Chapter 18

  The Kurosawa Brand

  The second I step out of the car, the midday sun sucker-punches me in the face. Gone is the glorious embrace of air-conditioning—replaced by a wave of heat so intense it might actually be personal. My silk blazer, allegedly designed for “breathable elegance,” is already betraying me, clinging to my skin like an overenthusiastic ex.

  The mansion in front of me is . A shrine to wealth and ego, all gleaming gray marble and towering wooden beams that probably took an entire forest hostage. Even the three perfectly manicured pine trees lining the front perimeter seem to bow in quiet deference, like they know they’re part of something exclusive. The Hiroo Estate doesn’t exist—it

  itself, looming over Shibuya like it’s got stock in the skyline.

  The front path is polished stone, reflecting the soft Tokyo dusk like a runway built for people much more important than me. Beyond the estate, the city hums—car horns, distant chatter, life. But here? It’s . Controlled. As if sound itself needs an invitation.

  I don’t dare glance back at the backyard, where a pond and a sakura garden paint a picture of delicate serenity, the kind you see in travel brochures. The marble-paved terrace stretches beyond that, a perfect stage for elegant parties filled with people who never spill their drinks or laugh too loudly.

  And yet, here I am, expected to waltz through it like I .

  Chaos swirls around me—assistants clutching clipboards like their souls depend on it, stylists hovering with an arsenal of beauty tools, and security guards in dark sunglasses doing their best impression of fashionable gargoyles. Everything is polished to within an inch of its life, including the people.

  I tug at my blazer, trying to gather some dignity. No luck. My publicist materializes at my side, wielding her clipboard like a weapon of mass efficiency. “Akina,” she says, all honeyed urgency, “don’t forget the meet-and-greet after the walkthrough. The sponsors are watching.”

  Oh, fantastic. Nothing like the added pressure of being silently judged by people whose entire net worth could probably buy a small country. I nod, my throat tight. I am an actress, after all. Not just on screen, but here, in this world where every step, every word, every breath is part of a performance I can’t seem to escape.

  I adjust my sunglasses, letting the tinted lenses act as a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments. The mansion looms ahead, its pristine perfection daring me to find a single flaw. Spoiler alert: I won’t.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Funny. I used to dream about a place like this. Sitting cross-legged on my grandmother’s worn-out rug, watching awards shows with Ruri, my cousin and self-appointed stylist. She’d point at the screen, crunching rice crackers like it was an Olympic event. “That one,” she’d declare, nodding at some impossibly glamorous gown, “that’s your dress, Akina.”

  Back then, it all seemed so magical. Back when the idea of this world felt like a fairy tale instead of a perfectly curated, impossibly sterile dream I somehow woke up inside.

  Laughter is just another accessory at this point—like a designer bag or a pair of uncomfortable heels. Flashy, practiced, and meant to be seen. Does anyone ever notice the slight delay, the microsecond where my smile wobbles like an off-balance Jenga tower? Probably not. They only see what they want:

  “Akina!” The sharp call of my name slices through the air like a judgmental aunt at a family reunion. I barely flinch—because flinching is not on-brand. Instead, I adjust my blazer, take a breath that does to steady me, and keep walking. Heels click against stone in perfect rhythm. Not looking back. Not thinking about the pond, or the gardens, or the girl who used to chase butterflies without worrying about smudging her mascara.

  A white-gloved hand appears in my periphery, offering a frosted bottle of water like it’s some sort of peace offering. “Ready, Miss Kurosawa?” The voice is smooth, professional—crafted for moments exactly like this.

  Because that’s who I am, right? A name. A brand. A polished product stamped with my father’s legacy and his over-the-top, impossible expectations. It fits like a dress one size too small—fine if you don’t move too much.

  I take the bottle, the condensation cool against my palm. “Sure,” I murmur. Not , not , just... a noise. It’s not like anyone actually listens to what I .

  The assistant gestures toward the mansion’s gleaming double doors. “They’re waiting inside.”

  Ugh. Vague. My favorite. “Who’s ‘they’ this time?”

  “Everyone.”

  Fantastic.

  “Great. Love that for me.”

  He doesn’t laugh—because, of course, he doesn’t. Humor isn’t in his job description.

  My heels tap against stone like the ticking of a countdown clock. Each step brings the mansion closer, its pristine white walls looking as welcoming as an ice sculpture.

  “You look perfect,” he says after a beat, his voice light, like he’s handing me a compliment wrapped in silk.

  Perfect. My spine stiffens. My grip tightens around the water bottle. “Perfect is exhausting,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

  He doesn’t answer. He never does. Conversations in this world are like decorative glass bowls—shiny, fragile, and mostly for show.

  So I keep walking, pressing forward, letting the cold bottle anchor me. Perfect Akina Kurosawa, poised and polished, stepping into another room filled with people who know my name but not .

  At least, not the real me.