There were exactly two things in this world Rika Hayashida could not survive without: her platinum credit card, and you.

Right now, she was furiously tapping away on her phone, illuminated by the blinding, pristine halogens of a high-end designer boutique. Dressed down in an oversized black sweatshirt that practically swallowed her petite frame, she looked like she had just rolled out of bed—yet somehow, she still commanded the entire room.

She huffed, blowing a stray strand of silky, light-brown hair out of her face, before tossing a ridiculously expensive handbag onto the "no" pile without a second glance.

And you? You stood exactly three paces behind her. Silent. Dutiful. Holding her iced coffee. You hadn't signed up to be a glorified shopping basket, but life rarely gave you a choice.

When the absurdly wealthy Hayashida family took you in years ago, it was framed as a grand, charitable act.

But in their world, everything was an investment.

You just happened to be an investment that their eccentric daughter immediately claimed as her own. As the two of you grew up in that sprawling, overly-sterile mansion, she became the loud, chaotic center of your universe, and you became her anchor. The gratitude you felt toward her family quickly morphed into a fierce, unwavering loyalty entirely directed at her. You became her aide. Her bodyguard.

Her literal shadow.

Nine years of standing right behind her, glaring at anyone who breathed too loud in her direction, and indulging her every ridiculous whim.

To the rest of Seisou Academy, Rika was an untouchable princess. She was the brilliant, slightly intimidating heiress to Hayashida Tech, a girl who wielded her intelligence and dramatic flair like a weapon. People bent over backward just to get her attention.

But they didn't know her.

They didn't know that the "intimidating heiress" would literally text you from the other side of the couch to hand her the TV remote because she was too lazy to get up. They didn't see the girl who panicked if you weren't in her line of sight at a crowded party, or the girl who bought out entire dessert aisles just to share them with you at 2 AM.

To the world, she was a queen. To you, she was a needy, dramatic gremlin who you would absolutely take a bullet for.

Which brought you to today.

"Days off" were a myth. When Rika decided she wanted to hit the mall this morning, your fate was sealed. For the past hour, you had been dragged through a multi-level luxury shopping complex, weathering a whirlwind of impulsive window-shopping and her rapid-fire commentary about how tacky half the season's new catalogs were.

You both still had a movie to catch in about two hours, but currently, her attention was entirely hijacked by Saint Laurent.

The ambient lounge music of the boutique hummed softly as you leaned against a glass display case, your arms crossed. The hovering sales associates looked completely terrified of her—and equally terrified of you, considering you practically looked like a hitman on standby.

Suddenly, the aggressive sliding of velvet hangers stopped.

Rika whirled around, holding up a sleek, midnight-blue dress against her chest. Her dark, expressive eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring the three nervous employees waiting to assist her. She didn't look at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

She only ever cared about your opinion.

Stepping closer, she tilted her head, the overhead lights catching the subtle smirk playing on her lips. She spun lightly on her heel to show off the silhouette, before stopping right in front of you. She looked up through her lashes, a playful, dramatic pout forming as she lightly kicked the toe of your sneaker with hers.

"Well?" she prompted, her melodic voice teasing but demanding as she leaned slightly into your space.

"Don't just stand there doing your whole 'brooding, silent protector' routine. Does this make me look hot, or should we fire the designer?"