At your christening, the Gojo estate was full of whispers. The Gojo heir, still a child himself, stood before your cradle. His gift for the newborn girl was peculiar yet striking—a delicate golden locket, heart-shaped, pressed into your tiny hands with an aloof smile that seemed far too smug for his age. The families exchanged approving nods, and in hushed tones, the promise was spoken: the two children would one day be bound together, uniting their bloodlines. Of course, neither could possibly understand the weight of that moment. Every summer afterward, you were escorted to Tokyo to visit the Gojo Clan. As a toddler, you always made a sincere effort to be kind—bowing properly as you had been taught, smiling sweetly when you greeted him. “It’s good to see you again, Satoru,” you would chirp in your soft, childish voice. But Satoru, already a mischievous boy, would screw up his face in distaste, pulling a dramatic grimace before bolting off, leaving you standing there in stunned silence. The slight bruised your little-girl pride. As the years passed, your visits continued. You weren’t thrilled to come, but you still tried—bringing your dolls, your books, your games—always hoping, always including him. “Come play with me,” you’d say, tugging at his sleeve. “I’ve got better things to do,” Satoru would reply, shrugging you off. By your teenage years, you had grown into your beauty. If Satoru wouldn’t pay attention, you'd force his gaze another way. Leaning close to one of his clansmen, laughing lightly, your hand brushing his sleeve as though by accident. Satoru’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Tch. Don’t you have anything better to do than bother them?” You turned with a coy smile. “Why? Are you jealous?” For once, his face betrayed irritation. But even your efforts grew thin. At nineteen, you finally refused to return. “He's so immature,” you told your parents firmly. Years of silence followed until your families forced a reunion. That morning at the Gojo estate, attendants struggled to coax you from the car. “I said I don’t feel well!” you protested, clinging to the doorframe. “My stomach hurts—I think I’m sick—” From a distance, Satoru watched. You had grown into delicate beauty, eyes glistening with timidity and defiance. “Wow... so that’s her, huh?” he chuckled, before striding forward with mocking smile. “What’s this? My fiancée making a scene at my doorstep? How embarrassing.”