Work Text:
You hate your job.
It pays the bills, but barring the fact that it’s only a few stops over from your place, there are few other positives about the luxury boutique you’ve landed yourself at in a desperate attempt to get by in Kyoto. You hadn’t wanted to make a career out of it—it was only supposed to have been until you could pay off the rest of your student loans—but what can you say? The discount is incredible, and they keep the breakroom stocked with coffee and tea you can’t afford.
The work isn’t that hard either, at least on paper. You spend your days stocking, dusting, and standing behind the cash desk trying your hardest not to look miserable. Most customers know what they want, or ask for different salespeople from whom they’ve been buying for years. For the most part, you’re ignored. You’re content with that (the high rolling clientele that frequent the lavish little shop are far from pleasant).
You know what to expect from your customers, when they do acknowledge your existence. The businesspeople in pressed suits and shiny shoes (almost always on calls) drop amounts that used to make your eyes go wide, while gaggles of refined older women are more likely to call for your attention, but will also turn up their noses if a single hair is out of place. Housewives tend to be the easiest to deal with, quiet and polite, but they’re happier to be left alone unless they need you to get an item from the back. At the end of the day, the incredibly wealthy just see you as a walking, talking cash register.
This job has given you the distinct opportunity to learn the ways of the rich. Old and new money have their differences, and you’ve gained the unfortunate ability of being able to sniff out which is which. It’s in the way they speak, the way they dress—the way they hold themselves. New money is flightier, distracted, and trendy: folks in high heels and newer, daring prêt-a-porter collections, armed with bags straight out of Vogue and attitudes to match, while old money is a little harder to define so visually. It can be understated, at least at first glance, but it seems to take little more than a blink from them to have your colleagues falling over their feet to please them. These customers are a little rarer, but they always leave an impact—coiffed hair, perfectly tailored and high-quality clothes, a fresh-from-vacation-home-number-four-glow when they walk in with their driver in tow and demand your attention without having to say a word.
You know exactly which of the two he is when an attendant opens the heavy glass door at the front of the shop, and a man strolls inside with a head held tall and the promise of condescension clear on his face.
He’s handsome in a piercing sort of way, you think, and he doesn’t react when you call out a welcome, only stepping past the man accompanying him to glance at a display case of wallets with clear disinterest. You watch carefully as he moves further into the store, feeling the part of a shaky-legged gazelle eyeing a lion that’s gotten a little too close for comfort. It isn’t often that customers unsettle you so, but there’s something in his very walk that tells you he’s not going to be like any of your regular crowd.
Part of you hopes someone else on shift will come over and help him, but you’re the only one covering the floor so there’s a good chance it’ll be you giving him a hand if he needs one. Instead of listening to your fight or flight response that implores you to duck down and crawl to the back, you busy yourself tidying the cash desk, so you’ll be in sight if he needs you. The rules of customer service run deep.
Your pleas to the universe that he’ll leave without buying anything, if only so you won’t have to go over and embarrass yourself, go unanswered when he opens his mouth.
“I need something…new,” he says after a minute and a half of analyzing a display of ties. His voice, dripping with boredom, is quiet enough that he could be talking to himself, but the way his sharp eyes just barely drift in your direction tell you to leave your post and approach before he’s done speaking. “Won’t you give me a hand?”
There’s something to fear hiding under his beseeching, nearly condescending tone, the casual way he beckons you over. A power you can’t place, the call of something dark glazed over with stilted formality.
“Of course, sir,” you count the fact that your voice doesn’t give out as a small victory as you halt a short distance away from him. “How can I help you?” Up close, you catch the glint of piercings climbing up his ears (24K, to be sure) and the fine thread of the silk haori he has on over a high-necked shirt and pants that are surely more expensive than they look.
He peers down at you through long, pretty eyelashes, smile bordering on a sneer. He’s satisfied by your pliancy. You, on the other hand, feel a little suffocated by his mixture of sharp eyeliner, soft, expensive cologne, and tangible ego.
“In your catalogue, I thought I’d seen something like this in black,” bleached hair shifts over his forehead when he leans to pinch the sleeve of a maroon overcoat between his fingers. “Bring it to me.”
All the time and money in the world drip off his silver tongue. You would bristle at his demand, if not for his honey-smooth voice. You’re hanging off the edge of his words. He seems to know it.
“Right, I, um, I should have some of the new collection in the back? I’ll go check,” you say, and scurry off with what composure you have left.
“Yes, do,” you hear him murmur as you push the door open, no ‘please’ or other niceties to soften the statement. The stockroom is only a short reprieve (with any other demanding customer you might take the time to hide out and check your phone for a moment, but something tells you he would sense it if you tried), and you bring the coat out to him within a minute and a half.
He’s exactly where you left him when you return, watching you expectantly. His attendant hasn’t moved from the door, standing next to it with posture straight as a rod and an unreadable look on his face. Anyone who came in might think he was a mannequin.
“Here you are.” You raise your arm to let the coat hang fully—he’s tall, you note, and it would hit a nice length on him.
“I’ll try these on, too.” He barely spares you a glance as he plucks a pair of pants and a white cashmere turtleneck from a rack and drops them into your arms. You pass your co-worker Kana as she heads to cash out her customers. She’s professional enough to only mouth a fleeting 'what the fuck,’ as you trail behind the man on the way to the fitting rooms, having seen the way he dumped the clothing on you, eyes shooting daggers.
You get him set up in a room, returning when you hear the curtain open.
Of course, the clothes fit him perfectly—why wouldn’t they? He’s young and handsome, and has thus far acted like he owns the world (maybe he does, for all you know). What possible reason could the clothes he picked have to not stretch over strong shoulders and long legs in a way that would make your mouth water?
“I need a belt.” He looks at you past his reflection in the brightly lit mirror. You’ve already anticipated this need, picking one up from the soft velvet couch beside you, and placing it into his waiting palm. He scans over your face when the leather meets his hand, approving. “Good girl,” he hums.
You flush lightly, turning down your gaze while he threads the strap through his belt loops. You would be more offended by the demeaning words if he were less striking.
“Why do you work here?” he asks, blunt, looking himself up and down in the mirror one more time before he pulls on the coat you had given him minutes ago (just as you’d thought, it looks like it was made for him).
“I—” You’re caught off guard. It’s rare for customers to ask you about anything other than product, and it’s hard to speak to a man who has so blatantly scrutinized your every move thus far.
“It’s not a love for the brand, is it? Customer service, maybe? How cliché.” His eyes narrow as he waits for your response.
“I mean, I have rent to pay, and this is a good a job as any. Everyone’s got to make a living, right?” You smile nervously. Your hope had been to elicit a laugh, but he only seems disappointed—of course he wouldn’t understand. You’d hoped he’d be sympathetic, maybe, in that judgmental and detached way that only the born wealthy can be when it comes to money, but he’s not biting. You wonder what it is he does that has widened the gap between you in so many ways, made the space between you deep and cavernous.
“You’re pretty. You shouldn’t have to lower yourself to such work. Although,” he pauses, “I suppose this is better than other pursuits.”
You blink at him. What are you supposed to say to that? Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to want anything more from you as he returns to his fitting room. Kana, who’s been eavesdropping nearby under the pretense of hanging up a blazer, seems to be just as bewildered as you are. Her eyes dart between you and the curtain now hiding your customer.
It doesn’t take too long before he’s back in the clothes he arrived in, slinging his items over a velvet stool.
“I’ll take everything I tried on. You’ve been…helpful.” It’s decidedly not a thank you. He pauses to read your nametag aloud (it slips past his lips so nicely) before he gestures at his attendant, who opens the door for him as he leaves. You watch covertly as he disappears into a car outside before you bring his items to cash.
“Does your boss have an account with us?” Kana asks as the man’s attendant pulls out a credit card.
He nods. “The name is Zenin.”
She types away at the screen as you seal the tissue around the items and slide them into a bag. “Ah, here—Naoya?” Kana asks, and the attendant nods again.
800,000 yen later, the man thanks the both of you and leaves. You watch the car pull away.
---
Naoya returns a few times in the months following your first meeting. It’s only ever when you’re working; Kana tells you he had come in on a day you’d had to get a shift covered, only to frown and turn right back around when she had told him you weren’t in. You’re the only one he seems to want to deal with.
In all honesty, you feel flattered. You’re not necessarily the best salesperson on the staff, so why he’s chosen you as his preferred contact is baffling, but appreciated. A few of your coworkers, enamoured by Naoya, ask how you managed it or shoot blazing glances when he turns them away when they offer help as he makes his way to you, but you don’t know what to tell them.
He remains shrouded in mystery—filthy rich, if the amount of money he spends has anything to say about it—but totally unknown to Google, which turns up next to nothing on his name.
(You’ve only searched him up a few dozen times).
His anonymity makes you worry about what kind of business he’s involved in. Yakuza, perhaps, but his style and manner are such a departure from what you know about them. At the end of the day, though, who are you to question the business he brings you?
Things change when winter comes around. You’re steaming a row of freshly unboxed shirts when your manager calls out for you in the stockroom.
“Zenin is asking for you.” She looks a little irritated—you gather that he probably brushed her off when she offered to help him.
“I’ll be right out.” You dust off your trousers before you step onto the sales floor to seek him out. It’s not a hard task, as he’s one of only three customers in the store, and the only one with a presence magnetic enough that you think you could sense it from two rooms over.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Zenin,” you greet him politely. Naoya seems pleased by your formality, your name a familiar sound as he greets you back.
He’s fashionable as always, gracing you in navy and white. You know his style well enough that it doesn’t take you long to pull a few new pieces that he’ll like, and you’re not surprised when he agrees to take them all, stepping away as you deal with his tall stack of clothing.
“When is your shift finished today?” He stands at the cash desk today, a first considering that his attendant is usually tasked with payment for whatever he buys.
“Six, so not too much longer.” Carefully folding a scarf and pressed pants in tissue, you barely blink at the odd question. He’s not usually one for small talk, and you wonder what’s changed.
“I see. Then, I’d like you to join me for dinner.” It’s not a question. Your hands freeze before they can place his purchase in a bag.
“Oh, um—” you scramble for a reason to say no, but your mind is suddenly empty.
“It’s only business,” he soothes, a Cheshire cat grin stretching his pretty mouth. “My treat.”
With ninety percent of your concentration now diverted to the part of you that still cares about not dropping a pair of pants worth more than your fridge, you try to finish your task, hands shaking enough that he can hear it when they ruffle the tissue in his bag.
Would it really be that bad? Free dinner with handsome companion—even if he is a little rude and a little strange, part of you seems to think that you owe him for the commission you have earned from him since he started shopping at your store.
“Okay,” you say, “That’s very kind, Mr. Zenin.”
He smiles, all teeth again, unnerving. It reminds you of the break of something jagged through murky waters. “Perfect.”
---
Naoya’s car awaits you when your shift ends, his attendant standing at the door. Part of you is glad Kana isn’t at work today—the two of you normally head out to the train together, and you don’t know how you could have possibly explained yourself to her as you’d been whisked away by his servant. She’s going to scream when she finds out you’ve gone out to dinner with your handsome, albeit obnoxious and dismissive customer.
The shiny black car pulls up to a restaurant that screams of the bourgeoisie, well-populated but the seating secluded enough that you have at least a semblance of privacy. You know that you stick out a bit in comparison to him, clad as usual in deceptively expensive fabrics (the first coat that he bought from you hangs next to yours at the coat check).
You’re led to a gleaming little table near the back, low lights and candleflame guiding the way. A waiter appears after a moment to welcome the two of you nervously, asking if you’re ready—Naoya doesn’t hesitate to ask for an eye-wateringly expensive plate of sushi, while you pick a bowl of soup, hunger stronger than it can satisfy but desperately trying not to seem like you’re taking advantage of your client; it just happens to be the cheapest thing on the menu. Naoya watches you carefully before opening his mouth to ask you about your education.
He’s never been overly talkative with you, and it takes you a moment to answer. He continues, prying in a way so cool, so smooth that you can’t help but indulge him. While you’re waiting for your meal, he continues to ask about your life—your family, relationships, jobs, and interests. You’re a little taken aback at his sudden interest. You try your best to write it off as small talk, even if he glazes over details when you deign to return his questions with your own.
“Mr. Zenin,” you say a while after your food is delivered, watching one of his fingers trace a groove in the polished wooden table between you, “I have to ask, why did you ask me to come here with you?”
“Ah, that.” He leans back into his plush seat, casual and languid.
You watch and wait.
I’d like to propose a more…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “Beneficial arrangement between the two of us.”
It’s hard to see where he could possibly be going with this. “I don’t quite follow—do you mean, like, as a personal shopper?” you laugh nervously. His eyes trail your hand as it comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’m in need of a wife,” he says, “And you’re in need of someone to provide for you. Are you not?”
You can only gape at him. He pokes around at a particularly expensive looking piece of sashimi, enviably calm, as if he hadn’t just proposed.
“Mr. Zenin—I—I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, I’m not looking for--”
“Nonsense,” he says, matter of fact. You flush at his interruption. “How could you know what you’re looking for? Poor thing.”
You’re a little angry and very embarrassed. Handsome as he is, his presumptuous manner is flustering. You struggle to swallow as you try to respond, your ears burning. “I really don’t know what to say to you, Mr. Zenin.”
He furrows his brow, hair glinting bronze underneath the restaurant’s moody lighting. He really is beautiful.
“Against my better judgment,” he frowns like you’ve done something wrong, “I find myself very interested in you. Consider my offer.”
He doesn’t seem surprised that you don’t have a reply for him, though he waits, curious, for a moment just to watch you gape.
“I’ll have my driver bring you home,” he says before standing up. You watch the maître d’ scramble out from behind his front podium to hand him his coat and open the door before Naoya disappears into the evening.
You look down to your hands, gripping tightly to your knees under the table. Without you noticing, he had managed to slip a small piece of card paper in front of you—the digits of a phone number taunting you from their place next to your plate. You lift your fingers to brush at the printing. The ink is dark and sweeping on crisp white material. A stark contrast. It reminds you of him.
---
A week later, you haven’t called. You haven’t told anyone about the offer either—though Kana had stopped you the second you stepped into work the next time you were scheduled together after that night, having heard from another co-worker just whose car you’d left in.
(“Did you…” she winked when you told her about the dinner, “You know?”
“Kana!” you had laughed, shoving her away when she sidled up to you with a shoulder. “No! It was…he, um, he asked me—” you had stopped yourself at this point, thinking about what to say. “A…lot of questions. The place was really fancy.”
You wondered if maybe you should bring it up, because all that his proposal had done to that point was eat away at you from the inside out. But you couldn’t. It felt odd on your tongue when you tried to speak it aloud. A secret too heavy, too strange.
“He drops at least 1,000,000 yen every time he walks into the store,” she had said, nudging you, “Not like he doesn’t have the money.”)
For a little while longer, you ponder. And you keep thinking about it—what reason he could have possibly had to put you in this situation? Your mind is blurred, though, in remembering the curve of his lip when he looked at you, the way he drawled out his words, the flex of his hand on his chopsticks in the restaurant he’d taken you to.
He’s all consuming.
Oh, you think, after one too many fitful nights of sleep. Forget this.
You dial his number.
“I was wondering when you’d call,” a smooth voice tells you when the ringing stops. “You kept me waiting.”
“Can I ask you a question?” you ask, not even bothering to wonder how he knew it was you calling, or why he picked up the phone so late.
“Depends on what it is.” Naoya sounds blasé, but it feels like teasing.
“Why did you ask me?”
“To dinner? Or for your hand in marriage? You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart.” The last word slips out of his mouth coated in playful condescension. You fight the blood rushing to your face—he’s made you blush enough this week.
“You know what I mean, Mr. Zenin.”
“Hm.”
“I want to know why you asked me. I’d have thought that a man like you would have far better options.”
“Don’t put yourself down. It’s unbecoming.” His tone is serious.
“I just—”
“Please understand—I chose you because of what you have to offer to this arrangement. I’m not interested in your love or money; I’m looking for someone who can help me create an appearance to my family of what I have to offer.” The crackle of his voice over the phone is clear. “I thought you might stand to benefit from such a thing. You’d never have to work another day in your life. I can take care of you.”
You pause.
It’s fucked up. You know it’s fucked up. Whatever he’s proposing is not what you want from a marriage. You’d always dreamed of love and equality and respect from a spouse, not the bizarre transaction Naoya offers. Some escape from whatever illusion of poverty he thinks you live in just because you aren’t a millionaire, a marriage contract as a ladder of thorns to pull you up from the masses.
Some idiotic part of you, though—the part that’s tired of busting your ass for minimum wage just to spend it all on debts and rent and the costs of living—wonders if it might be nice to relax. To have someone to depend on, no matter how false the pretenses, who can promise you comfort and luxury.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever spoken to.
“Okay,” you say, and your heart drops the second the words leave your mouth. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ your mind screams at you, but you can’t stop yourself. “Okay.”
“Perfect.” His smirk is audible on the other side of the phone. “Then we have an agreement.”
---
Naoya invites you to visit his family estate the next day, sending a driver to pluck you from your apartment. You’re greeted by large stone fences, imposing against the street. The residence seems like a relic, shrouded from the peering eyes of passersby, secluded and secretive.
He greets you behind a massive wooden gate.
“Hello fiancée,” he says, saccharine and deadly. Attendants bustle past him here and there, laundry and verdant plants in hand as they make their way to different parts of the estate, keeping careful distance from the young man in front of you. His dark blue robes swish in the cool breeze, and he’s smiling casually.
He heads inside without another word, expecting you to follow. The hallway you head down is long enough to make you wonder just how large this main building of the estate is. He eventually turns into a sitting room and shuts the screen behind you. Though a warm hearth crackles in the centre of the room, he makes no move to kneel on the zabuton nearby, so you stay put.
You realize you’ve never been alone with him before. Not like this—not with no one else at all even in the corner of your vision to serve as a beacon of safety. The uncertainty that creeps up the back of your neck makes your throat feel tight, and he can tell.
“Relax,” he soothes, stepping closer. “I don’t bite.”
The glint of sharp canines beg to differ, but you focus on taking a calming breath.
“I have a gift for you,” Naoya says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box. “A token of my appreciation, until we can go to a jeweller for your ring.”
You take it gently, black velvet under your touch, and crack it open to reveal a gold pendant. It’s small but finely crafted, his family name engraved into the metal.
“Thank you,” you tell him, the necklace warming slightly where you trace the strokes of the design. “It’s beautiful. You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Yes, I did. How else would we celebrate?” He frowns, the expression marring his pretty face. You pull it out of the box and move to clasp it behind your neck. “This is a joyous occasion, you know. You’re officially engaged to the future head of the Zenin clan.”
You still don’t know what it is that his family does, how their money and heritage supports such a sprawling estate in Kyoto, but it seems far too late to ask.
“Let me help you with that,” he says. Long, cool fingers have already pulled the necklace from your grasp as he slips behind you and pulls your hair back.
The pendant sits heavy on your chest when he loops the fine chain behind you. It serves as a reminder of what you’ve agreed to. A tie between you and him.
“There. Just right,” he says, peering over your shoulder. His breath fans for a fraction of a second over your throat as he leans back up to his full height. You shiver. “We’ll formalize everything before our engagement party, but a spring wedding would be nice, don’t you think?”
“Whatever you think is best,” you breathe, chest tight as you wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into.
“Good girl,” he praises, fingertips ghosting over your neck to trace the chain. You’re reminded of the first time you met. The words still trickle down your spine. He looks delighted.
A feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, the weight of a deal with the devil, you think. Naoya tracks your every movement, umber eyes turned golden by the light.
“You made the right choice,” he tells you.
You’re not sure you believe him.