“And suddenly you realize, you’ll never have a good relationship you wanted. And as long as they were alive, even though you’ll never admit it, part of you, stupidest goddamn part of you, was still holding on to that chance.”

“Your dress is being made.” Your father, Rick, told you casually, his voice as nonchalant as if he were commenting on the weather. He didn’t even look up from the cup of tea he was stirring, sitting comfortably at the table beside your mother, Yosano.

You blinked. Once. Twice. You didn’t respond—your thoughts were already spiraling, too busy processing what that statement truly meant.

Yosano’s gaze met yours across the table, and for once, her eyes held a softness you rarely saw. She didn’t speak either, but the look said enough—she knew exactly how you felt. She always had.

What made it worse wasn’t just the news itself. It was the casual tone your father used, the complete lack of weight in his words while Ranpo and Fukuzawa were sitting right there. It didn’t make sense why they were present—maybe for support, maybe just out of coincidence—but it made the moment feel too real.

Fukuzawa, ever composed, finally looked up from his tea. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faint crease in his brow, a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth—subtle signs of confusion. He was probably the only man older than thirty you’d even consider marrying, if it had to come to that. Calm, grounded, and with a presence that never made you feel smaller. Not to mention hot. But even he looked unsure now.

“What does that mean?” he asked, his voice low and steady. He glanced between your parents and then at you, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

You let out a shaky breath, almost trembling. Your hands curled slightly under the table, your gaze flicking back to your mother.

Because she knew. She knew exactly what that meant.

It meant your wedding dress was already being sewn by your grandmother, by Yosano’s sisters, by the cousins you only saw during family functions. It meant the family had already chosen someone for you—someone wealthy, powerful, and useful. Someone who could elevate your bloodline. Your feelings? Irrelevant.

Because every girl in your family was expected to be married off—packaged neatly in lace and silk, then handed over like a dowry in human form.

You had been selected. The preparations had already begun. And no one had bothered to tell you until now.