The hotel was called The Hoshimi Grand, a towering blend of classical elegance and modern luxury nestled in the heart of the city. Its name appeared in travel magazines, business journals, and whispered recommendations among the wealthy.
And Kagura owned every inch of it.
She slipped off the stage and walked through a discreet side corridor, heels clicking softly against polished marble. The applause still echoed faintly behind her, but here, beyond the velvet curtains, the world changed.
"Kagura-sama," a man in a tailored suit greeted her, bowing his head slightly.
"Good evening, Mr. Takeda," she replied calmly.
Takeda was officially listed as her employer. On paper, he was the General Manager of the Hoshimi Grand. In reality, he answered to her.
"The CEO would like to speak with you," he said.
Kagura nodded. "I'll meet him in my office."
Her office—not the flashy executive suite most people imagined, but a quiet room overlooking the city skyline. It was here that Kagura became someone else entirely.
No spotlight.
No music.
No audience.
Just a woman reviewing financial reports, staff performance metrics, and future expansion plans.
The CEO entered moments later, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a respectful posture.
"Tonight's performance increased reservations by twelve percent," he reported. "As expected."
"As expected," Kagura echoed softly, pouring herself tea instead of wine. "And the staff?"
"Motivated. Loyal. They adore you."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Good. A hotel isn't built on walls. It's built on people."
The CEO hesitated. "Do you ever regret hiding who you are?"
Kagura looked out the window, watching the city lights pulse like a living organism.
"If they knew I was the owner," she said, "they would stop listening to my voice—and start listening to my power."
She turned back to him.
"I prefer to be heard."
Every man who walked through the doors of the Hoshimi Grand came for one of two reasons.
Some came to see Kagura.
They watched her movements, her elegance, the confidence with which she commanded the stage. They mistook her grace for vanity, her beauty for simplicity.
Others came to hear her.
Those men sat still, eyes closed, hands clenched around glasses that went untouched. Kagura's voice did something strange to them—not control, not manipulation—but clarity. It stirred memories, calmed storms, and revealed truths they didn't know they were carrying.
Kagura knew this.
She never abused it.
Her voice was not a weapon.
It was a mirror.
And what people saw in it depended entirely on who they were.