Chapter 1: The Spilled Coffee and the Scarlet Dress
The bell above the door of ‘The Daily Grind’ chimed a delicate, farewell melody as Nami stepped out into the crisp Tuesday morning. The air in the city’s financial district was already buzzing with a purposeful energy, a stark contrast to the quiet sanctuary of the cafe she had just left. In her hands, she cradled the warm cardboard sleeve of her usual order: a large oat milk latte, an extra shot, no sugar. It was a small, predictable ritual that anchored her day, a necessary fortification before she had to navigate the social minefield of the office.
She was so focused on securing the lid and taking that first, precious sip that she didn't see the tall, solid figure turning into her path. The collision was swift and clumsy. A jolt of impact. A gasp, hers, sharp and startled. The scalding heat of coffee blooming across her chest, followed by the cold, shocking wetness as it soaked through her blouse and the thick, comforting wool of her oversized cardigan.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking—” The apology tumbled from her lips in a frantic, breathless rush, her eyes darting down to assess the damage. A large, dark stain was already spreading across the beige fabric of her blouse, a humiliating badge of her clumsiness.
“The fault is entirely mine,” a deep, calm voice cut through her panic. “I was engrossed in my phone and not watching my surroundings. Please, accept my sincerest apologies.”
Nami’s gaze lifted from the ruin of her clothing to the man she had bumped into. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey suit that whispered of bespoke tailoring and exorbitant cost. Not a drop of coffee had touched him; he had managed to hold his own porcelain cup steady, a small miracle of coordination. He was handsome in a severe, polished way, with sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and dark hair styled with precise elegance. But it was his eyes that held her—an intense, penetrating shade of obsidian that seemed to take in every detail of her flustered state in a single, sweeping glance.
Her self-consciousness, a constant, humming undercurrent in her life, flared into a roaring blaze. She could feel the wet fabric clinging to her chest, outlining the curves she worked so hard to conceal. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her torso, trying to hide the stain, to shrink away from his perceptive gaze.
“It’s… it’s fine, really,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. “No harm done. I should have been paying attention.”
“Nonsense,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He gestured to the expansive stain. “I’ve ruined your blouse and, I assume, your morning. The least I can do is replace them. There’s a boutique just around the corner.”
Replace them? The idea was ludicrous. The boutiques in this part of town were temples of fashion she wouldn’t dare enter, their windows displaying price tags that could likely cover her rent for a month. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. Really. It’ll wash out.” It was a lie; the cardigan was probably a lost cause.
“I must insist,” he said, and there was a quiet authority in his voice that made her protests feel feeble. “It’s a matter of principle. I cannot, in good conscience, let you go to your workplace in such a state.”
For ten agonizing minutes, the dance continued on the bustling sidewalk. Nami, with her head bowed and her cheeks burning, offered every feeble excuse she could muster. It’s okay. I have a spare sweater at the office. I live nearby. He, with unflappable patience and firm resolve, countered each one. It’s the least I can do. I would be remiss. I insist.
Finally, overwhelmed and acutely aware of the passing time, she capitulated with a small, defeated nod. “Alright. Thank you. That’s… very kind.”
A sleek, black sedan, so silent it seemed to have materialized from the shadows, pulled up to the curb. A man built like a fortress, with a stoic expression and an earpiece, emerged from the passenger seat and opened the rear door. The man in the suit—her accidental assailant—gestured for her to enter.
Panic seized her again. Get in a car with a stranger? “The boutique… you said it was around the corner?”
“It is,” he assured her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “But it’s raining coffee, and this is more efficient. My associate will drive us.”
Hesitantly, she slid into the plush leather interior. The car smelled of clean, expensive aftershave and lemon wood polish. He joined her, and the bodyguard—or chauffeur, she wasn’t sure—closed the door, enclosing them in a bubble of quiet luxury. The drive lasted less than a minute, just long enough for her to feel utterly out of place.
The boutique, ‘Valentina,’ was even more intimidating up close. It was all soft lighting, minimalist decor, and air that smelled of tuberose and money. A saleswoman with a perfectly coiffed bob and a razor-sharp black dress glided towards them, her smile professional and assessing.
“Mr. Arima,” she said, her voice a smooth purr. “What a pleasure. How may we assist you today?”
Arima? The name tickled something in the back of Nami’s mind, but her embarrassment was too all-consuming to place it.
“An unfortunate accident with a coffee,” the man—Mr. Arima—explained smoothly. “My companion requires a new outfit. Something suitable for a professional environment. Please assist her.”
The saleswoman’s eyes swept over Nami’s baggy, coffee-stained cardigan and simple slacks, but her smile never wavered. “Of course. Right this way, madam.”
What followed was the most surreal and uncomfortable twenty minutes of Nami’s life. She was ushered into a changing room larger than her entire bathroom. The saleswoman, whose name was Celeste, brought in an array of clothing, her fingers deft and impersonal. Blouses, trousers, dresses. Each piece felt alien against her skin—fine silks, soft wools, cuts that were meant to accentuate, not hide.
Nami tried on a conservative navy-blue dress first. It was simple, but the fabric draped in a way that hinted at the shape beneath. She felt exposed. Next, a pair of tailored trousers and a silk blouse. The blouse was a nightmare; it clung to every curve, making her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
“Perhaps something with a little more… structure,” Celeste mused, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. She disappeared and returned holding a single garment bag. “I think this might be the one. It just arrived. The color is exceptional.”
She unzipped the bag to reveal a dress of a deep, vibrant crimson. It was a simple wrap-style dress, but the material had a slight weight to it, a subtle stiffness that promised to hold its shape.
With trembling hands, Nami put it on. The fabric was cool and whisper-soft against her skin. She tied the sash at her waist and turned to face the three-way mirror.
The woman staring back at her was a stranger.
The dress was a revelation. The crimson was a perfect, fiery match for her hair, making the red strands seem richer, more intentional, rather than just a trait she’d inherited. The cut was deceptively simple. It hugged the gentle swell of her breasts, cinched in her waist—a waist she never acknowledged—and skimmed over her hips, hinting at their curve without being overt. The length was just right, ending at her knees. For the first time, she didn’t see separate, awkward parts of her body. She saw a silhouette. A shape. A woman who looked… proportionate. Even elegant.
She was so captivated by the reflection that she didn’t hear Mr. Arima approach until he was standing just behind her, his image appearing in the mirror. His dark eyes met hers in the glass, and for a long moment, he said nothing. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving, analytical, as if he were evaluating one of his company’s new products.
“This is the one,” he stated, his voice low and definitive. There was no compliment, no flowery language. It was a simple declaration of fact.
Nami’s cheeks flushed, but for the first time that morning, it wasn’t entirely from humiliation. A tiny, forbidden thrill shot through her. “It’s… very red.”
“It suits you,” he said, his tone still impersonal. He turned to Celeste. “We’ll take it. Please package her original clothing.”
Before Nami could even process it, he had handed a black credit card to the saleswoman. The transaction was completed with silent efficiency. Her coffee-stained cardigan and blouse were returned to her in a sleek ‘Valentina’ bag, and the dress she was wearing was now, apparently, hers.
Back in the car, she felt hyper-aware of the fabric moving against her skin with every breath. She kept her arms tightly crossed, the old habit dying hard.
“Where may we take you?” Mr. Arima asked.
“The cafe, please,” she said quickly. “The Daily Grind. I… I still need my coffee.” It was a feeble excuse, but she needed a moment to compose herself, to step out of this bizarre dream and back into her normal life.
He instructed the driver, and moments later, they were idling outside the familiar cafe. As she moved to open the door, he stopped her with a gesture, reaching into his inner breast pocket.
“Again, my apologies for the inconvenience,” he said, handing her a stark, heavy-stock white business card. “Should there be any further issue with the cleaning of your original garments, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, her fingers closing around the card without looking at it. She all but fled the car, the door closing with a soft, solid thud behind her. She didn’t look back as the sedan pulled away, merging seamlessly into the river of morning traffic.
Inside ‘The Daily Grind,’ the routine was a comfort. She ordered the same latte, her hands shaking slightly as she paid. Only when she was back on the sidewalk, the warm cup in her hands, did she dare to look at the card.
The paper was thick, textured. The engraving was raised under her thumb. It read:
Arima Kousei Chief Executive Officer Gofood Innovations
The world tilted. The sounds of the city—the honking cars, the chatter of pedestrians—faded into a dull roar. Her breath hitched in her throat. Arima Kousei. The Arima Kousei. The brilliant, notoriously private, and fiercely demanding CEO of Gofood. The man she and her seven colleagues in the Creation and Evaluation team referred to in hushed, slightly awed tones. The man whose approval was the final, formidable gatekeeper standing between their recipes and supermarket shelves nationwide.
She had spilled coffee on him. And he had bought her a dress. A dress that currently felt less like a gift and more like a spotlight, illuminating her for the entire world to see.
A wave of cold dread washed over her, followed by a strange, giddy exhilaration. He hadn’t recognized her. Of course he hadn’t. Why would the CEO know one face among the hundreds of employees in the building? She was just a clumsy woman on the street. It was a bizarre, random act of corporate chivalry that she would never, ever speak of.
Yet, as she hurried towards the towering glass spire that housed Gofood’s headquarters, a part of her, a part she usually kept locked away, felt a thrill. For a few minutes, she hadn’t been invisible Nami from the eighth floor. She had been a woman in a scarlet dress, deemed worthy of a CEO’s time and attention.
She clutched the business card like a secret talisman, slipped it into her pocket, and stepped into the elevator, praying the day would return to its predictable, anonymous rhythm.
---
The Gofood offices on the eighth floor were a study in modern, collaborative design. The space was open-plan, flooded with natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of the city skyline. In the center of the space was the heart of their work: a state-of-the-art test kitchen, enclosed in glass, like a culinary laboratory. It was here that ideas were made tangible, where scents of roasting spices, baking bread, and simmering sauces often filled the air.
Surrounding the kitchen were eight desks, arranged in two rows of four, facing each other. This was the domain of the Creation and Evaluation team. Nami’s desk was the second on the left, tucked away as much as possible. It was adorned with a small, resilient succulent and a framed photo of a serene landscape, personal touches that helped her carve out a small sense of belonging.
She was the third to arrive. Kenji, the team’s boisterous and perpetually hungry senior member, was already at his desk, noisily eating a bowl of cereal. Yumi, quiet and meticulous, gave Nami a small, shy smile from across the aisle.
“Morning, Nami-chan!” Kenji called out through a mouthful of granola. “Whoa, new look? That’s a bold color for a Tuesday!”
Nami’s heart hammered against her ribs. She managed a weak smile, sliding into her chair as if she could make herself disappear into it. “Oh, this? Just… something I found.” She busied herself with booting up her computer, hoping the subject would drop.
Yumi’s eyes, however, were sharper. “It’s a beautiful cut, Nami. It really flatters you.”
“Th-thank you,” Nami stammered, feeling the heat return to her face. Their attention was unbearable. Every kind word felt like an accusation, pointing out the very fact of her visibility. She pulled her cardigan—a spare she kept in her bottom drawer—over the dress, the familiar bulk a welcome shield.
As the rest of the team trickled in—the jovial Sato, the serious Akira, the motherly Hanako, the gossipy Riko, and their team lead, the unflappable Mr. Tanaka—the office hummed to life. The morning passed in a familiar blur of emails, recipe database searches, and quiet concentration. Nami was finalizing the digital file for her latest creation: a line of vegan, gluten-free curry pastes aimed at the health-conscious market. It was her passion project, born from a desire to make flavorful food accessible to those with dietary restrictions. She had spent weeks perfecting the balance of lemongrass, galangal, and kaffir lime leaves, ensuring the paste was vibrant and complex without relying on artificial enhancers.
She was about to hit ‘send’ to forward it to the CEO’s secretary when Riko’s voice, pitched high with excitement, cut through the quiet.
“Guess what? Emergency all-hands meeting! In fifteen minutes! In the main auditorium!”
A ripple of surprise went through the team. All-hands meetings were rare and usually reserved for major company announcements—quarterly results, a major acquisition, or, on the more ominous side, restructuring.
“Did the memo say what it’s about?” Mr. Tanaka asked, his brow furrowed.
“No,” Riko said, her eyes wide. “Just that attendance is mandatory. From the CEO’s office directly.”
Nami’s blood ran cold. The CEO’s office. Her hand went instinctively to the pocket of her cardigan, where the business card felt like a burning ember. It was a coincidence, it had to be. He wouldn’t call a company-wide meeting about a spilled coffee. The logic was absurd, but anxiety was rarely logical.
Fifteen minutes later, the entire Gofood workforce was packed into the large auditorium. Nami found a seat near the back, behind a pillar, making herself as small as possible. The buzz of conversation was deafening. Then, the side door opened, and the room fell into an immediate, expectant hush.
Arima Kousei walked onto the stage. He moved with the same effortless authority he had displayed on the street, but here, under the bright lights, it was magnified a hundredfold. He didn’t need a microphone to command attention; his presence alone seemed to suck the oxygen from the room. He was still wearing the charcoal grey suit, and Nami had a sudden, vivid memory of the scent of lemon polish and expensive wool from the car.
Her stomach clenched. From this distance, he was an icon, untouchable and severe. This was the reality of Arima Kousei, not the unexpectedly courteous stranger from the morning.
He stepped up to the podium, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. They seemed to pause for a fraction of a second in her general direction, and Nami’s heart leaped into her throat. He can’t see you, she told herself fiercely. You’re invisible.
“Good morning,” his voice echoed through the speakers, crisp and clear. “I will be brief. I have called this meeting to announce a new company-wide initiative. It is called ‘Project Genesis’.”
A screen behind him lit up with the Gofood logo, which then morphed into the words Project Genesis: Back to the Flavor.
“For too long,” Arima continued, his gaze sweeping across the silent audience, “the food industry, our industry, has been dominated by a race to the bottom. A race for the longest shelf life, the lowest cost, the most addictive combination of salt, sugar, and fat. We have forgotten why we started. The flavor. The authentic, uncompromising taste of real, high-quality ingredients.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. The room was utterly captivated.
“Project Genesis is a return to our roots. For the next quarter, our primary focus will be on a new, premium product line. No artificial preservatives. No cost-cutting fillers. We will source the best ingredients from dedicated suppliers, and we will create products that stand on the merit of their taste alone. This line will carry the Gofood name, but it will be a seal of quality, a promise of purity.”
He turned to fully face the screen. “And this project will be led from the front. By this team.” A new slide appeared. It was a photograph of the eighth-floor test kitchen, and beneath it, the words: The Creation & Evaluation Team.
A collective gasp, followed by a wave of excited murmurs, went through the auditorium. Nami felt a jolt of adrenaline mixed with sheer terror. This was huge. This was the kind of project that could define a career.
“The C&E team has one month,” Arima’s voice cut through the noise, silencing it instantly. “One month to develop the flagship product for this line. This will not be a committee decision. I will be personally evaluating every submission. The recipe that I select will be the cornerstone of Gofood’s future.”
Personally evaluating. The words echoed in Nami’s head. Her vegan curry paste, which she had been about to send to his secretary, suddenly felt small and insignificant. A health-conscious product for a premium, flavor-focused line? It might be exactly what he was looking for, or it might be completely wrong.
“This is an unprecedented opportunity,” Arima concluded, his tone leaving no doubt about the stakes. “I expect unprecedented results. That is all.”
He gave a curt nod and walked off the stage, leaving a room buzzing with a frenzy of speculation and ambition. As everyone filed out, the C&E team was surrounded by congratulations and envious looks.
Back on the eighth floor, the atmosphere was electric. Kenji was practically vibrating. “This is it! This is our moment! A flagship product! Personally chosen by Arima himself!”
“A month is not a long time,” Mr. Tanaka said, ever the pragmatist, though a rare smile played on his lips. “We will need to put all other projects on hold. We’ll meet after lunch to strategize. Everyone, start thinking.”
Nami returned to her desk, her mind reeling. The encounter with Arima, the dress, the meeting—it was all too much. She opened the digital file for her curry paste. The ‘send’ button seemed to glow accusingly. Should she send it now, before the madness of Project Genesis consumed them all? Or should she hold it back, refine it specifically for this new, daunting brief?
As she debated, an email notification popped up in the corner of her screen. It was from the Executive Office. The sender was ‘Arima, Kousei’.
Her breath froze. With a trembling hand, she clicked it open.
The message was terse and to the point.
To: Nami Watanabe From: Arima, Kousei Subject: Your Recipe
Ms. Watanabe,
My secretary’s log shows a recipe for a vegan curry paste from you is pending review. Do not forward it through the standard channel.
Given the announcement of Project Genesis, I am altering the evaluation process for the C&E team. You will each present your proposed recipe concepts to me directly in a meeting this Friday, 10:00 AM, in my office.
Be prepared to discuss not only the recipe but its strategic fit for the new premium line. The usefulness, as you know, and the promotion. But think bigger.
Arima Kousei CEO, Gofood Innovations
Nami read the email three times. The words ‘present your proposed recipe concepts to me directly’ seemed to burn into her retina. A one-on-one meeting. With the CEO. In three days.
The other lines were equally terrifying. ‘Do not forward it through the standard channel.’ Had he known it was her? Had he seen her name on the recipe log and connected it to the woman in the red dress? Or was this simply a new procedure for everyone, and the timing was, once again, a cruel coincidence?
She looked around the office. Kenji was already on the phone, probably calling a supplier. Yumi was sketching flavor profiles in her notebook. No one else seemed to be in a state of silent panic. Cautiously, she leaned over to Yumi.
“Yumi? Did you… get an email from the CEO?”
Yumi looked up, her expression puzzled. “From Arima-sama? No. Why? Did you?”
Nami’s heart sank. “No, no,” she lied quickly. “I just thought… maybe about the meeting.”
Yumi smiled. “I’m sure Mr. Tanaka will get a briefing soon. Don’t worry.”
But Nami was far beyond worry. This was targeted. This was specific. He knew. He had to know. The business card in her pocket felt heavier than lead. The scarlet dress she wore felt like a uniform for a confrontation she was utterly unprepared for.
The rest of the day was a blur of anxiety. She couldn’t focus on Project Genesis, on team strategies, on anything other than the looming Friday meeting. When five o’clock finally arrived, she was the first to leave, fleeing the office as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
The train ride home was a cacophony of her own frantic thoughts. She replayed the morning’s encounter over and over. Had she said anything stupid? Had she thanked him properly? Why had he chosen her recipe for this special, solitary summons?
Her small apartment was a welcome refuge. It was neat, quiet, and filled with her own things—books on food science, shelves lined with jars of spices from around the world, a collection of vintage tea towels. It was her sanctuary from a world that often felt too loud, too demanding.
She changed out of the red dress, hanging it carefully in her closet. It looked alien among her sea of beiges, greys, and blacks. She put on her most comfortable, baggy sweatpants and an old university hoodie, the soft fabric a balm to her frayed nerves.
As she was making herself a simple dinner of miso soup and rice, her phone buzzed. It was a message from her older sister, Akari.
Akari: Hey little sis! How was your day? Anything exciting happen?
Nami stared at the screen. Exciting was one word for it. Terrifying, surreal, mind-breaking were others. She typed out a reply, her thumbs flying over the screen.
Nami: You would not believe me if I told you. I think I’m going to be sick.
Her phone rang immediately. Akari never could wait for details.
“Okay, spill. What happened? Did you finally talk to that guy in accounting? The one with the nice smile?”
“No! God, no. This is… bigger.” Nami took a deep breath and launched into the story. She told Akari about the coffee, the intimidatingly handsome man, the boutique, the surreal experience of the dress, the business card, and the horrifying realization of who he was. She finished with the company meeting and the personal email.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Nami,” Akari said, her voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. “You literally bumped into the CEO of your multi-billion-yen company, he bought you a designer dress that apparently makes you look like a bombshell, and now he’s summoned you to his office for a private audience. This isn’t a bad day; this is the plot of a movie!”
“It’s not a movie, it’s a nightmare!” Nami wailed, stirring her soup agitatedly. “He’s going to fire me. He probably thinks I’m an incompetent klutz who can’t even walk down the street without causing a disaster. Or worse, he thinks I did it on purpose! To get his attention!”
“Or,” Akari said, her tone shifting to her practical, big-sister mode, “he’s a CEO who caused a problem and fixed it, like a responsible adult. And now, he’s being a hands-on CEO by meeting with his product development team. Maybe the email is a coincidence. Maybe he’s sending it to everyone individually to make it feel important.”
“But Yumi didn’t get one.”
“Okay, fine. So he knows it’s you. So what? He’s not going to fire you over spilled coffee. That’s ridiculous. If anything, this is your chance.”
“My chance for what? To humiliate myself in front of the most powerful man in the company?”
“Your chance to shine, you idiot!” Akari’s voice was firm. “You’re always hiding, Nami. Behind your clothes, behind your desk, in the corner of the room. For once, you can’t hide. You have to walk into that office on Friday and show him who you are. Not the clumsy girl from the street, but the brilliant food scientist you are. This curry paste thing you’ve been ranting about for weeks—you believe in it, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. You believe in it. So sell it. You said the dress made you feel… different, right? Confident?”
Nami glanced towards her closet. “I… I felt seen.”
“Then be seen. Wear the dress on Friday.”
“I can’t!” The idea was mortifying. It would be like admitting she knew who he was, that she valued his opinion, that the morning had meant something to her.
“Why not? It’s a professional, beautiful dress. It’s armor. Put it on, and go in there and show Arima Kousei that the woman who creates the best damn curry paste in Japan works for him.”
Akari’s pep talk, as blunt as it was, planted a seed of defiance in Nami’s chest. The fear was still there, a cold, tight knot in her stomach. But underneath it, something else was stirring. A flicker of the thrill she’d felt in the boutique mirror. The woman in the red dress hadn’t been afraid. She had looked… capable.
For the next two days, Nami lived and breathed her curry paste. She stayed late at the office, tweaking the recipe in the test kitchen, making microscopic adjustments to the balance of flavors. She prepared a presentation, outlining her sourcing strategy for organic turmeric and fair-trade coconut sugar, her marketing plan targeting wellness influencers and high-end grocery stores. She practiced her pitch in front of her bathroom mirror, her voice shaky at first, then growing steadily stronger.
She avoided any further interaction with Arima. She took the stairs instead of the elevator, she ate lunch at her desk, and she kept her head down during team meetings. The red dress hung in her closet, a silent challenge.
Friday morning dawned grey and drizzly. Nami’s nerves were stretched taut. She stood in front of her closet for a full ten minutes, her hand hovering over her usual uniform of a beige blouse and black trousers. Then, with a decisive breath, she reached for the Valentina garment bag.
She dressed carefully, applying a little more makeup than usual—a touch of mascara to emphasize her green eyes, a hint of lip balm. When she looked in the mirror, the stranger was back. But this time, the stranger looked determined. The crimson fabric no longer felt like a spotlight; it felt like a flag. A declaration.
The walk to the CEO’s office on the top floor felt like a march to the gallows. The corridor was impossibly quiet, carpeted in a thick, sound-absorbing pile. His secretary, a severe-looking woman in her fifties, looked up as Nami approached.
“Nami Watanabe for Mr. Arima,” Nami said, her voice surprisingly steady.
The secretary checked her schedule. “Ah, yes. Go right in, Ms. Watanabe. He’s expecting you.”
Nami took a deep, shuddering breath, smoothed down the front of the red dress, and pushed open the heavy, polished oak door.
Arima Kousei’s office was breathtaking. One entire wall was glass, offering a panoramic, almost god-like view of the city below, the clouds hanging low over the skyscrapers. The room was spacious and sparsely furnished—a large, minimalist desk of dark wood, a single bookshelf filled with leather-bound volumes, and a small sitting area with two low-slung leather chairs. There were no personal photographs, no knick-knacks. It was a room designed for work, for thought, for power.
He was standing by the window, his back to her, looking out at the rain-streaked city. He turned as she entered.
His eyes, those dark, penetrating eyes, found hers immediately. Then, they did a slow, deliberate sweep down to the red dress and back up to her face. There was no discernible expression—no surprise, no approval, no disapproval. It was the same analytical gaze from the boutique.
“Ms. Watanabe,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast room. “Please, have a seat.”
He gestured to one of the leather chairs. He did not mention the dress. He did not mention the coffee. He simply walked to his desk, picked up a tablet, and sat in the chair opposite her.
The battle, she realized, had begun. And the first thing she had to do was survive the silence.Of course. Here is the continuation and expansion of the chapter, delving deeper into the tension of the meeting and the aftermath.
---
The silence in the office was a physical presence, thick and heavy as the rain clouds beyond the glass wall. Arima’s gaze was a weight on her skin, and Nami felt a hot flush of stupidity wash over her. The dress, which had felt like armor moments ago, now felt like a garish, transparent ploy. Of course, a man like him, wealthy and powerful, had probably dealt with similar "accidents" before. She was likely not the first woman to have a designer dress bought for her after a conveniently clumsy encounter. The thought was humiliating. She had been foolish to think this meeting was about anything other than her professional incompetence, now compounded by a perceived personal audacity.
She couldn't bring herself to sit in the low-slung chair opposite him. It felt too intimate, too much like a conversation between equals. She needed the solid ground under her feet.
"I- I'll stand, sir," she managed to say, her voice tighter than she intended.
He raised a single, sharp eyebrow. It was a minute gesture, but it spoke volumes of his assessment. After a beat, he gave a curt nod. "As you wish."
He didn't move from his position by the window, his posture relaxed yet radiating an unnerving stillness. "I hope your recipe is off head? I'd prefer not to have you reading from notes like a school presentation."
"Yes, sir," she said, forcing her eyes to remain downcast, fixed on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug. It was safer than meeting his gaze.
"Good." He finally moved, walking with a predator's quiet grace to his monolithic desk. He picked up a tablet, his fingers swiping across the screen. "Now, go to the kitchen there," he said, without looking up, gesturing with his chin towards a discreet door Nami hadn't noticed, seamlessly integrated into the wood-paneled wall. "And make your recipe. I'll give you thirty minutes. Then, we will evaluate and taste."
The directive was so unexpected it momentarily short-circuited her anxiety. He didn't want a presentation? He wanted a live demonstration? This was far outside the established protocol. In the lab on the eighth floor, they prepared samples in a controlled environment, which were then presented in sterile little bowls. This felt… personal. Immediate.
She nodded mutely, her throat too dry to form words, and hurried towards the door he had indicated. Her white sneakers, practical and comfortable, squeaked embarrassingly on the polished floor. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room. Yes, she had worn sneakers with the designer dress. The idea of navigating the city streets and the office in heels was a nightmare she wouldn't entertain, but now the choice felt like another mark of her inadequacy, a clash of worlds that didn't belong together.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen. It was not what she expected. While the eighth-floor lab was a professional, industrial space, this was something else entirely. It was compact but impeccably outfitted, more like the kitchen of a serious, obsessive home chef who had an unlimited budget. The appliances were top-of-the-line German and Japanese models, the countertops were a single slab of dark, polished granite, and the knives hanging on a magnetic strip were the kind she’d only ever seen in specialist catalogues. Every ingredient she could possibly need for her curry paste—and countless others—was neatly organized in glass jars and professional refrigeration units. It was a temple to flavor, a silent testament to the man who owned it. This was not just for show; this was a kitchen that was used.
The reality of the situation crashed down on her. She was about to cook for the CEO of the company, in his private kitchen, under a time limit. The pressure was immense, a vise tightening around her chest. But a strange thing happened as she looked at the pristine ingredients and the professional tools. This was her language. This was her domain. The anxiety began to recede, replaced by a focused, professional calm.
With practiced efficiency, she found a hair tie in her pocket and swiftly pulled her red hair into a high, tight ponytail. She located a clean apron—a simple, stark white one—and tied it securely over the red dress, the fabric instantly transforming from a statement of fashion to a uniform of function. The act of tying the apron strings was a ritual, a shedding of her insecure self and a stepping into her role as a creator.
She washed her hands meticulously at the deep sink, the hot water a grounding sensation. Thirty minutes. It was tight, but doable. She had made this paste so many times she could do it in her sleep. She took a deep, centering breath, inhaling the faint, clean scents of lemon and steel. Then, she began to work.
Her movements were economical and precise. She gathered her ingredients: the knobby, aromatic fresh turmeric and galangal, the plump cloves of garlic, the slender lemongrass stalks, the dark, shiny kaffir lime leaves. She ignored the high-tech food processor and reached for the granite mortar and pestle. For this paste, texture was key. It needed the slight unevenness, the bruising and crushing that released the essential oils in a way blades could not replicate.
The rhythmic, grinding sound of the pestle against the mortar became a mantra. The world narrowed to the task at hand. The vibrant yellow of the turmeric stained her fingers. The citrusy perfume of the lemongrass filled the air. She toasted whole spices—coriander seeds, cumin seeds, white peppercorns—in a dry pan until they were fragrant, then added them to the mortar, the heat releasing their deeper, earthier notes. She was no longer Nami, the shy woman in a too-red dress. She was Nami, the alchemist, transforming raw ingredients into something greater than the sum of its parts.
---
Arima Kousei did not look at his tablet. He stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the rain trace slow, meandering paths down the glass. But his attention was not on the cityscape. His ears were tuned to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
The sharp, efficient chop of a knife. The sizzle of spices hitting a hot pan. The steady, rhythmic thud of a pestle. There was a cadence to it, a quiet confidence that was at odds with the flustered woman who had stood before him moments ago. He had expected hesitation, the clatter of dropped utensils, the frantic rustle of paper notes. Instead, he heard the sounds of focused expertise.
He had, of course, recognized her the moment she walked in. The red hair was unmistakable. The memory of the morning was clear: the startling green of her eyes wide with panic, the way she had tried to make herself smaller, the stark contrast between her baggy, stained clothing and the striking figure she had become in the Valentina dress. He had insisted on replacing her clothes out of a genuine sense of responsibility, but also out of a flicker of curiosity. He had seen the potential hidden beneath the layers of self-conscious fabric.
The email had not been a coincidence. When his secretary had flagged her recipe for the vegan curry paste, the name had clicked. It was an interesting synchronicity. He had been planning Project Genesis for months, and her concept, on paper, aligned with the philosophy of purity and quality. But paper was one thing. Execution was everything. He wanted to see how she worked under pressure. He wanted to see if the woman who created the recipe had the same substance as the idea itself.
The thirty-minute timer on his watch chimed softly. He turned from the window as the kitchen door opened.
Nami emerged, carrying a small wooden board. On it sat a pristine white ramekin filled with a vibrantly golden-yellow paste. Beside it was a small bowl of steaming jasmine rice, a tiny dish of coconut cream, and a few fresh cilantro leaves for garnish. She had removed the apron. The red dress was once again on full display, but now it seemed a part of the presentation. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, and a smudge of turmeric on her wrist. She looked… alive.
She placed the board carefully on the low table between the two chairs. The aroma that followed her out of the kitchen was extraordinary—bright, complex, and inviting. It was the scent of a Southeast Asian street market, distilled into something elegant.
“Your time is up,” he stated, moving to stand opposite her. “Present your product, Ms. Watanabe.”
She took a subtle, deep breath. This was it. She could not look down. She forced her eyes to meet his. They were as dark and impenetrable as ever.
“This,” she began, her voice initially quiet but gaining strength with each word, “is a Gofood Genesis-grade Vegan Yellow Curry Paste. The base is fresh turmeric, galangal, and lemongrass, crushed by hand to preserve the integrity of the essential oils. The spice profile comes from toasted coriander, cumin, and white pepper, ground fresh. There are no stabilizers, no preservatives, no artificial flavors or colors. The vibrant yellow comes purely from the fresh turmeric.”
She gestured to the rice. “The paste is designed to be versatile. A single tablespoon can be simmered with coconut milk for a traditional curry. It can be mixed into mayonnaise for a sandwich spread. It can be used as a marinade for tofu or vegetables. The focus is on delivering a clean, potent, and authentic flavor experience for the health-conscious consumer who doesn’t want to compromise on taste.”
She paused, waiting. He had not moved. His expression was unreadable.
“And the promotion?” he prompted, his voice low.
This was the part she had practiced. “We target the premium wellness market. Partner with high-end yoga studios, vegan influencers, and specialty grocery stores. We emphasize the story: hand-crushed, all-natural, the ‘anti-processed’ food. The packaging should be simple, elegant, glass jarring to show the quality of the product inside. We call it… ‘Sunset Gold Paste’.”
He said nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the ramekin of golden paste. The silence stretched, becoming unbearable. Nami’s confidence began to waver. Had she been too bold? Was the name stupid?
Finally, he picked up the small spoon she had provided. He dipped the tip into the paste, then onto a grain of rice. He brought it to his mouth.
Nami watched, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure he could hear it. This was the moment. The tasting. The CEO of Gofood was tasting her creation. His reaction would determine everything.
He chewed slowly, deliberately. His face was a mask. He gave no indication of pleasure or distaste. He simply… assessed.
He took another spoonful, this time adding a dab of the coconut cream. He tasted again. Then, he did something unexpected. He picked up the ramekin and brought it directly to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second.
He placed the ramekin back on the board. His dark eyes met hers.
“The galangal is too forward,” he said, his tone flat and analytical. “It overwhelms the lemongrass in the mid-palate. The finish is slightly bitter. You toasted the cumin seeds for a second too long.”
Nami’s heart plummeted. It was a rejection. A precise, clinical, and devastating critique. The vise tightened around her chest again, crushing the brief flare of hope. She felt her shoulders slump. Of course. It wasn't good enough.
“However,” he continued, and the word hung in the air, “the initial aroma is excellent. The texture is superior to a machine-blended paste; it has a more rustic, authentic mouthfeel. The concept is strategically sound for Project Genesis.”
He picked up the spoon again and took a third taste, his gaze distant, as if consulting some internal database of flavors. “The bitterness is a flaw, but it is a flaw of ambition, not of laziness. You aimed for depth and slightly missed the mark. That is preferable to not aiming at all.”
He looked directly at her, and for the first time, she saw something in his eyes other than impersonal assessment. It was a spark of… interest.
“You will correct the balance. Reduce the galangal by ten percent. Watch the toasting time on the cumin. I want a revised sample on my desk by Monday morning.”
Nami stared at him, trying to process the whiplash of his feedback. It wasn’t a rejection. It was… a revision. He had critiqued her work with a brutal honesty she had never experienced, but he had also seen its potential. He had given her a direct, specific instruction. He wanted the sample.
“Do you understand the adjustments, Ms. Watanabe?” he asked, his voice pulling her back from her thoughts.
“Y-yes, sir,” she stammered. “Reduce galangal. Watch the cumin.”
“Good.” He placed the spoon down. “That will be all. You may go.”
The dismissal was abrupt. One moment she was in the most intense professional evaluation of her life, the next, it was over. She felt dizzy. “Th-thank you, sir.”
She turned to leave, her legs feeling like jelly.
“Ms. Watanabe.”
She froze at the door, her hand on the knob, and looked back.
His eyes swept over her once more, from her sneakers to the red dress. “The color is still… effective.”
Then, he turned his back to her, walking back towards the window, effectively ending the conversation.
Nami fled the office, her mind a chaotic whirlwind. She barely registered the secretary’s nod as she passed. She didn’t take the elevator; she found the stairwell and leaned against the cool concrete wall, taking deep, gulping breaths.
He had criticized her recipe. But he had also praised it. He had given her a direct order. And he had commented on the dress. What did it mean? Was it a professional acknowledgment? A personal remark? The ambiguity was maddening.
The rest of the day was a blur. She returned to the eighth floor to find the team in a frenzy of activity. Kenji was arguing with a supplier over the phone about the price of wild mushrooms. Yumi was meticulously weighing out fractions of grams of sea salt for a broth.
“Nami! There you are!” Riko pounced on her the moment she sat down. “Where have you been? We heard you had a meeting with the big boss himself! Spill! What happened? What did he say?”
The entire team’s attention shifted to her. She felt the heat rise to her face. How did they know? Had the secretary’s office leaked it?
“It was… it was just about my curry paste,” she said evasively. “For Project Genesis.”
“So it’s true!” Riko’s eyes widened. “He’s meeting with us individually? What’s he like? Is he as terrifying as they say?”
Nami thought of the oppressive silence, the penetrating gaze, the brutal honesty. “Yes,” she said quietly. “He’s… very direct.”
“And? What did he think of your paste?” Mr. Tanaka asked, his interest professional but keen.
“He… he had some notes,” Nami said, not wanting to reveal the specific critique. “I have to make a revision.”
“Ha! I knew it!” Kenji boomed, having finished his call. “The man’s a machine. He probably has a spreadsheet for his taste buds. Don’t take it personally, Nami-chan. The fact that you met with him alone is huge! He must see something in your concept.”
The team’s reaction was a mixture of curiosity, sympathy, and competitive anxiety. They all knew they were next. The atmosphere was charged with a new layer of tension.
Nami spent the afternoon in the test kitchen, working on the revision. As she carefully measured out a reduced amount of galangal and set a timer for the cumin seeds, she realized something. Despite the fear, despite the humiliation, despite the utter exhaustion, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time: purpose. Arima Kousei had not dismissed her. He had challenged her. And a part of her, the part that loved the science and art of flavor, was rising to meet that challenge.
When she finally left the office that evening, the rain had stopped, leaving the city washed clean and sparkling under the emerging stars. The red dress felt different again. It wasn’t a symbol of foolishness or a suit of armor. It was a reminder. A reminder of the most terrifying and exhilarating day of her professional life. A reminder that she had stood in the lion’s den and survived. And as she walked towards the station, the recipe for the revised “Sunset Gold Paste” burning a hole in her notebook, she knew the game was far from over. It had only just begun.
