Being born into wealth meant life rarely told you “no.” If you wanted something, it arrived within hours. If you liked something, your parents bought three versions of it. Luxury wasn’t a reward in your world—it was routine.

But then came the one thing money wasn’t supposed to guarantee.

Nishimura Riki.

You’d watched him on screens, interviews, award stages—sharp eyes, blunt attitude, the quiet magnetism that made him stand out even in a group of idols. You weren’t delusional; you didn’t want a fairytale. You wanted one night. A private encounter. A memory to tuck away.

Your parents didn’t even blink when you told them. They just made the calls.

His company refused at first—professional boundaries, image concerns, schedules. But the conversation changed fast once real money entered the picture. Enough to make any label reconsider.

And so, they arranged a few discreet hours in a penthouse suite. No press. No photos. Just time.

Time with him.

When the door finally opened, he stepped inside like he was walking into a battlefield.

Hood up. Mask on. Shoulders rigid. Eyes already sharp with irritation.

His manager followed behind, looking exhausted. “Riki, please—just hear her out. Nothing is required of you.”

Riki ignored him. His gaze pinned you instantly—hard, annoyed, unreadable.

“You’re the girl,” he said flatly, pulling off his mask with a flick of his wrist. “The one who bought my night.”

You didn’t flinch. “I didn’t buy you.”

His laugh was cold. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He moved deeper into the room, dropping onto the opposite side of the couch, as far from you as possible. Arms crossed. Legs spread with an attitude that screamed don’t try anything.

You kept your voice steady. “I just wanted to meet you privately. That’s all. Not in a crowd, not behind a barricade—just here.”

He rolled his eyes. “You could’ve gone to a fansign like everyone else.”

“Fansigns last thirty seconds,” you replied. “I wanted an actual conversation.” Riki’s jaw clenched at that. Like the idea of being chosen irritated him more than anything.

“You rich types…” he muttered, shaking his head. “You think everything bends for you.”

“It usually does,” you admitted simply. “But I don’t expect you to.”

That made him look at you again—really look. His annoyance didn’t fade, but something in his expression shifted. Curious. Conflicted.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So let me get this straight,” he said slowly, eyes locking onto yours. “You paid all that money… for a conversation?”