DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are purely the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real-life events is purely coincidental.

This part of the story includes themes of legal proceedings, power struggles, and familial conflicts. While efforts have been made to present these elements dramatically, they are not intended to serve as an accurate representation of real-world law or justice systems.

Please remember that characters’ actions and decisions do not reflect reality. Hateful comments toward fictional characters are unnecessary—every decision serves the story’s purpose.

Oikawa took his first step, and the world around him seemed to blur. The grand hall, adorned with white roses and golden chandeliers, felt suffocating. Each step he took down the aisle felt like a chain tightening around his throat, pulling him closer to a fate he never wanted.

His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor, echoing louder in his ears than the soft melody playing in the background. The weight of every stare—powerful elites, journalists eager to capture the wedding of the century—pressed down on him like an unbearable burden.

He wanted to run.

God, he wanted to turn around, rip off this suffocating suit, and disappear into the wind. He wanted to crash through the towering doors, take the first car he could find, and drive far, far away.

Maybe back to Iwaizumi.

Maybe back to the people he truly called home. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

His hands clenched into trembling fists as he forced himself forward, past the rows of elegantly dressed guests who all whispered about how stunning he looked. Stunning. The word felt hollow, meaningless.

They didn’t know. They didn’t know that under this suit were bruises that still ached, fingerprints that burned into his skin.

They didn’t know that every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run, to fight, to do anything but walk straight into his own demise.

And then, at the end of the aisle, stood Meian.

The man who owned him now. The man who forced his name upon him like a brand, like a curse.

Oikawa’s vision blurred.

It should’ve been Hajime.

Oikawa forced himself to breathe.

He could feel the tremor in his fingers, the way his body screamed at him to stop, to turn back—but he didn’t. He kept walking, step after agonizing step, as if his body had already resigned itself to this fate.

He refused to look at Meian just yet. Instead, his gaze flickered over the crowd, past the sea of powerful figures, journalists with cameras poised, and politicians whispering behind gloved hands.

Somewhere in the distance, he swore he could hear the faint static of a live broadcast.

The whole world was watching.

His eyes landed on Kuroo. Just for a second.

Kuroo was there, hidden among the guests, blending in with the rest of the elite. But Oikawa knew him too well—knew that sharpness in his gaze, the slight tension in his jaw.

Their eyes met, and Kuroo gave him the smallest nod.

It’s time.

Oikawa swallowed hard.

Then, finally, he lifted his gaze to Meian.

The man stood tall, dressed in an immaculate black suit, a self-satisfied smirk playing at his lips as he watched Oikawa approach. His expression was calm, confident—like he had already won. Like he had already owned him.

Oikawa felt the bile rise in his throat.

But he forced himself to smile. Forced himself to take the final step until he stood before the man he despised.

Just a little longer.

Just until everything falls into place.

As Oikawa reached the end of the aisle, Meian extended his hand, palm open, waiting.

Oikawa hesitated—but only for a fraction of a second.

He placed his hand in Meian’s, and the moment their skin touched, Meian’s fingers curled around his like a vice. The grip was firm, possessive, almost crushing. Oikawa barely resisted the urge to yank his hand away.

Instead, he lifted his chin, maintaining the mask of composure, even as a cold shiver ran down his spine.

Meian leaned in ever so slightly, just enough for his lips to ghost against Oikawa’s ear.

“Smile, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “It’s your big day.”

Oikawa inhaled sharply.

God, he wanted to throw up.

But instead, he forced himself to smile. A delicate, practiced curve of his lips—the same one he had perfected under flashing cameras and relentless scrutiny.

And with that, the ceremony began.

The moment the officiant turned to Meian for his vows, a ripple of murmurs spread across the grand hall. It started as a hushed whisper, barely noticeable, but then it grew—waves of confusion washing over the guests as their phones buzzed simultaneously.

Oikawa stood still, his fingers tightening around the bouquet he held. He didn’t turn, didn’t react, but inside, his heart pounded against his ribs. This was it.

Meian’s brow twitched in irritation as he glanced around the room, noticing the way some guests were no longer focused on him but on their screens instead. His grip on Oikawa’s hand faltered for the briefest moment, his expression darkening as the whispers turned into gasps.

Then—

“Mr. Meian,” a voice cut through the murmur.

It was firm. Unyielding.

Meian turned sharply to see uniformed officers pushing through the doors of the venue, their badges gleaming under the grand chandeliers.

The entire hall fell into stunned silence.

At the same time, on the large screen behind them—previously displaying a live feed of the wedding—flashed incriminating files. Financial records. Corruption reports. Illegal dealings. Footage of his men, captured and identified. Evidence upon evidence, stacked high and undeniable.

Kenma had made sure of that.

Kuroo and the others had moved swiftly, planting the final blow just as Meian stood at the altar, thinking he had won.

Oikawa let out a shaky breath, his gaze locked on Meian, watching as realization and fury flickered across his fiancé’s face.

This was the moment they had all been waiting for.

And finally—Meian’s empire was crumbling.

Meian turned sharply to Oikawa, his expression shifting from confusion to unfiltered rage. “What did you do?”

Oikawa met his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled—this time, genuinely.

“I pulled every string I had left.”

The silence that followed was deafening. A thick, suffocating weight settled over the grand hall, the tension pressing into every guest’s chest as the reality of the situation sank in.

Meian’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching at his side. His grip on Oikawa’s hand had loosened, but it wasn’t out of fear—it was the eerie, calculating stillness of a predator caught in the open, trying to decide whether to fight or flee.

Oikawa could feel his entire body trembling, but he held his ground. He didn’t flinch. Not when the officers pushed forward, not when the whispers turned into open gasps of disbelief. He just stood there, watching Meian’s carefully crafted world come undone.

And then—

“Mr. Meian Shugo,” one of the officers stepped forward, voice ringing with authority. “You are under arrest.”

The words shattered the last remnants of calm in the room. Chaos erupted all at once.

Journalists surged forward, cameras flashing relentlessly as reporters shouted over one another. Guests gasped, some standing, some stepping back as if Meian’s sins might stain them by association. A few of his business partners had already slipped toward the exits, trying to distance themselves before the scandal dragged them under too.

Meian finally moved. His hands curled into fists, his shoulders squared.

“For what?” His voice was eerily calm, but his eyes burned with fury. “On what grounds are you arresting me?”

The officer remained unfazed. “Multiple counts of fraud, illegal business dealings, coercion, and violent offenses. We have overwhelming evidence, including testimonies and financial records.”

As if on cue, the giant screen behind them continued flashing document after document, leaked transaction histories, audio recordings—everything Kenma had managed to dig up and broadcasted for the world to see.

Meian let out a sharp exhale, nostrils flaring. His fingers twitched again, his body coiling like a spring wound too tight. Oikawa knew that look.

He was going to lash out.

Oikawa barely had time to react before Meian turned to him sharply, fingers snapping around his wrist in a crushing grip.

“You.” His voice was low, dangerous. “You did this.”

Oikawa refused to back down, even as pain shot through his arm. He met Meian’s gaze with steel in his own eyes, chest heaving with everything he had held in until now.

“You never should have touched me,” Oikawa said, voice unwavering.

That was the final crack in Meian’s composure.

He moved to yank Oikawa closer, but before he could, a firm hand clamped onto his wrist.

Kuroo.

Oikawa hadn’t even seen him move, but there he was—standing between them, fingers wrapped around Meian’s wrist with enough pressure to make the man still. Meian’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before his lips curled in a sneer.

“Let. Me. Go.”

Kuroo didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in just slightly, voice low enough for only Meian to hear.

“You’ve already lost.”

Meian’s face twisted with rage, but before he could do anything else—

Click.

The sound of handcuffs locking around his wrists cut through the tension like a knife. The officers had seized the moment, one twisting Meian’s arms behind his back, forcing him away from Oikawa.

He thrashed, snarled, but it was useless.

The mighty Meian Shugo—untouchable, powerful, feared—was being dragged away in front of everyone.

Just as Meian was dragged past the stunned audience, another commotion erupted near the entrance of the grand hall. Officers pushed through the gathering crowd, their uniforms a stark contrast to the opulence of the wedding venue. The guests whispered among themselves, their curiosity shifting to the new arrivals.

And then, the next set of words rang out, sharp and unforgiving.

“Mr. Oikawa. Mrs. Oikawa. You are both under arrest.”

Gasps filled the air. The already suffocating tension thickened into something almost unbearable.

Oikawa’s parents, seated in the front row, had frozen in place. His father, the once-mighty businessman whose influence had stretched far and wide, stiffened. His mother, the woman who had built an empire of social status and power, clutched the pearls around her neck.

“This must be a mistake,” His mother finally spoke, voice wavering but still carrying that haughty edge she always wielded like a weapon. “You cannot possibly—”

One of the officers stepped forward, unwavering. “We have sufficient evidence tying you both to numerous financial crimes, including embezzlement, bribery, and conspiracy. You have also been implicated in coercion, in relation to the forced marriage arrangement between your son and Meian Shugo.”

Oikawa’s fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He should have felt something—relief, maybe even satisfaction—but all he felt was exhaustion.

His parents had done this to him. They had stripped him of his freedom, sold him off like a bargaining chip, all for power and wealth.

Now, it was their turn to pay the price.

“You dare humiliate us like this?” His father spat, his voice a sharp contrast to the cool, detached man he usually portrayed. His hands trembled as the officers stepped closer. “This is a public event! Do you know what this will do to our name?”

“The only thing humiliating here,” Oikawa spoke up for the first time, voice cold and cutting, “is the fact that you still think your name holds any value.”

His mother snapped her head toward him, her eyes narrowing. “Tooru, we are your parents. Do you even realize what you’ve done? You are ruining everything!”

Oikawa let out a soft, bitter laugh. Ruining everything? They had already ruined him.

“I was never your son,” he said quietly, eyes unreadable. “I was just your investment.”

For the first time in his life, Oikawa saw something break in his mother’s expression. Maybe it was realization. Maybe it was fear. But it was already too late.

The officers didn’t wait for further protests. Handcuffs clicked into place.

His father thrashed, cursing under his breath. His motjer, for all her arrogance, seemed to accept her fate in stunned silence.

As they were escorted away, Oikawa exhaled, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

His chains—one by one—were finally breaking.

It was over.

Finally.