The entrance hall screams money. Not just regular money—
money. The kind that buys glass walls so spotless they look like portals to another dimension, tatami floors that probably have a “no commoners allowed”
policy, and wooden beams that seem like they were hand-carved by ancient artisans who charged in gold bars. Everything is perfect. Too perfect.
I take a careful step forward, my heels clicking against the polished stone genkan like a ticking time bomb. The air smells like fresh hinoki wood and the faintest hint of cherry blossoms, a delicate perfume that probably costs more than my rent. Assistants zip around me, adjusting vases, fluffing cushions, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of silk drapes. It’s like watching a synchronized dance, and I’m the awkward extra who wandered onto the wrong stage.
“Smile, Miss Kurosawa.”
The voice snaps like a whip, sharp enough to make me jolt. I turn just in time to meet the piercing gaze of a stylist wielding a clipboard like a weapon of mass intimidation. Her bob is sleek. Her expression? Not so much.
“Radiance! Confidence!” she commands, like I’m some kind of malfunctioning beauty pageant contestant.
I plaster on my best smile, and immediately, my cheeks start protesting. The stylist’s eyes flick over me like a scanner at airport security.
“Perfect,” she declares, but it sounds more like a threat than a compliment.
Perfect. Right. Just like everything in this place. I sneak a glance at a gilded mirror along the ebony-paneled wall. The girl staring back is dazzling—flawless makeup, designer gown hugging every strategic curve, hair that defies both gravity and humidity. She looks like she belongs.
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Except for the eyes.
The eyes betray me. Because deep down, I feel like a decorative bowl—polished, empty, and one ill-timed gust of wind away from shattering into pieces.
Before I can spiral too hard, the sliding doors ahead whisper open, revealing a ballroom straight out of a historical drama—if historical dramas had floor-to-ceiling windows, gold-painted cranes on the walls, and chandeliers that probably require their own security detail. Sunlight spills in, casting a golden glow on the tatami-and-hardwood floor. Outside, a koi pond glimmers, and sakura petals drift lazily through the air like they know they’re part of the aesthetic.
It’s beautiful. Breathtaking, even.
And also the perfect setting for my inevitable humiliation.
I stare out the window. It’s big. Like, big. Seriously, was the architect overcompensating for something? And why does this place have so many windows? How much natural light does one mansion need?
The estate sprawls over the Kyoto hills like some ancient emperor decided to modernize but keep the . Dark wood, polished stone, koi ponds—it’s all so breathtakingly perfect that I kind of want to trip on purpose, just to add a little chaos. Outside, maple trees spill red and gold leaves onto winding stone paths, the kind that probably exist for dramatic strolls.
Inside, the entrance hall is straight-up intimidation in architectural form. Tatami mats stretch across the floor, pristine and untouched. The air smells like cedar and cherry blossom incense, like someone bottled and spritzed it over every surface. A chandelier—made of actual Murano glass—hangs above me, shimmering like a wisteria tree in a fairy tale. Naturally, it casts a perfectly soft lilac glow, because this house is incapable of bad lighting.
Shoji screens slide open just enough to tease at what’s beyond—an impossibly manicured rock garden, a sitting room that looks like a furniture catalog threw up in it, and a velvet-chaired lounge that screams . Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch out toward Kyoto’s skyline, making the city look like a faraway dream.
And then there’s the ballroom. Well, version of a ballroom. No gaudy gold trim, no ridiculous baroque ceilings. Just quiet, intentional luxury. The floor is polished hinoki wood, so glossy I can probably see my existential crisis reflected in it. Paper lanterns hover above, glowing softly like tiny moons. And at the far end of the room, a jet-black grand piano sits in eerie stillness, as if waiting for someone to play something .
Yet, for all its beauty, the place feels… empty. Not in the “wow, what a minimalist dream” kind of way, but in the
way. It’s like a museum exhibit—curated, cold, waiting for visitors to admire it before moving on. Even the flowers in their perfect little arrangements seem like they’re holding their breath.
And then, right in the center of it all, under the wisteria chandelier’s pale glow, stands .
Alone.
Awkward.
Trying very hard not to sneeze on a six-figure floral display.