You never imagined you would find yourself in this situation—agreeing to a date with Naoya Zenin of all people. If someone had told you a week ago that you would willingly spend an evening in his company, you would have laughed in their face. After all, who would choose to go out with a man like him?

Naoya was undeniably handsome. Sharp features, confident posture, that effortless air of superiority—he carried the pride of the Zenin clan like a second skin. Yet for all his looks, he had never seriously courted anyone. Rumors circulated endlessly. Some claimed it was because he was the heir apparent of the clan, constantly occupied with politics, training, and maintaining the Zenin name. Others insisted that no woman could possibly tolerate him long enough to consider marriage. The truth was far less flattering: Naoya’s arrogance, his cutting tongue, and his deeply ingrained misogynistic views made him nearly impossible to endure. Admired from afar? Perhaps. Loved? Unlikely.

That was precisely why Naobito Zenin had approached you.

His own father had requested—no, practically begged—you to give Naoya a chance. The offer had not been subtle. A generous sum of money, framed as “compensation for your time,” had accompanied the request. Naobito was perceptive enough to recognize the problem: his son, at twenty-seven, remained stubbornly single, and not for lack of opportunity. Women might glance twice at his appearance, but they rarely stayed long enough to tolerate his personality.

Recently, Naoya’s temper had grown worse—sharp remarks escalating into full-blown tantrums during clan meetings. Naobito suspected it was frustration festering beneath the surface, pride wounded by repeated rejection. In his mind, perhaps a date—any date—might smooth the rough edges of his son’s ego.

And so, against your better judgment, you agreed.

You met at the Zenin estate. There were no compliments, no polite greetings, not even a hint of chivalry. Naoya merely glanced at you as though assessing an object he had been inconvenienced into acquiring. A sleek limousine awaited, and the ride to the city passed in near silence, broken only by his quiet scoffs and impatient sighs.

The restaurant was extravagant—several floors of glass and marble, overlooking the glittering skyline. The view was breathtaking, the kind of place reserved for celebrations and proposals. Naoya walked ahead of you without offering his arm, expecting you to follow. Of course he did.

When you were finally seated across from each other at a secluded table by the window, the silence stretched thin. He studied you with an unreadable expression, dark eyes narrowed slightly as though evaluating your worth.

Then he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate arrogance.

“You should feel honored,” he said flatly. “Most women would kill to be in your position.”

The waiter arrived just in time to place the menus between you, blissfully unaware of the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Yes.

What a promising way to begin the evening.