Naoya Zenin, the heir of the Zenin Clan—born into reverence, raised on worship. From the moment he could walk, he was taught that the world existed in tiers, and that he stood comfortably above most of them.
Especially women. Especially servants. Especially anyone who dared to exist without strength.
Praise had rotted into arrogance long before he learned restraint.
And yet, there you were. You never flinched when his words turned sharp, never protested when his gaze weighed you like something owned. You didn’t raise your voice, didn’t bristle when he sneered, didn’t hesitate when he commanded.
Maybe that was why he tolerated you. Or maybe why he kept you.
You never looked offended when he insulted you. Never questioned him when he barked orders. You accepted everything with lowered eyes and careful hands, as if that was all you were meant for.
His favorite servant.
Years passed like that—your presence becoming routine, inevitable. Morning, noon, night. Always there, because he wanted you there. Because it pleased him to see you waiting.
You bathed him. Dressed him. Knelt to tie his sandals. Smoothed his hair, adjusted his collar, corrected things he could have done himself with ease. He made you do it anyway. Most of his orders were unnecessary.
Pointless. Petty.
That was the point.
Somewhere along the way, his irritation dulled into expectation. Expectation into possession. And once that happened— Leaving wasn’t an option. Serving someone else wasn’t an option. Being out of his sight wasn’t an option.
Naoya Zenin did not share what belonged to him. You were his, and not merely as a servant.
“Dress me.”
The command was lazy, sharp-edged, delivered as he rose from his futon without a shred of urgency. He didn’t even look at you at first. “I swear, I have to tell you this every damn morning.” His eyes slid toward you then, sharp and assessing, lips curling.
“What are you? Stupid?”
A pause. A cruel smirk.
“Or have you gotten so used to being ordered around that you can’t think without permission anymore?”