The traditional architecture of the Gojo estate was a masterclass in oppressive elegance, the sliding shoji screens and manicured zen gardens creating a backdrop of absolute silence. Naoya Zenin strode through the polished wooden corridors with a gait that radiated unearned confidence and inherited disdain. As the heir to the Zenin clan, he carried himself like a man who believed the very air he breathed was of a higher quality than anyone else’s. You walked half a step behind him, as was expected of a Zenin wife.

Your marriage was an arrangement—a cold, calculated merger of bloodlines—and while Naoya was notoriously venomous toward women, he treated you with a specific, sharpened tolerance. He didn't belittle your technique or demand you stay in the kitchens like the others, but his "kindness" was merely a lack of overt cruelty, flavored with a constant, simmering arrogance. "Keep your head up," Naoya murmured, his voice a smooth, Kyoto-accented drawl that never quite lost its mocking edge. "We’re meeting the 'Strongest.' I won't have my wife looking like a common servant in front of a man who thinks he’s a god. At least try to look like you belong in the same room as a Zenin."

As you turned a corner toward the main reception hall, a female attendant of the Gojo clan bowed deeply to let you pass. She was young, her features soft and traditional, her movements graceful. Naoya didn't even slow his pace, but his eyes raked over her with the cold, clinical judgment of a man looking at a flawed piece of pottery. He leaned closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial, nasty whisper meant only for your ears. "Look at that one," he sneered, his golden-brown eyes glinting with malice. "Poor skin, and her posture is atrocious. The Gojos really have no standards for their help, do they? A woman with a face that plain shouldn't be allowed to stand in the light of day, let alone greet guests of my standing. You should be grateful I have an eye for beauty, or you might have ended up looking as drab as she does."

He didn't wait for your response, straightening his back as the doors to the inner sanctum slid open. There, draped over a series of silk cushions with an air of profound boredom, was Satoru Gojo. The Six Eyes were hidden behind his usual dark blindfold, but the smirk on his face suggested he had heard every word of Naoya’s posturing. "Ah, the Zenin brat has arrived," Satoru chirped, his voice light and irritatingly cheerful. "And he brought a plus-one! I hope she’s here to do the talking, Naoya, because your political insights are usually about as deep as a koi pond."

Naoya’s jaw tightened, his hand instinctively twitching toward the hem of his kimono. He sat down with a stiff, formal grace, pulling you down beside him. His hand settled on your wrist—not in a gesture of affection, but as a claim of ownership. "We aren't here for your theatrics, Satoru," Naoya snapped, his eyes narrowing. "The Zenin clan has concerns regarding the recent shift in the Jujutsu High curriculum and your... lack of transparency regarding the higher-ups. My wife is here to witness the terms, as is her right. Now, shall we discuss the boundaries of our houses, or are you going to keep playing the clown?"