THE PASSING WIND

-TheSilentReader-

{PROLOGUE}

He realized that he became too tired. Too tired to respond to what he observed. He got tired to care that he was used. Perhaps, this was because he became too curious. It was probably one of the reasons he fell in love with her. At the time he found that she was more than her lonely, distant smile and her deathly glare. Two facial expressions of a person living between worlds, jumping one at a time. When he first heard of her, he thought she was just like the rest of those rich debutantes . . . he was getting sick of conquest after conquest after conquest.

He admitted to himself that when he fell in love with her, that he had forgotten how static and flat he was. He had forgotten how he deceived himself and others until his lies became truths. Yes, he was very smitten by Ogasawara Sachiko and her uniqueness from the rest of her status.

Perhaps his immediate curiosity for her grew into far complications or into love. He could identify what it was—he saw it with his parents—yet he could not feel it for himself. He found himself too undeserving for that, unlike them. It was more than butterflies in his stomach, more than his heightened perception to her physical beauty. When she looked at him with her lukewarm presence at that ball, she immediately weighed his use for her.

She immediately knew his place in her chessboard.

It was simple: given with the way he had acted before, she assumed a persona appropriate in handling him, as sure evaluation to present herself. First, she seemed to extract his preferences by gauging their conversations. He allowed her, since he liked talking about himself. There was nothing he could hide, and as far as he's discerned, he was harmless enough. Nothing in him was to be afraid of.

Because he's nice, even to debutantes that had been in his bed. He was never the deceiving bastard. He never hid that he had been with other women before, never denied that he wanted them for a night, and these girls somehow liked that about him. Him being truthful, knowledgeable, the one who leads. He never gossiped about them, or bragged his spoils to his friends. Those girls trusted him, for secret affairs are meant to be just secrets. Never disclose what had happened in the bed, sex or otherwise. He never left them with their egos shattered or desire unfulfilled. They were satisfied with just what he gave.

As far as clichés go, of course, Sachiko was different.

Yet, what he was surprised of was her inability to even gauge that they're similar. She knew he wanted to know everything about her—and blatantly admitted to that, but what she did not know was that both of them were reading each other's motivations.

Similar, that's what they are. Men surrounds her like piranhas on fresh, bloody meat, but one thing is sure—she found ways for men never to touch her. Even the freakiest chaps in high society, infamous for the number of women they bed in a week, could not even hold a candle to her. They were satisfied with just her faint smile or distant glance. Somehow touching her was downright criminal and deadly.

Just like how women were with him. Satisfied with his attention, no matter how short and conditional it may be.

But that was a long time ago. Back when he was still young and bored. And tired.

He knew that he had invested too much of his emotion and affection to her that it would kill him eventually. Even in long years he had been with her. Unlike before, he did not have any insurance; in fact, he was in a position that would eventually diminish him into no one. Sachiko will never forgive him, even if he gave Fukuzawa's painting to her.

He swore that she's the only woman who was never satisfied of what he could provide, even his love, no matter how hard he tried.

CHAPTER 18:

Present night

Yuuki called Touko to get to the museum the moment Kashiwagi sped away from the vicinity. Even though he did not approve of anything Yumi had been doing lately, he had no other choice but to tolerate her. She is his sister, no matter how idiotic she was in his eyes. Kashiwagi's involvement—no, interest to her sister was like a dormant virus; it will only attack when the host is at its weakest state. He had known him in highschool, had shared thoughts and opinions with him, and even anticipated his actions before. All crude work, no paperwork. He didn't like to be in meetings. He didn't like complex planning. He was simple-minded.

He was different now. Just ten years of separation, he didn't know his sempai anymore. Had he met Yumi back in highschool? If he did, did he realize that Yukichi's sister would be in the middle of a mess?

. . . middle of a mess?

What was Kashiwagi had been doing lately? What was Touma Ryu had been doing lately? Ogasawara Kyouiichi . . . ?

He was driving his car when he popped his cellphone from his pocket and dialed: "Shimazu-san?"

/ What the hell is it. /

He felt her anger and frustration from the raspy voice on the static background. He asked, "What do you think is happening within the Ogasawara Group? You have contact with her, right?"

/ Agh . . . Ogasawara Group? Shit, shit . . . /

"Stop swearing."

/ Can I just talk to you tomorrow? I have a killing headache, and your voice just made it harsher like an old bitch. /

He heard her slurring her words, but when she compared his voice to something less endearing, she pronounced every Japanese syllable as if she were reciting an angry poem. It's not good at all, when he heard gulping noices afterwards.

"Are you drinking?" He asked nicely as he could possibly do.

/ You're worse than a nagging mother. /

"I'm sorry. I'll call you later."

Holy Mother of God. He just could not handle women with short fuses. And drunk, angry women.

Wait, didn't he left Yumi to Yoshino in the gallery? Why was she drinking? Where's Yumi? Was she with her? Damn it. Too late; he did not ask. What if Touko did not meet Yumi? Crap, she's gonna be pissed at him.

He couldn't call the headquarters for information—they just closed the investigation, which enraged Yumi to the point that he had lost his cool too. Company employees won't just hand over informations about their employers, that was an important part of the job, and etiquette demanded it. He couldn't just ask the employers. He had no reason to.

Employee of the Ogasawara . . . Kobayashi Masamune. That four-eyes who he met months ago in front of Yumi's painting Distance is an employee of the company. What was he doing in the gallery anyway? That man, to whom was he employed under? Kyouiichi? Ryu? Sachiko? He did not know a thing about his employment. Was he even close to those in the highest positions? He had to try. He must know something that involved those three people.

He looked at his phone as he wished he had his former clasmate's number had been registered in his phonebook when car were honking at him that he immediately looked at the road ahead and kicked to stop.

Japanese drivers are courteous, but not when the car beside him was pricier than all his paychecks ever since he became a functional part of society. A young man popped his head out and gave him the finger, shouting curses as if he were hearing Yumi herself. As a policeman, he was torn between putting a warning light above his hood or to remain calm; he wouldn't be a good example if he put arrogance over reason.

He sighed as he stopped by the traffic light ahead of him. He should not be thinking about that shit of an investigation. No, not tonight. He intended to sleep tonight. With the building pain in his head, he just wanted to sleep this through. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow, he will be fine again.

In the darkness of the hotel room, the Touma Ryu had been standing in front of an illuminated wall. Only the incandescent lamp hanging above the ceiling focused its light to the only object hanging by it. He stood there while he held his cellular phone.

At the back, Kobayashi was watching him in silence. He was holding a large leather attache case, its size as large as the perimeter of the painting in front of Ryu.

"She's revolting, isn't she, Kobayashi?"

"It was an old friend's work, Touma-san. Of course, it is unusual for my untrained eyes." He took a step near his senior and handed him the case. "Sir, Kashiwagi-san sent this. He insisted that I tell you that this—" Kobayashi raised it to Ryu's arm's reach, "—is his greatest achievement. He hoped you'll take good care of it."

Ryu looked away from the painting and then to the black leather case.

"Tell him: what a talented bastard he is."

But he accepted the case anyway.

Five years ago

Yumi remained in Kyoto for a year to continue her thesis and senior-year project for as long as she could allow. There was no point of being in Musashino—in Lillian—if she felt that she could not settle her feelings after Sachiko cut her off. It was a bitter ending, yet she must get through with life. No matter how difficult it might be without Sachiko.

But she couldn't, not when she was used to think about her all the time.

Work and studying was as pressuring as ever, but she found console on that. She wanted to be as near to work as possible; somehow, it was giving her piece of mind instead of stress. Doing nothing made her mind wander and without her knowing, she was becoming hysterical because of loneliness. Many times, she had found herself more honest with her feelings, more open to express anger than before. There were times that she would just shout and cuss words like an angry boil oozing yellow puss along tender skin, but she did not care. It was a bit of exciting to see other people in wonderment that she could actually get angry. There was a time that she had scolded a kohai for being such a nuisance to her, that words just flowed out of her mouth—she never expressed frustration so poetically as she could possibly create.

At first, she immediately recoiled and took great lengths to appeal pardon for the things she had said. Yet, her first try in hurting someone with words made the second and the third and the fourth easier to do. At first, she immediately and meekly apologized. At second, she took a step back, evaluated what she had said, and when she realized she said too much, she asked for forgiveness.

At third, she looked at the person and realized how stupid it was to apologize, but that person had too frail a heart to accept scolding; thus she, later, reluctantly apologized.

At fourth, the person was such an asshole to even reconsider her own argument, that when she rebuked the person and later hitting him with words below the belt, she find herself happy not to swallow what she said and not to apologize for being such an arrogant bitch who pointed out flaws not even related to what they were fighting about.

It felt so good not to give a fuck.

Somehow, she liked the way she changed. She liked seeing others get hurt because of her.

Yet, when she was alone, she felt herself unexpectedly calm, and then memories of Sachiko would flash once more in her eyes. Those were the nights when she had nothing else to do but stare at her accomplished tasks, finished paintings, and written reports. Becoming so efficiently goal-oriented was becoming a nuisance during lonely, lazy nights.

Sachiko must be happily married now.

She felt she was becoming crazy of being so pathetic at times that she had nothing else to do. She couldn't fuck around. She couldn't handle liquor—she felt so sick she wanted to cut her throat so that she would not feel numb on her head and face. She could not immerse into smoking—she couldn't stand dying with her lungs busted. Somehow, all things that chronically kill people were all unattractive to indulge on. She did not want to die unattractive.

She settled on paint. Well, anyone can be killed eventually when you're surrounded with expensive turpentine, knowing the fact that her art materials contained dangerous, flammable aerosols. The more expensive, the more chemically hazardous they were. She settled for that; at least she liked the smell.

Her professor and thesis adviser, however, was a different story. Somehow, he was always there, atypical to other professors who just leave their advisees to themselves to fuck their manuscripts and later scold them for doing such bad products. He was very involved. He was immersed into her work that he was the only person she could talk to about it. The thing that made her forgot the past, Musashino, Lillian U and Sachiko. She was always in his large workshop, working hours and hours for her senior-level exhibit, and for her thesis. He was there to introduce her to famous curators and monks of the Buddhist and Shintoist temples so that she could gather literatures easily. He was there to counter or support an opinion. He was there when she was getting bored. He was there even when she doesn't give a fuck.

He was in his early thirties when he bacame one of her advisers, and somehow, he was still in touch and within the grid of Yumi's generation that she could still feel the vitality of his youth and his scholastic enthusiasm, not just in his focus in Nihonga, but also in daily life.

His name was Hinomura Takuya.

For Yumi, who was reluctant to disrespect her teachers by calling them in first-name basis, was forced by her thesis adviser to call him "Takuya-san". He was single; a silent man when dealing with students outside the lecture hall, but when he teached, all were sucked into his stimulating energy that his lectures deserved thorough documentations. University professors may be the best among their fields, but sucked mortifyingly in the methods of teaching. He was excellent in both.

He was well-liked and popular, yet he was known to be so reserved.

Yumi was the only exception to his charms.

Maybe because even with deep admiration for the professor's capabilities, he was irritating to the point that Yumi wished him hell. He liked to point things out; he did not tolerate mediocrity; he did not like silent students, which Yumi was. Yumi, in the middle of forgetting Sachiko by being so aloof and perpetually uncomfortable with everyone, was beginning to hate her meetings with an overly scolding adviser, who only wanted to tear her thesis proposal with a red-blotting fountain pen.

It's not that he wasn't helping with her work, he wasn't helping with her mood.

One day, Yumi was to submit a draft when she was left in his office. His table had tall stacks of documents that a tiny push could tumble them all down. His walls were covered with Nihonga; the wall was fully occupied with paintings posted in random assignment. At the back of his office desk was a shelf full of books, unsorted. Some were dusted and in immaculate condition; some were almost torn because they were frenquently used.

What made them talked to each other, aside from the draft that she was to submit and he was to paint with his red pen for, was a biographical book. He had it in good condition even though the book's spine (and its parallel lines) certainly depicted repeated usage. She looked at him in with insolent eyes when he found her surprised to read a book in his office without permission, even though she was caught in the act. She was even hesitant to apologize, and was about to say something ("It's not my fault that book is good,") when Professor Hinomura smiled and said, "He's a genius, isn't he?"

At first, she was reluctant to agree. But when he started to talk, she could not help but agree with him. It was a weird experience.

It was also the start for them to know that they actually shared the same interests.

Somehow, Yumi started to realize that her professor was more of a fascinating moving picture than a nuisance to her academic accomplishments. It must be his thorough knowledge on the subject she was studying, that she was always met with his challenges. He made her think like a true scholar, not just a painter. He made her holistic. It must also be his definite and clear distinction of their student-teacher relationship—he was able to be close to her without caring for her personal life. She appreciated that she was not obligated nor encouraged to talk anything other than work and her undergraduate thesis. Yet some time in the year that they spent together in her work, that line blured somehow.

Maybe it was in those times that both of them were alone in his workroom, and the air was quiet because she was halfway finishing a painting for her exhibition while he was quiet because he had been reviewing the draft she revised so many times. In the midst of the turpentine-saturated air, she was able to show signs of fatigue by groaning violently and Takuya would hand her a cup of black coffee and a loaf of bread. At first, she would reject the handed treats, but he would say, "Who could ever deny oneself good coffee?" and he was right.

Or a time when she would storm into his paper-cluttered office and complain to her professor, "This is bullshit; how could this paragraph be insufficient? It is the most important paragraph I've written in this section!" Then he would tell her that he forgotten to write his notes for that said paragraph. He would laugh at the way she bursted the bubble of his boring afternoon and thanked her for doing that. She would later realized that she no longer felt awkward whenever he was around. That she could be herself whenever she was with him.

He brought guidance, which she appreciated so much.

Somewhere between finishing all her works for her senior-level exhibition and thesis and going back to Musashino, she felt that she doesn't want to go back to Lillian anymore. Part of it was her fear of seeing Sachiko and another was leaving Takuya, whose company she actually enjoyed. Once her final semester ended, so was her stay in Kyoto. She had few friends here, yet she felt that it was what she wanted. Her friends back at Musashino will only make her think of Sachiko once more, and she did not want that. She did not want to dwell on the past again because even with time, it was still hurtful. Perhaps more time would ease it, not just a year.

When she thought of leaving Kyoto, she immediately thought of Takuya.

He made her forget about her. Even though she felt guilty that she might just be using him, her feelings for him did not spring from her needs to get over her. When he came around, she forgot Sachiko. She never saw her time with him as a waste. She came closer in her own volition, without Sachiko in mind. Was it a justifiable, valid reason?

She was reluctant to say goodbye. She was even afraid to go to his office, unlike before when she walked in and out of the room whenever she liked. She stayed when she felt alone. She stayed when she had tons of work to do. She stayed when she needed assistance on major subject whose teacher was being such a selfish bitch in giving grades. She stayed when she just needed someone to talk to. And he was always there, alone in his workroom, doing the things he loved.

The unresolved sexual tension built for months was resolved on the last week that she was in Kyoto. She already had her things secured in bags in her small apartment. All she needed to do was to say goodbye and thanked him for the wonderful year. Yet somewhere between her reluctance to show her dread of leaving and her smug joke that she was very happy to leave his ass, Takuya closed the office door behind her and kissed Yumi hungrily.

Two days later, she went back to Musashino only for the College of Fine Arts and Achitechture's Senior Level Exhibition and for her second thesis defence in front of Lillian U's, only to have her stay until graduation. She did not mind telling her brother that she was already in town, nor her petite seour, who was his girlfriend. Seeing them would only impose to their kindness. And she doesn't want to see them, only to remember that Yuuki knew and Touko knew. They were few of the people who knew about Yumi and Sachiko's former relationship. She did not want questions thrown at her . . . she just want peace.

And she thought she found it in Kyoto. She silently mused to herself that she could be better than before, better than before Sachiko came along, and better even after she left. Two days of being with him, their love consumated so many times was not enough for Yumi. She felt that she was her old self again. Diminished were her bitter thoughts. She embraced Takuya with all strength and love she could give, and Takuya was the same. Two days was too short, and then she was to leave Kyoto. Those made Yumi not leave him with the little time they had to enjoy each other. She stayed with him. And when she was about to leave Kyoto, he promised her the same things Sachiko had. But Yumi did not even thought of her. With Takuya, she knew she liked the idea of starting over.

Several months later, he was the last person in her mind who would betray her trust.

Present Night

There was no use in destroying things in her workroom. Even in anger, she must restrain herself just to compensate for losing control during her confrontation with Yoshino. Her cheek still hurt from her blow. All she could think of was to ease and erase the pain in her left cheek; she could not even touch it because it was too tender.

(What did that bitch know anyway? What did she know . . .)

She tried not to question Yoshino's concern, instead, she curse her petty meddling. She was only there to look for her godforsaken painting, not to be her mother. She already had one; she doesn't need another. Didn't she say a while ago that she heard Yoshino's words from so many before? Being numb has its perks but when Yoshino began to say things she had been hearing before, she wanted to punch anything within arm's reach.

"Oh fuck, yes, the fucking loo." She growled as she found the washroom nearby. In haste, she ran, slammed the door open, switched on the faucet and tap water to her sore cheek. The cold water gave little comfort.

She curse and curse and curse in her breath as her hands dippered water and splash it to her face.

"What do you know? You've never loved anyone the way I had. You did not see her the way I did. You never felt how happy I was but then finding out that it was all a lie. With that small smile on her face when she looked at me, I thought that's the way she loved. With that fucking faint smile on her face and that fucking high upbringing, every one thought that she should be exalted; even I fell into that fucking trap. . .

"What about you—have you gotten over your almost-obssession for your cousin? Of course, you have. And you paraded your success to my face as if it were so easy to do. Separation to become your own? Don't fuck with me. Do not fucking tell me it's easy. Is it because you got over it that you think I'm the same as you? Do you think you could measure my fucking relationship against yours? I gave my life to that fucking slut . . . fucking pathetic . . ."

The first cut was always the deepest.

"I was just no one. Nothing but a normal high school student, trying to be just a fucking painter of my own, not shadowed by my parents, but then she made everything fucking worse. . . she showed how shitty her life is and I was encouraged to save her fucking ass, then I'll be the fucking naïve to believe she wanted to be saved, that time will make things bearable . . . . Everyone else is just like that fucking bitch . . . ."

She wanted to smash the large mirror in front of her. She wanted to destroy her pathetic reflected with her fist. It was too tempting; her hands itch for blood, her fingernails digging unto the palm her left hand as she heaved her arm for the impact . . . .

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you . . ."

But her left hand stopped at a mere inch before the mirror. She remembered. Her left hand is her writing hand. The hand that she uses to paint. The hands she was taking care not to have unwanted carpal tunnel . . . the hand that she valued as important as her life.

In defeat, she rapidly recoiled her hand away from it and looked disdainly at her mirror image. The woman on the other side had no more tears to shed.

"FUCK YOU!"

"Nee-san?"

She was at the doorway when she saw her big sister brooding violently at a solitary porcelain sink in the washroom.

"Tou-Touko," she hoarsely said, surprised by her little sister's invasion. She thought that everyone was gone. Her heart thumped so fast, but with the adrenaline pumping in her system enabled her to come into conclusion that that was fucking close; only Touko should see me like this.

She stammered "What are you doing here?" with fear evident in her eyes. She did not like the idea that she'd be seen like this by anyone. Because this is one pathetic show that would not die down for months.

Touko smiled painfully, trying hard not to shed tears. It was such a long time when she last honed her skill as an actress, but Yumi Nee-san needed it. It was the only way she could calm down. She put her hands on her hips and haughtily asked, "Are you finished now?"

Yumi's throat was suddenly blocked, and in reflex, she inhaled sharply. She could not contain the air anymore that she laughed loudly that the hallways shook. She gave in to the high of this moment—a while ago she was cursing the world and her fucking little problems and now Touko was here—the fluctuation of emotions dangerous to be experienced by a volatile person like her. She wondered the last time she'd seen Touko . . . when was the last time?

She did not know that while laughing, her tears poured down. Was she really happy to see Touko? She could not explain . . . it seems everything was so fucked up and a Messiah just walk into the washroom saying things unlikely of what Yumi considered Jesus Christ.

It was as if she were surrounded by piles of shit, and someone grabbed her up . . . by a hand covered with sparkles.

Touko was confused and dropped the act. "Are you all right in the head?"

Yumi was still laughing as she tried to reply, "You don't ask a lunatic if she's fucking not right in the head."

Touko smirked at the logic.

"I have this itch in my head that tells me my brother sent you here."

Touko took a step to her. "Yes. He was trying to hide how angry he was. He doesn't want to make me worry, but I know. Give him some slack, Nee-san."

"I'm sorry." Yumi uttered weakly. She turned off the faucet that was opened ever since she was in the room. She tried again, forcing herself to stand straight. "You and my brother really understood each other, aren't you?"

"You are my sister. Yuuki is chicken compared to you." She heard Yumi roared in laughter. Touko turned on the lights inside the washroom. "I heard about it. Still mad?"

"I won't see it again. It's that bad." She sniffed.

"Somehow, I doubt that. But think whatever you want."

Yumi thought of the best answer she could give her. The way she said it came naturally and spontaneously, that she doubted if Touko was just tolerating her. In a way, yes, but at the same time, she could not feel irritation from her petit soeur. It made her think of Sei too. "Thanks, Touko."

Her petite soeur looked at her for as long as she could; she tried to stay fixed to Touko's eyes. It was not a silent battle of whose right or wrong; it was a battle of whose perspective was more logical. Yumi knew she would lose to Touko. She tried to look away, but Touko stopped her when she said, "Nee-chan, let's go home." With a smile on her face.

She loved that smile.

As Yumi arranged herself despite the redness of her cheeks and eyes, Touko extracted sunglasses and handkerchief from her bag and gave it to Yumi, who was now strolling languidly through the door. Touko was about to turn to the direction of Yumi's workroom when Yumi put her arms unceremoniously on her shoulders like a drunk and said, "Where to? Your place or mine?" as Yumi wiped her face.

"Yours, of course. I need to dump you in the safest place in the world: your apartment." Touko knew it was empty for months, but it was clean.

Yumi examined the frame of the sunglasses. She muttered, "I don't like how big these shades are framed."

Touko pouted, "Deal with it."

She put the sunglassess and walked with her petite soeur by the hallway. But she abruptly stopped when they were at the door of her workroom. She opened it, expecting the worst (that Yoshino was still in the room), and projecting her best (smug grin that she honestly couldn't produce in her state). When she opened the door and looked inside, she heard Touko asked, "Are you expecting someone?"

Yumi groaned heavily. "Yoshino was here a while ago."

"Is she the reason you were throwing tantrums in the bathroom? Or that bruised cheek?"

"No. She isn't." Technically, Yoshino was not.

She grabbed her jacket. She still hated the sight of her unturned works resting upon the walls of her workroom. Unfinished businesses.

But she needed to try. Touko was here.

"Let's get out of here."

The next day

Sachiko tried to sleep, but all she could think of was to get Ryu out of the mess he created by planning insurgency within the company. She thought of everyone that could possibly be an asset, a gamechanger, a liability, a threat. In the hours that her mind was remembering faces . . . important faces . . . expressive ones, dull ones, those who liked to be the center of attention, those who liked to be the background observers.

She fell asleep in her bed as she listed names in her mind. She had accounted everything that should be disregarded and put into importance. Yet as she opened her eyes, she was expecting Ryu to be there, trying to wake her up. But he wasn't. She felt her hands cold when she touched his pillow.

She rose up, and when she saw the time, it was surprisingly early, a very unusual occurrence. Was it because she was agitated since last night? Even with two months of pregnancy, she had not yet see the signs of what her mother had suffered when she was carrying her . . . which made Sachiko more uneasy. It felt like the future before her and her unborn child was hazy. All she could think about was saving . . . fulfiling what he hoped before in her childhood.

She thought once more of Yumi. Ryu has her painting. How did he know that she was looking for it? There was little danger of how he had known, especially if he noticed that she and Yumi were not in good terms. Yesternight was a proof that Yumi's forgiveness was non-negotiable. She felt sick.

Ryu would be hurt if he found out.

Yet, this day and tomorrow will be dedicated in saving him. She will not take his bait, but she will make sure that Kashiwagi Suguru will never step foot in the office of the Ogasawara Zaibatzu's highest-ranking officer.

She will make sure anyone who sided with that upstart will bleed.

She spent the day working through hours without pause. She never had the drive to stop whatever she was doing—calling all major stockholders, remembering faces, talking to them. Some was reluctant to talk to her; some had been wanting to see her. She saw how Ryu had done—everyone that she had talked to be eager to discuss her plans for the company if she stepped forward and take the job his father should have taken . . . the job that his grandfather had been failing to do.

She was not surprised how vast Ryu's connections were, or how trusting the people are to her and his husband's capabilities, but she feared his grandfather's retaliation. She kept repeating to them, no, no, all I need to do is damage control. What did Ryu told you? No . . . he is not involved in this.

She was worried for her child, a little blip that somehow had been tough even though her mother was nearly killing herself with work. But it will only take two days. Two days, and after she fix this, she will take care of herself.

Thus far, she had not talked to his grandfather; neither was summoned. They were in the same mansion. Did his grandfather even anticipate this? No, she will fix this herself. She won't let Kyouiichi know about this. Courage left her when she found Kashiwagi Suguru at the doors of the president's office. She could not even move an inch as he stepped to the elevator and casted a blank face. No, of course, Kyouiichi knew about this.

Then her phone rang.

/ Sachiko. /

Ryu was on the other line.

/ Do you agree in my proposal? /

"I only intend to control this, Ryu. I will not take your bait. Please, stop whatever you are doing and talk to me. I need to tell you—"

/ Why? /

"Kashiwagi Suguru can be controlled. I know. If we could tell grandfather that we can stop him . . . that I can help him drive Kashiwagi away. But I don't need Oji-sama's position to save this, Ryu."

He weighed her words.

/ And how about Fukuzawa's painting? /

"Give it to her, Ryu. I don't deserve the credit. You found it."

/ Then, what about your promise to her? /

"I . . . It is you who found it Ryu. You don't have to give it to me."

/ I don't believe you. /

"Give it to her. We don't need that."

But even though she was trying to make every word count, every line worthy of the change that she wanted for them, she found Ryu heaving . . . his ragged, slow breathes were getting louder and louder.

/ I thought you're finding it for her. /

"I . . . I was. But you did. But why did you look for it?"

/ Because you need it! That's what I do! To give you everything you want! /

"Ryu—!"

/ You are such a fucking liar. You need it. You need it for your petit soeur, don't you? The one you ever truly cared about. The reason you won't take your grandfather's place anymore. You are trying to impress that bitch that you've changed. She who you left behind and you want to pursue now even after your stupid mistakes. That girl who you left for our fucking marriage. I was just the prick you happen to land on and fuck when you can't fuck her anymore. /

Sachiko could not reply; she was out of breath as he heard Ryu swearing, growling as he cursed Yumi. No . . . no, no, no, no . . . .

/ Tell me, are you satisfied? Are you satisfied that you literally used me for your petty games? I thought I've seen the worst in me, but you made me too kind yet too cruel at the same time. Do you know how it's hard to see the person you've ever loved with all your heart already belonged to someone else? How pathetic could I be? /

"Ryu, please listen to me. This is not about Yumi! This is about our—"

/ Lies. That's what your grandfather had taught you well and all of us are your pawns. I know it all yet I stupidly played along. And now, I think I happen to like this little thing I'm holding in my hands. I asked one of your staff to fetch you for me, but it seemed he hasn't met you yet. Would you mind to kindly stop whatever you are doing, and look at your front door, and see how you hurt me? /

Seeing him walking in the vast lawn of the Ogasawara Mansion by her window was enough for Sachiko to get out and rushed downstairs (mindfull of herself) as she held her phone to her right ear, listening to Ryu's deap breaths as he raged his anger for the first time since she had known him.

She felt that he was trying to calm himself. He seemed to stop walking, and with that, Sachiko thought of various ways to calm him down and to tell him about the news. That she chose her unborn child over the company, that it could wait, that he's going to be a father. She wanted to tell him personally; she did not want the phone to separate them once more, like last night. As she went to the front door and opened it, she felt that rush of cold air from the outside. She hugged her jacket to herself.

Ryu was there, so far away from him—only the driveway separated them. She was thankful that he was wearing his thick jacket—he was sensitive to the cold.

But she stopped when she saw his hands holding the painting that Yuuki and Yoshino had been looking for three months. The painting that was now being held haphazardly by Touma Ryu. She remembered how he was fascinated by Fukuzawa Yumi's works; he was one of those who wanted to buy that painting. Now, he only just saw anger in his eyes.

Touma Ryu knew about it.

Upon seeing her, he threw the painting on the driveway. A crisp thud of hardwood against asphalt was heard. The painting—bright ocre yellow, a woman whose legs was eaten away by the yellow wind, with faint smile facing the sky and hands spread out—was facing the dark sky. It illuminated even at the dark.

"Ryu!"

Yet, she heard a sound of engine; she did not know that a car was speeding towards the upturned painting that Sachiko almost shouted, in fear that The Passing Wind will be destroyed by crushing the canvass against its wheels.

But the car stopped just in front of it, and Kashiwagi Suguru's tall form appeared before the car's door, stood up, and looked at her with a blank face.

Before Sachiko could register how Kashiwagi was allowed in the estate, she heard Ryu said:

/ Do it. /

Kashiwagi Suguru threw an opened lighter onto the painting.

She was still connected to Ryu's phone line.

"I did not lie. When I said I will do everything for you, it is the truth. But I don't see myself working for your grandfather; I see myself working under you. But, still, you won't trust me. I thought that if I tried harder—but it doesn't matter anymore . . . ."

He hung up.

Ryu walked to the car's door as Sachiko shouted his name. He only heard the crackling of the fire, trying not to be swayed by Sachiko's voice. No . . . Sachiko was not speaking. As he closed the door of the car, he saw Sachiko speaking through the tinted window. He just watched her. He didn't have to hear her. He was a lost cause for her anyway. Soon, he will lose her. No, from the start, he already was defeated.

Sachiko cried, trying to stop Kashiwagi. "You bastard! How could you do this to her?"

When he spoke, he was opening the car door. "Tell her; I don't mind. I swore I will not let any Ogasawara bothering her anymore. You are that painting. You are that noxous wind. And I will make her forget you."

He took a step back, and he raised his hand to demonstrate an informal salute to illuminated windows of the Ogasawara estate. He smirked, and he went inside the car.

Sachiko flinched as she heard a loud crack of fire and wood when it sped away, its wheels crushed the artpiece.

The painting's frame was all she could discern from the bright fire in front of her. She was seeing different shades of green, violet and blue as the canvass was swallowed by the flames and disintigrated. The chemicals from the powdered dyes that Yumi used created colors of fire were flickering before Sachiko's eyes. She found it terrifyingly beautiful, that even the brink of the painting's death had created this fire as its last struggle. Sachiko could not even take a step to stop the fire from ceasing its existence.

Soon, the canvas was reduced to ashes; the frame was reduced to brittle hardwood covered in soot and dust.

She could not feel anger. It was all her fault. She felt that she was already at the limits of the good grace of Maria-sama. She lost Ryu. She lost the painting. She could not even save the person in front of her. She could not even tell that she loved Ryu and that she was bearing their unborn child. She could not even find the words to settle Ryu's doubts.

She was like this burnt painting . . . so useless as it turned to dirt.

No, it could be saved. Even dirt has use.

She felt her phone in her hands. She can call—anyone. . . is there anyone that can help her? This was The Passing Wind. She dialed for the first person in her mind . . . "Yoshino-san?"

/ Sachiko-san? /

"Yoshino-san, please . . . help me."

/ What? Sachiko-san, are you all right? Where are you? /

"Oga—Ogasawara estate. The Passing Wind. It was here . . . it—it was destroyed."

/ Don't touch anything. We're on our way. /

Sachiko's ears heard a thin piercing tone from the speaker.

Ogasawara Kyouiichi was looking down through the tall windows of his office room in the Ogasawara Mansion. From there, he watched his grandson-in-law waged war against the family that took him under. So, he became Kashiwagi's ally. It was a surprising progress. He could not just fire him . . . no, that man had secured himself far more insurance than Kyouiichi anticipated. Disowning him from the family and from the company would make him lose face. That he could not handle his own subordinates. He had his grip on his wife. No, he just made his betrayal public. That was his intention. All his life, Kyouiichi was surrounded with people who thought they could just pacify a man like him. Too bad his son had not made himself worthy of the position. But his granddaughter—Sachiko still had a chance. They were still not finished finishing each other's pawns off the board.

But something was off—what was that grandiose bonfire in front of his house? He thought that was a painting, and then that bastard Kashiwagi came in like an entrance (he could still sneak himself into his property even though he blatantly announced insurgency against him) and finished the party by arson.

Even though the cat is here, the mice still play.

Every generation has its heroes, and that includes wretched ones who don't even deserve graces given to them.

But that artifact meant something to those three.

I see it.

That painting. That painting. . . painter . . . Fukuzawa Yumi. Assuming if it were Fukuzawa's artpiece . . . she was Kashiwagi's employee; Sachiko's ex-lover; Ryu's rival for her. Kashiwagi's involvement didn't make sense; it was peculiar that he would destroy a painting of his employee. Or be involved in his employee's personal life. It would be . . . too meddlesome; intruding.

How would he wedge himself out of this sea of disappointment? He thought that this is a battle between generations. The unbending philosophies of the old against the revolutionary beliefs of the new. He thought Sachiko and Ryu had been planning this with Kashiwagi all along, but he was wrong; the other camp had internal problems for themselves.

{AFTERMATH}

"Are you sure about this, Touma?"

"There will be a time that she'll thank me, Kashiwagi." He said in a tired, croaky voice.

"You are a freak. It would have been easier if you left that painting as it is. Arson is always seen in a negative note."

"Because burning it wouldn't showcase your efforts, Kashiwagi?"

"Precisely." He frowned. He didn't like seeing Ogasawara Kyouiichi looming above them like a watchful vulture on a dying prey.

TO BE CONTINUED

A/N: Hinomura Takuya was mentioned in Chapter 4,6,7,8,9,11,. He was Yumi's boss' uncle. And her second lover. I need to include him, as part of Yumi's backstory.

I know, I know. Why did Sachiko just tell the frigging moron that they're pregnant?! Goodness, this is sounding more and more like a soap opera.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing chapter 17! And the PMs humbled me so much. I had two special holidays here in PH and I took the time to review the last chapters and write. See what you do to me? I told you, reviews are important. It makes me happy, which will make my fingers keyboard-happy.

Sundayevehero: I don't know how to contact you, but know this: I am happy that there's a reader who somehow sympathizes with Ryu and Sachiko (because that's what I got from your review, correct me violently if I read it wrong). He may have the biggest asshole but somewhere in this unfathomable world, a guy like him doesn't like how he views his life, or how he lives it. But he still couldn't leave that lifestyle. Dunno, that's my take on Ryu. And you reviewed twice! Now, I'm pressured . . . I hope I wouldn't disappoint readers.

Reviews, please?