The memory faded, replaced by the warmth of the sun on his face. Kyouya adjusted his sunglasses, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. Expelled. A pauper, in a sense, stripped of his academic environment and future. But here he was now, a prince, on a private island. And in front of him, a selection of women who, despite the ridiculousness of his father's scheme, held a certain, undeniable allure. The game, it seemed, had just truly begun.
A subtle shift in the air, a collective intake of breath, drew his attention. The constellation of beautiful women, previously engaged in soft chatter, now turned their collective gaze toward him. Some offered shy smiles, others bolder, more direct appraisals. Their individual strategies, even in this nascent stage, were subtly apparent.
He wondered on how to begin with an introduction, but didn't know how to. Introducing myself? How? He muttered himself, not realizing he would have gotten into such an unfamiliar situation whereas he was required to muster his energy. And for someone who simply not wasted too much on doing these kind of things, this was already too much for Kyouya. However, he needed to grasp for opportunity.
Therefore, in his own words, he had no choice but to fake it 'till make it.
Soon, without any hesitation, kyouya pushed himself up from the chaise lounge, his movements fluid and unhurried. He didn't offer a charming smile, nor did he rush to bridge the distance. His hands remained casually in his pockets, his posture relaxed, yet commanding. His eyes, though hidden behind dark lenses, systematically swept over each of them, a silent, almost clinical appraisal.
He was assessing, categorizing each candidate, ergo not attempting for engagement.
"Good morning, ladies," he stated, his voice even, devoid of any discernible warmth or enthusiasm. It was a simple, courteous address, delivered with the same level of detachment he might use to comment on the weather. There was no pretense of delight, no false charm, no effort to ignite sparks. It was merely a factual acknowledgment of their presence.
A ripple of varied reactions went through the group. Some of the bolder ones maintained their composure, perhaps intrigued by his unconventional aloofness. Others exchanged quick, surprised glances, clearly expecting a more effusive welcome from the object of their gathering. A few, particularly those who had known him from his school days, merely observed, their expressions unreadable.
My father truly believes this circus will yield a suitable heir, Kyouya mused internally, his gaze lingering momentarily on a particularly vibrant crimson-haired woman who met his gaze with an unnervingly direct intensity. The requirements, 'well-reputed and rich,' are clearly met. But 'willing to surrender their agency' is a prerequisite he seems to have overlooked.
He took a slow breath, tasting the expensive air, the scent of ambition thick beneath the floral perfumes. His mission, as forced upon him, was to select a partner. Yet, Kyouya Saionji had never played by anyone else's rules, especially not his father's. These women, gathered by Kiritaka's machinations, were formidable in their own right. But he intended to choose on his own terms, if he chose at all. And perhaps, just perhaps, this cruel game could be twisted to his own advantage. He might acquire the harem his father desired, but the terms of engagement would be entirely his. And through it all, he would find his long-sought freedom.
The thought of his father, Kiritaka Saionji, brought with it a familiar, heavy recollection of a recent, unexpected summons. Kiritaka, an imposing figure whose presence typically filled a room with cold efficiency, had received him in his cavernous study. The lighting was subtly dimmed, and an uncharacteristic, almost melancholic air hung heavy in the silence.
"Kyouya," his father had rasped, his voice surprisingly frail, a hand pressed against his chest. "My son, I... I fear my time is drawing short."
Kyouya had merely observed, processing the anomaly. A tremor, a faint but perceptible weakness, seemed to ripple through his father's usually unyielding form. The unexpected vulnerability was disorienting, a variable he hadn't accounted for in his calculations of Kiritaka's motives.
"I am in my fifties now," Kiritaka continued, a profound sigh escaping him. "And yet... no grandchild. No successor to the Saionji name, no heir to carry on what I have built. It is... my one regret. My dying wish, Kyouya. To see a new generation before I cease to be." His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, seemed to glimmer with a raw, desperate sincerity that Kyouya had never witnessed.
Kyouya stared back, unblinking. The weight of his father's words, the sudden, uncharacteristic emotional plea, pressed down on him. This was not the familiar, cold manipulation. This felt…different. A sudden, unexpected pivot in their long-standing dynamic. The data was compelling, forcing a re-evaluation of all previous assumptions.
"Fine," Kyouya had stated, his voice flat, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. "I will do it myself." The decision, made in that moment of unexpected revelation, was driven by a new calculus: the finality of his father's plea, and the opportunity it presented. An heir. A harem. Freedom. All could be achieved, but now, under a new, more urgent premise.
Back on the island, the women before him seemed to shimmer under the tropical sun, their faces a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Kyouya's gaze hardened, a new resolve settling in his depths. The game had begun, and his father's "dying wish" was merely the first move in Kyouya's ultimate chess match for liberation.