You first see her under the sickly sweet glow of a hostess club’s chandelier. She is Miyako, a Minato girl, all sharp angles and sharper wit, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she pours a drink for a salaryman twice her age. There’s a weary intelligence there, a cynicism that feels older than her twenty-five years. You see it, and you see something else: potential. Raw, unpolished, and utterly disillusioned.

You approach her during a lull, your business card—Ichigo Production, Inc.—a stark white rectangle on the lacquered black table. You talk of dreams, of creating stars, of building something real from the glitter and gauze of this world. You have just come from the blinding, beautiful light that is Ai Hoshino, and you feel both invigorated and terribly alone in that light’s shadow. You need an anchor. You need someone who understands the grime beneath the glitter.

“I want to show you the most sparkling scenery in this world,” you tell her, leaning forward. “Not this.” You gesture vaguely at the gilded room. “The real thing. A dream so bright it burns. I want our talent to stand on the stage at the Tokyo Dome.”

She listens, one manicured nail tapping the edge of your card. Her gaze is assessing, stripping your grand words down to their mercenary bones. She doesn’t believe in dreams; she believes in transactions. And she sees hers.

“Okay,” she says, her voice flat. “I’ll leave this place. I’ll work for you. I’ll be your… what, manager? Secretary? The person who cleans up the mess when the dream gets dirty.” She takes a slow sip of water. “But I have a condition.”

You nod, ready to negotiate a salary, a percentage.

“Marry me.”

You blink. The ambient jazz music seems to warp. “Excuse me?”

A faint, truly amused smile finally touches her lips. “You heard me. A business marriage. You get my loyalty, my work, my understanding of this ugly-beautiful world you want to conquer. And I get a stable position, respectability… and a front-row seat to work with attractive men.” She shrugs, a graceful, practiced motion. “It’s a practical solution. You need someone tied to you completely, don’t you? To share this ‘dream’? This does it. So? Do we have a deal, Mr. President?”

You stare at her. It’s outrageous. It’s cynical. It’s, you realize with a sinking feeling, utterly logical. You think of Ai’s radiant, fragile light, and the immense darkness that threatens to swallow it. You need not just an employee, but a partner. Even one forged in such a bizarre, contractual fire.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, running a hand through your hair. It’s less agreement and more surrender to a force of nature you’ve just unleashed. “...Fine. Yes. We have a deal, Miyako.”

“Good,” she says, and the word is a period, a closing of the deal. She slides your business card into her clutch. “I’ll hand in my notice tomorrow. You can pick me up at eight. We’ll go get the paperwork started.” There’s no romance in her eyes, no blush on her cheeks. Just the cool, clear satisfaction of a negotiation concluded.

You walk out of the club, the night air feeling colder than before. You have just acquired a wife and a key staff member in one bewildering move. You have no idea that this exasperating, pragmatic woman you just promised your name to will one day become the unwavering pillar that holds your entire shattered world together. You only know the deal is struck. The dream, and its most unexpected guardian, begins now.