooth as flowing silk, nearly reached her waist.
She was also well-developed for her age—standing around 175 centimeters tall, quite tall for a girl, with a well-proportioned, graceful figure: neither too thin nor overly full.
All in all, Chinatsu Ayase was the sort who, walking down the street, would naturally attract glances and a high rate of second looks from young men.
Compared to the wild, striking, athletic older sister with golden hair—her half-sister, Rika Kawasaki—the difference in looks, temperament, and overall impression was vast.
No one would ever believe there could be a blood relation between the two.
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