A Proper Apology
I had only been looking for a house near the school. That was the sole reason I now lived in a mansion—if you could even call it that.
It hadn't been intentional.
On a day like today, though, with this many guests, the place earns its keep.
The first man shown into the drawing room was Victor Wenyar, CEO of the French luxury house Malenciaga.
"As I'm sure you know, we find ourselves in a very difficult position."
Since the death of their founder, Cristóbal Malenciaga, they had been drifting without a course. If my memory was right... they still had a good ten years of suffering ahead of them. Eventually they would bring in a brilliant designer and pull off their second leap, but that was a story only I knew. From the CEO's chair, the fire was already licking at his ankles, so he had come charging in ready to try anything at all.
"Frankly, we are several times more precarious than Guccio. If we let this chance slip as well, I can't promise we'll have a future."
Ordinarily a house arrived with the details already laid out: what concept they wanted for the collaboration, what revenue they expected, and a proposal to match. Perhaps the lineup waiting outside was simply too dazzling for that.
"If you were to help us at our lowest..."
He seemed to have settled on a strategy of pure entreaty.
"Truly, I would carve the memory of today into my bones, and never forget it for the rest of my life..."
"You're welcome to forget it."
"Pardon?"
You weren't supposed to feed on someone else's hardship. Believing every word out of a bowed head, though, was even more forbidden.
"What we're doing is a transaction. Rather than leaning on goodwill or good faith, wouldn't it be simpler if each of us pursued our own interest?"
"But we have nothing in particular to offer you..."
The founder, Cristóbal, had been a ferocious perfectionist. Not only the design—by all accounts, even the craft of making a garment, from the cutting to the sewing, had been beyond anyone else's reach. Put a man like that in the president's chair and see what you get.
"Malenciaga has always meant quality, hasn't it?"
"Y-yes. The president himself used to oversee every last stitch."
"Then why not go on doing exactly that?"
"Pardon?"
"If we collaborate, the design will be our domain anyway."
"Yes. That's right."
"Which means Malenciaga will have to take production. Quality control is what you're best at, isn't it?"
"O-of course. Every French craftsman worth knowing is already in our pocket..."
That was when it landed.
"Ah!"
Victor's eyes went wide. Well, he was the CEO of a house on its way under. Repeated failure seemed to have made them forget what their own strength even was, and the instruction to focus on nothing but quality had woken him, late.
"We... did have something to give."
"Of course you did. This is Malenciaga. History and tradition."
"Then may I brief you again? I'll explain in detail exactly how we can raise the quality."
I nodded, all bright innocence.
Meanwhile, Jo Sudeok was delivering a word of caution—very much with a question mark attached—to the people still waiting.
"As you know, the gentleman in partnership with our president is... that famous... I don't need to say it, do I? The ducal house. Yes. Precisely."
He went on, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
"But, well... the interview has gone public, so you've all seen it. Our partner's relations with a certain family are, shall we say, not exactly warm."
Every one of them thought of Harris Department Store.
"Which brings me to what I wanted to mention. Those of you with a concession in there—how shall I put it. We might be a little reluctant to move ahead with a collaboration? Not that anything is certain. I haven't even asked our partner."
Dry swallows broke out all around.
"But honestly, how does one ask something that personal? Wouldn't you agree?"
What followed was the tale of Tennessee securing an entire street.
"At this point, those department-store gentlemen must be terribly uncomfortable. I mean, taking one whole street in the most expensive part of town and simply using all of it. That's as good as saying, in the open, that we finish this once and for all, isn't it? Or isn't it? Well. Maybe it isn't. Heh heh."
Everyone else was busy punching numbers. The answer, unexpectedly, seemed to arrive at once—hardly surprising, since more than half the people gathered here had been strong-armed into "sponsorship" under the pretext of free gifts for a magazine.
"Did the ducal heir really give up an entire street?"
"Where is it, exactly?"
"Would we be able to get in as well?"
The questions showed no sign of stopping.
The next morning, the front page of the London Times carried a special report.
Carl Bernstein, Heir to the Harris Department Store Chain
They had run his identification photo the size of a front gate. The allegations hadn't even been substantiated, and they were publishing his face out of nowhere? One wrong step and a massive lawsuit could come down on them. They had written with that much confidence only because a decisive tip had arrived.
Gilbert McGill, who had served as Carl's personal aide, sent over extremely specific materials: how the bullying cases had been buried all this time, and how they had retaliated against victims who made up their minds to speak. Some people might have put a question mark beside the tip's credibility.
Except—
I know perfectly well that exposing the sins of the Harris family, even at this late hour, will not erase my own guilt. Blinded by ambition, I sold a lawyer's conscience. I too will gladly accept my punishment.
The informant was volunteering to go to prison first. Who could doubt him?
Gilbert McGill's exposé did not stop there. He went on to announce that he would reveal just how much criminal breach of trust had gone into Carl launching a brand of his own. At that point Carl Bernstein had no choice but to answer, and the only reason the boy was busy from morning onward was precisely that.
The first place he went was Tennessee's room.
Knock, knock.
A moment later there was a flurry of noise, and the door opened a crack.
"Why didn't you call? Coming by first thing in the—"
It was unmistakably a soft voice.
And then—
"...!"
The moment their eyes met through the gap—
"Get out."
What came through was a voice frozen solid. Tennessee moved to shut the door at once, so Carl jammed a foot into the gap.
"W-wait."
Tennessee did not care.
Crunch!
"Aaaagh!"
Even as the scream burst out, Tennessee hauled on the handle, as if it did not matter in the slightest what became of the man's foot.
"I-it's really going to break!"
"Then pull it out."
Crunch!
"Agh!"
"Just take your foot out."
Crunch!
"Aaaaaagh!"
Even so, Carl summoned a superhuman will, wedged himself in as far as the shoulder, and immediately started talking.
"G-give me a chance."
"A chance at what?"
"A chance... to be forgiven."
"And what standing do I have to forgive you?"
"As the heir of the great House of Grosvenor..."
Crunch!
"Aagh!"
"Don't put that name in your filthy mouth."
Crunch!
"You're loud. Don't scream either."
"Mmph... mmph."
"You don't get forgiveness from me. You get it from the victims."
"Th-then you will forgive me, won't—"
"You moron."
With that—
Wham!
Tennessee kicked him away. Only then did Carl tumble out past the door. As if to jeer at him—
Bang!
The door locked tight.
I was leaving for school from home, so I set out later than usual, and breakfast with Grandfather made it later still. Maybe that was why. Today the lecture hall looked packed, and then—of all things—the classmates who had been chattering saw me and shut their mouths one by one.
What is this atmosphere?
Had the second-years come through again? I wondered if they had thrown one last fit.
Huh?
A magazine lay on my seat. The famous American Forbes. When I picked it up, my classmates watched me with expectant eyes. Open it, already—that kind of look.
What is it?
Someone had kindly folded the page for me. I opened the magazine, and the first thing I saw was this.
The Twenty Most Influential People in the World Under Forty
I had only ever heard of a Forbes selection. I never thought I would see one with my own eyes. The feeling lasted a moment.
...!
Why is my name in here?
Ten... Tennessee is on it too?
Everyone else is in their late thirties, and the only teenagers are the two of us... so why isn't my brother's name here? If they were going to put me on the list, they should have included Yugeon too!
The magazine had gone into considerable detail about me.
Together with Tennessee Grosvenor, he co-founded Queensman and Ultimate and set off a storm...
Even my most recent moves were set down exactly.
Well. Only yesterday, CEOs and directors had come looking to collaborate. It would have been stranger if Forbes alone hadn't known. The small mercy was that the words co-founded beside Tennessee's name had spread the heat a little. That was something. Everything before this belonged to Yugeon. Everything I had done since coming to Britain could be credited entirely to Tennessee. Right. That was the story, and I was sticking to it.
Anyway. Around then I more or less understood why my classmates had been looking at me like that.
"You made Queensman?"
"Wait... Ultimate too?"
"Then the Guccio collaboration—how did you..."
How had they held it in until now? Questions, all at once. Friends, it was written right there.
Co-found-ed!
They seemed thoroughly uncomfortable asking Tennessee, though, so they kept throwing the questions at me.
Ugh.
Class could wait. Maybe I ought to step out and get some air. Every kind of thought was drifting over my head when—
Step. Step.
Footsteps behind me. I saw my classmates turn in surprise and thought a teacher had come in. I was wrong.
"...?"
A completely unexpected face was in front of me.
"Could you spare a moment?"
It was Carl Bernstein. The boy who always held his chin high was staring at the tips of my shoes.
"I'd rather we went somewhere else."
"Class is about to start."
"...!"
"Too many ears? Is that the trouble?"
At that, Carl looked around, and my classmates quickly turned away, avoiding his eyes. When I showed no intention of moving, he bit his lip and opened his mouth as if the words were heavy.
"I want to ask for forgiveness."
"Forgiveness?"
"The things I did to the first-years... I want to take them back, even if it's late..."
"If you apologize now, won't people only doubt how sincere you are?"
"What?"
"You've been perfectly fine all this time, and you apologize the day the article comes out. I'm afraid they'll simply assume it's to lighten your sentence."
You know the sort of thing. I sought forgiveness from the people concerned, so please be lenient. That nonsense.
"Isn't there some way?"
"..."
"I want to apologize properly. I'm reflecting. So much. So if you could forgive—"
"Isn't taking the punishment you're given, in full, the true apology?"
"I'm begging you."
"The kneeling, the begging, the apology—all of it after the disciplinary committee is finished. Am I asking too much?"
Perhaps he sensed the negotiation had collapsed. He trembled. He glared, with a face that said curse at me—better yet, hit me.
A short laugh escaped me. Yes. This was Carl Bernstein.
In that moment, my mind was made up. I would take the pride of the Harris family—the London flagship itself—into my own hands.