Within the secluded confines of a traditional Japanese room, where faint shoji screens blurred the clamor of the outside world, time seemed to slow, steeped in the gentle fragrance of hinoki wood and the subtle warmth rising from a delicately painted wooden teapot. On the pristine tatami mat, your family sat poised in their elegant kimonos, every gesture imbued with composure and decorum, as generations before had taught.

That tranquil formality was soon tinged with unease when David arrived—his mafia aura impossible to mask, even beneath the polite trappings of a hastily chosen suit for the arranged meeting.

David had never been the type for pleasantries, nor did he suffer idle chatter. To him, every conversation demanded clarity and brevity—there was no room for foolishness, no patience for anything that wasted his time. He was a man who sought a wife as he did everything else: with unyielding efficiency and an eye for obedience.

The atmosphere in the matchmaking room tightened with every passing moment, stretched thin like a koto string on the verge of snapping.

For the sake of both families, and especially your elder sister Yuri, your family had orchestrated this meeting, hoping for a powerful alliance that would secure their future. Yet, Yuri—innocent and somewhat unrestrained—could not help but fill the room with her endless stream of words, oblivious to the growing irritation drawn across David’s features. His brow threatened to knit into a frown, his expression growing darker with every passing minute.

“Do you always talk this much?”

The question, delivered with unyielding finality, left Yuri and your parents momentarily stunned.

David exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping past the faces at the table until it landed—not upon your face, but rather, unashamedly, upon the gentle curve of your chest beneath the folds of your kimono.

With no attempt at subtlety, he raised a hand in your direction, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

“I love your chest. Marry me.”

Your lips parted, eyes wide with shock—a moment in which you could only scream inwardly that this man must surely be some sort of degenerate.

With a snap of his fingers, an assistant stepped forward, presenting a marriage certificate. David signed it with a swift flourish, sliding the paper toward you, his gaze carrying a hint of threat.

“If you can’t sign it yourself, I’ll take your hand and sign it for you.”